Lip Service. Susan Mallery

hated chickens. They were loud and messy. And this was Texas. His family ran beef. They had for nearly a hundred years. It was the source of the Cassidy fortune. If some ranch wife wanted to raise a few chickens for eggs or deep frying, the stupid birds were kept out of sight and never talked about. They weren’t bragged about in a sign.

      His left foot ached. He reached down to rub it only to remember a half second later that he didn’t have a left foot anymore. The below-the-knee amputation was the reason he wasn’t a SEAL these days. It was the reason he’d finally come home.

      He swore again, put the truck in Drive and headed for the main house. In a perfect world, he would quietly reappear at the ranch, easing into a normal life, without anyone noticing. However, though life was a lot of things, it wasn’t perfect.

      He drove down the nearly mile long private road. White fences lined both sides. There were horses on the right and prize bulls on the left. Prosperity on the hoof.

      He rounded a curve, past a grove of trees and saw the house where he’d grown up. It was a sprawling two-story structure with a wraparound porch. Flowers grew waist high, swaying gently in the breeze. It could have been a picture from a postcard. Mitch almost wished it was.

      Fidela stood on the porch, straining forward, as if wanting to know the second he arrived. She took off at a run toward the truck, forcing him to stop short of the house.

      She might be pushing fifty, but she had the speed of a six-year-old and got to him before he’d awkwardly clambered out of the truck. He landed on gravel and nearly lost his balance as his leg muscles struggled to keep him upright on his new and painful prosthesis.

      “You’re back!” she said, tears filling her brown eyes. “Finally. I’ve been praying and praying since you left. God is tired of me asking for your safety. You could have helped, you know. Not done such dangerous work. But no. You like to test my faith.”

      She cupped his face, then ran her hands across his shoulders and down his arms, as if wanting to make sure he was real.

      “You’re taller since you left, but so thin. Mitch, such sadness in your eyes. But you’re home now, yes? Home with me and Arturo. The ranch will heal you and I will cook all your favorites until you are too fat to ride a horse.”

      She smiled through her tears, then hugged him with a fierce strength that squeezed the air out of him.

      She’d been a part of his life since before he was born. Arturo had brought her to the ranch as his young bride. She’d helped his mother and Arturo had managed the ranch. His parents had never enjoyed staying in one place for very long, and when they’d left on their many trips, Arturo and Fidela had been the ones to take care of him.

      He hugged her back, slowly, tentatively, remembering and wanting to forget at the same time. He was careful to focus on staying balanced, with his center of gravity where it was supposed to be. All the easy things he’d once taken for granted.

      “I made enchiladas and beans the way you like. There’s pie and flan and all your favorite foods. Your room is ready, on the main floor. Just for now, though. That is what the doctor said when he called. Just for now.”

      Mitch wondered what else the doctor had said. Mitch knew he’d been a difficult patient. He wasn’t interested in all the bullshit about how things happened for a reason and even when God closed a door, He opened a window. Mitch wasn’t interested in a window. He wanted his life back the way it had been before the explosion that had taken off the bottom half of his left leg.

      “I gotta go,” he said, pushing away from Fidela and returning to the truck. “I’ll be back.”

      She stared at him, her mouth trembling with an emotion he didn’t want to identify. Pity, most likely. And why not?

      He slammed the driver’s door and started the engine. He didn’t know where he was going—as long as it was away from here.

      He circled the barn and followed the dirt road toward the pastures. The fencing was new and in good repair. To his right he saw something that looked suspiciously like a whole lot of chickens, so he stared straight ahead until he’d crested a rise. From there he could see Cassidy land and the dark shadows that were the cattle. At this distance, the changes wouldn’t be so noticeable.

      He got out of the truck, then winced when he took a step. His stump ached. He’d done too much, too fast, ignoring the advice from his doctor and therapists. He was supposed to get used to the prosthesis over time, to use crutches or a walker. Not that he would.

      He limped over to a big rock and sat down, then pulled up his jeans and unhooked the plastic and metal replacing what had once been flesh and bone.

      His knee was all banged up, scarred and still red in places. The field surgeon in Afghanistan had done his best to save Mitch’s leg, or at least what had been left of it. For that Mitch would always be grateful. Not happy, exactly, but grateful.

      He hurt everywhere and on the days when he didn’t want to bother getting out of bed he reminded himself that, compared to a lot of soldiers, all he had was a scratch and he needed to get over it. His buddy, Pete, had risked his life to drag Mitch to safety and had gotten shot for his efforts. So Mitch owed him, too. There were…

      The sound of steady hooves caught his attention. He started to stand, remembered too late he was missing a foot and nearly fell over. He grabbed for the rock and managed to stay upright. But before he could strap his prosthesis back in place, a horse and rider joined him on the rocky ledge.

      Mitch stared at the one person in all the world he never wanted to see again. Did it have to be now? With him holding his fake leg in one hand? Did he have to look like the cripple he was?

      Anger welled up inside of him. Living, hot anger that wanted to explode and burn and destroy.

      “Get the hell off my land,” he growled. “You’re not welcome here.”

      “Hello, Mitch,” she said, not acknowledging his order. “I just heard that you were back.”

      Skye Titan drew her horse to a halt, slid from the saddle and onto the ground. She pulled off her cowboy hat.

      Despite the years that had passed, she looked exactly as he remembered. Her dark red hair contrasted with her pale skin. Eyes the color of spring grass stared into his. She looked good. Too good, all curves and temptation.

      “How are you?” she asked.

      He motioned to the prosthesis. “How do you think I am? Go away. You’re not anyone I want to talk to.”

      She wore jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, one that hugged her breasts in a way that irritated him even more.

      “I don’t think I’m leaving just yet,” she said.

      His gaze dropped to her left hand. He didn’t see a ring. “What happened to husband number one? Daddy tell you to dump him?”

      “Ray died,” she said, her gaze never leaving his.

      “Living life as the rich widow or has Jed married you off again? Who is it this time, Skye? An old tycoon or some international banker?”

      THE MITCH CASSIDY Skye remembered had been a funny, easygoing guy who rode like the wind and could kiss her senseless in a matter of seconds. He laughed as hard as he played and Mitch had loved to play. She knew war changed a man, but she hadn’t expected him to be a cold, mean stranger. His crack about a second arranged marriage hit close and hard. She took a step back.

      “I’m sorry about your injury,” she said.

      “I’ll sleep better knowing that.”

      “Is the sarcastic bastard act specifically for me, or are you sharing it with everyone?”

      He turned his back on her.

      She supposed that was an answer of sorts, even if she wasn’t sure of the specifics.

      She’d missed him, she thought sadly,