I wink. “Of course.” I bump my arm against hers. “And if I get a cherry, I’ll give you mine.”
She laughs, and we link hands, but I peer back over my shoulder to catch Landry gripping the side of the chute, hand on his neck, face screwed up in agony. Tate’s eyes are wide, and their conversation does nothing for the nerves in my belly.
Tate’s sleepy eyes blink up at me from the bottom of the porch, where he stands. I rub my eyes and fold my arms over my chest, yawning. “What’s up, Tate? Is everything okay? Love and the girls?”
He takes the first step, but waits. “How’d he sleep?”
I shake my head and feel the weight of a million pounds beneath each of my eyes. “He didn’t.”
“Fuck,” Tate grumbles, surprising me.
“You don’t curse.” I wag my finger. “If you’re cursing that means you’re worried about him, and if you’re worried—” I stop myself and let the screen hit my foot as I step outside. Birds chirp, and the warm breeze lifts the hem of my nightgown, and in the coop, Sadie appears, waving. I wave at her, then focus on Tate. “He took over-the-counter painkillers all night. He couldn’t get comfortable. He sat up until three, then finally laid down shortly after.”
Tate nods and I try to make sense of this. “Is that… all normal?”
He nods again, pulling at the back of his head. “Yeah, yeah, he’s a little beat up and sore. It’s just… been a while since he rode that hard. The nec kroll folded and… He’s okay… it’s just gonna take a little more time to get him feeling better than it did before.”
I wave at Sadie again but keep my focus on her daddy. “What can I do to help him get better before next week’s ride?”
Tate nods, as if he expected me to ask. “Heating pads. Keep him hydrated and make sure he just lies around. If he aggravates it before next week…” He doesn’t need to finish that sentence. If Landry can’t ride next week, he’ll lose, and he’ll lose far more than some fucking rodeo, and we both know it.
“Hey, Quinn, this is… par for the course.” Tate smiles. “He’ll be okay. I just… want you to know, this is the life of being with a bronc rider. You’ll learn to temper the worry or it’ll eat you up.”
I nod. “Okay.” I trust Tate.
“Tell him I came by. Heating pads, those disposable ones, work well. They have ’em at the Sable Sky Shop Rite.”
I nod. “I’ll get dressed and go get some.”
Tate backs off the porch and nods to Sadie as she makes her way inside with Big Bertha tucked under her arm. “Medicine time, Big B.” She grins at me. “Mornin’. You making pancakes? I’m starved.” She lowers Bertha to the ground, then says, “How’s your neck?”
After waving Tate off, I step inside off the porch and am seconds away from asking Sadie what in the world happened to Big Bertha’s neck, when I see Landry at the bottom of the stairs, hand on his own neck.
“Landry Vaughn,” I scold, brow furrowing as I take him in, wrinkled white T-shirt and crumpled pajama pants, bare feet and tousled hair. “You are supposed to be resting.”
He winces, dark crescents hanging in pools beneath his eyes. “Out of Advil up there,” he groans, “and could use some coffee.”
Sadie knows he’s hurt and gently wraps her arm around his waist. “I’m sorry your neck hurts, Daddy.”
He tousles fingers through her hair. “Ah, it’s okay. I’ll be all good in a day or two, sugar.”
She runs upstairs with Big Bertha, and from the top of the stairs shouts, “Call me when the pancakes are done!”
Landry looks at the top of the stairs for a moment then smiles, and I watch him watching his girl and feel my chest swell. But then he cuts his gaze my way, and his eyes go dark and wanton, despite the fact he still rubs at his neck. Landry’s saunter is slow and deliberate, and as much as I want to shout at him to go back upstairs and rest, my fingers itch to tug him into me, my lips yearn for his, and I long to be engulfed in his chest. “Thank you for checking on me all night and taking care of me,” he breathes, sinking his lips against my temple with a soft kiss.
I soak up his affection and the heat of his body against mine as we hold each other in the early sunlight. The kitchen floor is cool against my feet, and I know the Texas sun won’t leave it that way for long. I pull back. “You up for some pancakes?”
He nods, and I fix him a cup of coffee while he settles into a seat at the table. “Tate came by, told me you like those disposable heating pads for your neck.”
Landry unfolds the newspaper and lays it across the table, still watching me. “I do. Though I’m not sure they make those anymore.” His eyes attempt to pierce my linen nightgown as a ray of sun pours through the window.
I can’t help but smirk. “Well, I’m gonna go out after I make breakfast and get some for you. And anything else you may need.”
Over the last month, each time I’d go out for footage, I’d stop by the market and grab a few things. Just a few. And then I’d slip them into the cupboards, hoping that it would be subtle enough to know I’m not helping, but also still subtleenough to ease some of that unconscious stress you wear when you’re in debt.
I get to mixing pancakes, dropping and flipping, while Landry and I remain in the kitchen in easy silence. He reads the paper and sips coffee, and I add mix-ins to the pancakes, enjoying the soft swish of leaves kissing in the gentle breeze outside. It is the perfect little morning.
Sadie comes down and we give Big Bertha her medicine in a blueberry pancake—Sadie alleges that this is Big Bertha’s favorite flavor and who can say no to a sick, old chicken? Afterward, the three of us enjoy our breakfast while reminiscing about last night.
