3
THE CLOCK SAID it was 5 a.m. Early, but his training woke him before dawn regularly even if his pain levels didn’t. Mateo sat on the edge of his bed. The heating pad wrapped around his lower back had already loosened the violently clenched muscles around his spine. Still groggy from the pain meds he’d taken the evening before, he concentrated on straightening his posture vertebra by vertebra until he finally managed to square his shoulders.
Torn muscles in his back knitted together with scar tissue made it hard to manage. The damage to his spinal cord left him struggling with pain. Nerve damage doesn’t heal overnight, Doctor Rhodes’s advice echoed in the back of his mind. You have to be patient. Overnight was a joke. It hadn’t healed at all in the three-plus years since the IED had robbed him of his body. The pulses came when they wanted, attacked viciously, and left him burning as if he were still amid the wreckage. Multiple surgeries, medications, physical therapy, and gritty determination had gotten him only so far. Next on the list was a far more invasive procedure, which could just as likely cripple him further as fix him. Not the best of odds.
Mateo gritted his teeth and forced himself to relax. “Life,” he said slowly, focusing on the syllables. “Life is breath. Breath is life.”
It was the dumbest damn thing he’d ever had to say, but it was one perk of visiting the psychologist he was required to see at least every twenty-eight days—the man had some weird but effective ideas.
Repeating the phrase three times brought his breathing under control. With every deep inhale and slow exhale, he brought his racing heart under a gentler rein. As his pulse steadied, the twist along the right side of his spine began to relax. A crack released in his spine, then a second, then a third. Each one released a pool of white-hot agony followed by profound relief.
It took twenty minutes, but he could finally hold his upper body erect. His shoulders were straight. Sweat rolled down his face, but he had to shower before he headed to the barn. Rising, he endured the fresh torture as he flattened his feet against the hard wood floor. The guesthouse was one of the three Round Top boasted. Growing up, Mateo had lived here with his parents.
After Mateo had enlisted, Maria and Ramon had moved into the big house. Mateo had wondered why they had stayed until he’d been given his medical discharge. Once he moved back home, he realized that they worried about the Colonel. He didn’t have the best relationship skills, and once the younger Wilks siblings had left home—before Tanner came back—he was on his own. Mateo’s mother chastised him the one and only time he asked them why they didn’t want to do something more than look after the grumpy old man. “The Colonel is family.” So his parents remained at Round Top both to keep the Colonel company and to watch over him, as family did.
It had worked out. Maria and Ramon were happy. The Colonel had survived. Mateo had a place to come to lick his wounds.
Adjusting the Velcro straps on the heating pad, Mateo began the slow process of walking the room. It took eight steps to go from one side to the other. Stretching with every step, he gained more confidence.
By the time he’d made his way to the kitchen, he was moving with ease. The pain meds, as much as he hated them, had done their job. The aches would never go away completely, nor would the discomfort, but neither was allowed to slow him down. He set up the coffee to brew, then glanced outside. The sun edged the horizon. It wasn’t Mateo’s morning to feed the horses, or he’d have been up far earlier. In all honesty, it should have been his job every day, but his father had insisted they split the task. Tanner had then divided it between the three of them.
The phone on the wall rang. It was nearly as old as the house, daffodil yellow and still possessing the long, winding cord his mother would twist all over the kitchen when she was cooking.
“Lopez Pizza Hut, how can I help you?” he said. The running joke made him grin.
“Mijo,” his mother chided him, “that is no way to answer the phone.”
“Sure it is.” Giving his mother grief was one of the pleasures of having grown up in a house full of love and laughter. “What can I do for the most beautiful woman in the world?”
While he balanced the phone, he poured his coffee into a nearby mug, then doctored it with a little sugar and cream. He could drink it black and strong like any Marine, but the post-med haze made him need a little more jolt in his pick-me-up.
“Don’t you try to charm me,” his mother scolded, although her smile echoed clearly over the phone line. “Doctor Rhodes called.”
Fuck. Me. Mateo didn’t give voice to the invective. It didn’t matter how old he was—his mother would still wash his mouth out with soap if she heard him swear. And he’d have to stand there and take it, because he’d never raise his hand or voice to her. “I rescheduled my appointment. He told me last time he wanted me to do at least six weeks of physical therapy before our next session.”
He already knew what the doctor would tell him. Surgery was the only option available to him if he wanted anything to change. An experimental rhizotomy and disc replacement, coupled with another procedure—the doctor had described it to him. A procedure with a 50 percent success rate, and one they couldn’t guarantee, would either have the results he desired or leave him in worse shape than before.
Talk about a lose-lose proposition.
“Mijo, I know you don’t like the appointments, but don’t roll your eyes at me.”
