Robyn poked a finger into the top button of his shirt. “So cut her a little slack if she’s overprotective, and be kind to her. She’s been through a lot.”
Robyn wouldn’t tell him all those fears and sleepless nights were hers, as well. He wouldn’t care.
His face could have been carved from granite. “Are you finished?”
She folded her arms across her chest and clamped her jaw closed on all the other things she wanted to shout at him. “Yes.”
From behind her, she heard someone speak. “Mr. Bryant, can I have your autograph, please?”
She turned around and saw three high-school-age boys standing on the sidewalk, looking eager but uncertain.
Neal’s face softened. “Sure, I’d be glad to.”
“We saw your last ride,” the lanky one said in a rush. He wore a cowboy hat pushed back on his blond hair.
“That was so brave the way you drew the bull away from the clown when he was down.” Awe filled the second boy’s voice.
“Yeah, we could see you were hurt,” the third boy interjected. His eyes brimmed with admiration. “You could have made it to the fence, but you ran back to help him.”
“I sure hope you’ll be able to keep on riding,” the first boy added, holding out a pen and a slip of paper.
Neal took the pen and scrawled his signature on the paper. “I’ve got to give these ribs a chance to heal, but I intend to be in the National Finals come December.”
“Thank you, sir.” The boy took the paper back and stared at it in awe as they walked away. “I told you havin’ one eye wouldn’t keep him from riding,” the blond boy insisted proudly.
Robyn stared at Neal in disbelief. “You don’t mean that, do you?”
He looked at her. “What?”
“That you’ll go back to riding bulls.”
He stiffened and stood away from the car. “You bet I mean it.”
“I guess the doctors were right. You are brain damaged!” She spun on her heels and stalked off.
* * *
NEAL FELT HIS resentment fade. A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. She didn’t pull any punches when it came to telling him what she thought. She hadn’t changed a bit.
He tilted his head slightly as he studied her retreating form. Well, maybe a little, but it was all for the better.
Her boyish figure was gone. She’d put on some weight, but it only made her curves more generous. The hips filling out her Wranglers now were anything but boyish.
He pressed his lips back into a thin line. Okay, he still found her attractive; too bad for him. She’d dropped him like a hot rock and moved on with her life. He was glad she had. She deserved better. There was no point standing in the hot sun and wishing things had turned out differently.
He glanced toward the drugstore. Much as he hated to admit it, she was right about one thing. He’d been taking his frustrations and his anger out on anyone who came within range, including his mother. Everyone in his family had suffered his bouts of temper in silence, as if they were afraid to say anything. Only Robyn seemed able to treat him the way she had before the accident.
He wanted that. He wanted people to stop treating him like an invalid, to stop treating him differently.
Rubbing his hand across his jaw, he admitted the cold hard truth. He was different. The brash and reckless cowboy he’d once been was gone. A quaking coward now stood in his boots. Neal hated the man he had become.
Every time he closed his eye, he saw the huge, gray bull bearing down on him. Even in his sleep, he could feel Dust Devil’s hot breath on his neck. He’d jerk awake with his heart pounding in his chest so hard he couldn’t draw a breath.
Sometimes, he woke in the darkness afraid he had gone completely blind. He’d taken to sleeping with a night-light on like some frightened toddler.
Robyn might think he was crazy, but until he could ride again, he knew his fear would only grow. Getting back on a bull was the only way to fight it. As soon as he was healed, he would climb on a bull if it killed him. He had to. He couldn’t live knowing he’d lost his nerve.
But right now, he had another mission. As Robyn had so gently pointed out, he needed to apologize to his mother.
The bell jangled overhead as he entered the long, narrow building from the late 1800s. He moved carefully past the display cases filled with ceramic and glass figurines and local souvenirs. The smells of potpourri and scented candles surrounded him with their sweet fragrances. He crossed to the pharmacy through a wide archway and paused. Little had changed here since his boyhood days.
Above his head, globe lights and a wooden fan hung on pipes suspended from the high, pressed-tin ceiling. The blades of the fan hummed faintly over the sounds of Tim McGraw coming from a radio on the back counter. His mother stood in front of a tall counter, talking to the pharmacist behind it.
Neal turned his gaze to the unique, old-fashioned soda fountain that occupied the far corner. Five chrome bar stools covered in green vinyl lined up in front of a bar decorated with distinctive brown, rust and orange Mexican tiles. A wide brown marble counter topped the bar. Fluted glasses and silver tumblers sat in neat rows on the oak shelves that framed a large mirror behind the counter.
He sat down on the first stool. The mirror reflected a man in a black hat and eye patch. It took a second before Neal recognized himself. He tore his gaze away from the scarred cowboy and forced a smile to his lips when his mother joined him. “Remember when you used to bring us kids here for ice cream?”
“Of course I do. You loved coming here.”
“Every time we had to go to the dentist, you would bring us here afterwards. Something about that never made sense, dentist then ice cream.”
She smiled. “It was the only way I could get both of you to behave. I had to bribe you.”
“Maybe it will still work.”
Her grin widened. “Now, why didn’t I think of that? The promise of a chocolate malt used to turn you into an angel for at least an hour.”
“I’ve been pretty hard to live with lately, haven’t I?” he asked quietly.
Her eyes narrowed in speculation. “Now that you mention it, yes, you have.”
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
“I know, dear. I try not to take it personally. You’ve been through a lot.”
He pushed the brim of his hat up. “Well, since you know what it takes to bribe me into being good, why don’t you tell me what you’d like?”
She rubbed her hands together like a gleeful child. “I’d love a hot-fudge sundae with extra whipped cream, extra nuts and extra cherries.”
Leaning back, he eyed her petite figure. “I had no idea you indulged in the hard stuff.”
“It’s the whipped cream that gets me. It brings back such fond memories of your father.”
He held up a hand. “I don’t think I’m old enough to hear this.”
She gave him a playful slap on his arm. “Don’t be sassy. Your father used to bring me here when we were courting. We