If ever a man epitomized athletic grace, it was Nash Corbin. Every muscle in his body rippled with fluid ease as he jogged toward her. He didn’t look as if he’d ever been sick a day in his life.
But he had been. The way he’d ignored the needs of his own body to help Poppy touched a tender place inside her.
As much as she chastised herself for staring, Harlow watched in admiration as Nash’s long, strong legs smoothly ate up the space between them. He was reputed to be one of the fastest men in the NFL. Today he only jogged, but his long stride covered the ground quickly.
Her stomach tightened, and if those were butterflies dancing around in there, she’d kill them with an overdose of Pepto Bismol.
She did not want to find Nash attractive.
But she did. Oh, she did. More than ever.
Blast his eyes and his bad shoulder and all his other overly good-looking parts.
He still had a powerful effect on her, not just because he was dynamically fit and handsome, but because of the memories between them. She couldn’t forget the wonderful man he’d been, the man she’d loved.
So much about him was the same. And yet, there was the long silence, the devastating investment scheme that had nearly ruined her and her family.
And still not a hint of remorse from him.
She dug the rake into the ground with a little more force than necessary.
Why did he insist on jogging in the direction of her house? Why couldn’t he run on his own property? Or, if he was so desperate to maintain his privacy, why not stay in his house and jog in place? The weather was cold and wet, for crying out loud! Only a short time ago, he’d been sick enough to pass out.
He raised a hand in greeting. Harlow hunkered down inside her jacket and kept raking without returning the wave.
They were no longer close friends. He was not her best buddy anymore. At least, that’s the lie she told herself. But after the days spent caring for him, visiting, talking and joking, it felt like it.
The little voice inside her head grew louder. He was the father of her son. Their son. Nash was far more than a good friend, even if he didn’t know it.
The inner pressure to tell him reared its head. She fought the urge. Wouldn’t everyone be better off to leave well enough alone?
Clearly, his career was the most important thing in his world. All Nash talked about was getting well and getting back to work. He was doing everything in his power to make that happen.
Yesterday, she’d spotted him from the truck when she’d counted cows near his ranch. He’d been running then, too, only he’d set up some kind of obstacle course to maneuver. Old tires to run through. Saw horses to jump over.
Nash had never been lazy. He’d be fit again in no time, heading back to Florida, back to his beloved career, his fancy life and his big money, and his wildly enthusiastic fans.
He’d forget all about the Mathesons. Again.
Wouldn’t it be a terrible thing to give Davis a father only to have him go away?
Though every cell in her foolish body yearned toward the athlete, she would not allow him to hurt her or her family, especially her baby boy.
“Morning.” Nash’s grin and sparkly brown eyes caused a tickle in her chest.
Harlow paused, rake in hand. “You’re obviously feeling good.”
He was barely winded from the run.
Nash opened the gate and entered the lot, letting the silver barrier clang shut behind him. “How’s Gus?”
“He says he feels like the frazzled end of a misspent life.”
Nash laughed, white teeth flashing against his warmly tanned skin. He hadn’t shaved this morning and the dark, scruffy beard was wildly attractive. “He’s better.”
Moving to the horses still ripping at the compressed hay, he ran a hand over Drifter’s neck. “Thanks for looking after my boy.”
Harlow flinched at his use of “my boy.”
“No problem. He seems to remember me.”
“Horses have long memories.”
So did she. Nash, on the other hand, seemed to remember only what served him.
“Your saddle is in the tack room if you’re up to riding him home.”
“Later.” He rubbed gloved hands together. “What are you doing? How can I help?”
“You didn’t come over here to work.”
“I’m pretty sure I did. Feeling good, could use the exercise.”
“I don’t need you.”
“Ouch.” He clutched a hand to his impressive, blue-hoodie-covered chest as if her words stung.
In spite of her conflicted emotions, Harlow grinned. “Poor baby. So needy. Wa-wa.”
Nash’s handsome face crinkled with humor. “There’s the sassy Harlow I know. Now, put me to work. I told you’d I’d help out over here as soon as I could.”
“You are rehabbing a surgical shoulder. I won’t be responsible for interfering with the healing process of the NFL’s most valuable player.”
“You won’t be. I will. Working out is good for me.”
She leaned the rake against the fence and shoved both hands into her pockets. “Why don’t you go back to Florida where you have team doctors and rehab equipment and whatever pros use to heal up fast.”
“Trying to get rid of me?”
“Maybe.”
He laughed as if she joked. She didn’t.
“I’m serious, Nash. There’s nothing for you here. Why come back home after all this time?” She shouldn’t have said home. His home was Florida. This was the place he’d dumped as fast as his speedy legs could escape.
His handsome mouth tightened, and Harlow saw worry in those dark eyes. He fisted a hand on one hip and looked to the side, staring out across the brown grassy fields.
Had she hit a nerve?
She didn’t want to care.
“Lots going on in my life right now, Harlow. I needed time to think, sort out some problems.”
