years, what’s one more?”
Nick held onto the tailgate as a gust of icy wind hit him square in the face. He bent over and caught the edge of the rim before it tipped forward and dumped out of the spare tire carrier. “A pickup truck is a far cry from a Lexus, or Benz, or whatever it is you drive at home, and I don’t see a local dealership in sight running over here with an umbrella and Cappuccino. Now--”
Rachel grabbed the tire and in two jerks had the steel belted, all-season radial bounced onto the ground. She leaned the spare against the bumper, squared her stance, and pinned him with her gaze, her green eyes spitting fire. “I’ve had enough, cowboy. I don’t know why you think I’m incapable of taking care of myself, but I’ve got news for you, buddy. Bud Hill expected his daughter to tow her fair share around the ranch, just like the other hands. No free rides; no excuse for shoddy work. Now, it’s cold and wet and really miserable out here. Do you want to stand around and jaw all day, or do you want to get on down the road?” Not waiting for an answer, she flipped the latch, slapped the tailgate down and rummaged around for the jack.
Bud Hill’s daughter. The name flashed through Nick’s mind like a neon sign. He sidestepped around the truck bed to get out of her way. Bud Hill. Bud Hill ranked right up there alongside other bull riding legends like Donny Gay, Tuff Hedeman, and Ty Murray. But where Gay and Hedeman remained active on the circuit after retiring from the ride, no one had heard anything from Bud Hill after his last wreck five or six years earlier. He’d just dropped out of sight.
Rachel brushed against him as she positioned the jack into place. Nick grabbed a wrench out of the tool box. He bent down and captured a lug nut, then stomped on the handle of the wrench to loosen the fitting. While doing the same for the other five lug nuts, he wracked his memory for any recent information on Bud Hill. Nothing. Especially nothing about a daughter named Rachel, or a stock contractor relative conveniently named Mitch Cauldwell.
As sleet sheeted across his back, he removed the wrench while Rachel raised the back of the truck bed until the wheel spun free and he could remove the tire. Rachel stepped back and stood still, spare propped up against her thigh, looking for all the world like a ranch hand just doing what had to be done. The wind and wet whipped around her, but she held her ground and waited for him. Understanding dawned bright and clear over why Rachel stood out in his mind from the moment he’d met her. Rachel Hill, despite her oozing femininity, proved more capable than just about anyone else he knew. There was no mewling or whining over situations or circumstances.
She just did what had to be done.
And after their past twenty-four hours, Nick gave her more credit for resilience than himself. Shameful.
Nick positioned the spare and tightened the fittings as Rachel finished fastening the flat tire into the carrier. She didn’t say anything as she stored the tools away, wiped her palms down the legs of her wet jeans and moved toward the cab.
What was he supposed to say now? He hadn’t a clue. All he knew was his head was splitting with pain and he’d just made a fool of himself. It made no difference who Rachel was, he shouldn’t have behaved so chauvinistically with any woman, and he better take the time to apologize.
The engine continued its comforting clatter as he climbed into the cab, the heater firing a hundred-degree air from the fan filling the cab with warmth. “Look, Rachel--”
She held up the palm of her hand as if talking to a child. “There’s nothing to say. You have your opinions, and I have mine. The more we keep to ourselves, the better.”
Why was she so defensive now? His head felt like a concrete block about to explode. He didn’t want to argue with her, he just wanted to sleep. “You said you were Mitch Cauldwell’s niece. How was I supposed to
Nick held onto the tailgate as a gust of icy wind hit him square in the face. He bent over and caught the edge of the rim before it tipped forward and dumped out of the spare tire carrier. “A pickup truck is a far cry from a Lexus, or Benz, or whatever it is you drive at home, and I don’t see a local dealership in sight running over here with an umbrella and Cappuccino. Now--”
Rachel grabbed the tire and in two jerks had the steel belted, all-season radial bounced onto the ground. She leaned the spare against the bumper, squared her stance, and pinned him with her gaze, her green eyes spitting fire. “I’ve had enough, cowboy. I don’t know why you think I’m incapable of taking care of myself, but I’ve got news for you, buddy. Bud Hill expected his daughter to tow her fair share around the ranch, just like the other hands. No free rides; no excuse for shoddy work. Now, it’s cold and wet and really miserable out here. Do you want to stand around and jaw all day, or do you want to get on down the road?” Not waiting for an answer, she flipped the latch, slapped the tailgate down and rummaged around for the jack.
Bud Hill’s daughter. The name flashed through Nick’s mind like a neon sign. He sidestepped around the truck bed to get out of her way. Bud Hill. Bud Hill ranked right up there alongside other bull riding legends like Donny Gay, Tuff Hedeman, and Ty Murray. But where Gay and Hedeman remained active on the circuit after retiring from the ride, no one had heard anything from Bud Hill after his last wreck five or six years earlier. He’d just dropped out of sight.
Rachel brushed against him as she positioned the jack into place. Nick grabbed a wrench out of the tool box. He bent down and captured a lug nut, then stomped on the handle of the wrench to loosen the fitting. While doing the same for the other five lug nuts, he wracked his memory for any recent information on Bud Hill. Nothing. Especially nothing about a daughter named Rachel, or a stock contractor relative conveniently named Mitch Cauldwell.
As sleet sheeted across his back, he removed the wrench while Rachel raised the back of the truck bed until the wheel spun free and he could remove the tire. Rachel stepped back and stood still, spare propped up against her thigh, looking for all the world like a ranch hand just doing what had to be done. The wind and wet whipped around her, but she held her ground and waited for him. Understanding dawned bright and clear over why Rachel stood out in his mind from the moment he’d met her. Rachel Hill, despite her oozing femininity, proved more capable than just about anyone else he knew. There was no mewling or whining over situations or circumstances.
She just did what had to be done.
And after their past twenty-four hours, Nick gave her more credit for resilience than himself. Shameful.
Nick positioned the spare and tightened the fittings as Rachel finished fastening the flat tire into the carrier. She didn’t say anything as she stored the tools away, wiped her palms down the legs of her wet jeans and moved toward the cab.
What was he supposed to say now? He hadn’t a clue. All he knew was his head was splitting with pain and he’d just made a fool of himself. It made no difference who Rachel was, he shouldn’t have behaved so chauvinistically with any woman, and he better take the time to apologize.
The engine continued its comforting clatter as he climbed into the cab, the heater firing a hundred-degree air from the fan filling the cab with warmth. “Look, Rachel--”
She held up the palm of her hand as if talking to a child. “There’s nothing to say. You have your opinions, and I have mine. The more we keep to ourselves, the better.”
Why was she so defensive now? His head felt like a concrete block about to explode. He didn’t want to argue with her, he just wanted to sleep. “You said you were Mitch Cauldwell’s niece. How was I supposed to
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