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Abby bristled. “They’re not handicapped, they’re physically and emotionally challenged, but they work hard for every goal they reach. And for the record, we’re doing just fine, thanks. Some of the volunteers have already offered to work two classes. We can’t afford salaried helpers yet.”
She turned the key in the ignition, revved the behind-schedule-for-a-tune-up engine and eased the vehicle back onto the blacktop. Shorty was right. Her students had spunk to spare and she was so proud of them. There was no denying the inspiration they gave to anyone who observed them in the arena.
“The program isn’t all that large, anyway,” she added, trying to soften her sharp refusal. “There’s only a dozen students so far. I don’t need any extra help.”
Shorty leaned back in his seat and released such a mournful, Oscar-worthy sigh, Abby was tempted to applaud. She would have, if the situation had involved anyone but Bo Ramsey.
“Well, that may be,” he drawled, giving her a beseeching look, “but Bo’s sure needing your help now.”
He needs me? Oh, that is so unfair. Abby could barely see the road for the sudden tears blurring her eyes.
In all his thirty years, Bo Ramsey had never expected to return to Sweet River, especially like this, but with a body busted up from the wear-and-tear of riding rodeo bulls, and less than five dollars in the pocket of his jeans, he’d hit the bottom of the barrel with a loud thud. Shoot, he’d been down there so long, he had a personal relationship with every damned slat in it. And now, his pride had to take a backseat to being practical. Talk about bitter pills. The feeling of failure still stuck in his craw. He wondered if he’d ever be able to swallow around it.
He shifted his position in the vintage porch chair for the hundredth time, easing his left leg around to find a more comfortable angle. One that wouldn’t send those knifelike pains shooting clear to his eyeballs. He refused to give in and swallow any more of those damned pain pills. He reached for a longneck instead, knowing that wasn’t the answer either, but not really caring.
He’d been sitting there long enough to indulge in more beer and self-pity than was probably good for him, his only excuse being that the unexpected sight of Abby at the Blue Moon had blindsided him. Temporarily robbed him of his good sense. And, just like last time, he’d taken the coward’s way out.
Old memories he’d buried a long time ago crept out from their hiding place in the dark recesses of his heart. Persistent cusses, those memories, poking at him like cactus needles, paining him almost as much as the physical injuries to his body. Maybe more. He rubbed his hand over the scarred side of his face. Maybe not.
This wealth of land and cattle that made up Shorty’s ranch had been Bo’s home longer than any place he’d ever lived. Taking in the familiar view, Bo acknowledged that everything was pretty much the same as when he’d left. Everything but his own life. That was a mess of his own making.
His chest ached with deep regret for all he’d left behind. All he could never have. Bitterness crawled down inside his soul and lodged—a familiar, yet unwelcome tenant.
Bo shifted his leg again, his groan harmonizing off-key with a mournful groan coming from the far side of the porch. Shorty’s old yellow dog slowly made his way to Bo’s side and gave his hand a slobbery greeting.
With sad eyes nearly hidden in the folds of its loose-skinned face, and long ears drooping past bony shoulders, the mongrel looked like somebody’d smacked him with an ugly stick. Twice.
“Hey, Ditch.” Bo scratched the old dog behind the ears.
Ditch dog. That’s what Shorty’d called him, ever since he’d found the injured pup lying on the side of the road years ago. The pooch had to be as old as Shorty’s truck by now, because Bo had heard the rescue story at least a hundred times in the past.
Ditch dog. Bo felt like something of a ditch dog himself ever since Shorty’d fetched him back home from the hospital. Patched him up, too. Just like ol’ Ditch. Only difference was, the dog had become Shorty’s best friend. Bo wasn’t sure he could even lay claim to that anymore.
He tipped the longneck back, drank deep, then set the empty bottle aside. He left the porch to seek the solitude of his room. Hell, could life get any worse?
He’d gotten as far as the front room when he heard the car come up the gravel road. Bo knew in his gut who Shorty had persuaded to give him a lift home. Crossing the room, he stood by the window and moved the curtain aside just enough to sneak a look without revealing himself.
He watched as Shorty climbed out of the car. Ditch loped off the porch to greet his banty rooster-sized friend, wet nose nudging hopefully against the rancher’s hand for a pat on the head.
They make quite a pair, Bo mused, as a twinge of envy snuck past his good sense. The dog had gotten older, but the man hadn’t changed much. The Willie Nelson-style braid that dangled down his back was the same, except the gray hairs were beginning to outnumber the black ones. A few wrinkles creased Shorty’s leathery face, but the denim work shirt and faded jeans looked like the same ones he’d been wearing the day Bo had said goodbye.
On the backside of fifty, Shorty Packer had always cottoned to the belief that unless something was broken, you kept your hands off of it. Still, he’d give you his last biscuit and tell you he’d just eaten, if he thought you were hungrier than he was. He was generous to a fault if you were his friend, and meaner than a rattlesnake if you were his enemy. But he was fair. Bo respected him for that, and was shamed to the point of disgust, thinking maybe he’d lost the respect of this man who’d done so much for him.
Deep in thought, Bo didn’t notice the driver get out of the car until the door slammed shut. She stood by the car and looked toward the house. The instant thudding of his heart startled him. Damn. Sweat beaded his upper lip. He swiped at it, his fingers brushing across the raised seam of scars crisscrossing his face.
Cursing the clumsiness that prevented him from hurrying, he was almost within the safety of his bedroom when the front door opened and Shorty shouted.
“Bo, you in here?”
Where else would I be? He kept silent, listening. No other voice accompanied Shorty’s. Was that disappointment he felt? Hell, no. He was glad she hadn’t come inside.
“I’m here,” he answered.
When the other man’s footsteps echoed on the planked floor, Bo slowly, carefully, retraced his own. Guilt for taking off with the truck pricked at him unmercifully. Might as well apologize now and get it over with. He was halfway down the hall when he saw her.
Abby stood behind Shorty, taller only by a few inches, just enough to be visible. Shorty moved farther into the room, giving Bo an unobstructed view of her. His insides dipped on a wild roller-coaster ride.
There she was, standing in the doorway holding a big yellow bowl. She was totally unaware that the early afternoon brightness illuminated her with a halo of sunshine. Bo half expected a heavenly choir to break into song at any moment.
Instead, vivid memories flashed before him in living color. The softness of her sun-gilded skin pressed against his and the way it went all hot and damp when they made love; the curve of her rosy smile, the sweetness of her lips and the way her mouth melted beneath his when they kissed; the scent of honeysuckle that always clung to her and the way she glowed, all dewy and golden after he’d thoroughly loved her. Those memories were so intense, the pain of leaving her still crowded his chest. Restricted his breathing.
“Hello, Bo.” Her husky whisper trailed an erotic path across his skin as if she had physically touched him.
As soon as she spoke, the familiar tightening in his groin made his head swim. He ought to leave the room before he made a total ass of himself. He turned his head, ducking it slightly to avoid giving her a full view of his face. Damn, he’d