A Cowboy's Pride. Pamela Britton
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grinned at him. “Try and use your leg to kick Baylor forward.”
“I’m a paraplegic,” Trent shouted right back. “How the hell am I supposed to do that?”
To give Rana credit, she didn’t let his words faze her. “You’re a partial paraplegic.”
Alana almost smiled. The girl sounded forty, not fourteen.
“Your horse responds to hip movement,” Rana added. “A portion of your thighs still work, so use them. Pretend you’re kicking. It’ll move your hips, which will cue Baylor forward.”
“No, it won’t.”
“Yes, it will. I know. I was once a paraplegic, too, a full paraplegic, so don’t tell me what you can and cannot do.”
Way to go, Rana, Alana thought. Don’t let him push you around. She shifted her gaze to Trent. The look on his face was priceless.
“You had a spinal injury?” he asked.
Cabe kicked his horse forward then. “Didn’t you know? That’s how we got into this gig.”
No, he hadn’t been told. Alana could see that. So what was the guy doing here? From what Cabe had told her, this was supposedly some kind of last resort, but he clearly didn’t want anything to do with therapy.
It was her turn to nudge her horse forward. “It’s time you rejoined the land of the living, Trent.” She met his gaze head on. “So either kick that horse forward, or get left behind.”
She gave Cabe and Rana a look, one that clearly said to follow her lead. They did.
“Hey,” she heard Trent call out.
Rana went so far as to kick her horse into a lope, Cabe following suit. Alana didn’t glance back.
“Hey!”
Keep riding, Alana.
“Don’t you dare leave me here.”
Reluctantly, she pulled on the reins, but only because she’d caught the edge of panic to his voice. But when she turned back, the man wasn’t even looking at her. Rage had him contorting atop that horse like a Jedi Knight trying to use the force. Alana almost laughed, although there was nothing funny about the situation.
“Use your hips,” she called out.
He could move them. Patients with an L2-S5 injury had movement through the pelvis. Some even had moderate to mild use of their limbs below the waist—like Trent. But the man acted as if he were a quadriplegic.
“Try pretending you’re scooting a chair forward.”
Miracle of miracles, the man finally listened, his hips thrusting so forcefully, it was a good thing they’d strapped him in. He’d have toppled forward otherwise.
The horse moved.
“There you go.”
He did it again. Baylor took another step. Alana turned her horse toward the pasture.
But when she caught up with everyone at the pasture gate, Alana turned back in time to watch Trent thrust his hips forward like he had a hula hoop around his legs and not a horse between them. Baylor ambled along, the animal’s head low to the ground, legs slowly moving in tune with Trent’s hips.
“Good thing we didn’t just rob a bank,” Alana quipped.
Cabe smiled at her. “You know, you were pretty hard on the man.”
She slouched in the saddle.
“That’s not like you.”
No. It wasn’t.
“Doesn’t have anything to do with how good-looking he is, does it?”
Alana glanced around quickly for Rana. She was out of hearing range, on the other side of the fence, holding open the gate for them all. “I’m not even going to answer that question.” She clucked her horse forward.
“I’ve heard the buckle bunnies talking,” Cabe said as he rode alongside her.
She had, too.
And that was exactly why she wanted no part of the man. He might be done with rodeo, but she had a feeling rodeo wouldn’t be done with him. Men in his position usually went to work for the Professional Rodeo Association in some capacity. He’d be on the road 24/7, not exactly boyfriend material. Besides, she would never leave Rana. Never. The girl had already lost enough people in her young life.
Boyfriend?
“I’m not interested in Trent Anderson,” she told Cabe. “So you can get that idea right out of your head.”
Cabe just shrugged. “If you say so.”
“I say so,” she firmly told him.
She just wished she believed her own words.
Chapter Five
Frustrated.
The word summed up how Trent felt two days later. The damn woman wouldn’t leave him alone. She kept strapping him onto a dang horse, insisting that he could use his hips better, clamp down with his thighs harder, use his lower leg to kick Baylor forward faster. He had rub marks on his calves and bruises on the insides of his thighs.
Today she agreed to take it easier on him, but only after he’d almost fallen out of his wheelchair after yesterday’s particularly grueling session. They would work on leg-strengthening today, she’d told him, and resume riding the next day.
He couldn’t wait.
A knock on the door sent his mood plummeting even more. “Enter.”
She swung the door wide, pretty blue eyes scanning the interior of his cabin as if worried he might be hiding from her. He wasn’t. He sat in his chair, which he’d positioned near the doorway of bedroom.
She smiled when she saw him. “Ready?”
Such a beautiful smile. Too bad she was a slave driver.
“Depends on what you have planned for me.”
The smile grew wider. “Actually, we’re going on a picnic.”
If she’d told him they were flying to Mars, she couldn’t have surprised him more. “A picnic is your idea of therapy?”
“Yup.” She motioned him forward. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
She turned and left him standing there, a habit of hers, he’d noticed. The woman waited for no one, least of all him.
“Just a sec.” He grabbed his cowboy hat off the peg by the door. He turned back to the front door in time to spot her scooping up a basket, a breeze throwing back the smell of fried chicken and...pie? Was that what he smelled?
His stomach grumbled.
“What is that?”
“Lunch.”
He hadn’t eaten all morning. Frankly, he’d been too exhausted to do much more than sleep.
“Can we eat here?”
She glanced back at him. “Nope. Where we’re going isn’t far.”
“Smells good,” he grumbled.
His chair picked up speed as he rolled toward her. She wore a red shirt this morning, one that emphasized a natural bloom on her cheeks. Her black hair had been left loose, and Trent had observed her enough times to know that she preferred it that way. She liked to flick it out of her face when she was determined to make him do something, which was pretty often, he admitted, his eye catching sight of her rear end, or more specifically, the crystal beads on her pockets. They caught the light and beamed out rainbow-colored prisms. Pretty jeans for a pretty woman.
Now, now. Just because