Cowgirl Bride. Susan Mallery
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animals and she refused to be trampled in a corral. The cowboys gave her enough grief about being a woman. When she received the bouquet at her brother’s wedding a few weeks back, the men had tormented her for weeks. She wouldn’t allow them the satisfaction of smirking at her funeral. Of course if she was dead would their attitudes really matter?
Before she could work that problem out, several of the steers shifted, giving her a clear path to the boy. She jogged to his side and wrapped her arms around him.
“Let’s get going, kid,” she said.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw an arc of movement. Instinct again took over. She turned, shielding the child’s slight body with her own. Pain exploded against her upper arm, sending both her and the child staggering. She ignored the bone-jarring jolt, the sick feeling in her stomach and the instant wet heat that told her she was bleeding. Steers had kicked her before, although it had been a long time. She’d nearly forgotten how badly it hurt. Of course the stitches wouldn’t be much better. Why on earth had she thought this job would be fun?
“He kicked you,” the kid told her.
“I figured that out already.”
She continued to use her body as a shield while they made their way to the edge of the corral. One last steer lowered its head for a final charge. Sierra saw a man standing on the other side of the fence. Refusing to give in to the weakness creeping up her left arm, she bent over and grabbed the boy.
“Catch,” she yelled and tossed him toward safety. At the last second possible, she spun on her heel and narrowly avoided a head-on collision with several hundred pounds of annoyed steak-on-the-hoof.
She staggered the last couple of feet and climbed out between wooden slats. Her legs gave way as soon as she reached safety. She leaned against a fence post and slid to the ground. When her butt hit packed earth, new blood trickled down her arm and she bit her tongue. The hell of it was, the morning wasn’t even half over.
All she wanted to do was sit there until the aching stopped, but that wasn’t an option. She had to check the cut on her arm. Maybe she wouldn’t need stitches.
She nearly smiled at that one. There was too much blood for the wound to be small and shallow. One more scar for her collection.
She pulled her flannel shirt free of jeans and began unbuttoning it. She drew it back over her shoulders and released her right arm first. The spring morning was chilly and goose bumps erupted on her tanned arms. Teeth clenched, she winced as she peeled the blood-soaked left sleeve down her arm. A shiver racked her. The thin cotton tank top she wore underneath might accommodate her modesty but it wasn’t worth spit for warmth.
She didn’t want to look. Looking at an injury always made it hurt a whole lot worse. Still she had to. Sierra forced herself to stare at her arm. The hoof-print formed a perfect half circle about four inches wide. The bleeding cut was on top, the area below was covered with blood. No doubt it was already swelling.
“Stitches and a bruise. Guess this just isn’t my day.”
“Sierra, I don’t know how to thank you. If you hadn’t rescued Rory, he might have…” The male voice trailed off, then the man swore sharply. “You’re hurt.”
She opened her mouth to make a sarcastic response. Sarcasm and pretending not to give a damn were often her only defenses in this male world she inhabited. But she couldn’t speak. Not because of what he’d said, but because of the sound of the man’s voice. Her mind didn’t want to believe. She refused to remember. But her heart knew—and recognized. It thundered in her chest, then jumped to lodge in her throat.
She tilted her head back so she could stare up at the intruder, stare and convince herself it wasn’t true. The morning sun was in her eyes. She had to raise her right hand to shield her eyes, vaguely aware she’d lost her hat in the corral. It would be trampled now. She loved that hat. After five years it fit perfectly. Damn it, why’d she have to go and lose her best hat?
The distraction nearly worked. Worrying about the hat was almost enough not to notice the man’s strength, his broad shoulders and the familiar set of his head. She could try to convince herself that Fate wasn’t playing a cruel trick on her, that her past hadn’t shown up to bite her on the butt with a nip that was a lot more startling and painful than the kick to her arm.
Then he knelt down to inspect her injury. He was nearly eye level and without the sun blinding her, there was no reason not to see him. To see him and remember.
“Dylan McLaine,” she breathed, too stunned to feel his hands as he gently probed her arm. She hadn’t seen him for a lifetime. If he hadn’t been here right this minute, she might have been able to convince herself she’d forgotten all about him. But she hadn’t.
Without closing her eyes, she remembered Dylan—loving Dylan had been the best part of who she was. When he’d left her—when he’d betrayed her and walked out of her life—she’d not only lost the man of her dreams, but she also lost herself.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, reaching for her flannel shirt. “I didn’t see Rory fall into the pen, but when I heard the cry, I knew what had happened. Then you tore in after him. I knew if anyone could save him, you could. But I sure didn’t want you to get hurt.”
He took a knife from his jeans’ pocket and notched the flannel, then tore it into strips. Two he folded into square pads and pressed against her arm to stop the bleeding, the rest he wrapped tightly to secure the pads in place. It was only when he’d knotted the ends together and sat back on his heels that she realized two things. First, his hands were shaking and second, she’d stopped feeling the pain.
He looked at her. “How can I thank you?”
By growing old, she thought to herself. By being ugly and hard and not anything like the boy she remembered. Unfortunately he’d done none of those things. Oh, there were a few lines by his eyes and his lips didn’t automatically turn up in the soul-stirring smile she remembered so well. He’d become a man in the ten years they’d been apart. Still handsome, still strong, still…Dylan. All the years and miles hadn’t been enough to make her forget, or allow her to recover.
“Sierra?”
He spoke her name as if it still mattered. Almost wistfully. The way he’d spoken it a hundred—a thousand—times before. The pain returned with a nearly audible crash. She winced as her heart twisted painfully, still bruised from the loss she’d suffered all those years ago.
She deliberately closed her eyes. “Go away.”
“I can’t. Not until I thank you for saving my son.”
The steer’s kick had been like the brush of a feather when compared to the impact of Dylan’s words. His son. She remembered the slight boy she’d hustled out of the corral. Forcing herself to face the inevitable, she opened her eyes and looked past the man still kneeling beside her. Her gaze settled on the skinny kid in black jeans and an orange-and-white University of Texas sweatshirt.
His son. The boy looked to be about nine or ten, with reddish-brown hair and blue eyes. He was slight, with a sweet, earnest expression that made him impossible to hate. Not that she’d planned on hating him—he hadn’t done anything wrong. The circumstances around his birth were unfortunate. At least Sierra had always thought so. But that was never the child’s fault.
Dylan held out a hand to the boy. “Rory, come and say thank you to the lady who saved your life.”
Sierra noticed Dylan’s fingers trembled slightly. She wanted to think he was as affected by their reunion as she was, but that wasn’t it at all. He was still recovering from the shock of Rory falling into the pen with the steers. The natural reaction of a parent when a beloved child was in mortal danger.
As Rory approached, she looked at him closely, trying to find some resemblance to the man in front of her. She didn’t see much, although there was something familiar about the way his mouth tilted up at the corners and the shape of his eyes. But those characteristics didn’t come from