A Cowboy's Pride. Pamela Britton

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      “Don’t people think it strange, you living all the way out here with only Cabe and Rana for company?”

      Her hands froze in the middle of unpacking plates. “No. Everyone knows we’re just friends. But even if people did talk, I wouldn’t care. I stick around as much for Rana as for myself. People can say what they want to say.”

      She wasn’t messing around with Cabe—had never messed around with the man. He could see that in her eyes.

      “Eat up.” She handed him a plate full of food before sitting down next to the basket.

      It was good. Delicious, actually. “You’re a good cook.”

      “Thanks,” she muttered, taking a bite of her own food. She didn’t eat all daintylike, either. She ate like a woman who worked hard for a living and consumed calories to keep her energy.

      Sexy.

      He jerked his gaze away. What the hell was wrong with him? Okay, granted, she was hot. A year ago he would have crammed down his hat and gone after her. A year ago he’d have been able to pursue her. A year ago he’d had the use of his legs.

      The thought put him in a sour mood all over again, the two of them eating in silence. He thought about making small talk, but what was the use? He didn’t want to be her friend. Hell, he didn’t want to be here at all. So if she insisted on dragging him out of his cabin, she could deal with the silence.

      As it turned out, she didn’t seem to care. As the silence stretched on, Trent found himself starting to relax again. That was, until she stuffed her plate back into the basket and asked, “Ready to get to work?”

      He lost his appetite.

      “Not really.”

      She smiled. He hated when she did that. It increased the wattage of her beauty, and he didn’t like being in enemy territory.

      “Too bad.”

      He glanced down at his own plate, surprised to note he’d eaten it all.

      “Come on.” She held out her hand for his plate. He reluctantly gave it to her. “Wheel yourself as close to the rope as you can get.”

      He didn’t want to. He really didn’t. He could feel things from about midthigh upward, and those thighs told him he was done—sore as a castrated bull dragged to the fire.

      “What do you want me to do?”

      “Simple, really. Just wheel yourself close to the rope and pull yourself up.”

      He eyed the rope in question. The thing dangled down from the branch above him, one with a canopy of leaves so thick you couldn’t even see through it. Why did he have a feeling this wouldn’t be as simple as she made it sound?

      “You sure it will hold my weight?”

      She smirked. “Positive.”

      Okay, so he was stalling, but he was really sore. All he wanted to do was sit in the damn chair.

      He reached for the thick hemp, the fibers biting into his palms. It was as wide as a candlestick and easy to handle. He didn’t have any problem lifting himself up, either, but the minute he’d pulled himself out of his chair, she jerked the thing out from under him.

      “Hey!”

      “Won’t do you any good if you sit back down.”

      He dangled there like a stupid monkey and all she did was smile. “What am I supposed to do? Hang here?”

      “No. I want you to straighten up. Use your legs to stand, then try walking.”

      “I can’t walk. I’ll fall on my ass.”

      “No, you won’t. Just use the rope for balance.”

      He took a deep breath, let go with one hand and slapped a palm farther up the rope. His legs dangled uselessly beneath him.

      “Stupid.” He didn’t mean to say the word out loud, but it slipped from between his lips before he could stop it.

      “There’s nothing stupid about this. I’ve seen your file. I looked at your scans. There’s no reason why you can’t regain the use of your legs. You just need to learn to trust them.”

      His arms had begun to shake. He pulled himself up another notch.

      “There,” she said. “Now get your legs beneath you.”

      “Can’t.”

      “Do it.”

      He tried moving them, but as always, all he could do was swing them a little. He had no control. Just useless lumps of meat.

      She leaned closer to him. “Move them.”

      His heart pounded. His arms had started to hurt.

      “No.”

      He fell. She caught him, somehow supporting his weight, though how she did it he had no idea.

      She smelled good.

      “Do it again.”

      “No.”

      She started to let him go. He flailed his arms for the rope. Once again he found himself dangling there.

      “Now move.”

      “I can’t, damn it.”

      His arms started to hurt all over again.

      “Just try.”

      “I am.”

      How long he hung there, he didn’t know, but he’d be damned if he let go again. Alas, his body had other ideas. His grip began to loosen. He froze.

      And fell once again into her arms.

      “That’s it.” He huffed. “I’m done. Get my chair.”

      Lord, she smelled good.

      “I can’t reach it and still hold on to you.” She strained beneath his weight, he could tell. “Grab the rope.”

      “I don’t have the strength to lift myself up.”

      “Yes, you do.”

      He tried moving his limbs. Surprisingly, they worked, so much so that when they kicked into action, his legs shot them both backward. Somehow, she managed to swing his body around, his butt landing heavily in his wheelchair.

      “See. I told you. I can’t do it!”

      “You can,” she said, stepping back and sounding as out of breath as he felt. “All you need is practice. Come on. Let’s do it again.”

      “No.”

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