Chapter Seven
“T he good news is your concussion appears to be completely resolved. The bad news is that your shoulder isn’t healing as quickly as I’d like. You’re sure it’s not giving you trouble? No pain? No tightness?”
Caleb avoided Dr. McBride’s gaze as he buttoned up his shirt. “None at all.”
Her skepticism was so thick he could almost smell it. “Have you injured it before?”
“Might have. Once or twice.”
“That memorable, huh?”
“Hazard of the profession.”
She sighed, turning to her computer. “Whether you remember them or not, your chickens have come home to roost. I suspect this sprain compounded another one. It’s improving, but it’ll be a while before it’s one hundred percent. Experiment with removing the sling, but don’t overdo it. I’d like to see you back here in another two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” he echoed in disbelief, already shaking his head. “I can’t. I need to leave town. ”
She looked up from typing her notes. “And go where?”
“Wherever I want.”
“Why the urgency to leave if you don’t have somewhere specific to be?”
Because every minute I spend with my soon-to-be ex-wife is like inching further and further out onto a frozen lake, knowing the ice is getting softer with each step and that one wrong move could dump me into water so cold it’ll stop my heart.
“Don’t like staying in one place. I get antsy.”
Dr. McBride regarded him over her shoulder for a minute, then clicked something on the computer and turned to face him fully, scooting her rolling stool closer.
“Like I told you before, I’ve treated my fair share of bull riders. I understand that when your whole livelihood comes down to eight seconds, weeks or even days can feel like an eternity. At the same time, I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t point out to you that two weeks now will make the difference between riding for the next six months or sitting out the rest of the season.”
“It’s just a sprain, it can’t be that dramatic.” He grinned, but her expression was serious.
“Re-injury is already slowing you down. Don’t let it grind you to a halt.”
He sobered, his gaze dropping unseeingly to his clasped hands as she swiveled back to her computer.
He was rational enough to know she was right. In fact, that rationality was one of the biggest barriers in his career, because behind it was the ability to consider all the possible, terrible outcomes each time he climbed on a bull. Then it was a short tumble from confidence to every bull rider’s mortal enemy: fear.
The bull rider’s unerring, steely ability to stare death in the face had never come naturally to Caleb. Still didn’t, but he’d at least learned to cage his fright and keep it out of the way.
Not right now. In this pristine examining room, with the trees summer-lush outside the window and the soothing clack of the keys beneath Dr. McBride’s fingers, fear snapped its leash and surged forward to bite him, snarling and frothy-mouthed.
He loved bull riding. He loved the exhilaration, he loved the money, and he loved the lifestyle.
But he didn’t want to die doing it.
Which, according to more bull riders than Caleb could count, meant he shouldn’t be participating in the sport at all. The holding areas were often a cacophony of morbid insistences, that it’d be worth it, that they knew what they were getting into, that they’d die happy because nothing beat the thrill of those eight seconds.
He knew it was probably bravado, a way of psyching themselves up, but he kept quiet when the conversation headed in that direction. Truth was, whenever he slid on his helmet, he was scared of dying. Of being paralyzed, or brain-damaged. He was scared of pain, and injury, and wondered every time whether this was his last ride, because one of them would be.
“I can’t stop you from getting back in the saddle—or back on the rope, more accurately—but I’d like to discourage you in the strongest possible terms.” Dr. McBride swung around again, interrupting his reverie.
“For two weeks, you said?”
“I’d like you back here in two weeks. I can’t promise I’ll be more encouraging then, but at least you’ll know where you stand.”
He hummed noncommittally, and Dr. McBride glanced heavenward.
“I’ve never met any group of people as hell-bent on rolling the dice on their lives as bull riders.”
“That’s half the point, at least. For some it’s the whole.”
“And when do you stop? When do you finally say, that’s enough, I’m done taking chances?”
He shrugged. “When you find a reason to quit.”
“Don’t suppose you’ve got one waiting in the wings, huh?”
“No ma’am,” he told her firmly.
Her lips thinned in disapproval as she rose from her seat. “I hope I’ll see you again, Mr. Ross. And if not, ride safe.”
Caleb must’ve cruised every road in Last Stand these last few days, but after leaving the doctor’s office he went through them all again for good measure, before finally setting down along the main drag and pushing through the door of the Last Stand Saloon.
