Change of Hart (Wells Ranch, #3)(6)

Ah, time for the lecture.

I pull a face. “It’s a concussion and broken collarbone. I’ll be back out there in like a week…two, tops.”

“Until you hurt yourself again. And we’re down a cowboy again. Luckily this happened today, not a few weeks from now when we’re really busy. You’d be paying out of your own pocket for a day worker to replace you.”

“Pump me full of ibuprofen and whiskey, and I’m basically invincible. If anything, it’ll make me stronger than I usually am. I can work perfectly fine.”

He sucks his teeth. “Denver, quit being an idiot. You’ll go home and sleep it off, like the doctor told you to.”



* * *



—

It’s been a full week since the rodeo, and either Blair has managed to completely avoid me at the ranch, or Austin was exaggerating about how often she’s been coming here. Granted, for the first two days after the fall, I mostly stayed in bed. Then, against the judgment of the mother hens—also known as Beryl, Kate, and Cecily—I went back to work. So I suppose it’s possible she’s been here and I’ve missed it.

I’m not about to ask anybody and make it seem like I care that she was here. I can’t let myself care that she’s back, despite my concussed brain telling me to shoot my shot right there in the ambulance. My entire world collapsed when she left almost fourteen years ago. The thought of having her, and losing her all over again, scares the absolute shit out of me.

Did I break things off with Peyton on a whim because Blair’s back in town? Sure. Was I thinking straight? No. But our casual situation was drawing to a close regardless. I never date women for more than a month or two—much longer and they start getting attached, and it becomes harder for me to break things off without seeming like a total piece of shit. Over text wasn’t my finest work, admittedly. Especially because now she’s mad, and real close to going full Carrie Underwood on my ass.

“I’m in desperate need of a brewski.” Colt claps his hands together as we stroll across the parking lot of the local dive bar, the Horseshoe.

“Fuckin’ eh.” With my good arm, I reach for the metal door handle—shaped like a horseshoe, of course—and yank it open. Turning the corner, I collide with something…or rather, someone. “Shit, my bad.”

On instinct I grab the arm of the person I crashed into. And then it hits me like a fully loaded freight train.

“Shit, Blair. Sorry.” I drop her arm, but make no move to step back despite being practically on top of her. Just shy of six-foot herself, she’s face-to-face with me. Close enough to kiss. And fuck me, do I consider going in for the kill. “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.”

“Meeting like what? This is nothing like—” Her eyes flit to my loose arm, and she lets out an irritated sigh. “Why aren’t you wearing your sling?”

“I’m totally fine now.” I show off by lifting my arm to about ninety degrees. Scorching heat radiates out from my injury, but I grit my teeth, smiling as though there’s no discomfort.

“Besides, he can’t double-fist drinks with one arm,” Colt chides, brushing past us.

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Well, now…that sounds like a challenge.”

“Denver.” Blair stresses the fact that my name has two syllables. She tilts her head with a huff, giving me a look that elicits a mocking chorus out of the ranch hands, who then quickly shuffle away before getting swept up in her wrath.

With a smile, I say her name back in a horrific attempt at a valley girl accent. “Blair.”

If I thought she looked too preppy and polished for the rodeo, she’s really pushing the boundaries here. Her black long-sleeve is so modest there’s nary a sliver of wrist or neck exposed, yet so tight it accentuates every gentle curve in her willowy, athletic build. High-waisted tan trousers. And heels. Blair Hart doesn’t—didn’t—wear heels. Not even to prom. She doesn’t fit this town anymore, and there’s a jogged memory flitting by of her teenage wardrobe: jeans, faded T-shirts, and a collection of Stetsons every cowboy in town was envious of. Then she grew up and moved away and changed. And, despite the passing of a decade, it turns out I’m still as affected by her as the day she left me for good.

“It’s been a week. You should be wearing a sling. At the very least, try to keep your collarbone stable when you sit down—no double-fisting drinks. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I give her a salute, hoping to induce a smile.

Nothing.

“So, what are you doing here?” I ask.

A small crease forms between her eyebrows and she gestures to the small black server pouch tied around her waist. “What does it look like I’m doing? Helping Dave out because he hasn’t found a replacement for Cass yet.”

She starts sounding real similar to an adult in a Peanuts cartoon as my tunnel vision narrows at a dizzying rate.

A fucking ring.

She’s wearing a ring. My Blair is wearing a fucking massive rock on her goddamn left fucking hand. It’s too big for her slender fingers. Too showy for her personality. Too impractical for a nurse practitioner who probably wears latex gloves a lot of the time. But maybe the reason I feel every bruising beat of my heart is because at sixteen she promised that part of herself to me.