Romancing the Rancher. Stacy Connelly
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up on people, and her eyes flew open the minute his foot hit the first step. Her blue gaze widened and then widened some more as she took him in—from the hat shielding his face, to the checked shirt beneath his denim jacket, his faded jeans and the boots that had signaled his approach.
Realizing she didn’t recognize him—and why should she when he made a habit of not standing out in a crowd?—he said, “I’m Jarrett Deeks.”
“You— You’re—” She frowned, her delicate eyebrows drawing together, before she shook her head. “Sorry. I just wasn’t expecting...” Her voice trailed off without telling him what exactly she hadn’t expected, and she said, “Theresa Pirelli. Nice to meet you.”
He managed a quick nod, that welcome speech completely deserting him and leaving him feeling as awkward and out of his element as he probably looked. “Cabin’s not far from here. I can bring the truck around—”
“If it’s not far,” she said with a lift to her chin, “why not walk?”
Because you look ready to fall over in a stiff breeze.
He knew better than to say the words out loud. He’d heard about the car accident Theresa had been in. Knew she was in town to attend yet another of her cousins’ weddings. But he could see she was here for another reason—to recover. Maybe even to figure out where her life went from here.
If he’d been a man better with words—better with women than with horses—he might have tried to tell her he understood. That he knew what it was like when life threw you to the ground and stomped on you with bone-crushing hooves.
Instead, he gave her what little he could. “Sure. Let’s walk.”
He grabbed the two suitcases immediately. Theresa might have won the walk to the cabin, but no way was he going to let her struggle under the weight of that luggage, not even to salvage her pride.
“I can get those,” she insisted.
“All part of the service,” he injected, pleased with how smooth that sounded.
She frowned, and he readied himself for an argument, but her focus and frustration quickly turned toward the challenge of climbing from the low-slung rocking chair. She braced her feet on the porch and pushed off on the chair’s upswing. She overcompensated for a weakness of her left side, and for a split second, he feared she’d fall.
Hands filled with luggage, he swore beneath his breath as she stumbled. He envisioned her hitting the porch the same time as the suitcases he dropped while reaching for her. His hands bracketed her upper arms, and his mind registered the thinness and fragility of muscle and bone even as his body breathed in a feminine scent of wildflowers.
Their gazes collided as she looked up at him. Her lips parted on a soundless gasp—pale pink, inviting and mere inches from his own. Close enough for him to feel a whisper of breath against his skin. Close enough to make him wonder—as he had ever since the first time he saw her—what it would be like to kiss Theresa Pirelli.
She needed to seriously reconsider her definition of the word retired, Theresa thought, more shaken than she wanted to admit after the brief contact with the rugged cowboy.
Jarrett Deeks didn’t speak with a Texas twang, and she could not for the life of her imagine him spinning tales for guests while sitting in one of the rocking chairs, whiling away the time as the world passed by.
Judging by the few lines bracketing either side of his mouth—she still hadn’t gotten more than a shadowed look at his eyes thanks to the cowboy hat he wore—she figured him to be only a few years older than her own twenty-eight. He was young, virile, and exuded a barely restrained energy like a caged animal or maybe one of his horses, living for the chance to run free.
And she’d experienced a split second of that unleashed energy, hadn’t she, when he reached out and grabbed her. One moment he’d been by the porch steps, her bags in hand. In the next, he’d dropped her luggage, erased the distance between them and caught her in his arms.
And when he’d touched her—
She could still feel the heated imprint of his palms against her shoulders. Still feel that instant spark of attraction when hit with the awareness that Jarrett Deeks was not at all what she’d pictured.
She couldn’t help glancing at him out of the corner of her eye as he led the way toward her cabin. He wasn’t much taller than she was. His rugged profile, all masculine planes and angles from the nose that had clearly been broken more than once, to the sharp cheekbones and shadowed jaw, could have been carved from granite, and his leanly muscled body looked just as hard. Thick, chestnut-colored hair peeked out between the brim of his hat and denim collar, the only hint of softness about him.
She steeled herself against the warmth invading her body, threatening to melt even her uninjured muscles and bones. It was a weakness she couldn’t allow. An overreaction to the first man in months to touch her without treatment or therapy or rehab in mind.
It was embarrassing, but she’d survive.
She should have realized retired did not necessarily mean old. She admittedly knew nothing about rodeo, but she did know about sports. Or more specifically sports injuries. She’d seen high school and college players come into the ER with everything from concussions to torn MCLs and ACLs to even more serious spinal injuries. A bad-enough injury could end an athlete’s career at any age, and retired in the world of sports often meant anyone over thirty.
She should have realized— Heck, she should have asked Sophia! If she’d known he was someone her own age, maybe she would have been more prepared. Less caught off guard. Less...intrigued.
No, that wasn’t true. She was not intrigued. Merely surprised. Jarrett Deeks was unexpected, but that did not make him a mystery she needed to solve. She had her own problems to deal with and a reticent, old-fashioned—if not old—cowboy was not on her to-do list.
Especially not when it was all too easy to resent how effortlessly he’d picked up her luggage, one bag slung loosely over a broad shoulder and her large suitcase dangling from his hand.
Before the accident, she’d never been a woman who insisted on doing things her own way. Oh, sure, she’d been perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She could change a tire and check her own oil. She could manage a few home maintenance repairs in her small apartment. But she’d appreciated when a man was a gentleman. When one opened a car door for her or waited for her to enter a restaurant ahead of him.
Michael had been good about that. Always insisting on picking up the check, buying her flowers and carrying her bags for her. After growing up with three brothers who, when they were kids, thought smaller and weaker meant easier to pick on, it was nice to be treated like a princess. As though she was someone to cherish and care for.
But since the accident—since Michael—the need to fight for every speck of independence was like a living thing clawing its way out from inside her. She wanted to snap at Jarrett Deeks for hauling her bags around so easily. To yell at him for the way he’d purposely slowed his stride. But the bitter truth of it was, she didn’t have the energy or the breath to do any of those things.
Even with the solicitous crawl he’d established, she was already winded. The thought of carrying her own bags was a joke. She couldn’t even carry a conversation, not that the silent man at her side had given any indication he wanted her to.
But after a minute with the only sound the crunch of gravel beneath their feet and whisper of wind in the pines, even he seemed to realize the silence had gone on too long. It only made his attempt to break it that much more awkward, but she gave him credit for trying as he told her about the property.
“There are six cabins total, but they’re pretty spread out, and even if they weren’t, you’re the only guest right now. I figure your family