He wasn’t wasting gas because driving was fun. Every time he turned left his shoulder ached all the way to the bone. But it kept him out of Jessa’s house, and that was the number-one place he couldn’t be right now—especially not after what he saw in the studio.
He’d be the first to admit he was no ballet aficionado, but he doubted very much that anyone could’ve watched Jessa dance and not be moved almost to tears. She was fluid, ethereal, more mythical goddess than woman, so deep in her own world that for once no one else’s opinion mattered. He didn’t know the story she was telling or if there was even supposed to be one, but he’d felt it all nonetheless.
The yearning. The loss. Love that was powerful.
Love that was impossible.
A shiver ran down his spine at the recollection as he made his way to the bar, stopping only briefly to take in his surroundings. A complete one-eighty from McNab’s, the Saloon was well-preserved, atmospheric, and surprisingly popular for a weekday afternoon.
It was also probably expensive, he thought unhappily.
Little remained of his winnings from the Last Stand rodeo. Normally he didn’t stress too much when the coffers got low—there was always another competition coming up, another chance on the horizon. Now, though, he was staring down the barrel at two weeks of poverty, if not more.
“What can I get you?”
The bartender was a tall, dark-haired man whose friendly demeanor couldn’t hide the way he subtly scanned Caleb from his straw cowboy hat to his gleaming belt buckle. Caleb didn’t take it personally. If he ran this place, he’d want to keep track of the likely troublemakers, too.
“Whatever’s cheap and cold. I’m not fussy.” Caleb gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile, paid in cash, and then took his freshly poured beer over to a table for two in a corner.
He slumped into his seat and exhaled heavily. Talk about a rock and a hard place.
He had two options: stay or leave. Leaving would mean he’d have to start singing for his supper sooner rather than later, entering the first rodeo he could manage and hoping his shoulder held out.
If he stayed, he could recover somewhere comfortable and safe. Helping with her sister’s machinery would be one step to repaying Jessa’s hospitality, and maybe there were other people in town who needed a good tractor mechanic. He’d wait until he was fully fit and then hit the road, confident that he was at one hundred percent the next time he climbed in the chute.
The choice seemed obvious—except for the five-foot-two, hazel-eyed, soft-haired curveball that threatened to hit him squarely between the eyes .
Caleb scrubbed his hand over his mouth, incredulous that he’d found himself in this position. He’d never met a bedroom he wouldn’t slip out of or a town he couldn’t roll through faster than a freight train. Was he seriously this worried about a ballerina he had a fling with?
Yes. Yes, he was.
And watching her dance had made it all so much worse. Not just because she was talented and captivating, but because he’d caught her unguarded magic, that preternatural sparkle that had hooked him like a trout in Hawaii. Whatever it was about her that drew him in—hormones, pheromones, literal witchcraft—he was susceptible to it, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d find himself leaving Last Stand with a mended shoulder and a busted heart.
Because she didn’t want him, and she never would. He chugged a mouthful of beer at that thought and swallowed it fast. She wanted a guy who fit in with her life here, someone polished and successful and steady, and he didn’t blame her.
Not like he was looking for commitment either, he reminded himself, his self-assurance returning as the level of beer in his glass dropped. What would he do, fly back to Last Stand for two days at a time in between rodeos? Give her a hundred dollars toward the mortgage on the rare occasions he won any money at all? No, this life he’d chosen only worked on a solo basis, and that’s how he liked it.
“Good talk, coach,” he murmured to himself with a smile. He felt better. Heartened that he could get through these next couple of weeks either way, and then let this interlude, like so many others, simply disappear in the rearview mirror.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, then scrambled to answer when he saw Rusty’s name.
“Hey, Rusty, I was just fixing to—”
“You got a second? I got a sponsor who wants to speak to you.” Rusty’s voice was breathless with excitement.
“Now?”
“Right now. Are you somewhere you could take a video call?”
Caleb hesitated. “I’m in a bar.”
“Perfect. Hold on, I’ll patch you in.”
