Reunited with the Cowboy (8 page)

Chapter Eight

“Y
ou go to sleep now, munchkin,” Heather said, laying Adana in the bed. The toddler's cheeks were red and her eyes had that hazy, unfocused look that signaled sleep was near. Heather felt bad that they had kept her up so long, but she had seemed happy enough in her seat in the tractor.

It was now four o'clock, well past the little one's nap time, and she needed some rest.

Heather pulled the blanket up over Adana's shoulders and tucked it around her. In seconds her eyes drifted shut and her breathing grew heavy.

Heather stood over the crib, trying to separate her own painful memories from this little girl.

It seemed the more Heather saw her, the more time she spent with her, the more the little one charmed her way past the defenses Heather had built. Yes, she reminded her of her lost child and yes, it was painful. But Adana was so cute and so precious that Heather found herself thinking less of her baby and more of Adana herself.

She stayed a moment longer, watching her sleep, listening to her steady breaths. Then she reached down and stroked Adana's cheek, letting this little girl into her heart.

As she did, however, her mind wandered to dangerous territory.

What if she hadn't met Mitch and gone to work for him? What if she had come home from college that horrible year? What if she hadn't been so ashamed of her failures, and realized that she wasn't a student?

Would she and John have stayed together? Had one or two children of their own? Would they be on the ranch, living out their happy-ever-after?

For a few heartbeats, Heather allowed herself to imagine a life with John. With Adana as theirs instead of his.

Then she ran her left hand down her hip, brushing over the small ridged scar on that side. It was only half an inch long. Barely noticeable unless she wore a string bikini, which she preferred not to, for personal and moral reasons.

But it was a reminder of the choices she had made—and their consequences. She couldn't go back in time. She had made her decisions and dealt with the results.

The happy moment with Adana fizzled away like bubbles in a soda. Heather left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

John hadn't come back yet. She glanced at the clock, quite sure he had said he would return as soon as he parked the tractor. She hoped nothing had happened to him.

She looked out the window and saw the tractor parked just outside the machine shed, still running. Where was John?

Fear rushed through her. She checked back in on Adana, who was fast asleep, then ran to the porch, slid her feet into her ruined leather boots, grabbed a jacket and hurried outside.

When Heather got closer, she still couldn't see John. Her heart was like a block of ice in her chest as she rounded the tractor. John sat in the mud with his back to the huge tire, his knees up, eyes closed.

Heedless of the mud, she dropped to the ground beside him, giving him a shake.

“John. What's wrong?” She shook him again and his eyes flew open.

He blinked, as if trying to assimilate himself to his surroundings, then struggled to his feet. “Sorry. I just felt really tired for a bit.”

“How long was a bit?” she asked, helping him to stand.

He tried to shake her off, but she ignored him and slipped one arm around his waist to hold him up. She felt the heat of him even through his jacket. He was burning up with fever.

“I'm okay,” he protested.

“No, you are not,” she said, ignoring him. “Let's go to the house. Get you cleaned up. You need to get to bed.”

“I need to shut the tractor off.”

“I'll do that later. Come to the house.”

He tried to protest again, but Heather just pulled him along. He stopped fighting and, draping an arm over her shoulder, walked alongside her. “I took something,” he said, his voice a croak. “I think I took too much.”

Heather's fear melted into surprise. “Took too much of what?”

“Cold medication. I think I read the package wrong.”

But as Heather steered him toward the house, she knew that something else was wrong. “You're burning up. I think we should take you to the hospital.”

“It's just a cold or the flu,” he said, trying to push her away. “They'll just tell me it's a virus and send me home. I'll be better in the morning.”

When they finally reached the house, Heather got them both inside. She made him sit on the blanket box while she pulled her own boots off, then bent to remove his.

“Stop,” he said. “I can do that.”

“I'm sure you can. When you're feeling better. Right now, I think you should have a shower and go to bed.”

