she said.
“Thanks.” Cole closed his eyes. To shut her out or to deal with the pain? No telling. Taylor moved past him to the paper towel holder, which she happened to have made herself in day camp during one of her short summer visits. Her mother never wanted her to spend much time on the farm, having concluded that her daughter would hate it as much as she did. So she arranged camps for summer. She also arranged for Karl to pay for them.
Taylor dampened the towels and handed them to Cole, who pushed the folded wad up against his bleeding forehead. He pulled it away, grimaced, then pressed it back into place. Taylor waited until he pulled it away again before saying, “I don’t think you’ll need stitches.”
“Small blessings,” he muttered.
“Blessings all the same.”
He gave her a look she couldn’t interpret. “If you don’t need help with anything else—”
“I’m good.”
“Great.” She went over to her grandfather’s small kitchen desk and wrote her cell number on the pad there. “Give me a call if you get yourself into trouble.” He scowled at her, but she left it at that. Having once had a broken arm herself, she had no idea how he was going to get out of his clothing, or back into it in the morning, but it wasn’t her problem.
She cast one last look around the cheery kitchen, recalled the excellent times she’d had there with Karl as a kid—the times when she wasn’t carted off to this camp or that—then with a small twist of her mouth let herself out the back door.
A cheery kitchen and a big bathtub. Cole had everything she wanted.
He also had a sprained or broken arm, a blown knee and wild bovines on the loose. And he was probably stuck in his clothing.
Taylor let out a small snort. He might end up needing her more than he expected, and she was not above taking advantage of the fact…while firmly ignoring the little voice that said maybe she also kind of liked being around him.
COLE WOKE UP with a raging headache—possibly from sleeping upright in Karl’s recliner, but more likely because he smacked his head when the heifer flattened him yesterday. He set the now-warm gel packs on the floor beside the chair and dropped the recliner footrest as gently as he could, but the action of the chair swinging forward sent teeth-clenching pain shooting through his swollen knee, as well as his wrist—which was now double its normal size.
He struggled out of the chair, inhaling deeply as he gritted his teeth to stifle a groan.
How in the hell was he going to feed those calves when he could barely move?
He hobbled to the bathroom, telling himself that rodeo riders went through pain like this all the time. And after downing a dose of anti-inflammatory meds along with his coffee, he started to feel better. Until he moved again.
Son of a bitch.
He was still in yesterday’s clothes, and he clapped his hat on his head, glad that the head wound was superficial. He limped out the door to move the truck and trailer so that he could get the heifer and calves into the pen. At the end of the walk, he changed directions and crossed the driveway to the bunkhouse. He needed help, and he may as well ask and get it over with.
Cursing under his breath, he knocked on the door, and a second later Taylor answered, wearing her running shorts and a hooded sweatshirt. Her forehead was damp and her shoes muddy.
“I need help,” he said simply.
Her expression didn’t change. “I need to stay here for six months at minimal rent.”
He stared at her. Where was the woman who’d helped him into his house last night? Or rather bullied him into his house last night. “You’d hit me when I’m down?”
“I prefer calling it striking while the iron is hot.” She grimaced as she took in his appearance.
He knew he looked like hell. Unshaven, rumpled clothing. It reflected how he felt and how close he was to his last nerve. He could call his sister for help. He could call Jordan. But both would have a lengthy drive ahead of them to get to the farm, and it was possible that he’d need help for several days. His knee would be less painful within the week. The wrist…
“Six months.” Why not? If he didn’t agree, he had a feeling she’d come up with another work-around.
“From my date of employment.”
He gave her a purposely dubious frown. “You’re sure you’ll be employed?”
“I had a second interview yesterday. It went well.”
She spoke with quiet confidence, which made him believe that she wasn’t trying to convince herself. It really had gone well.
Maybe he needed to look at this like a prison term. The sooner he started, the sooner it would be over. “Six months from today.” Her expression clouded, but before she could speak, he said, “I thought you were getting this job.”
“I am.”
“Then it’s not a problem.”
She shifted her weight. “Six months from the date I fill out my W-2.”
“For that I need a lot of help.” She wasn’t the only one who could strike while the iron was hot. And he had to admit to enjoying the way her forehead scrunched up as she debated his meaning.
“What are you proposing?”
“When you’re not job hunting, you’re working around the place. And after you land a job, you give me some time before and/or after work.”
She eyed him warily. “I…”
“Think of it as helping out your grandfather. His place will be much nicer when he moves back.”
“Dirty pool.”
“Kind of like extorting me when I’m in a tough spot?”
“Very much,” she deadpanned.
One corner of his mouth tilted up. Okay. He liked honesty. “Can you drive a stick?”
She cocked an eyebrow. The Z. Yes, she could drive a stick.
“I need the truck and trailer moved.” At the moment, he didn’t know how his knee would behave with the clutch and didn’t feel like screwing around.
“Let me change.”
Cole took a limping step backward and tested the pain level of his wrist while she changed. On a scale of one to ten, he was a solid eight. He could handle it, if nothing touched or jarred his arm. The chances of farming without using his wrist were nil, so he would go to urgent care and have someone look at it as soon as he got the cattle corralled and the calves fed.
“Where do you want the trailer?”
“The usual spot by the barn.”
“I said I could drive a stick. I didn’t say I could back up a trailer.”
“Over by the tree, then.”
Anywhere but where it was, blocking the gate to the corral. Taylor was already several yards ahead of him when he called, “The gate is tied to the trailer.” So please don’t rip it off its hinges.
“Good to know,” she called back without looking at him.
He caught up with her just as she’d unhooked the rope securing the gate to the trailer and swung it back against the corral. “That tree there?” She pointed at the elm next to the machine shed.
“Yeah. Watch out for calves.” They were hungry and already cautiously approaching to see if anyone had the bottles. The heifer was grazing in the backyard, and he could see that she’d