“Your shoulder will heal, Nash.” Reassuring him seemed to ooze from her DNA. She simply couldn’t help herself. “The team won’t replace you. You’re too valuable.”
He shook his head. “It’s not only that. It’s more...personal stuff.”
Oh. Personal. As in a woman. Or several women.
She was not about to ask for details.
Her chest pinched. She swallowed her disappointment.
Foolish, foolish woman. Would she never learn?
Taking up the rake again, she started clearing the area of horse manure. Animals made a habit of leaving gifts after she fed them.
A powerful hand reached out and took the implement away. “I got this. Go inside. Grab a coffee break and warm up.”
“It’s not that cold today.”
He shook his head and kept raking, though he was, she noticed, careful to give most of the work to his uninjured side.
“Does it hurt?” There she went again. Caring too much. Fixer of problems, except for her own.
“Not too much anymore. Hurt like crazy when it first happened.”
“How did you get injured? In a game, I’m guessing.”
He shot her amused glance. “I’m crushed that you don’t watch my games, but since you apparently don’t, I took a blindside hit. Targeting foul.”
Hackles rose on her back. “Someone hit your shoulder on purpose?”
She sounded every bit as incensed as she felt.
His bottom lip quirked. “I don’t like to think so, but he’s a guy known for playing dirty. He’ll sit out a game for it.”
“While you sit out for weeks or months.” The incident made her furious. She wanted to chase the guy down and...do something drastic. “That’s not fair at all!”
Nash leaned the rake against the fence. “You look fierce. The same way you did when Pamela Shaffer broke up with me in front of half the school and walked off with Brent Ramsey.”
“The student council president. I remember that. I was so mad I wanted to snatch out every strand of her fake blond hair. She was mean.”
“Good thing I found that out.” He made a tsking sound. “But she sure looked pretty in her little cheerleader outfit.”
Harlow whacked him on the arm. His good one. He rubbed it and groaned, pretending pain. “You hit pretty hard. For a girl.”
His mouth curved upward when he said “for a girl.”
She whacked him again—barely—and they both laughed.
Laughing with Nash felt good.
He tossed his arm around her shoulders the way he’d done many times when they were growing up. “Come on, Matheson. Let me buy you a cup of coffee. Then, I’ll help you finish the chores.”
Harlow stiffened and slid from beneath his warm, too-comfortable, too-familiar arm. Getting cozy with Nash was a fool’s game.
“I told you. I don’t need your help. Just go.”
She grabbed the rake and held it between them like a shield.
Nash’s good humor faltered. He raised both hands in surrender. “Guess I’ll go inside and say hello to Gus then. Does he still like to play checkers?”
He loved to. “I’m not sure he’s up to it.”
That was only partially true. Poppy was bored from inactivity. He would love company. And he loved playing checkers. He’d been the one to teach her and Nash the rudiments of the game. He and a neighbor played either chess or checkers about once a week, except Gene wasn’t available at present. He was visiting his new grandson in Idaho.
Eyes narrowed as if he could see inside her brain, Nash gave her a long, searching look before saying, “Won’t hurt to ask.”
He turned toward the house.
“Nash.” Her brain was a jumbled mess. She wanted him to go away. But his arm around her had felt wonderful. She liked him. She despised him.
Oh, Lord, why have You sent this trouble my way? Are You trying to teach me something? If so, can we just get it over with and move on?
She could practically hear Poppy’s voice reminding her that holding a grudge was wrong. Turn the other cheek. Show kindness.
Was that God’s answer, too?
Poppy had loved Nash like a son, and he needed the company.
Playing checkers with Davis wasn’t much competition, especially since Poppy let him win at least half the games. Losing a few, though, was good for the boy. Taught him that life doesn’t give you everything you want.
Man, was that true.
She loved her family, enjoyed the animals and ranching. Had plenty of friends though she had little time for them lately. She enjoyed her church, loved God and was trying to learn and grow in her knowledge of Him.
But something was definitely missing.
She knew what it was, even if she had given up hope of ever being loved by a good man. Since Davis’s birth, she’d had exactly three dates. One a year for every year of her son’s life. Dates that had absolutely no spark.
The only spark she’d ever experienced stood in her barn lot as unattainable now as he’d been four years ago. Still sparking.
Oh heart. Why do you betray me?
She looked from the handsome athlete to the back door, uncertain. Why was she worried? Nash had met Davis. He’d accepted her explanation about Davis’s father.
Could the worry be for herself, for the sparks and butterflies and rapid pulse she couldn’t seem to control?
Both hands inside his hoodie pouch, Nash quietly waited for her to speak her mind, his warm, dark eyes questioning.
She fought an inward battle, realizing she could not explain her rude behavior.
Finally, she said, “Be prepared to lose.”
A quick grin flashed and he headed inside.
Heart thundering like an Oklahoma storm, Harlow returned to her chores and hoped that she could, somehow, survive until he went back to Florida.