“I can go to my own house.”

“No. I can't keep an eye on you there. And Adana is sleeping right now.”

Heather held her hand out to him. To her surprise, he took it, and he didn't let go. He smiled up at her, looking just a bit loopy.

“Thanks for helping me,” he said, his voice quiet. “It's been fun being together again. Just like old times. I missed those times. I missed you.”

She smiled at him, wondering how much of what he was saying was John and how much was the fever, or the cold medication. Regardless, his words found a home in her soul, settling into the lonely places that had yearned so badly for him, so often.

Then he shook his head, as if he had heard what he'd said. “I'm sorry,” he muttered, struggling to his feet. “My head is all muddled. I'll go shower.” Then he stopped. “But I don't have any clean clothes.”

“I'll run to your house and get some,” she said. “I have to turn the tractor off, anyway. I'll be back in a couple of minutes.”

He frowned, as if he didn't like the idea of her rifling through his things, then waved his hand. “Sure. That'd be great. I'm going to check on Adana.”

John stumbled off, stopping a moment to cough again. Heather heard his footsteps on the stairs, going up to the bedroom where his daughter was sleeping.

She put her boots and coat on again, then jogged across the yard to the tractor. She parked it closer to the shop, turned it off and then went to his house. The door wasn't locked, so she let herself in. A couch and chairs huddled around the fireplace, creating a cozy feeling. She remembered sitting here, playing board games at the table, while John's parents read in the living room.

A perfect home, she thought. She had been happy here. Would she have been happy with John?

The thought lingered just a moment, and again she shook it off. She had no right to allow herself any daydreams where he was concerned. There was no way she could get to where John was; she was weighed down with too much baggage. She had to keep heading in the direction she was going right now.

Away from Mitch and, unfortunately, away from John, who deserved so much more than a mess like her.

She headed down the hallway. The first door she opened was to Adana's room. She guessed John's was the one opposite.

Once inside she made quick work of finding a clean shirt and pants. She folded them up and walked to the dresser to get whatever else he might need. Several pictures on the dresser caught her attention and made her stop.

A photo of Sandy, pregnant, stood off to one side. Adana as a one-year-old, taken in a studio, sat beside it. But it was the other three pictures that surprised Heather.

One of the framed photos was of her and Sandy as young girls, complete with braces and wild hair. They were grinning at the camera. Heather suddenly remembered when that picture had been taken. She'd been invited to Sandy's house shortly after she'd come to the Bannister ranch. They'd had a sleepover, just the two of them.

This must have been part of Sandy's collection, and John, for some reason, had kept it.

Sadness settled over Heather, stirring up memories along with it. Sandy's intervention and subsequent friendship had rescued her from a bleak life with her mother.

Heather didn't deserve to give herself even the smallest space in John and Adana's life. They needed more than she could ever give them.

“I'm so sorry,” she breathed, holding the picture, taking a moment to grieve the loss of her friend. Heather put the picture back, but then another one caught her eye.

It was a large group shot of the Bannister and Fortier kids. Lee, Keira, Tanner, his brother David, John and herself were all mounted on horses, looking like a posse ready to head out and nab bad guys. They were teenagers in the photo, full of hopes and high spirits.

She picked it up, smiling at the sight of all that innocence. So much had happened to all of them, she thought. David had died, Keira had dealt with her own shadows and Lee had gone to jail.

And her?

She put the picture back on the dresser. But as she did, she caught sight of another one. A photo of her alone.

She was on Rowdy, racing around a barrel, hat clamped down on her head, hair flying like a flag behind her. One hand was on the pommel, the other holding the reins as she steered her horse, eyes intent on reading his movements. They were leaning at an impossible angle, clods of dirt airborne behind Rowdy's hooves, looking as if they were suspended in space.

It was one of those rodeo shots taken by the ubiquitous photographers that showed up with their huge cameras at every event, taking pictures and selling them afterward.

