The Rancher And The RunawayBride: Part 2 (4 page)

“The same thing Tex used on Princess?”

“Too good for the likes of you,” the older man said, then winked.

“I’m sure we can find the right preparation for your species.” She brushed her hair
out of her face.

She might be worried about him, but she looked as if she’d been through a war, as
well. There was dirt on her face and clothing, bloodstains on her shirtfront and jeans.
Her hair was loose and wild. Shadows stained the delicate skin under her eyes.

As usual, he wanted her, but this time something else joined the desire. Something
more dangerous.

Faint lines of cleaner skin streaked her cheeks. Visible reminders of her tears. Rita
wasn’t just good at her job. She was also smart, funny and compassionate. He’d learned
the truth about the latter today. In the three months he knew Alicia, he’d never seen
her cry. He had a feeling it wasn’t something she did, unless it was about herself.
Rita was different. And while he appreciated that difference, he knew it didn’t make
her any safer than she’d been before.

Randi combed her damp hair and decided there wasn’t time to dry it. She wanted to
get downstairs before Brady. Judging from the blood on his shirt, the scratches on
his chest and arms had been nasty. If he was a typical male, he would resist treatment
unless she was there to force him.

She debated tying her hair back, then figured she was off duty for the night. She
might as well leave it loose. At least it would dry faster than if she braided it
or caught it up in a ponytail.

As she walked down the hall, she heard the water shut off in Brady’s bathroom. Good.
She would have time to collect first aid supplies. She vaguely recalled that the house
first aid kit was kept in the kitchen, in a cupboard next to the sink.

She found the plastic box containing enough bandages, medicine and splints to service
a small army. Of course, on the ranch, they weren’t exactly close to a local hospital.
The drive to town had been nearly an hour. So if someone was injured, emergency treatment
would have to be administered on the spot.

While she was sorting through the various medicines, looking for a cream to ward off
infection, Tex entered through the back door. He had a plate in one hand and a bowl
in the other.

Rita stiffened when she saw him, then tried to relax. He looked at her and gave her
a slight smile. She nodded in return. Their earlier conversation hung between them,
making the moment awkward. She didn’t want that, but she didn’t know how to change
it.

“The vet’s gone,” he said. “Mother cat and kittens are fine. She checked on Princess,
too. Her paws will heal in a few days.” Tex set the plate and bowl on the counter
and wiped his hands on his jeans. “I didn’t think the two of you would want to come
to the bunkhouse for dinner, so I brought you a couple of steaks, salad and potatoes.
I took care of the men already. I can fix these up for you in a couple of minutes.”

Rita stared at him unbelievingly. He was so concerned about Brady, he didn’t dare
leave the two of them alone? The unfairness of it all burned down to her soul. What
had she done wrong? Why was she being judged?

“Don’t look like that. You’ve got it all wrong,” Tex said quickly, and shook his head.
“What I said earlier…this isn’t about that.”

“Then, what’s it about?”

“Dinner.” He shifted uneasily. “This is damn hard to say, all right? Brady thinks
you’re special. No one cares if the two of you are just friends, or it’s something
else. All I’m worried about is what happens when you move on. He doesn’t deserve to
be used.”

Randi blinked several times. It was too much information to take in. Brady thought
she was special? Brady? How would Tex know that? Had they discussed it, or was it
something the older man had observed?

She pushed that thought away, because there was no way to get answers to her questions.
Instead, she focused on the rest of what he’d told her. That Brady didn’t deserve
to be used. The implication being that someone had used him before. A woman. But who?

“I’m not the kind of person who uses people,” she said. “There’s no reason for you
to believe me, I know, but it’s true. Brady’s a great guy. I enjoy working for him.”
She enjoyed dreaming about him, too, but she wasn’t going to share that particular
piece of information with the ex-marine.

“You still mad at me?” Tex asked.

“I was never mad. You’re just looking out for a friend. If anything, I’m envious.
I want someone to care about me that way.”

“You’re not so bad. For a girl.” He gave her a wink.

“Thank you. High praise from a man like you.” She turned her attention to the steaks.
“Now, about dinner. I think I can manage.”

Tex winced. “I’m sure you can, missy, but—”

She cut him off with a wave of her hand, then walked to the stove and pointed. Two
of the gas burners had been replaced with a grill. “Fire,” she said. “Fire hot. Fire
cook meat.” She crossed to the microwave tucked under the counter. “Magic. Heat potato
very fast.” Finally, she placed her hand on her chest. “Rita smart. Rita understand
fire and magic.”

