managed a smile. “Thanks for the lead, but I’ll stick with ranchers who’ve been in business for a while.”
Chapter Three
As always, Clay awoke around 4:00 a.m., a good hour and change ahead of the birds. He’d had a bad night, and rolled over and tried to fall back into dreamland. But his mind wouldn’t cooperate, and thoughts buzzed in and out of his head like pesky gnats.
Groaning, he flipped onto his back. Before the accident, he’d always slept like the dead. Now, no matter how late he turned in or how tired he was, he woke up at this ungodly hour.
Propping his arms behind his head, he stared up into the darkness. And thought about Sarah. That kiss.
He still couldn’t believe she’d shown up at his door with her story and those big eyes, or that he’d let her in. If she’d just gone away when he asked her to. She’d had to ruin everything by stubbornly insisting she wanted to see the attic.
He wasn’t about to let her up there and wasn’t about to check it out himself, either. Not even to erase her pleading look. With his leg in the sorry shape it was, climbing a ladder would be agony.
Did she have a boyfriend? Probably, and if he found out about that kiss, he’d go ballistic. Clay would.
In any event, it had done its job, chasing her away. There was only one little problem—Clay hadn’t figured on the restless energy and hunger that kiss had stirred up, making him want what he had no business even thinking about. Sarah, naked under him, flushed and passionate.
He scoffed. Like that would ever happen. She thought he was a player.
“I’m no player,” he insisted into the silence. “I’m a straightforward guy who likes women.” What the hell was wrong with that?
Before he’d started winning bull-riding contests and making serious money, he’d even worked at building a solid relationship with the thought that it might lead to marriage. Denise had been too impatient, though. She’d wanted to get married right away, and when Clay wasn’t ready to commit, she’d walked. Same issue with Hailey, and a couple of years later, with Cara.
After striking out three times, Clay had finally figured out the problem. He’d been infatuated with his girlfriends, but nothing more. Not counting his mom, sister, aunt and grandmothers, he’d never loved a woman, and probably never would.
So he dated casually. He never led a woman on, always admitted up front that he was interested in having a good time, period.
“If that makes me a player,” he muttered, “then so be it.”
Sarah hadn’t even paid him the courtesy of checking out the facts. God knew where she’d gotten the cockeyed idea that he went around lying to women and breaking hearts.
Her article had brought a whole host of women to his door, most of them interested in grabbing some of his fame and money for themselves. Jeanne had been the worst of the bunch. She was cute and seemed nice enough. Clay had dated her on and off, making sure she understood that their relationship was casual and that he was dating other women, as well. She didn’t seem to mind.
Then a few hours before what turned out to be his last rodeo, after they hadn’t seen each other for a good six weeks, she’d shown up and announced that she was pregnant and he was responsible. Having always used protection, Clay had his doubts, but Jeanne swore that he was the only man she’d been intimate with.
It was not the kind of news a man needed to hear before a nationally televised bull ride with a six-figure purse. As upset and distracted as Clay was, he should’ve backed out of the event. He didn’t. Not because of the money, which he didn’t need, but because of his fans. He hadn’t wanted to disappoint them.
No wonder the bull had tossed him.
While he was still recuperating in the hospital, he’d insisted on a paternity test. No surprise there—he wasn’t the father.
Grumbling and out of sorts, he swung his legs over the bed without thinking—and paid for it. Swearing, he massaged the knots around his knee until the pain eased and carefully stood. His leg muscles were painfully tight, but thank heavens, not quite as tight as yesterday. Aspirin and rest had definitely helped.
While the coffee brewed, he pulled out the blueprints for the house and looked them over. After making the decision to buy the shipwreck of a ranch across town and rent the house he was in now, he’d hired a construction crew to renovate the ranch’s outbuildings and an architect to help him design his house. Now that the old one was gone and the builder had broken ground, Clay enjoyed reviewing the plans and checking on the progress.
Four bedrooms and three-and-a-half baths seemed a lot for a man who didn’t intend to have a family. Clay had always wanted kids, but he couldn’t see having one without a wife, and he wasn’t about to marry without love. Even if his mom kept dropping hints—make that blatant suggestions—that now that he was thirty-four it was time to settle down.
Before long, the caffeine worked its magic. Clay shoved to his feet, stowed the blueprints and headed for the large detached garage behind the house, which was insulated and had electricity, making it the ideal place for physical therapy.
After being shackled to a leg cast for what seemed an eternity and spending months in a wheelchair, his leg was in sorry shape, and laboring to rebuild his strength was not fun. The repetitive efforts the physical therapist had taught him taxed his leg muscles until they burned.
A hundred times over the next hellish hour, Clay wanted to quit, but he kept at it. Determined to get back to normal, or as near normal as possible, he sweated, grunted at and cursed the weights and pulleys, all the while knowing that without them, the muscles that had deteriorated would never regain their strength.
To think that two months after the accident, his doctor had wanted to amputate above the knee. Clay had refused. In the past eight months he’d made amazing progress, graduating from the wheelchair to crutches to a cane to none of the above, blowing his orthopedist’s socks off.
“And I’ll keep blowing your mind, Doc,” he’d stated, to psych himself up.
By the time he showered, dressed and ate, it was just after six o’clock—the start of a typical rancher’s workday. As of yet, he didn’t have a crew, but now that the barn and outbuildings were renovated and the foreman’s cottage and crew trailers were clean, he’d posted an ad on Craigslist for experienced ranch hands. He didn’t own any stock yet, either, and time hung like a weight around his neck.
Feeling lost and as a rudderless boat, he wandered to the hallway that held the attic door. Until yesterday he’d never even considered going up there. May as well test the leg, and while he did, look around.
With the help of a stepladder and several colorful oaths, he gritted his teeth against the pain and grasped the rope pull. The thing resisted coming loose but Clay yanked hard, and the door swung down.
He unfolded the attic ladder and climbed up, pausing after each step to rest his leg. The usual attic greeted him—a musty-smelling, dingy space, cold from the chilly morning air. A lone window caked in grime and a bare bulb hanging in the middle of the ceiling were the only sources of light and barely illuminated the area.
In need of a flashlight or a bulb with higher wattage, he headed back down, ignoring his leg. In no
