Her Lone Cowboy. Patricia Forsythe
the plate behind her back.
His bottom lip started to jut out but Laney gave him a steady look that helped his decision. “One,” he said as if he’d thought of it himself.
“Good choice. Wash your hands.”
“Where’s the bathroom?”
She looked questioningly at Caleb, who pointed the way, and Sam skipped off in that direction.
Laney considered following and assisting him, but knew she needed to give him a little bit of leeway without hovering. When she heard the sound of water running, she turned back to the kitchen table.
As soon as she did, Sam broke into a loud, off-key rendition of the alphabet song.
She winced. “Sorry. There’s something about running water that always makes him want to sing. I taught him the ABC song and told him he had to sing it all the way through while washing his hands. That made him love water, I guess. He would live in the shower if I’d let him.” She pressed her lips together as she realized she’d shared way more than he could possibly want to know.
Caleb’s eyes were steady on her face. “He’s quite a kid.”
She rolled her eyes. “You have no idea. I sometimes have the horrible feeling that he’s already smarter than I am.”
Caleb smiled; a lift of the lips that curled up more on the left. Laney realized that the scar must have changed the way he smiled, stiffening the right side of his mouth. It was crooked and endearing. Her heart gave an unaccustomed flutter.
Disconcerted, she turned away. Sam shut off the water and quit his song in midsyllable. He dashed into the kitchen and clambered onto a chair. “I’m ready!” he sang out as if the world had been waiting breathlessly for his return. “Can I have some of that?” he asked, pointing to the beer. “Uh, please?”
Taken aback, Caleb said, “No.”
“Samuel John!” Laney said.
The little boy divided a confused look between them at what he clearly considered to be an overreaction. “What can I have to drink?”
“I’ve got lemonade. It’s powdered.” Caleb gave Laney a questioning look.
“Lemonade would be great,” she said, not able to imagine having beer with cake.
Caleb took two tall glasses from the cabinet, looked at Sam’s small hands, put one glass back and removed a plastic juice glass. After filling both glasses with ice and lemonade, he brought them to the table, stopping to give his chili a stir.
When Caleb joined them, Sam picked up his fork and said, “My mom makes cake real good. But you have to use a napkin to wipe your face. It’s rude to lick off the frosting. I used to do that when I was a little kid.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at Caleb. “You’re not gonna lick off the frosting, are you? ’Cause that’ll make my mom mad. You don’t wanna see her get mad.”
“Sam...” Laney said in a warning tone.
He gave her another questioning look, wondering what he’d said wrong this time.
“I’ll remember that,” Caleb said, his eyes meeting Laney’s. He picked up his fork and took a bite of cake. “He’s right. It’s good.”
Pleased, Laney ate her own piece. The three of them sat in companionable silence. She thought this was a very domestic scene for three people who had been at odds a couple of hours ago.
“Are you settling into your house okay?” Caleb asked awkwardly. Small talk was clearly not his forte.
He reminded her of one of her freshmen students, giving a presentation in front of the entire class for the first time. She decided to take pity on him since teachers are accustomed to taking charge of a conversation.
“Yes. We lived in a small apartment before, so we didn’t have much to move in and it was easy to get settled. There are still some things I want to do.” She launched into a description of her plans for her house, which she realized couldn’t possibly interest anyone but her, but as she talked, she saw him relax.
“We’re gonna put pictures of cowboys on my wall in my new room,” Sam announced. “Can I put your picture on my wall? You and Bertie?” He glanced down at his new best friend, so he missed the look of consternation that flashed across Caleb’s face.
Laney couldn’t imagine what had caused their new neighbor to look like that. She felt as if she was picking her way through booby traps, careful not to get caught by one or to let her son get hurt. And yet there was something about the way Caleb looked at Sam that told her he would never hurt the boy—a sort of sad longing mixed with regret. And it clutched at her heart to see that Caleb could only look at Sam for a few seconds before glancing away.
“We’ve got plenty of cowboy pictures, Sammy,” she said. “If you’ve finished your cake, why don’t you take your plate to the sink so I can wash it before we go?”
Sam hopped down to do as she asked, then hurried back to Bertie, who had pulled himself to his feet. The dog walked into the living room with Sam trotting along behind.
She turned back to their host, whose haunted eyes followed her son. This was a troubled man. It was clear to her that coming here had been a mistake. She had done the neighborly thing, but it was over now. From this point on, she and Sam would keep their distance.
She stood and said brightly, “Sam and I had better be on our way. I’ll wash these dishes up before we go.”
“No, that isn’t necessary. I’ll take care of it.” Caleb surged to his feet, his right leg twisting awkwardly. His breath hissed from between his teeth and he reached out to grab the back of his chair, but it skidded away from his grasping fingers. He would have fallen if Laney hadn’t leaped to his side, wrapped her arm around his waist and braced herself against him.
There was nothing for Caleb to do except put his arm around her shoulders. She heard his ragged breath rasp in his throat as he tried to gain control over the surge of pain she knew must be racking his body. His arm spasmed and his hand gripped her shoulder. When she looked up, she saw that sweat had popped out on his face.
Turning carefully, she reached for his chair and pulled it close so he could sit. It took him a minute, though, because he had to rest all his weight on his left leg as he stretched out his right. A tight, pale line appeared around his mouth when he clamped his lips together—probably to keep from crying out in pain.
Turning, she grabbed another chair, pulled it close and then bent to lift his leg. Holding the back of his knee with one hand and his ankle with the other, she gently raised his leg to rest on the chair. She knew he probably would have protested if the pain hadn’t obviously stolen his breath.
“Thank...thank you,” Caleb said when he could get air back into his lungs.
“Can I get you anything?” she asked, stepping back because she instinctively knew he would hate it if she hovered.
He shook his head, his eyes avoiding hers.
“Then I suppose Sam and I had better go. I have to read him Goodnight Moon and then half a dozen books about cowboys before he goes to sleep...” Her voice trailed off. The man clearly wanted to be alone and she was only prolonging things. “Well, good night.”
Caleb’s eyes finally turned to her, guarded and full of pain. She fought the urge to bustle around getting him an ice pack or a hot compress for his leg—to do something to help. She mustn’t, though. He didn’t want her help and he certainly didn’t want her pity.
“Thank you,” was all he said.
She didn’t know if it was for the cake, the visit, for catching him so he wouldn’t fall or because she was finally leaving. Feeling as if she was abandoning him, she turned, crossed into the living room and collected her son, scooping him up from his place beside Bertie and setting him on his feet.
“Time