The Accidental Bride by Denise Hunter Page B

hadn’t tried before. But after waiting alone on the courthouse steps and then finding a ride back to Moose Creek, Shay hadn’t been in the mood for apologies.
    And could he blame her?
    Just ahead, her ranch came into view. There was a small house sitting in front of the trailer where she’d grown up. A new barn. Shay and her ex must’ve done okay for a while. The thought reminded him of Shay’s exit from the bank and the distress he’d seen on her face.
    None o’ your business, McCoy . Miss Lucy had set him straight on that.
    He rode through the grassy meadow toward the house. She was probably sitting down to supper ’bout now, with her daughter. As he neared the structure, he saw signs of neglect. Peeling paint, weeds run amok in the garden, a hanging porch planter that sprouted a fern’s brittle skeleton.
    He thought of his own parents’ ranch, running like a well-oiled machine even with the owners gone, while Shay’s place ran into the ground. He wished he could help.
    Yeah, like that’s going to happen . The woman had enough pride in her little finger to supply the town for weeks. As he neared the barn, he saw that the corral fence was in disrepair. Didn’t she have any help around here?
    A noise in the barn had him pulling on his reins. A grunting, a human sound. He dismounted and tied Buck to the fence post. Inside, the barn was dark. The smells of fresh straw and horseflesh greeted him.
    He heard movement in the tack room and took a few steps forward. Shay was carrying a saddle, and hefted it upward toward the wall peg. She missed and groaned as she lowered the heavy equipment, staggering. She was favoring her right leg.
    Travis stepped forward and relieved her of her load. She jumped and lurched away, tottering on one leg.
    He hung the saddle and reached out to steady her.
    She swatted his hand away, catching her own balance. “What are you doing here?”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with your leg?”
    She set her left foot down on the dirt and flinched. “Nothing.”
    â€œLike heck.”
    A trickle of sweat ran from beneath her hat down her temple. Her face was flushed with exertion. She grabbed a brush and turned toward her horse outside the tack room, limping.
    He followed. “What happened?”
    â€œBruised my foot. What do you want, McCoy?”
    That was no bruise. Not the way she was limping. He grabbed the brush, wrestled it from her. “Sit down, take off your boot.”
    Shay jabbed her hands on her hips. “I have work to do.”
    â€œI’ll do it.” He started brushing the horse, holding eye contact with Shay until she huffed and hobbled out the barn door.
    He brushed her mare until her mahogany coat gleamed, then returned her to a stall.
    When he left the barn, Shay was sitting in the grass, her back against the red wood, her face as white as a February pasture. Her boot was still on.
    Blast it, woman . He reached for the boot.
    â€œDon’t!” She jerked away.
    He heard the panic in her voice. She’d gone and hurt herself good and was too blame stubborn to admit it.
    He hunkered down next to her. “Gotta come off, Shay.”
    â€œIt’s fine.” She tried to stand. “Go away.”
    â€œSit . ” He grabbed her arm and held on until she relented, letting her weight sink back onto the ground, but not without a glare.
    He reached for her boot and gave a gentle tug.
    â€œStop!”
    He saw a flash of fear in her eyes before she blinked it away.
    â€œI can’t get it off,” she squeezed out between teeth that were clenched in pain or anger, he wasn’t sure which.
    â€œWhere’re your shears?”
    â€œYou can’t cut my boots.”
    â€œWanna bet?”
    â€œThey’re my favorite pair!”
    Way she was looking at them, one part desperation, one part fear, he wondered if they were her only pair. Something inside him softened. Darned if she