Dylan's Last Dare. Patricia Thayer
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she told him. “Drink your coffee and we’ll get started on the weights.”
“Why don’t you join me with a cup?”
She shook her head. “Caffeine makes me jittery. But enjoy yours while I clean up the dishes.”
“Can’t we take a few minutes to talk?”
Brenna set the dishes on the counter and turned around. She knew it wasn’t unusual for a patient and PT to get personal. “What would you like to know? My credentials?”
He shrugged. “Where are you from?”
“I grew up here. My parents own a small ranch on the other side of San Angelo.”
“Does everyone around here ranch?” he asked.
She shrugged. “It is cattle country.” She knew he was new to the area. “Your own family has done very well in the business.” Everyone knew the affluence of the Randells.
“What family is that?”
“The Randells.”
“Does everyone know my business?”
Brenna wiped her hands on a towel and came to the table. “No, I only know the story because Wyatt told me. If you’re worried about what people think…”
“I don’t give a damn, but my business is my business.”
“Seems to me you gave up your privacy when you become a national bull-riding champion.” She had seen Dylan Gentry’s exploits written up in the news the past years. “You draw a crowd wherever you go…especially women.”
She saw a flash of pain in Dylan’s eyes before he masked it. “That’s over,” he said. “I just want to be left alone.”
Good. Brenna didn’t feel like fighting off a bunch of women to get him to do his therapy. “That’s fine with me.” She pointed to the equipment in the living room. “We’re going to be concentrating so hard on your rehab that you aren’t going to have a chance to think about anything else.”
He made a snorting sound. “There isn’t enough therapy in the world to do that.”
Brenna knew that dealing with a patient’s depression was part of the job. Silently she went back to doing the dishes, knowing that she had to keep Dylan Gentry distracted with hard work.
Thirty minutes later, after a series of warm-up exercises, they got busy at the weight bench. Brenna was spotting Dylan as he lay on his back lifting the barbells up and down to help improve his upper-body strength. She was impressed at how easily he did each repetition. She also saw the strain on his face and knew he was pushing himself—too hard. Maybe he was just trying to impress the new PT, but she didn’t want him to burn out. Finally she called a halt and handed him a towel to wipe off his sweaty chest. After a few minutes, she crouched in front of him and began strapping small weights around his ankles.
“We’ll take this slow…and easy.” She held on to his leg before he started. “We’re not going all out on your first time, or tomorrow you’ll be worthless. So take it easy,” she warned. “Just lift your leg a few inches, hold it, then lower it.”
A cinch, Dylan thought. But the light weight felt like a ton. By the time he finished five reps, beads of sweat had formed on his face. Even though she told him that was enough, he did five more. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing how hard the exercise was on him, but his leg had other ideas. The muscles fatigued from being sedentary for so long suddenly went into spasm.
Crying out, Dylan grabbed his leg. “Damn, damn…”
“Lie back,” Brenna ordered as her sure hands went to work, kneading and soothing the knotted muscles in his thigh.
Dylan draped his arm over his eyes, hating his weakness but letting her magic fingers take over and ease his pain. Soon the pain turned to pleasure. What had soothed him was now beginning to arouse.
“That’s enough.” He sat up and tried to push her hand away. “My leg feels better.”
“Just let me finish working out the stiffness.”
He groaned and tightened his hold on her hand. “That’s never going to happen if you keep this up,” he said honestly.
She glanced down and suddenly her face flamed red. “Oh… Then we should take a break.” She handed him a bottle of water and walked out of the room.
Dylan fell back on the weight bench and closed his eyes. Somehow, he had to find a way to stop seeing Brenna Farren as a woman. He thought about the long-legged, auburn-haired vixen and realized that was never going to happen.
Four days later, taking a break from his workouts, Dylan sat on the sofa, remote in his hand, flipping through the channels, when his brother peered in the door. “Hey, Dylan,” Wyatt said. “Got a minute?”
“It’s your house.”
His brother frowned. “I told you when I bought the ranch months ago I want you as my partner, just like we’d always talked about.”
“Didn’t plan on me being a cripple.”
“Temporary situation,” Wyatt said assuredly.
“And I told you I want no part of the Randell place. Besides, if I had a choice…”
Wyatt raised his hand. “You wouldn’t be here,” he finished his brother’s sentence. Wyatt sat down on the sofa. “Just so you know, this ranch didn’t start with Jack Randell. Our grandfather, John Sr., started the Rocking R and was well respected in the community. At one time this spread was one of the biggest in the area until Jack ran it into the ground.”
“And you’re putting it back together.” At his brother’s nod, Dylan went on, “And you’re even running a herd.”
Wyatt nodded again. “Hank Barrett suggested I give it a try. The Rocking R’s herd is for the Mustang Valley Guest Ranch’s cattle drives and roundups.” He folded his arms. “You can’t believe the big demand for working cattle ranches.”
Dylan saw his brother’s excitement and envied him.
“Chance, Cade and Travis will be helping out,” Wyatt continued. “I’d like you to meet them.”
“Thanks, I think I’ll pass.”
Dylan had heard more than enough about his three half brothers and Hank Barrett, the man who raised them when Jack Randell was sent off to prison for cattle rustling. Dylan felt the same about Jared Trager, another illegitimate brother who’d showed up last year. Seemed their daddy enjoyed seducing women, then when he got tired of them, he moved on. And no one had seen anything of good old Jack for years.
“Maybe when you get back on your feet you’ll feel differently,” Wyatt suggested. “How is the therapy coming?”
Dylan frowned. “You should know since Ms. Farren has been reporting to you.”
“Brenna and I haven’t spoken since the day I hired her. I thought you should handle this business on your own.”
Dylan gave a sarcastic hoot. “That would be a first.” His brother had always tried to manage his life.
“Look, Dylan. A few months ago, I wasn’t sure you would even survive the accident, let alone ever walk again,” he said, emotion lacing his voice. “You’ve been given a second chance, but it’s up to you what you do with it.” Wyatt gave him a long look, then stood and walked to the door. “Call if you need anything.” He left, closing the door quietly behind him.
Dylan suddenly felt like a heel. Deep down, he knew his brother was only trying to help him.
“Wyatt!” he called as he struggled to get up, one hand gripping the back of the chair as he reached for his crutches. He made it to the door, but when he pulled it open he was surprised when he was forced