of guess-who, in one hand. Some nightcap. At least, it wasn’t flavored with chili peppers. Granted, he’d never been much of a drinker until the accident.
For the past two weeks, the two men had done nothing but argue about his newly acquired habit. Shorty nagged and Bo ignored. He wasn’t even sure why. It wasn’t like he thought the beer tasted good. He stretched out his legs and got ready for the argument he knew was sure to come. He wasn’t disappointed.
“I just cain’t figure you out, boy,” the old rancher began. “Ain’t like you to look to a bottle for answers. That never solved a problem yet.”
Bo grunted. “Save your sermons for the Sunday congregation, okay?” The sarcastic words spilling out of his mouth of their own accord tasted sour on his tongue, but he couldn’t pull them back for the life of him. Didn’t try. What the hell difference did it make anymore?
He hated being so damned dependent, but who would hire the likes of him now? He was about as useless as a bucket of warm spit. Until he could manage to walk without tottering like an old man, there wasn’t much he could do but sit on his backside and complain. He was getting to be an expert at that.
But Shorty wasn’t about to cut him any slack, it seemed.
“You’ve been back here nigh on two weeks now and so far, the only thing getting better is your leg, ’cause your attitude sure ain’t improving. It’s time you stopped wallowing in self-pity. I don’t aim to be wet-nursin’ you no more. Time for you to play the hand you been dealt, and get on with the game. Plain and simple.”
Bo muttered under his breath. Shorty was right, as usual. He knew his attitude sucked. He knew why, too. He just wasn’t ready to tell his friend the whole story. Not yet. There’d been a lot of things he’d meant to say the day Shorty picked him up from the therapy clinic, but the words had stuck in his throat. Hell, what do you say to the man who has just bailed you out of the hospital, chased the bill collectors from your door, and offered you a home without asking a single thing in return? “Thanks” just didn’t seem to cut it. And Shorty hadn’t even asked about Marla yet.
Marla. Shorty’s niece and the reason Bo had left Sweet River. The reason he’d left Abby Houston with a broken heart. Not to mention the damage he’d done to his own.
Ditch snored softly, his big head resting on Shorty’s boots, seemingly oblivious to any danger as his long tail darted back and forth underneath the chair’s wooden rocker. Every time Shorty rocked forward, the dog’s tail swished under and back, under and back, like a metronome with a mysterious timing device, never missing a beat.
Bo had been watching the dog’s laid-back attitude for the last half hour. “You ever catch his tail with that rocker?” he finally asked, pointing to Ditch.
“Nope.” Shorty kept on rocking. “Dog’s got more sense than most of us humans. Knows how to stay out of trouble, don’t back talk, and is a heap more grateful for small favors than most folks.”
Bo pushed out of his chair and shoved his hat back without giving a thought to the way it bared his face.
“Dammit, Shorty, I am grateful,” he said, plunking his glass so hard on the nearby wobbly metal table that Ditch thought it best to slink off to the other end of the porch. “There’s not a minute goes by that I don’t remember I’m in debt up to my eyeballs to you. Don’t you think I’m ashamed of the mess I made of things? You can’t begin to know how it really was.”
Shorty raised a shaggy eyebrow. “Then maybe it’s time you told me, son.”
The word son sucker punched him right in the gut. He couldn’t avoid the truth any longer. Especially not with the only man who had ever called him son.
Chapter Three
Pale morning light filtered through the open barn door, haloing the clock on the wall with dust motes. Abby glanced up wearily. Almost six o’clock and already the barn was hotter than a mouthful of jalapeños. The air hung heavy with the pungent smell of the horses. Hay, feed and freshly hauled manure combined in a uniquely familiar odor that Abby barely noticed.
She’d been out in the barn since four-thirty. At this rate, she’d have all the chores finished before Pop even woke up. Monday’s chores always seemed to take longer. She mopped her damp forehead with a frayed bandana and readjusted her baseball cap before tackling the last of the stalls.
Well, that’s what she wanted, wasn’t it? Dirty work. Hot, hard work. Any diversion to take her mind off last Saturday’s confrontation with Bo. Well, hot and hard wasn’t going to do it. Oh, yes, it would.
Knock it off with the fantasies. What on earth had she been thinking when she shoved that kicked-up chili at him? She’d reacted like a child in the throes of a temper tantrum. Nice going, girl. Real maturity.
She stabbed a forkful of new bedding straw and shook it over the clean floor, then made sure the last water trough was full. If she concentrated really hard, maybe she could keep her thoughts where they belonged—on the students that would be showing up in a few hours and not on the rush of emotions that kept her insides churning.
Since it was too soon to put the horses in the arena, Abby made her way to the large room at the back of the barn where the tack was kept. She smiled as she passed the horses. The animals’ objections had been very clear when she’d entered their stalls earlier. Her intrusion at such an early hour had definitely not been appreciated, but fresh oats and clean bedding quickly appeased their grumpiness.
“You are such sweeties,” she crooned, giving them each a loving caress as, one by one, they stuck their heads over the stall doors to greet her. Their whinnies and nickers made her heart swell with love. These docile creatures were her pride and joy. As senior citizens in Abby’s small equine community, the horses were patient beyond belief when it came to the students. Loving the attention they received, the animals were always eager to please and quick to respond to the sometimes timid commands of the novice riders. Somehow, they sensed their importance to the children. The uncanny communication between horse and student never ceased to amaze Abby, so she made pampering and indulging them a priority because—aside from the children—the horses were the most important part of her riding program.
Some had been donated by area ranchers. She had managed to convince a few local ranch owners that, even though the horses were too old to be of much use on a working ranch, they were invaluable to the special children who attended the Sweet River Riders group. Abby loved every one of the horses dearly and so did the few volunteers who showed up each day to complete her staff. The children adored the animals without reservation, and most of them had bonded quickly with a favorite.
In the long room where the tack was stored, Abby counted blankets, straightened the bump pads and lined up the helmets. While she sorted halters, reins, saddles and lead ropes, she thought back to when she had first begun her training to become a director of this worthwhile program.
She’d been drifting through the days in a zombielike state for those first few months after Bo had left Sweet River, nursing her hurt like a wounded animal. Humiliation kept her from leaving the ranch for anything other than business until a friend in Austin called her and urged her to volunteer at an equine therapy school. After two weeks, Abby knew she wanted to be an active participant, and that she wanted to direct a program of her own. The intensity of the instruction and the enormity of such an undertaking were welcome challenges, enabling her to focus her energies on something besides her shattered heart. The children needed her. And Abby sorely needed them.
Now,
