A Cowboy's Pride. Pamela Britton

was until they reached the bottom of the hill and he did exactly what she knew he’d been dying to do. He wrenched away.

      “Damn.” She stopped and rested her hands on her hips, her fingers stinging from the force of the handles being ripped from her grasp. “You’re good at that.”

      He ignored her, just made a beeline for his cabin. He must have seen that it was handicapped equipped because he zipped toward the place as if he rode in a two-wheeled sports car. A ramp had been built to run straight up to the front door. His wheels hit the slats with a clackity-click-click. His bag nearly slipped from his lap he stopped so hard as he spun his chair so he could push on the handle.

      “It’s locked,” she called out in a singsong voice, knowing it wasn’t very nice of her to take such naughty pleasure in his impatience.

      He glanced at the door, then her, clearly frustrated.

      She contemplated for an instant how it would feel to walk away and leave him there. She wished she had the gumption to do exactly that, but in the end, she really did understand what he was going through. She’d watched Rana go through the same type of emotional turmoil. Grief was tricky. It brought out either the best or the worst in people. If he was anything like her, he felt the loss of his friend like a kick to the stomach.

      She headed for the front door.

      Sunlight turned the surface of the wood-framed window into a mirror. She spotted her reflection as she walked toward the cabin. Reflected, too, was the image of blue sky, the mercury-like surface of the river and the meadow that lined the water’s edge, and the low-lying mountains.

      “Here.” She turned the key with a flourish. The smell of pine and beeswax greeted her as she opened the door. “Light switch to the right. Bathroom straight ahead, just before the bedroom. It’s handicapped equipped, by the way.”

      He rolled past her. She caught the scent of him then, an interesting combination of citrus and cinnamon, which she might have taken a moment to admire if he wasn’t a guest and a soon-to-be patient. He really was good with that chair, judging by the way he wheeled around the small table and chairs to their right. He paused in the sitting room area that lined the front of the cabin. To her surprise he suddenly faced her, cowboy hat momentarily shielding his gaze until he lifted his chin.

      “Tell the girl I’m sorry.”

      It took a moment to realize who he was talking about.

      The hat dipped down again. She saw his jaw work, the little muscle along the side of it ticking as if he were grinding his teeth.

      “Long flight.”

      He leaned forward, suddenly slipping out of the jacket he wore and exposing a toned upper body covered by a white button-down shirt.

      My, my, my.

      As patients went, he was pretty dang easy on the eyes.

      “Three-hour flight from Colorado to the West Coast, another wait to catch the small plane that brought me here, then a long drive to what felt like the middle of nowhere, all to get to a place I don’t want to be.”

      Maybe he wasn’t such an ass after all.

      She studied him anew. He really was a handsome cuss with his dented chin and his piercing gray eyes. She could see why girls the world over had followed his rodeo career.

      “You really should give the place a try.” She clutched her sweater around her tighter. Good-looking or not, this man came with a lot of baggage. “It’s worked wonders for some people.”

      His chin moved up a notch. “You some kind of therapist or something?”

      She almost laughed. “Didn’t you know?”

      “Know what?”

      “That’s what I do here. Physical therapy. And cook on occasion for Cabe and Rana, although Cabe’s the better cook. I do make a mean pot of chili, though.”

      He stared at her anew, looked at her hard. She could see the wheels turning behind those pretty eyes of his.

      “You were Braden Jensen’s fiancée, weren’t you?”

      The nerves of her face suddenly turned cold.

      “I remember seeing you at the Pendleton show. He told me you were in college. That you were studying sports medicine. That you wanted to help athletes with injuries.”

      Breathe, Alana. Breathe.

      “We weren’t officially engaged,” she heard herself say. “He hadn’t asked me yet, but we’d talked about it. After...it happened, I learned he’d bought me a ring. He was going to ask me at Christmas.”

      And that had been a lifetime ago.

      His gaze flicked over her, as if assessing her for damage, too. When their eyes locked again, there was an expression in his, one that made her face come back to life, her skin blazing with color.

      Get the hell out of here, Alana.

      “Dial zero if you need to reach the main house.” She crossed her arms in front of herself, for some reason uncomfortable with this new and more friendly version of Trent Anderson. “Breakfast will be brought to you around eight, unless you think you’re capable of making your own.”

      “I can take care of myself.”

      “Good. Your refrigerator is fully stocked. We have a cleaning service that comes in once a day. Just hang out the sign on the door if you’d rather we leave things alone.”

      “Is that why you stick around? Is this your therapy?”

      Go to hell.

      “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Anderson.”

      Because, no, this wasn’t her therapy. She was here for Rana, a girl who needed her mother, but who’d lost her instead. She might be a poor substitute, but she loved Rana like a daughter. The therapy? That was just a job, a good job, one she enjoyed. Helping people was her calling in life, always had been. Of course, she’d assumed she’d use her degree working for the Professional Bull Rider’s Association or something. How ironic that she might find herself treating the very type of athlete she’d originally trained to help.

      “I guess I’m not the only one with old wounds,” she heard him call out.

      “Good night, Mr. Anderson.”

      Ignore him.

      She was over Braden. She had been for years.

      At least, that’s what she told herself.

      Chapter Three

      She dreaded the coming day.

      The moment her eyes popped open, Alana groaned.

      Trent Anderson.

      The good-looking son of a gun was going to be a royal pain in her behind. She could tell. Normally, that wouldn’t pose much of a problem. She’d dealt with her share of unpleasant clients over the years. They were rare. As she’d told Trent, most people came to New Horizons Ranch of their own free will, but every once in a while someone would come along who would try her patience.

      Yeah, but they weren’t good-looking...like Trent.

      She shoved her pillow over her head and groaned. And, okay, she could admit to herself that over the years when she’d spotted Trent on TV once or twice, maybe she might have noted to herself that he was a good-looking man. With his cocky cowboy attitude, he was the kind of guy most women drooled over—herself included—although never in an ooh-I-wish-I-could-date-him kind of way. Nope. Never.

      She whipped the covers off, determined to begin her day even though a part of her wanted to stay in bed with the covers firmly over her head.

      A half hour later she stepped onto the tiny porch built off her home. The little house was blue with picture windows