Authors: Beth D. Carter
A Silver Lining
Loose Id, LLC
www.loose-id.com
Copyright ©2011
First published in 2011
Loose Id Titles by Beth D. Carter
This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.
DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither Loose Id LLC nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles.
This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Loose Id LLC
PO Box 425960
San Francisco CA 94142-5960
www.loose-id.com
No writer is an island. Thanks to Corey LaBranche, Treva Harte, Rory Olsen, and Damon.
Heather sat at attention in the bleacher section, leaning forward slightly, watching the rodeo in the small arena below with fascination. Local cowboys had gathered at Hart Ranch to put on the exhibition. They were mostly practicing, but it gave everyone from other ranches a chance to meet up and have a summer party.
She had come to Louisiana with her parents to visit her grandfather, her father's father, since they had never met before. And so far, ranch life seemed as romantic as she imagined it would be. Heather had a whole satchelful of romance books featuring the Old West, dangerous cowboys, and gunslingers with hearts of gold.
"This is fun, huh, Heather?” her mother said from beside her.
"Yep.” She didn't even take her eyes away from the competition as she answered.
"I can't wait to try the beef that's been roasting over the spit,” her mother continued. “Your grandfather marinated it in Jack Daniels and peppercorns. Imagine!"
Heather made a face. Her father, uncle, and grandfather were busy grilling steaks and hamburgers for the afternoon picnic. In fact the only drawback to ranch life, she discovered, was that meat was a staple at mealtimes. She abhorred the fact that breakfast always,
always
, consisted of eggs and bacon. She hated meat. She planned on becoming vegetarian as soon as she returned to Los Angeles.
Luckily her mother didn't continue her musings on the food, so Heather returned her focus to the events. When the last cowboy got bucked off his horse, she stood up quickly before hurrying down the bleacher steps. She wanted to see the animals up close. But as she skipped down the metal steps, her elbow hit a broom. She turned to say sorry to the person it belonged to, when her foot slipped off the step, and her ankle twisted.
Pain shot through her like a white-hot iron, radiating up her leg and into her brain. She felt herself falling, but couldn't really do much except put her hands out to try to brace her fall. The hard ground jolted her, making her teeth rattle in her head, as the world slowly came back into focus.
Heather had landed on her hands and knees. Fortunately she had been toward the bottom of the steps, because she realized how close she came to breaking her neck. She heard her mother call her name, felt pain lancing up her leg, and struggled to hold back the tears stinging her eyes.
"You need my crutches?"
Heather looked up, and up, past a cast-wrapped leg, over a large silver belt buckle, and into the darkest eyes she had ever seen. The rest of the face wasn't bad as well, and Heather felt her heart flip-flop. High cheekbones, tanned face, handsome beyond belief. He gazed down at her with an eyebrow raised, standing next to another cowboy who moved to help her up.
"Heather, are you okay?” her mother asked anxiously.
She stood there for a moment, still staring at the cowboy who made her heart pound, rubbing her palms together to brush the dirt off. The cowboy smiled at her, which made her brain kick in. She blinked and looked down at her foot that she held up off the ground.
"Yeah,” she said, clearing her throat. “Just my ankle. I twisted it."
"Can you walk?” the cowboy's friend asked her. He let go of her arm gradually, afraid she'd keel over without his support.
She put her foot down, but as soon as the ankle flexed, pain exploded, causing her to gasp and blink back tears.
"No,” she mumbled.
"Where are you staying?” the cowboy asked.
"Main house,” Heather's mother answered him. “Lincoln Hart is my father-in-law."
"Well then we'll help you back to the house,” the cowboy told her. “I know the perfect remedy for that ankle."
Heather wasn't really aware of anything except the broken-legged cowboy next to her. His friend swung her up in his arms, and they all walked up the path that wound to her grandfather's house. Heather was aware of commentary between the two cowboys and her mother, but she didn't participate. She was too busy trying to steal glances at the man who limped beside them on his crutches, trying to figure out why he made her extremely aware of his presence.
What drew her gaze? Why did her heart beat so fiercely? Why him, when she had been around a hundred other cowboys in the past few days?
When they reached the house, her mother let the men in, and they brought her to sit at the kitchen table.
"You have apple cider vinegar, a brown paper bag, a large bowl, and some scissors?"
While her mom went to gather the supplies, broken-legged cowboy eased himself down in a chair across from her and brought her twisted ankle to rest on his cast. Her mother was back in moments, placing all the requested ingredients on the table.
"I'm Tristan,” he said by way of introduction. “Tristan Rogers. This is Duke."
Duke held up a hand in greeting and began to cut the brown bag into strips.
"I'm Janet Hart, and this is my daughter, Heather."
"Hello, Heather,” Tristan said.
Heather glanced up at him, feeling heat race over her cheekbones. “Hello."
