Her Rodeo Hero. Pamela Britton
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into his eyes and thinking it wasn’t fair that there was so much sadness in the world.
“I’m okay.” She’d clutched Colt’s forearms, and the material of his denim shirt felt coarse beneath her fingers, his muscles hard. When she met his gaze, she heard herself ask, “Are you?”
She hadn’t meant to pry. Truly she hadn’t. The words felt as if they’d been pulled from her by something bigger than she was, something that recognized the look in his eyes as one she knew. Grief.
“I’m fine.”
He pushed away, ostensibly to peer at Playboy, his face in profile. The only light in the barn came from the massive front entrance. She saw Colt’s jaw tick, the muscle flexing in a way that told her he was clenching his teeth as firmly as he was his hands.
“Colt, I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. His hand relaxed. He threw his shoulders back as if facing off with an inner demon only he could see.
“It’s nothing.”
There was one thing she’d learned from her accident and that was to live in the moment. Perhaps that was why she reached for his hand, why she slipped her fingers into his. She didn’t know him all that well, but she recognized a human in pain.
Outside, a truck started. He jerked his hand from hers and turned toward the entryway. A second later the woman drove by. The little boy in the front seat waved.
“Adam,” she heard Colt mutter. “Son of a bitch.”
She took a step back, so much pain, so much fear, so much sadness in his words it was like a physical slap.
“Goddamn son of a bitch.”
He waved at the disappearing truck until he couldn’t see it anymore. Then he turned back toward the barn. Natalie had no idea what he was about to do until he did it, picking up a bucket and pitching it at the hay pile hard enough that it clattered and fell to the ground, startling the horses in the barn.
“Colt.”
It sounded as if the bucket had broken. He didn’t seem to care, just moved to the pile, turned his back to her and stood there. She heard a horse snort, then nothing. Silence descended.
That was when she heard it, his voice so low she would have missed it if it hadn’t been so quiet outside.
“My nephew has cancer.”
“Oh, dear Lord.”
Colt heard Natalie’s words, but told himself not to say more. It wasn’t any of her business. He could handle his own problems, like he always had.
Adam had cancer.
He wasn’t certain he could handle that.
“How bad?” she asked.
He shouldn’t have said anything, damn it, didn’t want to talk about it. “Bad enough that he has to go in for a battery of tests this week.” Colt’s breaths came faster and faster. “Goddamn it. He’s just a kid. He should be playing with his Hawkman action figure, not dealing with a deadly disease.”
“I’m sorry.”
How could it be possible? How could his curious, rambunctious five-year-old nephew have cancer? Cancer was for old people. For people who smoked or who tanned too much. It wasn’t for little children.
“What kind?”
He rounded on her. “They don’t know yet. Some kind of blood something.”
Natalie had taken a small step back, blue eyes wide, and it occurred to him that she’d been through her own kind of personal hell and didn’t deserve his anger. That’s what he was—angry. No. Enraged. His poor sister had been through enough already what with the death of Marcus. She’d spent enough time in hospitals. She didn’t deserve this. Adam didn’t deserve this. None of them did.
Colt hadn’t even realized he’d closed his eyes until he felt Natalie’s hand on his arm again. He told himself to pull away, but when he opened his eyes to do exactly that, something in her gaze caught him.
“What can I do to help?” she offered.
He took a deep breath, tried to calm his emotions. “Saddle up your horse so I can ride him.”
Work. Work was the best thing for him. He had a rodeo this weekend and he’d been planning on heading out early. Now that wasn’t possible. He wanted to be around for Adam’s tests. But he could work here at home. He could keep himself busy, keep himself from thinking dark and horrible thoughts.
Natalie did as he asked without question. He had no idea how she’d known which saddle to use. He had several of them, but she’d picked his work saddle, although he didn’t recognize the bridle. Must have been hers. When she’d finished she stepped back.
“He’s pretty light in the bridle.”
He didn’t comment. His hands shook as he reached for the reins.
Adam had cancer.
He wanted to wrench the reins from her hands. To jump aboard and gallop off into the distance. To forget what he knew with the help of a long ride. Alas, the words in his head and the dark, terrible thoughts they roused weren’t going anywhere.
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