The Cowboy's Unexpected Family

Her heart was a rock in her chest. Lying to her mother made her sick, but Lucy couldn’t give her mother more grief. Couldn’t give her a failure as a daughter. “I’m the boss, Mom. And I haven’t had a vacation in years. I’m…I’m burnt out. I haven’t had a new design in months.”

Sandra stroked back Lucy’s hair, and her hand felt like silk. “This is true. You work so hard. A few more days then? And then we go back.”

Not for the first time Lucy wished she was rich. That she could take her mom on vacation, whisk her away to Rome. But she was broke. And they couldn’t go home, and they couldn’t stay here much longer.

Talk about limbo.

Lucy forced herself to smile. “Sounds good.”

“Sleep sweetheart,” Sandra murmured, and Lucy let her eyelids shut, pretending to sleep so her mother wouldn’t worry.

Lucy started awake at the sound of her mother’s snores. Hard to believe, but Saint Sandra snored like a sailor. Dad had always joked about it, saying sleeping next to his wife was like being back in the navy, and no one thought twice about it when they found him asleep on the couch. Chased out of his bed by his wife’s deviated septum.

“Oh man, Mom,” Lucy muttered, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “We gotta get that fixed.”

The moon in the window was so bright she could read her watch. Three in the morning. It would be a battle getting to sleep again. She’d never needed a lot of sleep, but in the last year she’d flirted with insomnia. The second she woke up it was as if her brain was a giant hamster wheel, and every hamster in the world wanted a turn. She just couldn’t turn off her thoughts.

The moonlight lay across the floor in big sheets, and she followed it out the door, but instead of going to her own room she headed to the kitchen. And whatever dinner leftovers might be in the fridge.

The carpet of the hallway changed to stone as she walked into the dining room, but when she rounded the counter that separated the kitchen from the eating area she stopped dead in her tracks.

Walter sat on the floor in a puddle of moonlight, small orange pills scattered around him. His face was unnaturally pale in the bone-white light.

“Hey,” he said, trying to brace himself against the floor so he could move. But she could see he was in too much pain.

“What happened?” she asked, crouching beside him. She smelled booze on his breath and stood back up. “You’re drunk.”

“I fell.” His hard face cracked into a grimace. “I think I hurt my leg.”

His ankle just beneath the frayed edge of his light blue pyjamas was swollen and purple. Damn it, it had to be sprained, and who the hell knew how long he’d been sitting here.

“You fell because you’re drunk.”

He sighed, looking down at his body as if it had betrayed him.

“I dropped a pill and bent down to get it. I just lost my balance.”

“Because washing down Parkinson’s medication with whiskey improves balance?”

“Could you…could you just get Jack? Or Mia?” he asked.

Anger popped and pulsed inside of her. “No.” She went back into the mudroom and jammed her feet into her boots. Then she grabbed the keys off the counter, calling Walter all the names under her breath that she’d been raised too well to say to his face. Stomping back into the kitchen she glared down at him.

He stared down at his hands. Ashamed. Good.

“Sandra—”

“Everybody is sleeping and I’m not dragging them out of bed because you were too drunk to stay on your feet. You’re stuck with me.”

He nodded slightly, his white hair picking up the moonlight and glinting silver. Walter was still handsome, a big masculine man, but all she saw when she looked at him was ruin.

“You’re going to have to help me a little,” she said, crouching beside him and flinging his arm over her shoulder.

He grimaced. Sweat bloomed across his forehead but he didn’t groan. Nope, not Walter. Just like he’d have sat here all damn night rather than shout for help.

All that pride wasted when it came to drinking. It was a shame.

With a lot of effort she got him to his feet, but when he shifted his body to go toward the living room she steered him instead to the mudroom.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“I’m fine—”

She shifted her weight away from him and he stumbled, catching himself on the counter that split the kitchen from the dining room. Tentatively he put his foot onto the floor and cursed when he couldn’t put any weight on his ankle.

When he glanced at her, she shrugged. “It’s sprained, at least, and you’ve been sitting there for how long?”