He rolled his eyes. “Women. Try to give them a little assistance and they get all
huffy. See if I ever offer to help you out again.”

She crossed to the back door and held it open. “If you hurry, you’ll get back in time
to watch your favorite television shows.”

“Uh-huh.” He crossed the floor.

When he was in front of her, she put a hand on his arm. He glanced at her. She smiled.
“Thanks, Tex. For explaining what you meant. I think Brady’s lucky to have a friend
like you.”

“Don’t go all mushy on me,” he grumbled, then reached up and tugged on one of her
curls. “Don’t let him talk you out of putting antiseptic on those scratches. He’s
a baby that way.”

“I’ll be tough, I promise.”

Tex gave her a wave and left. She closed the door behind him and returned to the kitchen.
Before she could turn on the grill, there was a noise on the stairs.

“Rita?” Brady called.

“In the kitchen. Tex says I’m not to let you weasel out of first aid treatment, so
let’s get that over with, okay?”

He entered the kitchen from the dining room. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to protest.
I don’t want these to get infected.”

“Good. I was all prepared to—”

She glanced up and lost her ability to speak. The man had been scratched by a cat.
On his chest. So that’s where the injuries would be. She’d known that, but she hadn’t
put it all together. She hadn’t actually thought about the fact that if she was going
to treat them, she was going to have to see them. Which meant Brady walked into the
kitchen bare-chested.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her stomach flopped over once, and heat flared on
her cheeks.

Like her, he was fresh from the shower. Damp hair had been brushed back from his face.
He hadn’t shaved since that morning and stubble darkened his jawline. Bad enough that
he was so damned handsome; worse that he was half-naked.

She’d known he was strong. Ranch work did that to a man. She’d seen the way he filled
out his shirts, straining the shoulders until the fabric looked ready to rip. Now
she was able to
see
the rippling muscles under tanned skin.

As he crossed the room, muscles bunched and released in his arms and chest. Hard strength,
warm, honey-colored skin, big eyes and a ready smile. This she was supposed to resist?

Then her attention focused on the scratches marring his perfect skin. From his right
shoulder, across his chest to his belly, four angry red claw marks cut through flesh.
Several shorter gouges dotted his right side. There were more wounds on his arms and
the back of his hands.

“They look worse than I thought they would,” Randi said, finally finding the power
of speech. “Sit down and let’s get something on them. Did you wash them thoroughly
in the shower?”

“Didn’t you hear me screaming?” he asked, his smile turning into a wince as he sat
down. “Normally I would go all macho on you and insist on treating myself, but tonight
I’m willing to admit to being a wimp. The antiseptic cream stings like a son of a
bitch. Ignore my unmanly whimpers.”

“No problem,” she said, trying to tell herself this was about a medical problem. She
was not going to think about being close to him for several minutes, let alone touching
his skin. At least while he was in pain, he wouldn’t notice she was hyperventilating.

She grabbed the cream and stepped in front of the chair. As she bent down, her hair
spilled over her shoulder and brushed against his thighs.

“This isn’t going to work,” she muttered, and tossed her head back. The curls flew
out of the way.

She knelt on the floor next to him. His right hand rested on the arm of the chair.
She opened the tube and squeezed out a little onto her finger, then touched the cream
to the scratches. He stiffened.

“Sorry,” she said.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Don’t apologize. Maybe you could talk
to me. That would be distracting.”

“Sure. About what?”

“Anything.”

“Okay.” She smoothed the antiseptic over the rest of the marks on the back of his
hand, then moved up his arm. She tried not to notice the scent of him—something intriguingly
masculine laced with the clean smell of soap. She also did her best to ignore his
heat.

She was close enough to see the individual whiskers darkening his jawline, and the
faint crease by his mouth, where he got a dimple when he smiled. As she moved higher,
toward his shoulder, she became mesmerized by the steady rise and fall of his chest.
She wanted to lay her head there and listen to his heartbeat. She wanted to touch
him with her fingers, then her mouth as they—“Rita?”

“Huh?” She blushed bright red and stared at him. Thank the Lord, his eyes were still
closed.

“You’re supposed to be talking.”

“Oh. Right. Um, talk.” She tried to think of something safe to say. “Okay, Tex brought
us dinner so we don’t have to go to the bunkhouse.”

