Wild Cowboy Ways (Lucky Penny Ranch #1)(79)

She would eat the damn banana and she’d have a shower and gladly brush her teeth, but then she and Blake were going to have a talk. And this time she would remember every word, every nuance, and every expression on his face.

“Every single damn word,” she mumbled.

“Word about what?” he asked. “It’s snowing again and you don’t feel much like texturing a ceiling, so I vote we cuddle up on the sofa and spend the day together. We can turn off our cell phones and pretend we’re stranded on a desert island.”

“How long have I been here?” she asked.

“Since late last evening. Today is Monday.”

Had they cleared things up? If not, then why was he being so nice? “I’ve always wanted to get lost on an island. Hand me that banana and get the canoe ready for us to row to the island.”

Did she say that out loud? Good lord! What was the matter with her? They still had to clear a hell of a lot of things up before she cuddled up with him on the sofa all day.

He tossed it toward her and she caught it with both hands. “It’s working. My headache isn’t as bad.”

“I’m the hangover guru. Stick with me and I’ll take care of you,” he said.

“Sounds to me like you’re a guy who’s used that line many times,” she said, grabbing her aching head.

“Maybe I should write country music about curing hangovers.” He extended his hand and helped her off the mattress. “Finish the banana on the way to the shower. Everything is laid out and ready for you.”





Chapter Twenty-three



Hot water washed away more of the headache, but it didn’t do much to take away the guilt. What had she been thinking? She’d been put in charge of her grandmother for the afternoon and she’d failed…again.

Alora Raine Logan was a failure and she admitted it. Strip stark naked, standing under the shower spray on the Lucky Penny, which was every bit as appropriate as an AA meeting for alcoholics. She had failed in her marriage—couldn’t hold Riley’s interest. Failed as a daughter—proved she couldn’t be trusted. Failed as a sister—weekends were the only time Lizzy got to spend with Mitch.

“Sorry sumbitch that Mitch is, he’s her sumbitch.” Allie wiped at the tears streaming down her cheeks.

She slid down into the bathtub and curled up in a tight little ball, sobbing as the hot water streamed over her body. She didn’t hear the little plastic rings holding the shower curtain slide across the rod. She had no idea anyone was in the bathroom until Blake was in the tub with her. Still dressed in pajama pants and a knit shirt, he sat down behind her and gathered her into his arms. One minute she was sitting on the hard porcelain of an old bathtub, the next she was curled up in his lap, her cheek against his chest.

She started to say something, but he put a finger over her lips.

“The depression is the alcohol talking, not Allie Logan. Whatever happened is water under the bridge. Burn the damn bridge and forget the past,” he whispered.

His words were so poetic that they brought on a fresh batch of tears. She didn’t care if it was just another line he’d used. Didn’t care…they were the words that had started all this to begin with.

“I do care,” she said between sobs.

“About what?” He brushed strands of wet hair from her face.

She took several seconds to get her thoughts together. “I care about Lizzy and Mama and Granny. I don’t care if you are telling me pretty words that you’ve told lots of women before me. I don’t care about your past. I’ll burn those bridges for you if you’ll hand me a stick of firewood and a match.”

How he managed to stand up in a slippery, wet tub with her in his arms, then step out without falling, was a miracle. But suddenly, she found herself wrapped in that brand-new robe he’d talked about and her hand was in his, letting him lead her to the living room. He tossed a quilt over the sofa and motioned for her to sit. She obeyed without arguing and he carefully brought the ends of the quilt up around her legs.

“Don’t go away.” He smiled.

Leaving wet footprints on the floor and dripping water as he disappeared into his bedroom, he whistled a tune that she recognized as “Honey Bee” by Blake Shelton. In a few minutes he returned, dressed in gray sweat bottoms and a long-sleeved thermal shirt. He carried a towel in one hand and a hairbrush in the other.

“Slide forward about a foot,” he said.

When she did, he settled in behind her, one long muscular leg on each side of her body. He towel-dried her hair and then massaged her scalp with his fingertips. Holy smoking shit! Her body felt like a rag doll and yet every nerve was on high alert, wanting more, begging for his wonderful hands.

“Mmmm,” she murmured.

“Is it making it better?” he drawled.

He started brushing her hair and a whole new set of emotions surfaced. She was afraid to move an inch for fear she’d find out this was all a dream and she would wake up with that grinding hangover, or worse yet, in her lonely bed at home.

His hands grazed her cheeks as he pulled her damp hair back to run the brush through it. Then he leaned forward and kissed her softly on the side of her neck.

“We were going to talk,” she whispered.

“We are talkin’, darlin’. We’ll use words when necessary,” he said softly.