Cowboy to the Rescue

“You find everything?” Ryan called out.

“Yeah.” She returned to the living room.

“I’ve stopped bleeding like a stuck pig,” he said.

“Yay, progress.” Brooke resumed her spot on the end of the coffee table. “Looks like your color’s coming back, too. You were pulling a Casper a few minutes ago.”

“Can’t say I’m a fan of the sight of blood.” There it was again, an echo of meaning beyond the actual words.

She took his hand in hers, ignoring the zing of unwise awareness, and removed the bloodstained towel. “Then I suggest not stabbing yourself.”

When he smiled, she smiled back. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.

She cleaned the wound, washing away the last remnants of blood, then applied antibacterial cream and a gauze bandage.

“She cooks, she plays a mean game of Scrabble and makes a pretty fair nurse.”

“A necessity when your sister is the clumsiest person on the planet.” Brooke wasn’t sure why she’d said that, but Holly’s various mishaps had been what sprang into her mind. She hadn’t revealed too much, and if she kept too private that might invite as many unwanted questions as being too open. The trick was finding the right balance between saying enough but not too much.

Mentioning Holly brought on a wave of homesickness—not for her condo in Arlington but for the mountains of West Virginia and her older sister, her only remaining family.

“You all right?” Ryan asked.

“Yeah.” Brooke realized she was still holding Ryan’s hand so she released it and scooted back on the table. “How does your hand feel?”

“Like some idiot stabbed it with a carving knife.”

“Hey, accidents happen.”

He glanced out the door toward his shop. “But never at a good time.”

“Is there ever a good time to stab yourself?”

He lifted his good hand from the arm of the chair then let it drop. “You have a point.”

“Is there anything I can help you with?”

“You a wood carver by chance?”

“Nope, sorry.” She stood and walked toward the door. “Anything else on your to-do list?”

“I have a table and chairs ready to deliver. Maybe I can get Simon or Nathan to help.”

“Or me.” She lifted her hands, holding the palms out, and wiggled her fingers. “See, two good hands.”

“You looking for a second job?”

“How much you paying?”

He raised an eyebrow. “How much do you charge?”

She crossed her arms, hugging herself against a flicker of innuendo she thought she might be imagining. She leaned against the doorframe. “Actually, I just need a ride into town. You might be the idiot who stabbed himself, but I’m the idiot who barreled into that pothole this morning.”

“And you have a flat.”

“Two.”

“Talk about going overboard.”

Laughter bubbled up in Brooke. “What can I say? I’m an overachiever.”

Ryan rose from the chair, steady on his feet this time. In the small space, he appeared taller, broader. Had she just made an offer that would have her spending more time with him instead of less? Had she spent too much time in the sun while digging out that useless spare tire?

Or had the feel of Ryan’s hand in her own caused her attraction to overrule her common sense?

Of the two idiots in the room, she was definitely the bigger.

Chapter Four

Ryan decided not to examine his reasons for accepting Brooke’s offer too closely. He was just going to stick with the fact that he needed help until his hand healed. He still couldn’t believe the klutzy move. It was a wonder the U.S. Army had ever allowed him to pack a gun.

“Turn here.” He pointed to the street coming up on the right. “We’ll drop off your tires first so Greg can have them ready before we head back to the ranch.”

Brooke made the turn. She’d grown quiet on the ride into town, but it didn’t bother him. For the most part, he wasn’t a chatty guy. He’d already talked to her more in their short acquaintance than he had to some of his neighbors in months.

“Hey, there’s your mom.” She pointed out his side of the windshield.

“Yeah, that’s her art gallery.”

“She has a gallery? Wow. She mentioned painting, but I had no idea it was a profession.”

“It’s still pretty new. Grace runs her interior design business out of there, too. Also has the new-car smell.”

Brooke smiled. “You Teagues seem to be a talented bunch.” She nodded toward the furniture riding in the bed of the truck. “Including you.”

“It’s a living.”

“It’s art as much as painting.”

He barely knew this woman, but that simple praise from her sent a wave of warmth through him.

“I can’t imagine doing anything remotely artistic,” she said.

“But you do. With food.”

She glanced at him. “That’s different.”

“Why?”