Tempting the Cowboy (17 page)

Chapter Twenty

Storm clouds reflected up from the water of Paint River, hiding the beauty of the stones as the men crossed the water. Cole called to Tucker that he’d catch up, watching a moment as the group of eight rode ahead. The men loved going up into the mountains. Cole usually did, too, but this time was different.

There was a woman at the ranch he couldn’t wait to get back to. Rylan fit. Rylan was part of Paint River Ranch through and through. She had this country in her soul and a lifetime of farming in her to back it up. Marrying the judge and living in the city had taken away some of her down-home shine, but she’d get it back. Cole remembered the first time he’d watched her taking in the mountains and breathing the clean air. She’d transformed right in front of him from a woman who’d lost her way into a woman who belonged here.

He wanted to do everything he could to make this work between them. He turned his horse to the left and walked into a shadow cast by the Wishing Tree.
Sometimes, you just need a little help to get what you want.

Feeling equal parts stupid and hopeful, Cole reached into his pocket and took out a small gold ring. It was dull with age, but the tiny ruby in the center still shone brightly. It was his great-grandma McBannon’s wedding ring. Maeve had given it to him when he’d asked for Livy’s hand, and Cole was never as glad that he hadn’t given it to her as he was now. Livy had demanded a shiny new ring. But this one, worn by history and the good hands of love, would be perfect for Rylan. Cole could already picture it on her slender finger, could see it glinting in the light. All he had to do was convince her that he and Birdie could be everything she needed. Making a wish wouldn’t do any harm, he supposed. If Rylan believed the universe could help them out, he was all for it.

He took one of Birdie’s curly pink hair ribbons out of his pocket and tied the ring to one end. Lifting up in the stirrups, Cole reached for the perfect branch and tied the ribbon to it. The little ring swung back and forth, bumping into a neighboring baby shoe.

“All right, tree.” Cole looked around to make sure no one was near. “I wish for Rylan to be part of my family, with Birdie and me. If you can help with that… And I’m talking to a tree.” He tapped the ring, watching it sway. “If you can help with that, I’d be much obliged.” Cole tipped his hat to the tree and raced to catch up with Tucker, all feelings of stupidity gone. He just hoped it would work.

…

The wind picked up with a ferocity that reminded Rylan of tornado season back home. Maeve said it wasn’t uncommon for storms to kick in hard and heavy, but even this was a bit unusual. No rain, no snow, just wind and lots of it.

Mother Nature meant business when she ripped all the sheets off the line and sent them flying. Rylan peeked out the side window to see the fabric whip across the yard. Birdie was coloring on the couch, the television softly spouting
Sesame Street
. Worry flickered through Rylan’s mind. If it was this windy on the low ground, what was it like in the mountains where Cole and the cowboys were? They’d been gone two days, and Rylan couldn’t deny how much she wished they’d return.

The only good thing about the weather was that it kept Birdie inside. The little scamp had tried twice to “find daddy” by wandering off. Birdie had tried following Cole during the fall roundup last year, too, apparently. She’d made it to the edge of the property, calling for Cole, before Maeve had found her. Rylan would keep a careful eye on Birdie while Maeve rested. At least the overcast sky and foul wind had them tucked neatly together and buttoned up. She and Birdie made peanut butter cookies to give “Daddy and Uncle Tuck” when they got home, and they colored pictures to hang on the refrigerator.

Rylan was grateful for the joy she experienced spending time with Birdie. Every now and then, a small flicker of unease would creep in, but it was easy to push aside. All she had to do was replay Cole’s whiskey voice telling her he loved her and everything felt exactly the way it should be. A bang against the French doors made her shriek. Rylan raced over to see that a chair had tipped over on the deck. A second laundry basket went tumbling by, tangled sheets racing after it, blown over from the side of the house. Knowing she couldn’t let the laundry flip over the yard, Rylan cracked the doors and stepped out onto the deck. The wind wasn’t too bad out here. She could run and grab the sheets and come right back in.

“What ya doin, Ry?” Birdie stepped out behind her, a little hand on her leg.

“Honey, you go sit with Grandma for a minute.” Rylan started to usher Birdie back inside.

“She sleeping.” With a sigh, Rylan offered Birdie her hand.