"What we're going to do,” Duke broke in, “is soak these bag strips in the vinegar and then wrap your ankle like a cast."
"You're more than welcome to use my crutches.” Tristan teased her.
"And what is this going to do?” Janet asked.
"I guarantee that not only will there not be swelling, but Heather'll be able to walk tomorrow,” Tristan replied.
"Really? How interesting,” Janet said with enthusiasm as she watched the two cowboys prepare their homemade remedy.
Tristan took Heather's ankle, carefully flexing it. She hissed at the pain, and he flashed her an apologetic look. Keeping her foot flexed, he started wrapping it in the vinegar-soaked bandages.
"This is going to smell, I know.” It felt like he spoke only to her. Everyone else faded away. “But it'll get better as it dries."
Heather sniffed a little and nodded. She watched him, keeping her gaze trained on him and not caring about the bandage he was applying. She almost wished he would keep wrapping it forever, because tingles were dancing up her leg, and they weren't from the throbbing and bruised joint.
"Do you work on Hart Ranch?” she asked.
"A bit. My uncle is the foreman. I went to work a rodeo a few weeks ago and broke my leg fighting bulls. Bull mashed me up against the bucking chutes. Leg had no place to go. Seventeen places.” He shook his head. “I don't recommend it."
He smiled at her, white teeth flashing in his tanned face. She smiled back, shyly, words temporarily fleeing from her brain. Her mouth went dry.
"You work in the rodeo?” her mother asked, unknowingly saving Heather from her inability to talk properly.
"Not really,” Tristan replied, flashing his charming smile. “A couple of times I've worked as the rodeo clown on some events in Texas. I save the riders who fall off the bull."
"So you save them, but who saves you?” Heather asked.
He looked at her, his smile fading just a bit. “Nobody saves me except my partner. I didn't have one that night. I was working by myself, which seemed like an okay thing to do at the time."
He sat back and showed off Heather's newly wrapped, vinegar-cast-encased foot. Her toes were peeking out, and the paper came up to midshin.
"Do you have an ACE bandage?” Tristan asked her mother.
Janet stood. “I'm sure we do. Let me run upstairs to look for one."
She left the kitchen, and Heather was overjoyed at the prospect of almost being alone with Tristan. He caught her gaze, held it, and a wealth of something flashed between them. Heather realized she didn't know what that exact something was, but her body reacted to it anyway. She was acutely aware of the place where his hands rested against her skin.
Duke cleared his throat and nudged Tristan. “Dude,” he said.
Tristan flashed him an irritated look before glancing back at Heather. “So, Lincoln Hart is your grandfather."
"Yes."
"You live in Louisiana?"
"No, Los Angeles. We go back there in three days."
Janet came down with the wrap and handed it to Tristan, who expertly covered the cast.
"How did you learn this?” Janet asked.
Tristan shrugged. “My dad did it to me when I broke my ankle in high school. Tore it up good, and it swelled up. Docs couldn't get it to go down enough to cast it. Dad could. It's an old racehorse remedy."
Duke stood up, signaling their work was done. He held out Tristan's crutches. Janet was oblivious as she gushed her thanks at their help.
Heather just sat there watching as Tristan grabbed his crutches and stood. “Just stay off the leg,” he told her.
"Will you stop by tomorrow?” she asked, desperate to find some reason to make him linger.
He nodded, smiled, and was gone.
Heather half heard her mother escorting them out the door. She was too much in a state of shock to do much else. Not about her ankle; that particular pain had gone by the wayside a while back, but because she realized, on some teenage level, that she had met a man who could change her life.
Twenty years later...
Heather pulled her barely functioning Kia Sportage in front of the grand main house of Hart Ranch. The car gave a little stutter and then died as she clicked off the ignition.
She took her time looking at the house through her windshield. It hadn't changed all that much since her last visit, but she could see the small cracks of time in the stately two-story house. The front porch railing wasn't quite as white, and weeds climbed up the sides of the brick structure like little snakes. Not much work would be needed to restore the house to its former glory, but right now it held the air of something neglected.
She reached for a cigarette and lit one, taking a deep drag before exiting the car and smoothing down her supershort skirt. The pastures behind the house had changed some as well. They were still lush and green, the mountains swelling in the background like majestic domes, but outbuildings now littered the landscape. Three trailers sat east of the house next to a pond that hadn't been there before. One structure caught her attention, so she took off walking, circumventing the house to a rock path that wound down the hill. She knew cowboys were watching her, workers who paused for a moment to make sure they were really seeing a tall, leggy, sun-streaked blonde walking in their midst. But her mind had already focused on the arena and the memories it evoked.
Inside, the air lay perfectly still, quiet, vastly different from the last time she had visited it as a fifteen-year-old girl. The bleachers were now pushed all the way against the wall, collapsed until the next use. The dirt had been cleared away to show the concrete foundation. An air of desolation and abandonment hung heavy in the darkened building.