Cherokee Baby. Sheri WhiteFeather

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      But Bobby knew. A man didn’t lose a limb and suddenly forget that part of him was missing.

      The phantoms rarely came anymore, so he closed his eyes, waiting out the discomfort, knowing it would eventually subside. He didn’t believe in pharmaceutical pain-killers. He followed a natural path and when necessary found relief with Juniper Berry, an herb also known as Ghost Berry.

      Ghost medicine for phantom pain. Sometimes the irony actually humored him. But not today. This frustrating morning, Bobby was in a ravaged mood.

      He opened his eyes and cursed. Relaxing didn’t seem to be an option, even though he knew it would help ease the pain.

      He looked around his bedroom and took a deep breath. He lived in a log cabin that used to be a guest accommodation on the ranch. He’d given up the home he’d shared with his wife. Instead he stayed in a tiny place nestled on the side of a hill, surrounded by gnarled trees, flowers that sprouted on their own and long nights of seclusion.

      When the phantoms subsided, Bobby rose and reached for his crutches. Carrying himself into the bathroom, he stared at the adaptations that had been made. Grab rails, a shower chair. They had been part of his routine for the past three years, but today they made him feel like a cripple.

      Damn, but he hated self-pity.

      He’d promised himself long ago that he wouldn’t dwell on the “Why me?” syndrome. And he’d been doing fairly well. Until yesterday, until a pretty redhead named Julianne McKenzie arrived, stirring an attraction that toyed with his libido.

      And made him wish, much too desperately, that his body was whole.

      After his shower, he attached his prosthesis. It took all of five minutes, but he did it begrudgingly, hating himself, once again, for falling into the self-pity trap. He was a healthy man, active and strong, financially secure. He had a lot to be thankful for.

      He spoke to the Creator every day, and the One Who Lives Above always listened. But this morning, Bobby couldn’t find the emotional strength to give thanks.

      On this bright summer morning, he felt like what he was—a forty-two-year-old widower—a man who’d lost his wife.

      And, he added, grabbing a pair of Wrangler jeans from the dresser, a self-loathing, sex-starved amputee.

      He made it to the barn by 6:00 a.m. and started a pot of coffee before Michael could do the damage. Checking his computer, he scanned his appointments, the riding lessons and guided tours the front desk had scheduled for him.

      Julianne was his first lesson for the day.

      Anxious, he glanced at his watch and listened to the coffee brew. He could handle this, he told himself. She would only be around for a week. And he knew how to interact with his guests, how to be a proper host.

      All he had to do was relax and stop thinking about the sexual fury in his gut.

      Ready for a boost of caffeine, he poured a cup of the European blend and settled into his desk.

      The coffee tasted like heaven, and so did the continental breakfast Chef Gerard had sent to his office. The old chef, who’d trained at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, spoiled Bobby and his ranch hands every morning with oven-baked treats.

      He polished off a buttered scone and checked his watch again.

      Showtime, he thought, rising to play his part, to face Julianne as he would any other paying guest. A week-long stay at his ranch didn’t come cheap, and he owed her the courtesy of a genuine smile.

      Or as genuine as he could muster.

      She was already there, seated at the bench outside the barn, her spellbinding hair secured in a girlish ponytail and tied with a silky blue ribbon.

      She stood and sent him a look as sweet and warm as a candy-wrapped sun.

      He approached her, thinking she looked like a fairy. She had a beguiling little dimple, eyes as green as moss and freckles sprinkled across her nose like glitter.

      Forty looked cute on her, he decided. Bright and fresh.

      “Morning,” he said.

      “Hi.”

      She adjusted the hem of an oversize denim jacket. The white blouse beneath it sported a touch of lace at the collar and a row of tiny blue buttons. Her jeans were a pair of comfortably worn Levi’s. Her moderately priced boots looked brand-spanking-new.

      “So, have you ever been on a horse?” he asked, gearing up for her lesson.

      She shook her head. “I’m from Pennsylvania.”

      He couldn’t help but grin. “They don’t have horses in Pennsylvania?”

      She waved her hands in a flighty gesture. “Oh, of course they do. That was dumb.”

      No, he thought. It was sweet. “I’m just teasing you, Julianne.”

      “I know.” She sent him a lopsided smile. “And you’re good at it, too.”

      He kept grinning. “You’re an easy mark.”

      “So I can expect you to torture me with that sense of humor of yours?”

      “Yes, ma’am.” Having a sense of humor kept him alive, he supposed. That and his passion for horses. And of course, his paternal love for Michael.

      He considered Julianne and wondered if she had any kids. Knowing it wasn’t his place to question her, he didn’t ask.

      “Come on,” he said, guiding her into the barn. “I’ll introduce you to your mount.”

      He chose a well-mannered, highly trained gelding. They stopped in front of a box stall and he motioned to the quarter horse. “This is Sir Caballero. ‘Sir Knight’ in English. Most of the time we just call him Caballero.”

      “So, he’s a boy.”

      “Yep.” Amused, Bobby watched her warm up to the gelding. “A ten-year-old boy.”

      She tilted her head. “How can you tell?”

      “That he’s male?”

      She glanced at the horse, then blushed furiously. “I was talking about his age. How can you tell how old he is?”

      Still amused, he flashed a telltale grin. “I knew what you meant.”

      “Oh, goodness.” She laughed, rolled her pretty green eyes. “You were teasing me again. I’m such a dork.”

      “No, you’re not.” She was playful, he thought. A little naive. And that girlish naiveté made him want to kiss her. To brush her lips with his, to taste the dimple in her cheek. “You’re sweet.”

      She blinked and smiled, and the dimple imbedded even deeper. “Thank you.”

      Bobby moved closer and they gazed at each other. All he had to do was to lean forward and initiate СКАЧАТЬ