The Billionaire Cowboy's Speech (Necessity, Texas) Read online

Was he seriously trying to have an actual conversation with someone he didn't know?

  Apparently so, even if it took him forever to ask a single question. "Why Chet Tyler's place?"

  Again, she waited patiently for him to finish, even giving him a few seconds afterward to make sure he didn't have more to say. Then she shrugged. "I found the ad online. I needed to … get away for a while."

  He noticed the pause in her answer, so different from the stops in his questions. This time, he was the one who waited a little longer, and was rewarded for his own patience with more information.

  "I wanted someplace off the grid, and needed it fast."

  She didn’t look much like someone who'd really know what off the grid meant. The high heels being Exhibit A. Tor wanted to ask her more, but they were coming up over the slight rise that led to the bunkhouse, and he didn't think he could rush the questions that came to mind. Like, why did she need to be off the grid? Why not just check into a hotel?

  And perhaps more to the point: how could he save her from whatever had her running?

  * * *

  Well, I asked for off the grid, Leta thought as she stared around the bunkhouse central room from her seat on the couch. She sat with her leg stretched out in front of her, propped up on pillows, a bag of frozen peas he'd retrieved from the kitchen draped over the swollen joint, her shoes—one broken, the other whole—on the floor next to her.

  "Does this place even have wifi?" she asked.

  Tor grinned and pulled a phone out of one of those apparently endlessly useful pockets of his and waggled it at her. "Hotspot," he managed to say after a few tries.

  Leta laughed. "I guess I'm even more untraceable here than at the Tyler place," she mused aloud.

  Raising one eyebrow, Tor turned up one palm and nodded. The sunlight shining in through the window momentarily slanted across the scar running down his temple and onto his cheek.

  What had happened to this beautiful ranch hand, and was it connected to the speech impediment that seemed to disappear when he was distracted?

  "And you're absolutely certain your boss won't mind me being here?"

  This time, his pause made her think he was about to say something, but in the end, he simply nodded definitively.

  Okay, then. She seemed safe enough—he'd been a perfect gentleman on the ride over, even as she remained painfully aware of the muscular chest pressed against her back, and the jeans-encased thighs on either side of her own legs, despite the painful throb of her injured ankle.

  Not that she wanted to admit to being attracted to him.

  It's only biology, she told herself. He's attractive, and I'm not blind. That's all. I know better to get suckered in by a pretty face and kind manners.

  Again.

  She bit the inside of her bottom lip at the thought of Brent.

  Crap. Getting away from all reminders of her lying ex was the main reason for this attempted escape from reality.

  Time to distract herself. "Are we the only ones here?" she asked. When he nodded, she realized she needed to start asking questions that couldn't be answered with a simple yes or no.

  Maybe. Was it unkind to force him to speak? It didn't bother her to wait for his answer—she could stare at him for hours without complaint, she suspected—but maybe he preferred to avoid it whenever possible?

  To hell with it. Trying to take some man's sensibilities into account had, in a roundabout way, landed her here in the first place. If she hadn't tried so hard to make sure Brent was okay…. No. That line of thought led right back to the source of her misery.

  Make conversation, Leta.

  "I thought the ranch looked pretty big," she said. "Why are you the only hand staying in the bunkhouse? Doesn't it take more than one person to run a ranch?"

  A flicker of confusion shot across Tor's face, followed almost immediately by the grin that showed that dimple.

  What was going on with this guy? It was like he was two different men—the confused one with the stammer, and the fast-acting, smooth-talking one with the easy smile.

  Whoever he was, he was working to answer her question, so she waited. Better to concentrate on the lone hand on a giant ranch than on the throb in her ankle. The whole ankle issue was embarrassing. If she hadn't been so emotionally overwrought to begin with, she wouldn't have stopped to ask directions.

  No, I wouldn't have rented someplace without vetting it in the first place.

  It wasn't like Brent would be actively looking for her, after all.

  And that was kind of the problem, wasn't it?

  "They live in town," Tor finally said, answering her question about the other ranch hands in something of a rush.

  "And you live here all alone?"

  His mouth twisted a little—not in frustration, but as if trying to decide how to answer her question. Finally, he turned up his hands and shrugged a little, glancing around the bunkhouse.

  Leta could tell he was working to say something else, so again, she waited. There was something oddly relaxing about being in the company of a man who didn't talk nonstop.

  He'll never interrupt me while I'm speaking, she thought wryly. An image of Brent cutting across her to make a point at their last, disastrous dinner flashed through her mind, and she grimaced.

  Tor froze, and guilt shot through her—clearly he thought her grimace was meant for his halting speech.

  "My ankle," she said, hoping it would do as an explanation. "Do you have any ibuprofen here?" He nodded and moved toward the hallway leading to the back of the house. The relief that shone in his eyes for a moment before he shoved it down again made her glad she had come up with the cover story.

  It wasn't exactly a lie, either. Her ankle did hurt.

  Of course, under other circumstances, she wouldn't have admitted that; usually, she would have decided that it was better to keep moving than to show weakness.

  She rested her head against the cushion behind her. Even the thought of trying to keep up all the barriers she had built over the last few months—both consciously and unconsciously—made her tired.