“We’re going to grab the sheets and run back inside, okay?” Hand in hand, they went down the steps and into the front yard. Rylan was relieved to find the wind weaker on the ground. It came in big gusts, pushing at them with an insistent hand before receding, only to gust again a few seconds later. They raced after the baskets and flapping linens, and picked up a few odds and ends left lying in the yard. Rylan was just about to lead Birdie to the porch when she saw the chickens. Everywhere.

The gate must have broken again. Hens ran willy-nilly over the gravel drive, some being pushed by the wind, others deciding to lie down and wait it out. With most of the ranch hands gone with Cole and Tucker, Rylan figured she’d just shoo them back into the coop herself. It wouldn’t be the first time.

She and Birdie wedged the laundry basket between two chairs on the porch and trotted to the fowl. They startled easily, some following her, others running farther away. The wind died a little as Birdie held the gate to the coop closed so the chickens they’d managed to wrangle couldn’t come back out. The noise of mad chickens mixed with the snorts of an angry horse and barking dogs.

“I’m going to get a scoop of feed. Hold the gate tight,” Rylan called to Birdie, who did as she was told. Rylan stepped inside the little shed next to the coop and dished up some feed. When she stepped back out, the remaining loose flock was waiting for her. They jumped after the seed like ninja chickens, pecking and flapping at each other.

“Ha! Open the door, Birdie. Here they come—” Rylan looked up from leading the chickens to see the gate flapping and Birdie gone.

Her stomach bottomed out.

A piercing squeal followed by a
thwapt
. Someone shouted, a pissed-off dog howled. Rylan’s hair clip came undone, her hair blowing wildly around her face as she raced toward the sound. Another high-pitched squeal—a terrified horse. The small corral near the chicken coop came into view, a blur of black-and-white racing around as Pana Bar Noir whirled and reared inside. The horse bucked, spinning in a tight circle, and a ranch hand came running from the barn, waving his arms and shouting.

Rylan’s eyes went everywhere, searching. The little bump on the dirt inside the corral would have been unrecognizable save for the spill of bright blond hair. Rylan didn’t think, she didn’t feel. She ran, her legs pumping onto the solid ground, body doing a home-plate slide under the fence rail. Rylan cupped Birdie with her body, glancing long enough to see the puddle of blood around Birdie’s head.
No, no, no!

The little girl’s back rose and fell, and Rylan sobbed with relief. She covered Birdie’s body with her own on instinct as Pana raced around the small enclosure, tossing his head in a wicked frenzy. Before she had a chance to think about how to move Birdie outside the fence, Pana charged her. Rylan saw two black hooves cut through the air, coming down right before she ducked her head under her arms. Two anvils on her back, heavy and sharp and crushing the breath from her lungs. Scissors cut flesh and bone, stealing her air and stabbing her throat with cold thrusts.
Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.

A gunshot rang out and the wind faded away. Rylan blinked, a red film squiggling across her field of vision. She blinked again and tried to move her head. The world was still—quiet, cold. And then it went black.

…

In the space of time between darkness and remembering, Rylan experienced two concrete thoughts: the universe was pulling a fast one on her and she heard a fiddle playing. All other thoughts had raced around in bits and pieces. Memories of Rachel, the farm back home, Cole’s smile. The way his fingers felt on the small of her back. Birdie’s giggle. Then, suddenly, the racing thoughts had moved like a storm cloud, revealing a crystalline expanse of pain. And the reality that Birdie was in danger of losing her life.

For the past twelve hours, Rylan had been trying to figure out how to deal with that pain, both physical and emotional. She’d sat by Birdie’s bed, refusing to go back to her own room despite the pain she was in, the little girl’s hand in her own. Maeve and Jim Gilfoyle interacted with the doctors as they came and went. Maeve’s gentle voice was muddled in Rylan’s ears when she said a few men from a neighboring ranch went up in the mountains on all-terrain vehicles. They’d tried contacting Cole and Tucker on handheld radios but the weather ran interference.

Waiting was the norm in this painful new reality.

Birdie’s head was heavily wrapped, leaving only a vertical strip of skin exposing her eyes, nose, and mouth. Wires and intravenous tubes were connected to monitors that blipped and beeped in steady rhythm. Rylan had a fractured memory of what happened—seeing Birdie on the ground, watching the stallion thrash his feet above her head right before a ranch hand shot him with rubber bullets to drive him off. Frenzied bouncing in a vehicle, the sounds of her own voice begging Birdie to wake up.