Lifting the mug to his lips, Mateo didn’t try to deny it. “Lo siento, Mama.”
“Better. The appointments are necessary, mijo. Doctor Rhodes can fit you in next Wednesday.” The statement translated as an order in mom speech.
“Mama, thank you for loving me and worrying about me.” Always better to soften her up when he planned to disagree. “But I am not a child. I can make my own appointments.” Doctor Rhodes would be hearing from him, if for no other reason than to tell him not to contact his mother regarding his appointments or lack thereof again.
“Then don’t act like one. Avoiding the doctor is not the action of a responsible adult.”
Tipping his head back, Mateo fought the sigh that wanted to escape. Winning a fight with his mother required more work than this Marine was willing to exert. At least not when he needed to get the cobwebs out before he dealt with Miss London calling. “I’ll call him, Mama. You have my word.”
“Thank you, mijo. Are you coming to the house for breakfast?” The matter settled, she now moved on to the task of fattening him up.
His mother would never change. Thank God.
“I’m going to have something here, since Miss Windsor seemed eager to get right to work.” And I promised Tanner I would help. His friend didn’t ask for help unless he truly required it.
Outside, the sun continued to brighten the day. The yellow field visible from Mateo’s windows gleamed with morning dew.
“Bring her with you to lunch. She’s wonderful.” Terrific, his mother was also a fan.
“I’ll see what I can do.” It wasn’t a promise or a rejection. “I’ve got to get to work Mama. Te amo.”
“Te amo, hijo.” Then she disconnected the call and Mateo set the phone back in its cradle. Shaking his head, he checked the time, then took another sip of his coffee. After dropping two slices of bread into the toaster, he freed the heating pad from around his waist and set it on the counter. Bracing his hands on the edge, he began the worst stretch of his day.
More vertebrae cracked along his spine, but he was able to complete the twists with only minimal sweating and few curses. Reclaiming his coffee, he began to pace the kitchen, stretching a little more with each step. After he finished his breakfast, he walked back up the stairs and into the shower.
The showerhead had a pulse setting. Heat combined with the water pressure helped ease the last of the knots and left him feeling almost human. He’d shaved while in the shower, so once he toweled off, he used a comb to untangle his hair and pulled it into a ponytail.
Dressed, he went back downstairs and poured the rest of the coffee into a thermos. It didn’t occur to him until he walked out to the truck that he had no cell number for the blond sensation, and didn’t know whether she would be at the barn waiting when he arrived.
Exhaling a sigh, he slid into the truck and started the engine. Tanner had mentioned something about putting her up in the old guesthouse Jules had occupied. It made sense: Tanner and Jules had moved into the big house while Tanner continued to work on the construction of the new house he was building for them on the far side of the ranch. Round Top was kind of like its own town in some ways; they had nearly everything they needed. He could call her on the guesthouse phone, but what was the fun in that?
Used to the ruts in the road, Mateo swerved casually to avoid the worst bumps. His back was being cooperative; no sense in making trouble. Less than ten minutes after getting into his truck, he swung into the pseudodriveway at the guesthouse and parked right behind the eyesore of a lime-green mini-coupe.
Shaking his head, he stared at the vehicle. It was not ranchworthy. Hell, she’d break her axle on some of the potholes. Grading the driveway had been on his to-do list, but he might need to move it up. Moving at a deliberate pace, he got out of the car and climbed the two steps to the porch, then knocked on the door.
Waiting, he tapped the railing next to him and it wiggled. Gripping it, he gave it another shake and the whole thing moved. Good thing he had a hammer in the truck. He needed to check where it was secured to the house. He’d take care of it after he talked to her highness.
When she didn’t come to the door, he knocked again—this time a little louder and harder. He checked his watch. It wasn’t quite 8 a.m. Early by some standards, but Lady London had left an impression. She’d been eager as hell to get started the evening before, so where was she?
After knocking a third time, he dug his phone out of his back pocket. It made his back twinge to bend his arm that way, but he endured it. He’d just pulled up Jules’s number to see if she’d dropped by to pick up the newcomer when the door in front of him jerked open to reveal a groggy, sleep-deprived, and altogether rumpled beauty.
Blond hair wild, with red creases on her cheek—likely from a pillow—and her wide blue eyes bloodshot, she still looked delightful, even though it was clear she’d just rolled out of bed. The urge to tumble her right back into the pillows and kiss those pretty pink lips stampeded through Mateo’s system.
Removing his hat quickly and grinning slowly, he looked her up and down. She wore a soft pink camisole with one of the straps falling down over her well-toned, if still pale, arm, and skimpy shorts that hid nothing of her long, toned legs. The smattering of freckles on her nose and beneath her eyes seemed more pronounced, as did the freckles on her otherwise creamy shoulders.