  She could just close her eyes for a moment here and rest.

  A word drifted through her mind, followed by a flood of emotion that surprised her.

  Safe.

  She would have to think about what it meant that she already felt safer with this stranger than she ever had with Brent.

  Later. I'll think about it later.

  For now, maybe she could relax into it, if only for a little while.

  Really relax, for the first time since she had walked in on Brent with the woman she later learned was his wife.

  * * *

  When Tor returned, water and a bottle of pain-relief tablets in hand, he found Leta asleep on the couch.

  The soft, pale curve of her cheek flushed slightly pink in the last rays of sunlight slanting through the window, catching Tor's gaze like a grass burr: surprising and more painful than it seemed like it ought to be for something he hadn't noticed before.

  Leta Delaney was definitely beautiful, with that pale skin and dark hair, and bright green eyes that showed off the Irish ancestry that presumably gave her that surname.

  That was part of what made staring at her painful, though.

  Two years ago, it would never have occurred to him that someone like her wouldn't be interested in him. If she had shown up on his radar back then, he wouldn't have hesitated to make a move.

  Now, the potential for rejection was all he could think about.

  Oh, there were still women attracted to his money. He'd dated plenty of them in the last year, since he'd started trying to live a normal life again. Maybe even a few of them had been attracted to him in the beginning.

  It didn't take long for those women to grow impatient with his halting speech, his frequent inability to remember particular words, even his frustration at his new limitations when he ran up against them.

  No. Leta Delaney was gorgeous, but it didn't mean anything to Tor. It couldn't
. Not after vowing never to let anyone close enough to hurt him again. His jaw tightened.

  As if she could feel his stare, Leta stirred and her eyelids fluttered open. She blinked several times before the confusion in her gaze cleared up.

  "Oh, I'm so sorry. I must have been more tired than I thought." The light flush of her cheeks flared a deeper pink.

  It took almost every ounce of self-control he had, but Tor managed not to jump in and reassure her.

  Not that I'd be able to say a damn thing, anyway, he thought sourly.

  The woman on his couch read the emotion in his expression, misunderstood its source, and sat up straighter. "If you want, you can take me back to my car. I can go to Mr. Tyler's cabin. Really, I feel better now. Thank you so much for helping me."

  Tor frowned and shot her a dubious look as he handed over the ibuprofen and water.

  "Thank you," she said, opening the bottle eagerly and shaking out two tablets.

  So much for being well enough to leave.

  No. He would let her stay here in the bunkhouse, while he. . . . What? Stayed in the main house? He could almost hear his Mama's voice echoing through the room: That is no way to treat a guest, Andrew Torrance Edwards.

  It might, however, be the only safe way for Tor to treat a woman he found attractive.

  As Leta swallowed the pills, Tor inhaled to begin the long, drawn-out process of inviting her up to the main house as his guest. She tilted her head to one sight and waited for him, as patiently as she had every other time he had spoken.

  Before he could even get the first word out, though, he froze, struck by what might be the worst idea he'd ever had.

  Leta Delaney had mentioned "the other ranch hands." She waited for his fractured speech without any sign of impatience—not even the small signs the other women in his life had begun showing almost immediately.

  She has no idea who I am. And she's the only person I've spoken to in multiple sentences in more than two years now.

  Could being around her trigger that effect again?

  Without the allure of his money to entice her, she wouldn't expect any kind of romantic relationship. But maybe they could become something like friends.

  Maybe she could help me get my voice back.

  Hope flared in his chest like anguish, when he thought he'd wiped both out months before.

  This time, he heard his mother use his middle name when chiding him, always a sign of serious intent: And even if she can't help you, Andrew Torrance Edwards, you have no business taking her to stay in the Tylers' old, broke-down shack.

  It took less effort than usual for him to spit out one terse word.

  "Stay."

  Chapter 3

  Stay? Like I'm some sort of pet?

  Okay. That wasn't fair to Tor, and Leta knew it. But the one word—the same one Brent had barked at her when he'd followed her out to her car that terrible day—set her every nerve on edge.

  Calm down, she told herself. The guy's some kind of speech issue. He's not Brent.

  She also didn't know him from Adam. Then again, she'd thought she’d known Brent.

  Look at how that turned out.

  Clearly, her judgment was not to be trusted. Ultimately, though, a glance at her swollen ankle under the bag of peas told her everything she needed to know, really.

  "I will," she finally said, after a too-long pause. Lucky for her, Tor didn't seem to care how long it took her to compose her responses, either. Nor did he seem offended at her clear hesitation to respond at all.

  Thank goodness.

  "And you're certain your employer won't mind?" she asked.

  An odd, lopsided grin flickered across his face, and he nodded, that dimple creasing his cheek as he did. With a tilt of his head, he gestured down a hall and held out one hand to help her off the couch. When she put a tiny bit of weight on her ankle and winced, he leaned in as if to scoop her up again.

  This time, though, Leta was prepared. "No. It's not too bad."

  Tor raised his eyebrows and she nodded. "I'm sure," she said. "I've had worse."