After being kicked in the head, Birdie’s brain had begun to swell. While Rylan had been x-rayed and medicated for broken ribs, Birdie had gone into surgery to relieve the pressure, her skull drilled and tubes inserted to drain the extra fluid. Tears lodged in Rylan’s throat, but she wouldn’t let them grow. Guilt pressed down on her, suffocating and stagnant. She’d left Birdie to go chasing chickens. If she’d never gone in the shed…

“How are you feeling, Rylan?” Maeve slipped into a chair next to her. Rylan closed her eyes, never losing the rhythm of her thumb caressing Birdie’s palm. Maeve put a hand on her shoulder, and the touch was tender and warm.

“I’m fine.” Rylan’s left foot bounced uncontrollably, sending shocks of pain through her broken side. Looking at Birdie, so fragile and helpless, was replaying moments Rylan wanted so much to change. She’d lied to Cole. She’d told him she would keep Birdie safe while he was gone, but she’d failed. For the second time in her life, she’d failed a child.

“Rylan.” Maeve leaned in close and searched her face. “There is no blame here.”

No blame? If she’d stayed inside, Birdie never would have thought the ranch hand trying to get Pana into the barn was Cole and run out into the corral. If Rylan had left the chicken tornado alone, Birdie would be running around Paint River in a pink tutu right now.

Rylan wanted to dispute Maeve’s admission aloud, but the fight inside her was gone. “Thanks,” she managed. Maeve shifted in her chair, and Rylan looked up.

“Maeve?”

“Yes?”

The room wavered, the noise in the hall suddenly hushed and still. “I love her so much—” The words sobbed out of her in a gush. “I told him I couldn’t be a mother. I…I told him.” Maeve’s arms wrapped around Rylan’s head, and she let herself be held, rocked. Like a child. Like a broken woman.

“I do love her. I swear I do. But I can’t be her mom. Look what happened. Look what I did.” Mumbles, grunts, maybe they were words—Rylan wasn’t sure what was coming out of her mouth. Maeve didn’t speak, and Rylan’s guilt grew. She should be comforting Maeve, not the other way around. Jesus, she’d almost robbed Maeve of her only grandchild. Maybe still would.

A loud shout in the hallway and the sound of stomping boots broke their embrace. Rylan tried to straighten in the chair, but her broken ribs had other plans. Cole burst into the room just as she managed to sit. The cry that ripped out of him was filled with so much agony Rylan closed her eyes to pretend it wasn’t happening. She’d run through this moment a million times in her head, trying to prepare for Cole’s reaction. But there was no way to ever be ready for the raw emotion on his face.

He stood just inside the doorway, arms and legs frozen in a wide stance. His head was tipped low, the brim of his hat barely revealing his eyes. When he looked at her, his pupils rose to the very top of his eyelids, giving him a wild, crazed expression. His eyes were dark, dangerous, and so filled with grief Rylan didn’t know how to begin to process it.

He took two steps and stopped. His eyes darted from Maeve to Birdie, then to Rylan with an ominous flare. Maeve rushed to him for an embrace, but Cole batted her away. Rylan quivered under his hard, unfailing gaze.

“What happened?” His voice was a low rattle. “Rylan, what happened?” His hat went flying, his hands raking into his hair. “You said you’d watch her!”

Rylan’s skin froze to her bones. Her lips couldn’t part to allow words to filter out. Cole broke through his stupor and rushed to the bed, kneeling and gently taking Birdie’s hand. A sob ripped from him, once, twice. Cole touched the bandages on the side of her head, traced her small lips with one finger. He dipped his head.

“Daddy’s here, baby. It’s gonna be all right… It’s gonna be—” His hands were shaking as though a small earthquake raced through his body. Cole let his hands drop. Rylan was sure her lungs had caved in or her broken ribs spread to the entire architecture of her chest. Even taking a slow breath was torture.

She sucked in enough air to whisper, “Chickens… I went out to get the chickens…”

His eyes clenched, hands fisting. “You left Birdie for…for chickens?” He rubbed a shaky hand over his eyes. “Jesus,” he growled. “You told me you couldn’t love her, but I didn’t listen. I didn’t
listen
.”