Six Weeks To Catch A Cowboy. Brenda Harlen
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almost everyone else from high school.”
“They’d be happy to see you if you came home for a visit,” Kenzie said.
“I will,” Brielle responded, as she always did. And though she always sounded as if she meant it, she’d only ever returned to Haven once since she’d moved to New York City for college and decided to stay—and that had been for her grandmother’s funeral.
“In the meantime, I thought you should know that Spencer is on his way home.”
“Your intel is a little out-of-date,” Kenzie noted.
“Huh?”
“He’s not on his way, he is home. In fact, he came into the clinic today.”
“How bad is his shoulder?” Brielle asked.
“You know I can’t share any details of a patient’s treatment,” she said. She probably shouldn’t even have disclosed his appointment, but it was hardly a secret as anyone might have seen Spencer on his way into or out of the building.
“He’s not a patient—he’s my brother,” Brie reminded her.
Kenzie relented enough to say, “And he’s healing.”
Brielle considered this for a moment before asking, “You don’t think it’s anything that would keep him away from the circuit, do you?”
Though she knew she was breaching the rules regarding patient confidentiality, she was eager to assuage the concern she heard in her friend’s voice. “Numerous tests and physical examinations suggest a simple glenohumeral dislocation.”
“Okay.” Brie nodded. “That’s good. I mean, I have no idea what a gle-no-whatever is, but the way you said it was reassuring.”
Kenzie smiled at that. But her friend’s earlier question made her ask, “Do you know something that you’re not telling me?”
“No,” Brie denied. “But when we talked last week...he seemed to suggest that he was thinking about making a career change...and I didn’t get the impression that it was entirely willingly.”
“Bull riding takes a toll on the body,” Kenzie noted. “He’s probably starting to feel his age.”
“He’s twenty-five.”
“And he’s been a professional bull rider for five years already, after competing in college and as an amateur for I-don’t-know-how-many years before that.”
“At least ten,” Brielle admitted. “Because that’s how old he was when he won his first buckle for steer riding.”
“Maybe he’s just ready for a change,” Kenzie suggested.
And as she considered the possibility that Spencer might not just be home for a visit but forever, a tiny blossom of something that felt like joyful hope began to unfurl inside her heart. Then she remembered how eager he’d been to leave Haven, how determined he’d been to find fame and fortune away from “this backwards backwoods town,” and that tiny blossom shriveled up again.
“Maybe,” her friend echoed, though her tone was dubious.
“And speaking of change—rumor has it that the Mountainview kindergarten teacher put in for a transfer to Reno.”
“Shelby Bradford’s been making plans to leave Haven since long before I did,” Brielle remarked. “She’s not going anywhere.”
“Well, she’ll have to retire eventually,” Kenzie pointed out.
Her friend laughed. “Don’t hold your breath.”
They chatted for a few more minutes, then Brie had to run to meet some friends for dinner, which prompted Kenzie to think about her own evening meal.
Not that she was really hungry, but anything was better than thinking about Spencer Channing—and the long-forgotten feelings that his return had stirred inside her.
* * *
If Spencer had asked around town, he might have learned that Kenzie rented an apartment above a law office on Main Street, not too far from the clinic where she worked. Instead, he’d taken a more circuitous route to get there.
“Hey,” he said, when Kenzie replied to the buzz of the intercom from the street level entrance behind the building.
“Spencer? What are you doing here?”
There was reservation along with surprise in her tone. He had no reason to assume that she’d want to see him, but he was counting on her long-term friendship with his sister to at least get him in the door. “Can I come up?” he asked. “Or are we going to have an entire conversation through this speaker?”
She hesitated. Or maybe he only thought she did, because the next sound he heard was the lock being released.
“Now are you going to tell me why you’re here?” she asked after letting him into her apartment.
He took a moment to appreciate the fact that she’d changed out of the all-black she’d been wearing at the clinic and into a pair of slim-fitting jeans and a flowy kind of top in a patchwork print. She’d released her hair from its ponytail, too, so that the long tresses hung like a curtain of shiny silk around her face. Her driver’s license probably described her hair as brown, but it was actually an intriguing mix of many shades, including hints of gold and copper.
“Spencer?” she prompted, when he didn’t respond to her question.
“Sorry,” he apologized, realizing he’d been staring. “I just—wow, Kenzie. You really look great.”
“Thank you,” she said, a little cautiously.
He couldn’t blame her for being wary. Although she’d been best friends with his sister, he’d never been particularly close with Kenzie. Well, there was that one time...but it was probably best not to think about that night right now. Or ever.
Except that being back in Haven and seeing Kenzie again, he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about that night. And, seven years later, he still didn’t know if he was relieved or disappointed that it hadn’t ended differently.
Firmly pushing those memories to the back of his mind, he focused on the present—and his empty stomach. “I came by to see if you wanted to grab a bite to eat.”
“Grab a bite?” she echoed the words as if he’d suggested a quick trip to the moon.
Okay, so she was surprised by the invitation. And obviously skeptical about his motivations for showing up at her door. But a buddy had once remarked that he could charm a nun out of her habit if he put his mind to it, so he didn’t figure it should be too difficult to convince Kenzie to share a meal with him.
“Dinner,” he clarified, his lips curving in an easy smile. “You know—when you sit down at a table, sometimes in a restaurant, and enjoy a meal.”
“I’m vaguely familiar with the concept,” she said dryly. “In fact, I’ve got soup heating on the stove for mine.”
“Soup isn’t a meal,” he chided. “Even Diggers’ menu lists it as a starter.”
“Well, it’s my meal tonight,” she insisted, and turned her back on him.
Which afforded him a spectacular view of her nicely shaped derriere encased in snug denim.
He followed that sweetly curved butt to the kitchen, where she picked up a spoon from the counter and stirred the soup.
He averted his gaze so she wouldn’t catch him staring again and looked around the ultramodern kitchen with dark walnut cupboards and stainless steel appliances. A granite-topped island separated the kitchen from the open-concept living area with a trio of tall windows that overlooked Main Street.
“Nice place,” he remarked.
“I