The Cowboy's Wife For One Night

But he still resisted.

“You looked cold,” he said and stood, his knee barely twinging. The exercises that he did in his room were giving him back his range of motion.

She sat up, the red blanket that had been pulled up to her neck fell down, revealing the paperwork in her lap. Calving reports, from what he could tell. She must have dozed off while reading them.

Her eyes had purple shadows under them and he could tell she’d lost weight since Santa Barbara.

This ranch had a way of diminishing people, stripping away anything extra, until all you had was what you needed to survive.

He wanted to tell her to leave before this ranch did to her what it had to his mother. His father. What it would have done to him had he stayed.

But he didn’t say anything. He didn’t have the energy.

And maybe it wasn’t his business.

Wife or not, she ran away in Santa Barbara.

He didn’t know what that made them, but it sure as hell wasn’t friendly.

“No, what are you doing out of your room?” she asked, like he’d escaped from his cage.

“I’m not allowed out?” he asked.

She shot him an acid look.

“I was getting something to eat.” His voice, still rusty from lack of use but no longer raw from the fire, creaked out from his throat and he started to walk away.

“Where are your crutches?”

“Don’t need `em.”

She grabbed his hand, and while it was no longer broken, it hurt all the same. Her touch was a fire of its own. But he didn’t turn. Didn’t want to look at her and feel anything. He wanted to go back to his room, eat a sandwich and fight off sleep.

He wanted the numbness back and he knew that as long as he was around Mia, he’d never be numb.

She dropped his hand and he was grateful.

“I left you alone in your room five days ago to rot,” she said, her voice sharp, and he nearly smiled. “I just never thought you’d actually do it.”

“Me neither,” he said and left her and the living room behind, heading for the dining room and kitchen and the sandwich he’d put on the counter when he heard her moaning in the other room.

The light was on over the stove, creating a warm glow that faded into the dark shadows. He hungered for the dark shadows, the insulation of the night.

“Your hand,” she said. “No more cast?”

“I took it off,” he said, looking down at the pale hand and arm. The scabbed-over cut between his fingers.

“Is that smart?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you see a doctor—”

”I was told the cast could come off at six weeks. I tore it off at seven.”

“Should you be going to a doctor anyway?” she asked, following him, like the kid she’d been. “For checkups or physical therapy or something.”

“I’m fine,” he said again, with a little more power behind it. It had been a mistake to put that blanket over her. To sit at her feet, even for a few moments to watch the whirlwind that was Mia Alatore, at rest.

“What about medication?” she asked.

Yes! Yes! Yes! The medication, the voices cried.

“Jack, I’m just worried—”

“Worried?” he asked and turned to her. “Really? The woman who didn’t answer a single phone call after leaving me on that roof?” He stepped a little closer until she stepped back, keeping a cool distance between them that he suddenly wanted to eradicate. “Since you’re asking so many questions, how about you answer some, huh?”

Her face got tight, her eyes shuttered. She didn’t like being on the other end of the inquisition.

“Why didn’t you answer my emails?” he asked. “Or phone calls?”

She swallowed and lifted her chin, like her show of bravery would hide the white-knuckled hold she had on her own arms. “Because we were getting a divorce. We’d agreed.”

“So that’s it? You get laid and sever all ties?”

She licked her lips, the little liar. He could smell the fear coming off of her. She liked him in the box he occupied in her life, too, and that sex on the rooftop had made things a little messy for Mia. A little scary.

“It seemed like the best idea.”

“Right,” he snapped. “Worked great, Mia.” He turned to grab his sandwich and leave, but his knee got stuck under him and he lurched sideways to keep his balance.

She reached for him and he shot her a look of such scathing anger that she backed right off.

He grabbed his sandwich and paused for a second before leaving, making sure all his limbs would do as he asked without embarrassing him in front of his wife.

God, his wife. It sounded ridiculous.

“Look at you, you’d burn to the ground before asking anyone for help,” she said.

Pain sliced through him and he flinched. His sandwich slid off the plate to floor. He was blindsided by the smell of smoke. The screams of the dying.