They were adorable. He wanted to count them. When his gaze collided with hers, he didn’t mistake the grumpiness in her expression. He’d woken her up, and she was more than a bit irritated by the fact.
“Good morning,” he said, letting the words drawl. “Sorry to wake you Lady-o, but I wanted to introduce you to the horses.”
She didn’t respond right away, and when she gave a slow blink, the length of her lashes sweeping down and then up again had a devastating effect on his equilibrium. When another long moment passed, Mateo waved a hand in front of her glassy eyes and she jerked a little, then refocused on him. Damn, she was asleep standing up.
“I’d offer to let you go back to bed,” he said, shifting his stance to keep his back loose. “But ranch life starts early and I have a full day.” Not the whole truth, but he did have a stack of tasks that wouldn’t get any shorter if he didn’t get on them.
“Jet lag,” she said, as if it explained everything. “If you’ll pardon me, I’ll just go throw some water on my face and make a cup of tea.”
Not closing her door, she pivoted and walked away. The view from the back was damn near as fine as the one from the front. Her muscles flexed with every step. Still, it wasn’t her ass holding him hostage at the moment, but the elegance of her accent.
The evening before, he’d been in far too much pain to appreciate the sexiness of her clipped British intonations. She could probably insult him and still make it sound pretty.
“Well, I’ll just wait here while you mosey,” he called after her, the devil kindled within him. “Wouldn’t want you to have to face the day without your tea.”
“Very kind,” she answered, her voice seeming to float down to him as she vanished into the loft bedroom. Scratching his jaw, he placed his hat back on his head, then looked at the railing.
He was here and she would be a minute, so he returned to his truck for some tools and grabbed his coffee. Maybe showing her the horses wouldn’t be so bad. The chattering dynamo who’d charged in the night before didn’t seem so irritating when she was still waking up.
After a couple of swallows of the hot black coffee, he was ready to fix the railing. Hopefully, Lady-o wasn’t one of those women who needed hours to get ready. He didn’t think there was enough work at Jules’s old place to keep him busy.
At the door, he glanced inside and saw no evidence of movement. She might have left the door open, but she hadn’t invited him in, so he’d stay on the porch.
Squatting slowly, he had no trouble calling her disheveled appearance to his mind’s eye.
Damn, she sure was pretty.
Claire splashed water on her face. It took three douses of icy water to chase away the exhaustion. Despite her fatigue upon arrival, she’d barely been able to sleep. Her body clock was confused, then when she’d finally fallen into slumber, the pounding at the door had woken her up.
Rolling her head from side to side, she tried to loosen up her neck. The awkward angle she’d collapsed into had left her cramped and sore. Blotting away the moisture from her face with a towel, she finally managed to focus on her appearance.
“Bloody hell.” She looked like a windstorm had taken her hair to task. Retreating from the bathroom, she dug into her suitcase for her toiletries bag and hairbrush. She hadn’t had time to unpack or sort her things out. Instead, she’d tossed and turned, haunted by Tanner’s request to focus on Mateo.
Bad enough Mateo had seemed wholly against her presence, but worse when she realized his hostility likely came from a place of pain and loss rather than being merely unfriendly. What she really wanted was a shower, but there was no sense in keeping him waiting longer than necessary.
The tea, however, was nonnegotiable—she’d be a bear if she didn’t at least get one cup in before the day began. It took her a minute to get the snarls out of her hair, and she bent over to brush the underside, then gathered it all into a single mass. She’d just found the elastic to wrap around it when the banging resumed downstairs.
“The bloody door is open,” she called. Why was he hammering on it? The pounding continued. Though aggravated, she put her temper in check. Mateo was a troubled man, but an injured one—like her father had been. Injured in battle, she surmised, though Tanner hadn’t shared the details. If he was going to keep knocking until she reappeared, she needed to get dressed quickly.
She stripped out of her nightclothes and slid into a pair of clean knickers, followed by her riding pants. She chose a tank top and put on a button-down over it. Normally she would have worn long sleeves, but it was already quite warm outside, so she went with short. The paddock boots were downstairs, so she’d fetch those after she made her tea.
Checking her appearance in the mirror, she tucked in her shirt’s short tails before heading downstairs. The thumping paused briefly, then resumed. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she was preparing to admonish her guest when she realized he wasn’t banging on the door.
“What on earth are you doing?” Admittedly, she’d been quite out of sorts when he woke her, but she was awake now.
“Fixing the railing,” he told her without turning. The hammer he’d been wielding hung on the railing as he checked the individual vertical rails. “It was loose. I’ll check the whole thing while you get your tea, Lady-o.”
