How a Cowboy Stole Her Heart / The Rancher's Dance: How a Cowboy Stole Her Heart / The Rancher's Dance. Allison LeighЧитать онлайн книгу.
heavy labor, Meg? You shouldn’t do too much and …”
“And what?” she finished for him. What did he think would happen? There were no more stitches to pop. She wasn’t going to collapse at his feet. “Shoveling … you-know-what is hardly heavy labor. I think I know what I can and can’t handle,” she replied, but she softened her tone a bit. There was no sense in arguing. “I’m fine, Clay. I’m all better now. Good as new.”
It was a lie, but it would be truth soon enough. Granted, there were still lingering issues since her treatment. Twinges that happened at the oddest times. Fatigue. Then there was the issue of her scars. They would never go away, but the rest would be cured by time and working to get stronger. “Farm work is exactly what I need.”
Megan Briggs had been just about as low as she ever cared to get, but that was over now. Breast cancer hadn’t beaten her—she’d beaten it. Now it was time to reclaim her life. She had ideas—good ones. And if she wanted her family’s support, she had to first prove to them that she wasn’t going to fall apart at any moment. They needed her. And while the past year couldn’t have been helped, she was determined to help keep the Briggs ranch on its feet.
If people kept tiptoeing around her like she was breakable, how on earth was she ever going to make it happen? But she wasn’t about to give up. And so she tightened her hands around the shovel, prepared to resume her work.
Clay’s response was to retrieve another shovel from beside the door. Megan looked up at him and wasn’t sure if she was flattered or insulted at his obvious caring. She decided insulted. It was easier that way.
“I can do this,” she repeated, feeling a silly urge to stamp her foot. She did not. She merely stared at him as he took the stall next to her and dug in. “Clay! I said I’ve got it.”
“Shut up, Meg,” he said mildly, igniting her temper even further.
It would serve him right if she walked out and let him do them all, she thought. But that wouldn’t help her cause one little bit. She needed everyone to see she was fine. Same old Meg. Reliable and ready to put in a hard day’s work. Not a burden. Not a girl who needed to be pampered. Definitely not made of glass, ready to break at any moment. That whole “poor Meg” bit was what had driven her to Calgary in the first place.
“Fine.” She wasn’t about to stand and argue about it. She finished the stall she was on and moved the barrow down the aisle, beginning on another. A raw breeze blew through the door at the end of the barn, and when Meg looked up, soft flakes were falling. The horses were huddled together in the corral, the light snow dusting their backs.
The hard edge of her mood melted away and she smiled to herself. The horses, this ranch, her family—they were what were important now. She had to remember that. She’d done what she had to do to get through her illness, but oh, it was wonderful to be home. This was where she belonged. And where she would stay.
Clay saw the hint of a smile touch Meg’s face and some of his frustration mellowed. It was good to have her back. Good to see her looking so well. A little thinner than he remembered, but with the same thickly lashed, saucy brown eyes and the same dusting of freckles over her nose. She wore a horribly ugly hat on her head that looked like it had been knitted by yarn odds and ends, the colors varied and mismatched.
It suited her to a T. Meg had always been a little unconventional and he’d liked that about her. When she’d snapped at him her delicate features had taken on a familiar stubborn set. Meg had never cared what other people thought. That was what made her disappearance to Calgary so troubling. Suddenly the spunky girl he’d always known had turned into a frightened waif running away. He’d been worried and had gone about telling her in all the wrong ways.
Now she was back and he wanted to believe she was okay. She certainly looked fine. She’d told him she’d be back strong and fit and he’d had his doubts. Doubts he’d refused to voice, because he’d been afraid. He’d admitted it to no one but himself. He’d been afraid Meg was going to die. The girl in dark, curly pigtails who had held his hand in hers and said she’d always be there for him had faced something that made promises irrelevant.
And instead of talking about it he’d lashed out. What he had said all those months ago had been so very wrong and he’d regretted those words ever since. Dawson had mentioned she was coming home and Clay had thought to catch his friend in the barns, do a little digging about her state of mind—and health—before facing her again. Instead of Dawson he’d found Meg, cleaning stalls like the last year had never happened. He owed her an apology for those words.
“You’re truly okay?” He kept shoveling, needing to keep moving, to pretend that this was like any other sort of conversation he’d had with Meg a thousand times.
Instead he found himself face-to-face with her and her sharp attitude. The sweet Megan he remembered was gone and replaced by a woman with a stubborn jut to her chin and eyes full of fire. Before he would have been able to soothe ruffled feathers with a smile and a bit of charm. But Meg seemed immune now. The words of apology he’d practiced in his head disappeared, swept away on the arctic air blowing through Larch Valley.
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” she replied, shaking fresh straw on to the stall floor.
He looked up briefly. She was watching him, her eyes enormous above her plaid wool jacket. Old work gloves covered her hands and she wore jeans and boots, same as him. At this moment, it was hard to imagine her body being ravaged by disease.
“If I said I was sorry for what I said to you last spring, would you believe me?” He stumbled over the words. They were nothing like he’d rehearsed, but he couldn’t take them back now. What was he supposed to say? That all the hateful things he’d said had eaten at him all these months? That at the time he’d been afraid they were the last words he might ever say to her? Her current strength and determination made the sentiments seem ridiculous.
“Sure.” She shook out more straw over the floor and he gritted his teeth. She was certainly as mule headed as ever.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She looked up at him. “Not really. Let’s just let it drop.”
In Clay’s experience, a woman never “dropped” anything, but Megan wasn’t like most women. He had no idea what to say next. He’d apologized and he’d meant it. Maybe that was enough.
“Did your mom tell you about Aunt Stacy?”
With a sigh, Meg put her shovel aside. “No, she didn’t. What’s to know?”
“Gee, Meg, I’m sorry, is my conversation boring you?” He couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his tone. She was completely exasperating. He’d come over here, wanting to say hello, wanting to say he was sorry, and he got a sharp tongue and put-upon air for his troubles.
A slight flush touched her cheekbones and she looked a little sheepish. “Of course not. I’m a little touchy, okay? Everyone is treating me like I’m going to break at any moment. It’s a bit suffocating.”
“That wasn’t my intention.”
She raised an eyebrow and he knew she was right. It had been, from the moment he had said she shouldn’t be mucking out stalls. He’d taken a heavy hand from the start. Well, sue him for being worried about her. “If people are concerned, it’s only because they care about you and don’t want you to do too much, too fast.”
“I know that.”
“You’ve just come home. I’m sure once everyone sees you’re back to your old self, they’ll move on to another topic.” He made his voice sound far more confident than he felt.
Clay knew very well how the gossip in the town worked. There was a flavor of the week and then something newer and juicier came along. Hell, at his age he could hardly go out on a date without the grapevine marrying him off by the next morning. Even his aunt Stacy had gotten in on the needling a bit lately, asking if there was any particular young lady he was interested in. The