And how do you think you’re any different? Who do you expect to compensate you for what life’s put you through?his subconscious demanded.
Understanding drove the air from his lungs like a sucker punch. He was no different, and there was no compensation that would give him back what he’d lost. Not any more than he could return her brother to her or compensate her for his loss.
Which meant she was ultimately right. He’d been behaving like the proverbial damsel in distress, waiting on the hero to show up and rescue him.
Shifting to his side, Ty swung his feet off the edge of the bed, the momentum helping him lever himself up to a sitting position. Dark spots marred his vision and he blinked repeatedly. He’d been in bed too long, had spent too much time lounging. His muscles were almost useless, and his bones were so heavy they felt as if they’d been cast out of concrete. He wanted to lie back down and pull the covers over his head. How had he let himself go so badly?
Easy. Whereas he’d once lived large, life now scared him because it had scarred him.
His fingertips traced the four-inch knotty line of scar tissue that disappeared into his nape. The hair had finally grown back where the surgeons had shaved it in December. Strobe-like memories of the day of the accident drifted through his mind, mental Polaroid images he’d carry with him forever. Some were blurry, some were clear and there were others that were nothing more than black slides with no value. The brightest memories, though, were when he woke from the coma...and the night before it had all gone down.
He remembered everything about his and Kenzie’s last night together. The smell of her perfume, the slip of the sheet that revealed one luscious bare hip, the passion, how she’d silently watched him leave the room—all of it was fresher, more easily retrievable than memories of his last phone call home. He lingered over the image of her lying in the tumbled bed, skin flushed and appearing well loved. He’d recalled that last image more times than he would cop to, no matter who was doing the asking.
The accident had messed him up, left him reeling as he’d fought to recover not only physically but, as she’d pointed out, emotionally. What he needed was to jump-start his life, to reengage on a more meaningful level. Raking one hand through his hair, he considered what it would mean to him to take over this alleged partnership. He’d have to get her to tell him...
I’ll answer your questions.
There it was. His out. It was almost too easy.
He tightened his fingers and gripped his hair. She’d said it herself. If he made it down to the barn, she’d tell him what he wanted to know. What she’d failed to do was qualify the topics he could question her on. She’d left herself wide-open.
All he had to do was set aside the fears that were welded to his soul and then haul his broken backside to the barn.
13
ENTERINGTHEBARNafter fighting knee-deep snowdrifts, Kenzie huffed out a sharp breath, watching as it condensed on the bitter cold air. This morning hadn’t gone the way she’d expected. It was supposed to have been fun, full of her and Ty’s signature teasing and laughter. The passion had proved too intense for that, though. And then her past had risen up and taken over the emotional bus, turning what had been aHope Floatsmoment into aSpeedfilm snippet complete with the bus going airborne, the crash landing imminent.
Grabbing a rake, shovel and cart from the equipment room, she set about cleaning the stalls she was responsible for. She started with Indie, hoping Ty would come in time to help with Gizmo. Her mare was quiet, absorbed with her grain ration, allowing Kenzie to work mindlessly as she replayed the conversation with Ty this morning, shying away from the hard parts.
She was nearly finished when she heard the sound that froze her where she stood. Booted feet. Steps slow and measured, the person entered the barn.
He showed up.
Adrenaline trilling through her veins, she set the pitchfork aside and stepped into the alleyway to find a cowboy she hadn’t met emerging from the tack room.
He glanced up, seemed to recognize her, and his face shut down. All he said was “Sleigh ride for the guests,” as he passedby, silently harnessing up a pair of draft horses before leading them out the opposite end of the barn.
Clearly, word about her “designs” on Gizmo had made it down the campfire gossip chain and made her persona non grata on the ranch.
“I swear,” she muttered, scooping up another forkful of straw that needed replacing. “Men are far more active gossips than women.” She glanced at Gizmo. “Present company excluded, but probably only because English isn’t your first language.” He nodded his head dramatically, and she laughed. “You’re such a smart-ass.”
She continued cleaning, the morning’s conversation stuck on Repeat in her mind. She couldn’t get it to stop, only to pause at highly relevant places or comments. Sweat trickled down her back, a ticklish, itchy line of irritation. Stepping over to the edge of the open stall door, she backed up to the corner and rocked side to side to scratch the itch. Her bra had dampened from the exertion, too. Glancing around, she shed her jacket and reached under her shirt to unhook her bra and wiggle out of it. Shoving it down the arm of her jacket, she tossed the garment on the nearest clean straw bale in the barn’s alleyway.
“Better,” she breathed.
Resuming her duties, she tried to ignore the building guilt that held down the trigger on her nerves. Movements jerky, she finally stabbed the shovel tip into the ground and leaned on the handle, closing her eyes. As pervasive as the cold was, it couldn’t compare to the frost that rimed her emotional center.
Can’t believe I used Michael’s memory that way.
Exploiting her brother’s death was wrong in a variety of ways, but she was far from the first to use it as a tool. Her mother had used it to get her father to quit the rodeo circuit. Her father had, in turn, used it as a manipulative tool to get Kenzie to take the professional rodeo circuit seriously, encouraging herto take over where Michael left off—“in Michael’s memory,” of course. Her maternal grandparents had used Michael’s death to prod Kenzie into going to college because “Michael would have wanted it.” Her paternal grandparents had suggested she could keep Michael’s memory alive by riding with his bridle and reins in each event. At age fourteen, she’d balked, even cried, at the heartache caused by holding reins stained by her lost brother’s sweat. They’d grown stern and told her how much it would have meant to Michael, as well as how much itwouldmean to her father,theirson, to see that bridle worn in their grandson’s memory.
The list went on; everyone from family members to friends to neighbors had exercised their right to gain what they wanted either for Michael or because Michael would have wanted it. She had despised them all for sullying her brother’s loss that way, and yet here she was, finally succumbing to this warped expression of grief.
Only Ty had ever given her relief from the memories. He’d never asked because he’d never known, and that had suited her just fine. She could be normal with him, not the daughter/granddaughter/sister/cousin/friend who linked people to Michael’s memory. She’d been Mackenzie Malone. Period. Sure, he’d known she was an heiress. But until the accident when he’d pleaded with her to save Gizmo, until she’d invested over one hundred thousand dollars of her trust fund money into saving Ty’s horse and covering his medical bills, her money hadn’t mattered. And for a few hours last night and this morning, she’d totally forgotten about the whole mess money and obligation and memories created. She’d just been Kenzie Malone in the arms of the man she loved.
She gasped. The man she loved...
No. Not possible. She’d be a fool to fall in love with a man like Ty.