“That sounds nice. What did he fix?”

“There’s steaks and potatoes. He offered to stay and cook, but I told him I could
handle it.”

“I’ll cook.”

She’d finished with his arm and leaned over to apply the cream to his chest. Fortunately
his words were enough to distract her from her task.

“What is it about you guys? Why does everyone think I can’t cook? I’m not completely
useless in the kitchen.”

Brady opened his eyes. “No one said you were, but my mama taught me well. I’m not
going to assume that you’ll be cooking dinner just because you’re a woman. You put
in a hard day’s work, just like I did. In fact, you were up earlier. I was being polite.”

“Oh.” Who would have thought?

“Just,
oh
? What about a heartfelt apology?”

She smiled. “Don’t you think ‘heartfelt’ is just a little too strong? This is a situation
that calls for a casual apology.”

“I’ll take either one.”

She touched the cream to his belly. Muscle rippled. Her mouth went dry. She had to
clear her throat before she could speak. “Why don’t we share kitchen duties? I’ll
be in charge of the potatoes and setting the table, you can take care of the meat.
The salad’s already made.”

“Fine.” He closed his eyes again. “When you’re done with my chest, I’ve got some dandy
scratches at the top of my thighs.”

Randi froze.

Brady opened one eye and grinned. “Gotcha.”

* * *

After dinner, Randi sipped her wine and sighed. “I am content. I worked hard this
morning, helped you rescue Princess, a cat and her kittens, then finished up with
a wonderful meal. Life doesn’t get much better than this.”

“Agreed.” Brady leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table.

After she’d seen to his scratches, he’d pulled on his shirt. The logical side of her
brain had been relieved. With him decently covered she was at less risk of making
a fool of herself. The illogical side of her brain had murmured a protest, wanting
to continue to look at his bare chest. At least she had the memories, she reminded
herself. When she was alone in her room tonight, she would relive the experience of
seeing and touching him.

You might be growing up, but you’re still not very bright when it comes to men
, she told herself. But somehow, with Brady, she didn’t care. It was safe to dream
about him because he wouldn’t ever want her.

“I should go clean up the dishes,” she said, making no move to rise.

“I’ll help…in a minute.” He poured more red wine into her glass, then filled his own.

She glanced around the dining room. A large hutch stood on the far wall. There was
a buffet under the window. Several old samplers, obviously handed down for generations,
decorated the walls. “This is such a great house,” she said. “I wonder if your parents
miss it.”

“I’m sure they do, but they know it’s waiting here for them. That makes a difference.
When I got homesick, that’s what I told myself.”

“When were you gone?”

“I rode the rodeo circuit for nearly ten years.”

“Really? I’ve been to a few rodeos and enjoyed them. I didn’t get to as many as I
would have liked. My mother didn’t approve.”

“Why?”

Randi stared at her glass. “Oh, it wasn’t socially correct. Now, if I wanted to go
to the ballet, that was fine. Or the opera. What were your events?”

“Bareback and bronc riding. I was a bull rider for a couple of years, but those guys
are crazy.”

She raised her gaze to meet his. “I agree. It’s dangerous, but at least it’s fair.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I guess if a man wants to ride a bull that’s his business. The bull
is larger and can take care of himself. I always hated calf roping. Those poor baby
calves getting caught, then hog-tied. It doesn’t seem like a test of equals.”

“If they grow up to be the bull riding stock, at least they get their own back.”

She laughed. “I like that. I’m sure most of the calves don’t, but I’m going to insist
on believing they do.”

They sat next to each other at right angles, at one end of the long table. The large
room made Randi want to whisper, as if they could be overheard. In some way, that
added to the intimacy of the moment.

“The rodeo was a good life for me,” he said. “I traveled, saw a lot of the country,
met interesting people.”

“Women?”

He grinned. “Some.”

“How many is some?”

“More than one, less than you would think.”

She batted her eyes. “No details?”

“I’m not one to kiss and tell.”

“Bummer. I would love to know what it was like to be a rodeo hero.”

He shrugged. “I was never that good. I managed to win enough to support myself, but
I only made the national finals four years out of ten. Still, I wouldn’t trade that
experience for the world. I grew up on the road. My dad had done the same thing, so
he knew a lot of people on the circuit. His friends, the older guys, kept track of
me. With them around, I avoided getting into any real trouble.”