to make a good impression on the teen.
Rowdy had a suspicion Wes had been sneaking around riding bulls behind everyone’s back. Bulls were the one rodeo event that was off-limits for the ranch kids to participate in. And purely Rowdy’s fault from when he’d been a teen. Because of his many close calls with bull riding, his dad had set the rule—no bull riding at Sunrise Ranch.
“By the glint in your eyes, I’m assuming it was pretty entertaining.”
“It was awesome.” Wes hooted. “I never knew your brother could ride like that. Tucker did some pony tricks getting the horses to stop.”
The sheriff of Dew Drop, Tucker didn’t spend as much time on the ranch with the boys as Rowdy, Morgan and their dad, Randolph. But when it came to riding, Tucker could hold his own.
“I’m glad Caleb was okay.” He glanced out into the arena and saw Tucker talking to a group of the younger kids.
“He’s fine. Didn’t even shake him up.” Wes spit a sunflower seed in the dirt and continued grinning.
Rowdy suddenly had an idea. It might not be a good idea, but that was yet to be seen. “Wes, I need you and Joseph to help me with something in the morning. Can you do it?”
“Sure thing. What are we going to do?”
More than likely make Lucy madder than a hornet. “We’re going to do a little yard work and y’all can make a little pocket change.”
“Sweet. When do we start?”
“Sunup.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.” A group of the boys over by the chutes called for Wes. “Showtime. I’ll tell Joseph.” Giving his horse a nudge, they raced off at a thundering gallop.
Rowdy watched him and the horse fly across the arena as one. When it came to riding, Wes was the best. He was a natural. Rowdy had a feeling the kid would ride a bull just as well. Though it was against the rules, Rowdy hesitated to say anything until he knew for certain. Wes was courting trouble...but then so was Rowdy if he went through with his plan in the morning.
What was he thinking, anyway?
The woman didn’t want his help. She needed it, though, and for reasons he didn’t quite understand he felt compelled to follow through—despite knowing he needed to steer clear of her.
He had a feeling he was about to see some major fireworks tomorrow...but he’d rather take that chance than do nothing at all.
Chapter Three
The morning light was just crawling across her bedroom floor when Lucy opened her eyes. She’d been dead to the world from the moment she’d fallen into bed late last night, and she stared at the ceiling for a moment, disoriented.
The ache in her arms brought clarity quickly.
And no wonder with all the manual labor she’d been doing for the past week. The muscle soreness had finally caught up with her last night. Caught up with her back, too. She’d always had a weak lower back and sometimes after a lot of stooping and heavy lifting, it rebelled on her. That moment had happened when she’d taken her last swing at the long wall in her living room—a muscle spasm had struck her like a sledgehammer.
It had been so painful she’d been forced to stretch out on the floor and stare at the ceiling until it had eased up enough for her to make it upstairs to bed.
She’d had plenty of time to contemplate her situation and the fact that she really had no timeline to finish her remodel. She could take all the time in the world if she wanted to. Uncle Harvey, bless his soul, had made sure of that.
He was actually her grandfather’s brother, whom she’d lost as a young girl. He had been in bad health when her world had fallen apart, and hadn’t lived on the ranch for a couple of years. But he’d told her this was where she needed be. And he’d been right. She’d known it the moment she’d arrived. She was making the place her own and searching for her new footing at the same time.
And yet, things had changed when Rowdy McDermott had offered to help her. She watched him drive off, and her conscience had plucked away at her.
To prove that she’d made the right decision turning him away, she’d gone at her work with extra zeal...but the pleasure she’d felt had disappeared. Drat the man—he’d messed up her process.
He’d had no right trying to take over her work. He was only being a good neighbor. The voice of reason she’d been steadily ignoring yesterday was louder this morning. Had she judged him wrong? She didn’t like this distrust that ruled her life these days.
Sitting up, she had no control of the groan that escaped her grimacing lips. “Hot shower, really hot shower.” She eased off the bed and walked stiffly toward the bathroom.
She’d wash the cobwebs out of her mind, the dust out of her hair and the pain out of her muscles. Then maybe she could figure out what she needed to do about the problems her good-looking neighbor was causing her.
She’d told him she would think about his offer. But did she really want him here? And he’d already shown that he thought his way was the best way. Did she want to fight that? Because she wasn’t giving up control of anything.
The niggling admission that she might be in over her head and needed help on this simmered in her thoughts. The realization that she was allowing distrust of men—all men—color her need for real help bothered her.
Shower, now! She needed a clear head to sort this out.
Twenty minutes later, feeling better, she padded down to the kitchen. The shower had helped her spirits, but she knew that today her back was going to give her fits if she did anything too strenuous. It needed a break. Her mind needed a break, too. She couldn’t shut it off....
When a gal wasn’t quite five feet tall, she grew used to people assuming she was helpless because of her size. Too weak to swing a sledgehammer.
It was maddening. More so now—since her husband’s betrayal had left her feeling so pathetically blind and weak-minded.
Too weak to realize my husband was cheating on me.
The humiliating thought slipped into her head like the goad of an enemy. Not the best way to start her day. She was going to miss not knocking out a wall—and the satisfaction it gave her.
People’s lack of faith always made her all the more determined to do whatever it was they assumed she couldn’t do.
Glancing down at her wrists, she could see the puckered skin peeking out from the edge of her long-sleeved T-shirt. She knew those scars looked twisted and savage as they covered her arm and much of her body beneath her clothing. The puckered burn scars on her neck itched, reminding her how close she’d come to having her face disfigured...reminding her of her blessings amid the tragedy that had become her life two years ago.
She hadn’t felt blessed then, when she’d nearly died in the fire that had killed her husband.
And learned the truth she hadn’t seen before.
Reaching for the coffeepot, her fingers
