old rancher stuck his toothpick back in his shirt pocket and drummed his fingers on his knee. He crossed and uncrossed his stubby legs, squirming around in the seat like a toddler with a bladder problem.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, guess you’ve got reason enough to have a wandering mind, seein’ Bo again and all.”
“Ramsey’s return is no concern of mine.” Abby shot him a sideways glance just in time to catch the flicker of distress in the older man’s eyes. “Shorty, is something wrong?”
“Uh, no.” He hesitated, then exhaled loudly. “That is…I reckon this might not be the right time to bring it up, Abby, but I was thinkin’…uh, just wonderin’ if you could use some extra help at that riding school of yours? You know, something a cowboy with a bum leg could do.”
Abby hit the brakes. The car lurched, swerved and with a cough, chugged to a halt on the side of the road.
Shorty peeled the safety belt away from his throat and pushed back in the seat, his eyes wide.
“Gawdamighty, woman! Didja’ forget how to drive?”
Ignoring his colorful roar, Abby slammed the heel of her hand on the steering wheel, counted to ten under her breath, then whipped around in the seat to stare at him in disbelief.
“Did I hear you right? You want me to let Bo Ramsey work with my students? With my horses? Not in this lifetime, Shorty.” She shook her head so vigorously, the scrunchy holding her thick ponytail flipped off and landed on Shorty’s knee. She didn’t even bother to retrieve it.
When he blanched visibly, Abby was pretty sure he got the message. A fleeting stab of remorse snagged her conscience. Verbal attacks were not her usual style, but Shorty’s ludicrous suggestion was anything but usual.
For heaven’s sake, she didn’t need any more problems to deal with, especially one as provoking and personal as Bo Ramsey. So why was she even considering Shorty’s request? She wasn’t, was she? No, of course not.
“I ain’t said nothin’ to him about your riding program yet, Abby.” Shorty gingerly retrieved the ponytail holder with two fingers and deposited it on the dashboard. “He’s powerful depressed, though, and I just thought…maybe…”
He scratched his chin, ducked his head in that sheepish way of his that made Abby grind her teeth.
She leaned her head against the back of the seat. Why, oh why had Bo come back now, just when she was getting her life in order? Finally learning to live without him. She didn’t want to feel sympathy toward him. She didn’t want to feel anything at all. She owed him absolutely nothing. She would not feel guilty.
Shorty kept right on talking. “You know, Buck mentioned that you were sorta’ hard up for helpers since you got a few more kids this spring. Bo’d be mighty helpful with the horses, even if he can’t ride right now. Just seeing the spunk those youngsters have and how they deal with their handicaps might show Bo a thing or two. There’s lots of things…”
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
