His Favorite Cowgirl. Leigh Duncan

grandfather hadn’t spoken to her since. She wasn’t sure if he knew or even cared that she’d broken things off with Hank Judd a month before graduation. That she’d parlayed an entry-level sales position into a desk in the corporate headquarters of Palmetto Boots, the largest family-owned boot company in America. She wondered if he’d think twice about the fact that she’d dropped everything, put her career at risk, to jump in the car and drive through the night to get to his side.

       Had she missed her chance?

      A sob lodged in her throat. She swallowed and tore her gaze away from the empty bed. Praying for some sign she was wrong, she scanned past a wide window and over the sleeping figure seated in a chair by the door. Her inspection stuttered and backtracked to a pair of worn boots. A shiver started at the nape of her neck and swept down her spine.

      She skimmed slowly upward, over denim-clad legs to thighs that maintained their muscular shape even in repose. Her breathing slowed as she scrutinized a familiar chiseled jaw, the stubbled cheeks she’d once cupped in her fingers. The brim of a sweat-stained Stetson cast shadows across his eyes, and she expelled her breath, thankful she hadn’t come face-to-face with one of her grandfather’s sworn enemies—not to mention the man who’d betrayed her trust.

      From the hall came the sound of muted voices. A cart rolled past the door, its wheels squeaking. The noise drifted into the room, where it disturbed Hank’s slumber. His hat tipped back as he yawned, stretched and opened eyes that had always reminded her of clear blue water. For half a second, a lazy smile graced the lips she’d once loved to kiss. Then, awareness swam into his focus, and his lips straightened. The warm aqua eyes turned an icy blue.

      “What are you doing here?” she whispered.

      Ignoring her question, Hank uncrossed his ankles, leaned forward. His hands found his knees and he stood. “I see you finally made it.”

      The harsh tone hurt more than she’d thought it would, given the time and distance that had stretched between them. She hid her pain behind a cold glare. “Don’t start with me, Hank. I’ve been driving all night.”

      Had the harsh brackets around his mouth softened ever so slightly? She peered up at him. Despite her own five feet, ten inches, he towered over her. There’d been a time when she thought his shoulders were wide enough to support the weight of the world. In truth, they hadn’t been strong enough to bear the burden of the secret they’d shared.

      “It didn’t seem right leaving him alone all night, so I stayed.” He mopped his face with one hand. “Must’a nodded off for a bit.”

      “You’re the one who found him, then?” Her gaze drifted down. The wiry chest she’d once laid her head against had widened considerably. So much so that she struggled to remind herself he wasn’t the only one who’d changed since the last time they’d seen each other.

      “Yeah. He must’a took a spill off his horse.” His voice softening, Hank swept his hat from his head and ran a hand through hair that no longer brushed the back of his collar the way it had when they were in high school. “No tellin’ how long he’d been lying there, or how long he would have, if I hadn’t come by when I did.”

      “Is he—” she glanced fearfully at the bed “—is he gone?”

      “Afraid so.” Hank’s voice softened. “They came for him about an hour ago.”

      She was too late. Too late to heal the breach. Too late to say goodbye. The room spun, and she swayed while eighteen long hours behind the wheel caught up with her. An inky blackness blotted her vision.

      She blinked hard.

      Hank’s arms wrapped around her, lending her his strength, his support. She laid her head against his broad chest, automatically seeking the firm plane over his heart.

      “Hey,” he whispered. “Steady now.”

      * * *

      NOT QUITE CERTAIN how he’d gone from sparring with the woman who’d stomped his heart flat as a dried out cow patty to hanging on to her lest she collapse into a puddle on the floor, Hank sank his chin into Kelly’s silky hair. He wrapped his arms around her, wondering at the narrowness of her frame, the slight indentation between her shoulder blades. She trembled, and he rubbed her back, murmured soothing words. He drank in the fragrance of lilac, which carried him back to the feel of straw and of Kelly beneath him as they made love in the Circle P’s hayloft.

      “The docs here know what they’re doing. You’ll see. They’ll have his leg fixed in no time.”

      Kelly backed out of his embrace, taking her warmth with her. With nothing but cold air to fill them, his hands dropped to his sides while her eyes narrowed. He blinked. Same old Kelly. What had he said or done wrong this time?

      Her lips thinned as she studied him. “You mean he’s not... He’s still alive?”

      “Of course he is. It’s just a broke leg.” He winced, remembering the sharp angle of the break. He let his eyebrows knit. She thought her flinty grandfather was knocking at death’s door?

       Where’d she get that idea?

      Hank swallowed a growl. He hadn’t called her. Couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to. He’d long since rid himself of every reminder of the relationship that had burned so hot it’d consumed itself. The staff at the hospital hadn’t notified her. It had taken some time to ride back to the Circle P, hop in his truck and hightail it into town, but he’d stopped at Registration before coming upstairs. That left Tompkins’s personal physician, who, if he knew Kelly, would get an earful for making her drive through the night for something as simple as a broken leg.

      “They’ll set it,” he said, mustering a reassuring smile. “He’ll be laid up for a bit, I’m sure. But you’ll see—he’ll be back to his crotchety old self in no time.”

      “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.” Kelly edged away from him until she reached the window. Blinking into the harsh sunlight of a new day, she folded her arms across her chest.

      Hank waited her out. In truth, he was glad for the reprieve. He used the time to rub his palms together, trying to rid his fingers of the tingles that had arced through them when he’d taken Kelly in his arms. At some point in the dozen years since they’d last spoken, she’d lost the tan that came from spending days on end beneath the Florida sky. Tiny lines etched the corners of eyes that were more green than hazel. The sandy-blond hair remained the same, but it was longer. Even as he watched, she loosened the clip holding it in place. A waterfall of thick hair cascaded onto her shoulders. It spilled farther south until the ends swayed slightly above the waist of skinny jeans that were never intended for mucking stalls or herding cattle.

      He scrubbed a hand along the side of the Wranglers he hadn’t bothered changing in his rush to get to the hospital. “Time for me to get movin’.” He’d had his fill of women who were all surface and glitter, from the tips of their rhinestone-studded boots to their curve-hugging shirts. Women like Kelly.

      “Thanks for all you’ve done. I know Pops will—he’ll appreciate it.” Kelly continued to stare through the double-glass panes. “I’ll swing by the Bar X on my way out. Leave orders for the hired hands to keep things running until he’s discharged.”

      “You’re not staying then?”

      “At the Bar X?” She turned, a wistful look playing at the corners of her mouth. “Not hardly. He won’t want me there, not unless the fall knocked some sense into that stubborn old mule.”

      She looked up at him, her glance searching for reassurance that wasn’t his to give.

      “Well, then.” Hank toed the tiled floor with one booted foot. He paused, wavering between telling her what he knew and letting her figure things out for herself. “Look,” he said at last, “I can ask around, but it didn’t look like he had anyone working for him. The bunkhouse was deserted.”

      Kelly’s eyes widened.