Caleb propped his phone against his glass and dug out his earbuds, popping them in just as the screen split to show a man in a black yoked shirt with crisp white detailing. On the wall behind him was the logo for Red Spur Outfitters, a relatively new and extremely cool Western-wear brand, and Caleb wished he’d taken one more swig of beer before answering.
“Charlie, let me introduce you to one of the hottest riders on the circuit, Calamity Ross. Calamity, this is Charlie Stack from Red Spur.”
Caleb nodded politely. “It’s a pleasure.”
“The pleasure’s all mine. If you don’t mind my asking, where are you, exactly?” Charlie squinted into the camera.
Caleb’s face heated. “Um, actually, I’m in a…saloon? An ol d one. Historic, even. I apologize, I wasn’t expecting—”
“Are you kidding? No better place for a cowboy in between competitions. Wish I could join you.”
Charlie beamed. Caleb smiled nervously. Rusty hunched forward, the sheen of sweat on his forehead visible even through his crappy camera.
“Are you still in Last Stand? Saw that tumble you took after your ride,” Charlie said conversationally.
“Yes sir. Got a friend in the area so I figured I’d stay here while I recovered.”
“And how’s that shoulder feeling? Rusty said—”
“I said you’d be right as rain in no time,” the agent interjected. “Ain’t that right, Calamity?”
“It’s coming on real good,” Caleb agreed.
“In fact, Calamity’s set to ride in Arkansas next week. We’re just making the final arrangements.”
Panic flooded Caleb’s chest and he fought to keep his smile fixed in place. Arkansas? Next week? What the hell?
“Well, dang, I was hoping he’d be sitting that one out. Pine Bluff?”
“That’s the one,” Rusty said uncertainly.
“Pine Bluff overruns the rodeo in Fort Stockton, and we were really hoping to see Calamity there. Preferably in one of our shirts.”
Caleb’s jaw loosened as Charlie sat back in his chair, looking immensely satisfied as Rusty waffled a load of nonsense about altering the schedule.
After about two minutes of his agent’s frenzied babble Charlie shifted his attention, addressing Caleb directly.
“Listen, Calamity, the bottom line here is we’d like you to become a Red Spur athlete. We’ve seen your progress on the leaderboards, we like your grit and style, and according to Rusty, you have the character to match.”
Rusty nodded frantically.
“Let’s schedule a meeting while you’re in Fort Stockton so we can discuss some of the finer points, talk numbers, and shake on it officially. Sound good?”
Play it cool. Pretend this isn’t the biggest break of your career. Act like you negotiate high-value sponsorship deals all the time.
“I’ll look forward to it,” Caleb replied breezily, and mentally high-fived himself for how calm and collected it came off.
After another couple of overexcited half-sentences from Rusty they ended the call and Caleb pocketed his earbuds, his thoughts spinning as he processed this unexpected twist in the plot of his bull-riding career—and the decision that had just been made for him.
The Fort Stockton rodeo started in about two weeks, and the result he got there actually mattered now. He couldn’t amble through the next couple of events with a weak shoulder and hope for the best. If he wanted this sponsorship and the financial predictability that came with it, he had to deliver .
He’d have to throw himself on Jessa’s mercy. Do whatever he could to beg or barter another two weeks in her guest room. Mop the floors in the studio, wash her car, herd cows for her sister if it came to it.
And keep his heart on lockdown like his life depended on it.
He stood up, stretched, picked up his glass—and stopped. He hadn’t noticed it when he sat down, but on the empty chair across from him was a single feather.
Caleb picked it up, wondering how it got here. Soft, white, and at least twelve inches long, it wasn’t from a pigeon or any other kind of bird he’d recognize. It was beautiful, though, fading from bright white at the tip to a smoky gray that made him think of the first cloud that signaled a storm over the summer-dry mountains, that welcome shade as it blocked the sun, the relief that rain was on its way.
He took off his hat and stuck it in the band. He was overdue some good fortune, and it finally seemed to have found him. Maybe this feather would be his lucky charm.
And if he was going to survive another two weeks with Jessa, Lord knew he’d need it.
*
Jessa turned down the heat on the chicken sizzling noisily in the wok just in time to hear the front door shut. Briefly she closed her eyes, bracing herself for another stiff, awkward dinner with the man who increasingly felt like a stranger in her home. Then she opened them again and slapped on a cheerful smile.
