Pete reared back, bracing his hands low on his hips. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? Some greenhorn?” He swelled his chest and thumped a fist against it. “This here is Pete Dugan, current contender for World Champion Bronc Rider. I believe I ought to be able to handle a little old ranch by myself for a couple of days.”
“I know Clayton wouldn’t ask if he wasn’t desperate,” Troy said, still looking uncertain. “He said his hired hand’s home with the chicken pox. Caught it from his kids. He tried calling Carol, but she wasn’t home.”
At the mention of Carol, Pete sagged against the wall. No, Carol wasn’t home, he thought, swallowing hard. She was right here in Mesquite at the rodeo. He’d seen her himself less than two hours before. “Carol still leases that place down the road from Clayton’s?” he asked uneasily.
“Yeah. And she teaches riding lessons a couple of times a week in his arena. Is that going to be a problem for you?”
Pete dropped his head back against the wall and stared up at the shadowed ceiling. “No,” he said, trying to convince himself it was true. “No problem.”
“How soon can you leave? Clayton said he’d wait until you got there.”
“Three hours, max.”
It was nearly two in the morning when Pete bumped his way across the cattle guard marking the entrance to Clayton’s ranch. His eyes gritty from lack of sleep, he dragged a hand down his face and sighed. Ahead he could see the porch light was on…and Clayton on the top step, pacing.
Though Pete knew he’d miss a rodeo or two by filling in for Clayton, he figured if his efforts helped his friend save his marriage, the sacrifice was well worth any loss he might suffer in the standings. Both Clayton and Troy were his buddies, traveling the rodeo circuit with him, and, for all practical purposes, the only family he had.
Forcing an overbright smile for Clayton’s benefit, he hopped down from the truck. “The troops have arrived!” he shouted, then felt his knee give way beneath him. Cursing, he stumbled, but quickly righted himself.
“You’re drunk,” Clayton said, his eyes narrowing.
Pete straightened indignantly. “I am not.”
Clayton stepped closer, sniffing. Curling his nose, he withdrew. “You smell like a damn brewery. How the hell am I supposed to leave my ranch in the hands of a drunk?”
Angered by his friend’s wrongful assumption, Pete tossed back, “Well, you sure as hell didn’t seem to mind leaving your ranch in a woman’s hands for the past three years.”
Clayton whirled, his eyes dark with warning. “My marriage is none of your business.”
Pete took a step toward him, ready to argue the point, but stumbled again when his knee buckled a second time. He sucked in a breath as pain shot up his leg. Setting his jaw, he bent at the waist and gripped his hands above his knee caps, trying to swallow back the nausea that rose.
“You are drunk,” Clayton accused angrily.
Before Pete could offer another denial, Clayton ducked a shoulder into his midsection, picked him up fireman-style and strode for the corral.
“Put me down, dammit!” Pete yelled. “I’m not drunk!”
“You won’t be in a minute.” With no more warning than that, Clayton heaved Pete from his shoulder and dumped him in the horse trough.
Pete came up sputtering, scraping the water from his eyes. He glared up at Clayton. “You jackass! I’m not drunk! It’s my knee, dammit!” He fished his cowboy hat from the murky water and levered himself from the trough. His shirt and jeans were plastered to his body, and water sluiced down his face and dripped from his chin.
“Your knee?” Clayton dropped his gaze to stare at the bandage wrapped tightly around his friend’s leg.
Pete slapped the waterlogged hat over his head. “Yes, my knee. The bronc I rode last night thought the pickup man was taking a little too long in fetching me, so he decided to scrape me off his back on the arena wall. Wrenched my bad knee.”
Clayton ducked his head. “I didn’t know.”
“No, you didn’t. You just assumed. And you know what happens when a person assumes something, don’t you?”
Scowling, Clayton glanced up. Then, heaving a sigh, he slung an arm around his friend’s shoulders and headed him back toward the house. “Yeah. He makes an ass of himself,” he muttered.
“Apology accepted.”
Clayton whipped his head around to frown at Pete. “I didn’t offer an apology.”
Pete grinned and looped his arm over Clayton’s shoulders, letting his friend take most of his weight. “No, but I could tell you wanted to.” His grin widened while Clayton’s frown deepened. Limping along at his friend’s side, Pete felt the water squishing inside his boots and figured they were ruined…but decided he’d take that up with Clayton later. His buddy had enough on his mind at the moment. “You packed and ready to go?”
“Yeah.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Long as it takes.”
“You gonna put up a fight for her?”
At the porch Clayton dropped his arm from Pete’s shoulders and turned to face him. “If that’s what’s required.”
“She’s worth it,” Pete said with a nod of approval. “Rena’s a good woman.”
Clayton glanced toward the house, his expression unreadable in the darkness. “Yeah. I suppose.” Heaving a weighty sigh, he stooped and picked up his duffel bag. “Are you sure you can handle the ranch alone?”
Pete smiled confidently. “Don’t worry about a thing.”
With a last, doubtful look, Clayton turned for his truck. “I left a list of instructions on the kitchen table. If you need me, you can reach me on my cell phone.”
“You just bring Rena and the kids back home where they belong,” Pete called after him. “I’ll take care of things here.” He lifted a hand in farewell, then, when he was sure Clayton couldn’t see the action, he sank down on the porch step with a groan. He stretched out his leg to relieve the pressure on his throbbing knee…and wondered how he was going to manage a fifteen-hundred-acre ranch when the thought of making the short trek to his truck to gather his gear filled him with dread.
Pete awakened to pain. But that was nothing new. Seemed pain was his constant companion. He rolled to his back, his hand going instinctively to the puckered flesh on his knee. The scar his fingers rubbed at was two years old, left by a surgeon’s knife, but the pain in his knee wasn’t old. It was constant. He’d learned to live with it, as he had another pain…the one in his heart.
Refusing to think about that other pain, or the woman who had caused it, he pushed himself to a sitting position. He swung his left leg over the side of the bed and gingerly guided his right leg to join it. Standing, he kept his weight on his good leg as he tested the strength in the right. When it wobbled, he sighed and reached for the bandage he’d tossed over the chair the night before and sank back down on the bed, knowing he wouldn’t make it very far without the added support. He wrapped the knee tightly, then stood again, testing his knee’s ability to take his weight. Satisfied that it could, he tugged on his blue jeans and reached for his shirt. Barefoot, he limped for the kitchen. His boots were by the back door, where he’d left them, and a pool of water lay beneath the ruined leather soles. And, dangit, they were his favorite pair, too.
“You owe me a new pair of boots, Clayton,” he muttered as he detoured for the coffeemaker. He reached for the can of grounds and caught a glimpse of his hat lying on the counter, its brim limp, its crown crushed. “And a hat,” he added, frowning as he