Heather didn't remember buying this one. She'd been wearing a shirt she had never particularly cared for—purple silk, with pink sequins and fringe down the arms. She had borrowed it from a fellow rider when her own shirt had ripped.

When had John gotten this and why did he still have it?

Old emotions lingered as she set the pictures back exactly the way they'd been. A quick glance at the photo of Sandy settled Heather's wayward thoughts.

Again she tamped the memories down and grabbed whatever else John might need.

Then, without a backward glance, she left the room.

* * *

“I'll be fine,” John muttered, though the spinning room and the chills that made his teeth chatter told him otherwise. He thought the shower would warm him up, but he was even colder then before.

“Eventually, yes,” Heather said, taking him by the arm and steering him to the room at the end of the main-floor hallway. “For now, you are going to lie down.”

“Not in a bed. I'm not an invalid.” He pulled away and forced himself to focus as he turned back to the living room. He knew he was being stubborn, but there was no way he was going to bed before the sun went down.

“But you're sick, and you can't argue that away,” Heather said. It wasn't hard to hear the exasperation in her voice. “At least lie down on the couch.”

John nodded, willing to do that. But he planned on sitting only for a moment. Maybe catching a nap.

Heather grabbed a blanket from her mother's chair as he lowered himself onto the couch.

“I don't need that,” he protested.

“You are the worst patient,” she declared. “Stop fighting this. Just lie down.” She stood above him and he knew that until he laid his head down, she was going to stay there, holding that blanket.

“Okay. But don't let me sleep too long.” He swung his feet up and lowered his head to the pillow that Ellen always had sitting at the corner of the couch. He stretched out on the leather sofa, and as he closed his eyes, sleep dragged him down. The last thing he felt was a blanket gently settling on his shoulders, and then he fell into a chaotic dream.

He was chasing cows and Heather was ahead of them. Then the animals veered away and he saw that she had fallen down, was covered in dirt, and was so busy trying to brush it off she couldn't see that the cows were stampeding toward her, snorting and angry. The sun was getting hotter and hotter and he was so thirsty. He had to save Heather, but as he got closer to her, he fell. One of the cows stood over him, breathing on him. He had to get up.

He forced his unwilling eyes open as he dragged himself from a restless sleep.

Something was still breathing on him.

“Sugar, get over here,” Heather whispered, and John turned his head to see her dog staring at him, head tilted to one side, mouth open and tongue lolling out, her hot breath bathing John's face.

Relief flooded through him as the border between sleep and wakefulness sharpened and became clear. He gently pushed the dog aside as bits and pieces of the dream rolled through his mind, errant tumbleweeds of thoughts and fear.

“Sorry,” Heather said, getting up and shooing Sugar back onto the porch. “She likes to sneak in when we're not paying attention.”

The lights had been turned down, and from what he could see, night had come while he slept.

John tried to sit up as he looked for the grandfather clock in one corner of the living room. He saw that it was nine o'clock.

“Have I been asleep for five hours?” he asked groggily.

“You were sleeping pretty deep,” Heather said. “I thought it would be better if you slept as much as possible. Then you started getting restless, but Sugar got to you before I could wake you.”

“Had some stupid dreams,” he said, struggling to straighten the blankets tangled around him. He rubbed his eyes, feeling remnants of emotions from his dream still clinging like old cobwebs. His fears for Heather. The idea that she needed rescuing. He had never put a lot of stock in dreams, but couldn't shake the idea that part of his dream was true.

He sighed, rubbing his eyes again.

Heather closed the book she'd been reading. “Do you want some tea? Something to eat? You missed lunch and dinner.”

“Some tea for now would be great.”

She put her book aside, uncurled her long, slender legs and walked past him. He watched her, unable to keep his eyes off her.

“I'm going to heat up some soup for you, as well, just in case you're hungry,” she called out as she pulled some containers from the fridge.

“Sure. I'll probably eat it.”