What did she expect? They were getting divorced. Caleb hadn’t exactly begged to stay here in the first place, and now he was itching to leave. He was faultlessly polite, nothing more—and that was fine. Ideal, even. That way when he left, she wouldn’t waste so much as a second missing him.
She paused, her wooden spoon stilling over the wok as she cocked her head to one side. She could hear him around the corner, which meant he hadn’t gone straight to the guest room. Was he…whistling?
A second later he appeared in the kitchen doorway, smiling hesitantly—but smiling nonetheless.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
He nodded toward the wok. “What’s that? Smells good.”
“Chicken and vegetable stir-fry.”
“Can I help?”
“It’s almost ready. You could put those away.” She indicated the breakfast plates he’d hand washed and left on the side to dry.
The kitchen was small, the sink catty-corner to the stove, and when he edged around her the sheer proximity of him, his size and warmth and solidity, made her breath hitch.
“I appreciate you washing up in the mornings, but you don’t have to. You can put them in the dishwasher,” she told him, trying to distract herself from her immutable physical response.
“I always forget you have one. We never did, growing up.”
“Six kids and no dishwasher?”
“ Idle hands are the devil’s workshop , as my mama likes to say.” He found the right cabinet and stacked the plates inside.
She wanted to ask about his mom. About his dad. About his siblings, his childhood, the strange, isolated place that had shaped him into the character he was today.
But that wasn’t any of her business.
“Did you go to the doctor today?” she asked instead, turning off the burner and portioning the noodles onto two plates.
“Sure did. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.”
He’s leaving tomorrow. He got the all-clear, he’ll pack up tonight, and he’ll be gone in the morning.
And I will be just fine , she lied handily.
“Of course,” she said brightly, setting their dinner on the table and motioning for him to sit down. Jessa shoved a forkful of vegetables into her mouth and chewed slowly, buying herself time to mentally rehearse her gracious farewell.
“I’d like to stay another two weeks, if you’ll have me.”
A chunk of broccoli lodged in her throat.
Jessa coughed and spluttered and downed half a glass of water before she managed to croak, “What did you say?”
“Are you all right? Can I get you some more water?”
She shook her head. “I’m fine. Did you say two more weeks?”
“If you don’t mind. The doctor thinks my shoulder needs more time, and then I got a phone call from a new sponsor. A big one, potentially. They want to see me ride in Fort Stockton at the beginning of August, and I figure I’m better off being one hundred percent for that one instead of half-assing my recovery and squeezing in a second rodeo beforehand.”
“For you, Caleb, that is surprisingly sensible.”
He smiled. “I guess it is. Don’t worry, I’ll probably find some way to screw it up.”
Jessa exhaled, trying her best to beat back the elation swelling in her chest. This should be a devastating turn of events, a horrible moment in which her conscience warred with her need to move on with her life. Caleb was not a long-term prospect. He was a distraction at best, a nuisance at worst, and she should be eager to get him out of her hair.
So why did she have to work so hard not to throw herself across the table and hug him as tightly as she could?
“I’m done with the sling, so I can help out at the studio. Mop floors, wash windows, run errands,” he said hastily, misinterpreting her silence as reluctance. “Or if your sister needs help on the ranch, I’m real handy at— ”
“It’s fine. You’re welcome to stay. Consider it positive reinforcement for following the doctor’s advice.”
“I’m grateful, Jessa. I really am.”
She dropped her gaze to her plate, fidgeting beneath the weight of his sincerity. “It’s no big deal. Anyway, tell me about this sponsor.”
They chatted happily over dinner, the lingering awkwardness that had followed them since that kiss in the square clearing like retreating clouds. This wasn’t the reaction Jessa would’ve expected to a two-week extension of his stay, on either part, but she chalked it up to his excitement about his new sponsor and her relief that he wasn’t putting his body in jeopardy. She brainstormed a list of projects he could help with at the studio, and he asked if she knew a physical therapist in town—something she’d been nagging him about since day one. He washed up, she wiped down the counters, and they parted in the hallway on a friendly good night.