“I do wish you’d stop using that nickname. I’m Claire—and you’re Mateo.”
“I know who I am,” he replied, still not looking away from his task as he reached for the hammer. Not that he offered much in the way of a response or apology.
Frustrated, she retreated to the kitchen and got the electric kettle going. The tea selection in the box seemed to lean toward herbal and fruity—but she did find some black pekoe near the bottom. Adding a proper morning tea to her mental shopping list, she took a moment to locate the mugs. As promised, the refrigerator was well stocked and held a small container of fresh milk.
Delightful.
The hammering paused again, so she returned to the door in search of her boots and recovered her manners along the way. “Would you care for a cup as well?”
Mateo actually glanced at her this time. The morning sun turned his brown eyes a kind of warm honey. They were softer than she’d remembered from the night before. It probably helped that he wasn’t scowling.
“I’ve got coffee, thanks—the only tea I drink is poured over ice anyway.”
Claire couldn’t help it: she made a face. “What a perfectly horrible way to ruin tea.”
“Sorry, Lady-o, it’s how tea is drunk in Texas.” He didn’t sound remotely apologetic. If she hadn’t been watching him, she would have missed the grimace as he stood up from the squatted position he’d been in while working on the rail.
Biting her tongue to keep from offering him assistance, she recalled Tanner’s concerns. She needed to make an ally out of Mateo if she planned to help him at all. Insulting his pride would hardly endear him, particularly after they got off to such a bad start.
Mateo was a tall man, with broad, thick shoulders. Everything about him suggested strength and vitality. Behind her the kettle clicked off, and Claire wanted to sigh with relief. If she was going to have to dodge verbal land mines, she desperately needed the tea. “Excuse me a moment,” she said, grabbing her boots.
Once in the kitchen, she poured the hot water into a mug. If she’d had more time, she’d have made a proper pot. Her body clock needed to adapt quickly. While the tea steeped, she sat down to pull on her boots.
“Mateo?”
“Still waiting for you, Lady-o.” Apparently, consenting to not calling her the annoying nickname wasn’t on the agenda.
Biting her tongue, she swallowed an acerbic reply. Be friendly. Remember, Claire, darling, no matter how difficult someone is, as long as you take the high road—you will always be correct. Choosing to cling to her mother’s advice, she tightened her laces, then said, “You are more than welcome to come inside out of the heat.” After all, the door had been left wide open while she dashed upstairs. It wasn’t her fault he’d misunderstood the implied invitation.
Instead of answering immediately, he went silent. She tied the second lace on her boot, then went to doctor the tea to her taste. First she squeezed out the teabag and deposited it into the bin. Two spoons of sugar and a dash of milk later, she stirred the liquid thoroughly. After a quick sip, she went in search of something to take the tea with her.
It was a crying shame to have to drink it from some type of thermos, but keeping her guest waiting longer might lead to absolute disaster. Jules had said they’d stocked the lovely little house for her, and luckily for Claire, they’d thought of everything.
Another sip of tea strengthened her before she filled the thermos, then rinsed out the mug and set it in the sink. Thermos in hand, she returned to the door and frowned.
She didn’t have a key.
“Problem?” Though Mateo sounded quite bored, his gaze zeroed in on her as though he were weighing every move she made and each syllable she spoke.
“Not sure how to lock up. Jules didn’t leave any keys.” How knackered had she been that she hadn’t pressed for them?
“No one locks up around here. Your things will be fine. C’mon, Lady-o, let’s get down to the barn and you can show me your magical hoodoo with horses.”
Hoodoo? Counting to ten, she closed the door and stepped out. The air was already heavy and thick. Finding another kernel of determination, she shifted her purse on her shoulder and headed for her car. “I’ll follow you.”
At the truck door, Mateo frowned.
Before he could argue, she opened her car door and set her purse inside. “I do need to learn my way around. I don’t want to impose upon you any more than necessary.”
With difficult horses who did not want to be touched, driving them away tended to have an opposite effect on them. They wanted to curve in and see if they could win her over.
How would Mateo take the rejection?
“Works for me.” He nodded, then climbed into his truck and got the engine started. He didn’t wait for her to get into her own car before he began backing out onto the gravel.
Since he was out of earshot, she let her sigh loose, then hurriedly climbed behind the wheel. She’d already embarrassed herself enough for one morning, thank you very much. Mindful of the loose gravel, she pulled away from the house, then out onto the ranch drive. Mateo continued at an easy pace, though his truck didn’t seem to have half the issues her car did with the ruts.
Careful not to splash her tea, she took another sip, then said aloud, “Take the high road, even if it’s full of bumps and holes. Take the high road.”
Hostile territory or not, she was here to help.