  His visual evaluation of her ended with a shrug, and he held out his arm in an old-fashioned, gentlemanly gesture.

  When he had swept her into his arms and onto his horse earlier, she had been too surprised to pay much attention to his touch.

  Now, however, their slow, limping progress down the hall left Leta with little else to consider. The first time she tried to take a halting, hopping step, Tor had paused to switch out which arm she held so he could wrap the other one around her waist to provide some stability for her.

  His touch against her managed to be both firm and gentle, and Leta spent several long seconds trying to determine why.

  Maybe the way he waited to tighten his arm around her until he was certain she needed the support, then loosened his grip again immediately. Or the way his fingertips barely pressed against her to let her know which way he was going next.

  I am too interested in how this guy's hand feels against me, she realized. This could be trouble.

  Casting a sidelong glance at the unscarred side of his face, she was again hit by the sheer heated masculinity of him.

  Definitely trouble.

  They made it to the guest room without incident, and Leta felt both relief and disappointment, in almost equal measure.

  I wouldn't want to tell anyone which made up the bigger part.

  Her own half-grin drew a puzzled glance from Tor, but when she waved one hand in front of her in a "never mind" gesture, he took her at her word and simply opened the guest-room door.

  The room was nice enough, if a little bare. And given his description of the place she had rented online as "a shack," this room was probably practically luxurious.

  And it has a lock on the inside of the door, the practical city-dweller within her noted. Not that the safety-conscious city version of Leta had been around much since she stopped her car to speak to the cowboy fixing the fence.

  Still, once Tor had finished showing her where everything was, she locked herself inside the room. Just to be safe.

  Even if it was a little late to be thinking of that kind of thing.

  * * *

  The next morning, Leta woke to sunlight shining through the window and the kind of stillness that came only with an empty house.

  The night before, she had locked the door to her room, then carefully folded her skirt and shirt, sleeping in only her bra and panties. Later today, she would have to retrieve her car, if only so she would have her suitcase with her.

  Swinging her legs over the edge of the twin bed, she grimaced at the sight of her swollen, purple ankle.

  It looks worse than it feels.

  Maybe if she convinced herself to believe that, she'd heal faster.

  Yeah, right.

  It took longer than she would have liked, but she dressed, and then gingerly made her way down the hall, balancing against the walls when necessary.

  In the kitchen, she found coffee already made, and a note next to the pot: I've gone out to run some errands. I'll be back mid-morning.

  Well, that answered one question—whatever it was blocking his speech wasn't actually affecting all of his language. He could still write.

  For that matter, he could still talk. At least, he could when he was leaping tall fences in a single bound to save injured women.

  Leta snickered a little at the thought as she poured herself a cup of coffee, took another ibuprofen, and pulled the bag of peas back out of the freezer.

  Glad Tor thought to put these back last night.

  Limping to the living room couch took the remainder of her energy, and Leta settled in to wait for the pain reliever to kick in.

  Maybe then I can at least explore the house a little more.

  For now, though, the only thing she had to explore was her cell phone. She checked the battery. Luckily it had been charging in the car for most of the drive out from Dallas yesterday; she still had half the battery remaining.


  Pulling up the browser, she began searching. She hadn't gotten any further than typing in the words Tor, Stuart ranch, and Necessity, Texas, when she heard the front door open and shut.

  Hastily, she closed out the search engine and glanced at her watch. 8:45? Since when was that "mid-morning"?

  Since you started-keeping ranch hand hours, dummy. She shook her head at her own ideas. She was still grinning when Tor appeared in the doorway, carrying a plastic grocery bag in one hand and a pair of slightly dusty aluminum crutches in the other.

  "Oh my god," Leta said. "Where did you find those? They weren't here in the house, were they? Were they on the ranch?"

  Realizing that Tor couldn't possibly answer all her rapid-fire questions, she forced herself to be quiet for a moment to give him a moment to respond. All she really wanted to do, though, was tell him that it was the kindest thing anyone had done for her in a long time.

  His eyes flickered from side to side, as if he were trying to find the right words—or maybe just decide which question to answer. It took a few moments, but eventually, he simply shrugged and said, "Ranch."

  This time, though, the single word slipped out easily, and he grinned as he said it.

  Leta started to push herself off the sofa as he stepped toward her, but Tor waved her back into her seat. "Wait," he said.

  Kneeling beside her, he carefully lifted her ankle off the cushion. He examined the sore joint carefully, then reached into the plastic sack beside him and pulled out a roll of some kind of medical wrapping tape in a new package.

  "Where did you get that?" she asked.

  He glanced at it, then at her, once again shrugging. "Horses."

  A laugh burst out of Leta. "You're going to wrap me in horse tape? Lovely."

  His dimple deepened, and Leta found herself wishing she could make him laugh. Whatever was wrong with him that made speaking difficult for him didn't seem to have any effect on his sense of humor, though it was fairly tightly restrained. And his speech impediment clearly had nothing to do with being a slow thinker.

  Despite his gentle touch, wrapping her ankle hurt a little. Afterward, however, she found it easier to hobble across the room, and his careful adjustments of the newly cleaned crutches meant that at the end of half an hour, Leta was more or less mobile again.