Jessa closed her bedroom door and practically floated over to her vanity to grab her laptop, almost unable to believe how perfectly this situation had resolved itself. Two more weeks to assure herself Caleb was healing and, if tonight was any indication, two more weeks of easy camaraderie, free of temptation or attachment. That dance in the square was the exception—this grown-up, arms-length companionship was the rule.
Congratulating herself on her maturity, Jessa sat cross-legged on her bed and opened her laptop. She briefly checked the studio’s bank balances, then clicked to the spreadsheet she’d made for Tana’s visit, which she belatedly realized would now occur while Caleb was still here. Not a problem, she’d just stash him at one of her sisters’ places—which reminded her that she should probably let them know about her houseguest’s extended visit.
“ Heads-up y’all ,” she typed to their group chat. “ Caleb is staying another two weeks. Doctor’s orders. He’ll still be here when Tana visits, so we’ll need to stick him somewhere during the dinner at my house. Any takers? ”
One by one she watched her sisters’ avatars flicker to active, then inactive. She sighed.
“ Don’t make me volunteer someone. Btw I’m updating the spreadsheet now, will circulate shortly. ” She put down her phone and returned her attention to her laptop. She’d choreographed the entire visit down to the minute, and now she was working on contingencies for weather, delays, and illnesses.
Her sisters could roll their eyes all they wanted, but she was determined to show Tana and Lela what their family’s ignorance had cost them—and how well the Star sisters had done on their own. She owed it to the generations before her who’d kept the flame of their faith since their patriarch, Isaac, landed in Galveston from Austria with little more than the clothes on his back. The roots he planted had grown into a thick-trunked, fruit-heavy tree, every inch of which had been fed on thousands of years of religious tradition—tradition upheld in private, in isolation, and in defiance of the relentless hegemony that threatened to snuff it out.
And maybe she owed it to her mom, too.
Jessa’s phone pinged. She picked it up.
A text from Amy. “ Still married? ”
“ Paperwork’s filed. ”
“ So that’s a yes. ”
“ Technically. ”
“ Are you technically sleeping together? ”
“ No ,” Jessa typed hastily.
“ Maybe you should. ”
She blinked at the screen. She’d expected teasing from her twin—not encouragement.
“ Why? ”
“ Because he’s hot, and you like him and it’d be fun. ”
“And in Amy’s world, that’s all that matters,” she muttered.
“ He’s not what I’m looking for. ”
“ Omg J you don’t have to MARRY him. Just sleep with him. You need to get laid and who knows when you’ll get another chance. ”
Jessa pursed her lips in annoyance. Professionally Amy was a firefighter/EMT, but personally she took a scorched-earth approach to everyone and everything. She burned every bridge she crossed, yet if she needed to get back to the other side, she always managed to find a boat.
Then struck a match and set it alight as soon as it bumped onto shore.
Amy could do that. She was so sexy and magnetic and fiery that men flocked to her like moths to a flame, coming back again and again no matter how badly their wings were singed.
Although they were twins, Jessa had known from an early age that Amy had slurped up all the personality and charisma in the womb. Even though Jessa did everything right, followed all the rules, and hungered for praise and attention, everyone gravitated toward Amy, whose ugliest failures overshadowed Jessa’s hardest-won achievements. Amy was fun. Amy was exciting. Amy was unpredictable, dynamic, a whirlwind that swept people up and spat them out laughing and desperate to do it again.
Jessa was…boring. Neurotic. Rigid. She’d learned to be okay with that. And she understood how it changed her landscape. Her bridges took three times as long to build, and there would be no rowboat rescue if one fell apart. Just the cold, swirling, friendless water beneath.
Amy had never understood that—had never even tried. She just sneered at her uptight, prissy twin and moved on, ignoring Jessa’s bloodied fingertips as she doggedly built her life brick by brick, and sure as hell never offering to help.
“ Do you have any idea how much I want to be the type of woman who can just sleep with? ”
Jessa held down the Delete button until the whole sentence was gone. Instead, she typed, “ Thanks for the advice. I’ll take it into consideration ,” and turned her phone facedown.
She scrolled through her spreadsheet, but her productive mood had deflated. She set her laptop aside and headed to the kitchen to make an herbal tea—and stopped short in the doorway.
Caleb sat at the table wearing nothing but jeans and an ice pack.
