Until Maggie had walked in.
Of course, he was bored and depressed by the lack of healing in his shoulder. He’d spent the past two weeks in bed watching Divorce Court and champing at the bit to get back to competing for the million-dollar prize. So doing a little work would make the hours go faster and being able to eye the sexy Maggie Stanton while doing it would be an added bonus.
So he made the list and hired the crews to repair the outer buildings for a ranch he cared nothing about. After inspecting the buildings, he’d decided the barn was too big of a job to attempt alone. He’d asked around and found a crew of painters who’d had a job fall through. They’d started work that morning, prepping for repainting right after the county animal control had picked up ten full traps of angry, snarling cats. Cal had started working on repairing stalls, carefully using his bad shoulder, hoping the natural movement might do some good since the prescribed therapy hadn’t done what he’d hoped. Still hurt like hell, but the therapist said moving it was good for him.
Charlie had shown up midmorning and with a grunt started helping. Cal didn’t have much left for the old man...or at least that’s what he told himself.
Charlie had taken him under his wing when Cal had been a restless green buck set on causing trouble rather than being useful. The former rodeo star had taught Cal how to be a cowboy, watching Cal ride his first bull, teaching him how to position his hands and when to use the spurs. Once upon a time, Cal had worshiped Charlie. Until the curmudgeonly cowboy had started drinking too much...and hitting on Cal’s mother.
When Cal was in high school, his lonely mom had shared a few meals with Charlie. She’d seen it as casual companionship, two people who cared about Cal spending time together. But when she met Gary Whitehorse, Charlie got jealous. It spilled over onto Cal’s rodeo life. The dam broke when Charlie tried to play daddy, demanding Cal quit bull riding after a particularly dangerous ride. Cal and Charlie had clashed like only two hardheaded fools could and the result was a sixteen-year silence. But Cal supposed they could hand each other nails and measure two-by-fours without talking much.
“I told you I’d have to go to physical therapy twice a week,” he reminded her.
Maggie silently regarded Cal. He knew her thoughts, namely the unstated question of why he went to a physical therapist. He hadn’t revealed he was a bull rider yet and he didn’t know why he withheld the information. All he’d accomplished was something to be proud of, but after years of buckle bunnies hopping after him and reporters haggling him, he was tired of the fascination. Being a regular dude felt good. Like pulling on an old pair of blue jeans.
“Right,” she said when she realized he wasn’t going to explain. “Oh, so you know, I checked out of the motel. I’m staying here tonight.”
“But the windows are still busted.”
“I found the screens in the attic. Cats are gone and I’m tired of motel life.”
“But it’s hotter than hell without AC.” His thoughts flickered to an image of her in a short nightie, sweat glistening between her breasts. Maybe no air-conditioning would be a good thing, especially since he’d pulled his trailer out this morning and had a nice view of the house. Of course, he wasn’t a pervert who’d sit around, peering out his blinds, trying to catch a peek. But if she did venture out to the saggy porch in her barely there nightie, he damned sure wasn’t looking away.
“I’ll manage. Just get those guys from the hardware place out here tomorrow to replace the panes. Oh, and call the roofing company again. No rain in the forecast, but if a storm blows up, I don’t want to have to get pans out.”
“I’ll put in another call, boss.”
“Are you staying here tonight?” she asked, looking down at the bucket and eyeing the door again.
“Are you asking me to keep you company tonight, darlin’? ’Cause I’m more than willing.”
Maggie’s head jerked up. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. I was thinking about safety.”
“You can’t blame a guy for wanting to keep a pretty filly company.”
“Are you comparing me to a horse?” she asked, her brown eyes flashing. He loved her feisty spirit...which explained the teasing. Ruffling her feathers could become an addiction.
“You say it like being a horse is a bad thing. I like horses.”
She rolled her eyes. “Mr. Lincoln, our relationship is strictly a working one. I’m not in the market for being your...filly.”
“But you’ll settle for being my nag?” he cracked.
That made her lips twitch. “On second thought, I prefer filly. And hasn’t anyone ever suggested to you and to half of Texas that calling women baby, honey and filly is offensive?”
“If I kiss you and whisper ‘baby, you’re driving me wild,’ you’d be offended?”
Maggie swallowed. “Yes.”
“I’ll file that away for—”
“Not for future reference. We can’t... I mean, you are...” Maggie clamped her mouth closed, a faint pink creeping into her cheeks. He’d only known her for three days, but already he knew flustering Miss Priss was more fun than staring at Charlie’s sad ass all day long. Maggie pulled on her business face, but he sensed the flirting pleased her. Like she was a woman who needed a little teasing in her life.
“Relax, Mags,” he said, giving her a wink. “I never graze in a pasture if the gate ain’t open.”
Then he walked away at a slow ramble, knowing it would aggravate her. He’d bet his boots she loved cocky in a man and that’s something he held by the bucket load. He was short on a lot of things—manners, stature and patience at times—but knowing who he was and what cards he held had always been his best quality. Which was why this injury had thrown him for a loop. He’d done everything required of him to no avail. Everyone kept saying “give it time,” but that was something he didn’t have. He had to be back on a bull soon with an eye on the standings if he wanted a shot at the money and title.
When Rasputin had stepped on his shoulder, he’d shattered the bones along with cracking two ribs. Then he’d tossed Cal, puncturing a lung in the process. All ornery eighteen hundred pounds of snot, muscle and fury, Rasputin was up for Bull of the Year for good reason. And Cal knew he’d probably draw the bastard again in one of the last few events before Nationals. He finished the first half ranked number four, but the points were close this year. Come mid-August he had to be ready. But because the injury had been on his left side and his shoulder didn’t have good mobility, his balance was still shit.
He’d see about putting a bucking barrel in one of the stalls in the barn. He needed to practice and wasn’t ready to ride anything that breathed yet. Or maybe he was...just not a bull.
But until he could get back in the proverbial saddle, he’d head to therapy where he’d sweat buckets, cuss like a sailor and pray his shoulder’s flexibility improved. August wasn’t far away.
* * *
MAGGIE WIPED THE sweat from her forehead and surveyed her efforts. The screens were in place and she’d managed to give the kitchen, living area and one bedroom a decent scrubbing. She’d ordered a new mattress but until it arrived, she’d make do on one in a bedroom that had been closed off. She found sheets in a linen closet and ran them through the washing machine that, praise Jesus, still worked. Currently they flapped in the hot Texas breeze, pinned to the old-fashioned wash line she’d found and strung up on the two old poles behind the house.
She glanced out at the barn, relieved to see the painters had accomplished a good bit in one day. Thankfully, they’d