Chapter Four
Spencer Channing felt as if he’d been trampled by a bull.
To a cowboy who’d spent almost half a decade on the professional rodeo circuit, it was more than a figure of speech.
Not that he’d ever actually been trampled, but he’d been tossed up, thrown over, dragged across and stepped on. Even successful rides left their mark on a cowboy in the form of strains and sprains and bruises, and for more than half a decade, he’d loved every minute of it.
But now, he was battered to the depths of his soul.
He’d always prided himself on working hard and playing hard and doing the right thing. But he’d screwed up. In a big way.
So he’d decided to go home to lick his wounds. And work on rehabbing his dislocated shoulder, since licking wouldn’t actually fix anything that was wrong.
Still, he was confident that the injury would heal. In fact, the doctor had assured him that he could be back on the circuit in time for the National Finals Rodeo in Vegas.
If that’s what you want.
Six weeks earlier, there would have been no if about it. Of course, he wanted to be back on the circuit and competing for the biggest prize of the season. Being a cowboy was more than just a job—it was his identity. If he wasn’t Spencer Channing, two-time PBR and PRCA bull riding champion, he was nobody.
He’d worked hard to get to the top and even harder to stay there. And then, it had taken only 6.2 seconds to change everything. Or maybe it was the unexpected meeting that happened before he went into the chute for the fateful ride that was to blame. A meeting he’d been confident he could put out of his mind for eight seconds.
He’d been doing pretty well, too, before his attention had shifted—for just a fraction of a second—away from the fifteen-hundred-pound beast bucking beneath him. That momentary inattention had been rewarded by a quick toss in the air and a bone-jarring thud on the dirt.
And another one bites the dust, the announcer had gleefully informed the crowd.
Coming back to Haven hadn’t been an easy choice, but Spencer knew it was the right one. And yet, six weeks after that life-changing day, he still hadn’t figured out what he was going to tell his parents when he walked through the front door. He’d driven eight hundred miles to get here, but his thoughts were as much a jumble now as when he’d started the journey.
It was almost 9:00 p.m. when he passed the town limits. Main Street was mostly quiet, as was usual for a Tuesday night, though there were several vehicles parked on the street near Diggers’. On impulse, Spencer steered his truck into an empty spot.
Stopping for a drink would only delay the inevitable, but he turned off the vehicle and stepped out onto the street, anyway. He walked through the main doors, then turned left, toward the bar section of the Bar & Grill. Only a few of the stools at the counter were occupied, and he straddled an empty one and studied the assortment of taps.
“Spencer?”
He lifted his head, his eyes skimming over the brunette working behind the bar. Pretty face with warm, dark chocolate–colored eyes, sweetly shaped lips, a tiny dent in her chin and long dark hair that tumbled over narrow shoulders. She wore a black vest over a white T-shirt tucked into slim-fitting jeans that showed off her feminine curves.
His gaze dropped automatically to her left hand, and he noted the huge diamond weighing down the third finger.
A glittering, princess-cut stop sign.
“Do I know you?” he asked, because that question seemed safer than Did I sleep with you?
Over the years, he’d learned that most females didn’t appreciate being forgettable. Although he’d realized that the forgetting said more about him than it did about the companions he’d forgotten.
There had been a lot of women while he’d traveled the circuit. Too many women; too many one-night stands. A few hookups had lasted longer than that, but he’d had no long-term relationships. It was too hard to maintain a connection when he was constantly on the move to new rodeos in new towns—and when those new towns were filled with a whole new array of willing women. The longest relationship he’d had was with Emily Whittingham, as they’d traveled the same route for a few weeks, and the friendly parting of ways had certainly not prepared him for the chaos she would introduce into his life years later.
The pretty bartender shook her head, yanking his attention back to the present like a lassoed calf at a roping competition. “No,” she said. “But you look so much like Jason, I knew you had to be his brother.”
“And you are?” he prompted.
She reached across the counter. “Alyssa Cabrera—his fiancée.”
As Spencer took her proffered hand, he looked her over again, this time attempting to picture her with his brother. Jay had always had a way with the ladies—a family trait—but he’d usually gone for long-legged