His back was turned, and she might’ve managed to sneak away unnoticed if she hadn’t been hypnotized by the sight of all that tanned skin and smooth muscle. For a full minute, she could do nothing but stare, her jaw slack, her fingers twitching, greedy heat gathering at the apex of her thighs.
She wasn’t sure what gave her away—probably the sound of her drool dripping onto the floor—but Caleb started and twisted in his seat, his cheekbones flushing red.
“Sorry, I thought you’d gone to bed. I can get out of your way.”
“You’re fine,” she told him, considering the many levels on which that was true as she waved him back into the seat he was half out of. “I was just going to make a cup of tea. Want one?”
He shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m nearly done.”
She switched on the kettle and leaned against the counter, trying unsuccessfully to look anywhere but at the view that was even better from the front. “How’s the shoulder?”
“Okay. Doctor said there’s still some swelling. I’m supposed to ice it twice a day, but I can’t hardly stand this cold.” He grimaced, adjusting the Ziploc bag full of ice cubes.
“You should put something under that, for a start. Here.” She pulled a tea towel from a drawer and slid it between the bag and his body before she could stop herself. Before she realized what would happen when she touched him, or how the faint whisper of her fingers over his smooth flesh would jolt through her like an electric shock.
He looked up at her, blue eyes wide and bright, and her hand moved seemingly of its own accord to the base of his neck, her thumb grazing the soft, slightly overgrown edge of his honeyed hair. She squeezed, lightly at first, then harder, and his eyelashes fluttered closed.
“Damn, that feels good.”
She let her other hand rise to his neck and kneaded along the ridge of his right shoulder, digging her fingertips into his muscles, enjoying his satisfied groans as she worked out knots. She was close enough to smell his shampoo, and to see where the first golden curls gathered on his chest. She pressed closer, pushed deeper, becoming exhilaratingly unwary. On the contrary, the nearer she got to Caleb, the more she worked her palms over his bare body, the safer she felt. Safer than she’d been with any other man.
Which probably would’ve—and certainly should’ve—set off every alarm bell she had, except at that moment Caleb slid the ice pack off his shoulder.
“Can you do this side? That sling left me stiffer than a two-by-four.”
“I won’t hurt you?”
“I’ll tell you if you do. ”
Jessa moved to his left, his skin cold where he’d been icing it, the muscles on this side dense and tight. She began tentatively, worried about his injury, and then he put his big, warm hand over hers, urging her to apply more pressure.
“You won’t hurt me.”
Their gazes caught and held. Jessa tried not to breathe, tried not to think, tried not to recognize the desire crackling between them, or the bald longing in his eyes, or the aching need unspooling in her chest.
He whispered her name, and it pierced her like an arrow through the swan’s wing, snatching her from the sky and dragging her to earth. She collapsed against him, taking his face in her hands as his arms came around her waist, their foreheads touching, their lips a breath apart. She yearned to kiss him, could already taste his tongue against hers, but some taut, stubborn thread of self-preservation held her back.
“We shouldn’t do this,” she murmured.
“No,” he agreed. “But what if we did? Just for two weeks?”
The reminder of their deadline flattened her lungs, and it took a few seconds before she could reply.
“I’m not really the two-week type.”
“You were the two-day type when I met you.” He eased her backward just enough to look into her face.
“That wasn’t the real me. This is.” She swept her hand to indicate her house, her hometown, her whole stressful, inflexible life.
“Sure about that?”
“Yes,” she said glumly, but he shook his head.
“You were as real then as you are now. I wish you could see that as clearly as I do.”
“I don’t.”
“Then let me show you.” He drew her in again and this time she found the wherewithal to step out of his reach, ignoring his wounded expression.
“Let’s just get through these two weeks as friends, okay? This is complicated enough with the divorce. We shouldn’t make it any worse.”
He regarded her steadily, his face unreadable.
“Okay,” he said finally.
“Okay,” she echoed. “Good night.”
“Good night, Jessa.”
She turned and fled down the hall to her room, wishing she were proud of her resolve, or that her ability to resist temptation in the interest of her longer-term goals gave her any satisfaction at all.
Instead, the sound of her name in his Tennessee drawl followed her like a restless spirit, hovering and whispering and delighting in her torment.