“Not my go-to, trusting men who are suing me.”
“Well, given that I’m your best bet at getting bandaged up, I’d start now.”
I settle her back into place, riding side saddle in that skirt, and drape an arm around her waist, letting her legs dangle. On the way past my barn, I hop off Dolly and retrieve a pair of cowboy boots and slide them onto Tessa’s feet, careful not to tweak her ankle. Then I slide back into the saddle. “Better protection on a horse.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I slide onto the saddle, shaking my head at the turn this day took.
Dolly starts padding down the path. Tessa looks down at Dolly and side eyes me like she doesn’t quite know how she ended up here. Shaking her head, she huffs out a laugh. “Me on horseback in a skirt. This is certainly a first.”
I can’t begin to tell her the ways she’s got that right, even if I don’t entirely mind it. “You're telling me.”
CHAPTER 13
Tessa
Seriously?!
Of course the broody hot cowboy would end up being the guy who’s suing us. The guy whose electric fence I breached. The guy who slung me over a horse like Tarzan.
So far,“Oh, and I’m pregnant with your baby”hasn’t organically worked its way into our conversation because how would it organically work into any conversation?
Once we get to town, Fitz pulls his horse to a stop, but there’s no indication of a medical facility anywhere around here. He slides off the saddle, and I start to follow him. “What the heck do you think you’re doing? Stay there.” He points at me like he’s ordering around a surly goat, but since my skinny skirt doesn’t offer me much leeway, I do what I’m told.
“Bossy,” I grumble.
He rolls his eyes.
I pet the horse’s neck as Fitz walks us to a fence a few feet down the road and ties Dolly’s bridle to the wood. Then he slips an arm beneath me and slides me from the horse to the ground,careful not to let me put weight on my injured ankle. The whole motion has the grace of a dancer, and I wonder where this gruff cowboy got his gentle ways.
“Lean your weight on me. Don’t be shy,” he grunts, pulling me toward him with a large hand on my waist. He’s strong enough that I don’t have much hope of pulling out of his grip, and giving in is easier than arguing.
Leaning against his side, I inhale the rugged scent of pine and sage and recall our night together a month ago. It feels like a year ago. So much has changed, and yet I still feel just as attracted to him in broad daylight. Maybe more so.
I wish I didn’t.
His arm loops around my shoulders again like he owns me. He puts his other hand on my hip, steadying me and holding the weight off my ankle. I’m practically floating under the raw strength of him.
We hobble toward a small adobe that could easily be a house or a library. Fitz pulls a heavy brown barn door open to reveal a clean, white room that appears to be a state-of-the-art medical clinic.
Nodding at the receptionist behind the check-in desk, Fitz ushers us to a pair of empty seats and wordlessly supports most of my weight until I drop onto a padded bench. Then he walks over to a water cooler.
I watch his jeans-clad ass and muscled legs move through the room, certain that everyone with a pulse has stopped to stare. He comes back with two cups of water, hands one to me, and sits on the bench.
I’m aware of the hum of people talking among themselves, and a couple of them point at Fitz or raise a hand in greeting. He nods and returns their gestures, then tips his head down.
I sneak a glimpse at him in his dark-washed jeans and long-sleeved gray tee and wonder what he was doing before he rodeup and found me in the dirt. I’m about to ask when a door opens, and a nurse nods at me. I look at Fitz questioningly and tip my head toward the half dozen people in the room who have been waiting longer.
“Let’s go,” he says.
He helps me up and ushers me through the door to a small exam room, where he lifts me onto an exam table and slides the boots from my feet. He tucks them in a corner and sits on a rolling stool.
The nurse, dressed in light-blue scrubs, takes my vital signs and asks for my medical history, which she types into an iPad. Then she hands me what looks like a paper gown, but if she thinks I’m changing into that with Fitz in the room, she has another thing coming.
“It’s a modesty shield.” She points at my skirt. “You can drape it over your lap since your skirt is short.”
“Oh. Okay.” I unfold it and drape it over myself, but I hardly feel less exposed.