Nash studied the checkerboard, contemplating his next move, an untouched cup of coffee to his right. Gus insisted on the providing the beverage, but Nash’s stomach wasn’t quite there yet.
The older man sat up straight in his recliner, the checkers table pushed close enough to reach.
Gus’s color was better, and he was feisty today. Occasionally, he rubbed his hands together in glee. Right before he jumped one of Nash’s checkers.
Nash pinched his upper lip between finger and thumb, concentrating.
“Might as well give up, my man,” Gus said, with a hint of delight. “You’re toast.”
“Not so fast.” He jumped one of Gus’s checkers. “Crown me.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t see that.”
Nash jacked an eyebrow. “Trying to psych me out?”
“Name of the game. Distract the opponent and he’ll falter.” Gus took two more of Nash’s checkers. “Like that.”
“Hey!”
The older man chortled. Nash shook his head, smiling, refreshed by the simple game of checkers with a friend. After the strange conversation with Harlow, he needed to clear his mind.
She blew hot and cold, as if she hated him one minute and was his friend the next. Except Harlow was no longer the old pal he remembered. She was...more. Maybe she’d always been more and he’d been too football-focused to recognize the signs.
Given the mess he was in, falling for his neighbor was not a good plan.
Refocusing his thoughts on the checkers game, he pretended to sip his unwanted coffee and studied the board. Gus was right. He was toast. Nothing he could do to win this game. Unlike football when wild changes could occur in the final two minutes, the writing was on the wall.
He moved his remaining king into the fray, knowing he was giving up, which wasn’t like him at all.
Harlow’s little boy sprawled on the living room floor, the collie close by, rolling Hot Wheels back and forth on the carpet. He made motor sounds and occasionally, with much gusto, crashed two cars together in a resounding explosion. Each time, the dog raised her head to be sure the child was okay. Nash and Gus exchanged glances and chuckled, and the boy glanced up and grinned. Such a cute kid. Sweet dog too.
Monroe hobbled through the living room a couple of times and flicked a look their way, a scowl on her face. At least the portion of her face that he could see behind the long fall of thick hair. She was still pretty, though clearly self-conscious about the facial scars. Twice, she tried to lure Davis upstairs to play Legos, but he wanted to stay with the “manses.”
The game ended and Gus rested back against his chair. “Nap time. Tuckered out by a little game of checkers. Aggravating.”
“I hear you.”
Gus sniffed. “I guess you do. You’re looking pert now, though.”
“Almost back to myself.”
“How long you reckon you’ll be around, Nash? Getting healed up, I mean.”
“Not sure. Got some thinking to do before I go back. And I’d like to help out around here a little. Payback. But Harlow seems dead set against letting me do anything.”
Something changed in Gus’s expression, an odd look, a cautionary shift as if he wanted to say something and held back.
What was that about?
“Don’t tell her I said this. She’s mule-headed sometimes. So, I’d count it a favor if you’d just jump in and do what you can to help out. She’ll fuss and spit a little but keep at it. She works too hard, takes on the whole load, though we haven’t given her a lot of choice lately with the lot of us gimpy as a two-legged spider.”
“You can’t help it, Gus, any more than I could stop that alligator in my guts.” He smiled a little. “I’ve noticed Harlow’s long hours. Sometimes I see the truck lights in the field long after dark.”
Another of the reasons he never wanted to ranch again. The work never ended. Cattle didn’t take vacations. If they calved or got sick or hung up in barbed wire or out on the road, day or night, cold or hot, rain or scorcher, a rancher was on the job.
“Yep. Yep. Good girl, my Harlow.” Gus rubbed a finger and thumb over his white mustache. “Carries the world on her shoulders, that one does. Thinks she has to take care of everyone and everything.”
“I guess that comes from losing her parents so young.”
“And coming to live with an old man who didn’t know the first thing about three heartbroken little girls. Harlow was only twelve, but she mothered Monroe and Taylor, took responsibility for them. And for me. That girl taught herself to cook so’s I wouldn’t have to. She’d get up an hour early before school and make breakfast for her sisters and me. Did you know that?”
He didn’t.
Nash rose from the ottoman he’d perched on. “She once told me she was afraid you’d get tired of them if they were too much trouble and send them away, so she tried to take care of the younger ones and make your life easier.”
“I didn’t know that. A right shame. Good she had you to talk to, I guess.” Again, an odd expression passed over the old man. Eyes squinted, he stroked his long, white mustache a couple of times before speaking. “The two of you used to be thick as horse flies in June. For a time, I was hoping you and her...” Gus waved a bony hand. “She sure enough put a lot of stock in you back then.”
Back then. But not now. Was that what Gus meant?
Nash’s fault. Like every other idiotic thing he’d done in the past four years.
Uncomfortable with the shift in conversation, he said, “Grab that nap, Gus, but you owe me another checker game.”
Gus chortled. “Didn’t get enough whooping, huh?”
The little boy leaped to his feet. “I play. I play.” Davis patted his chest with his small hands. “Can I play?”
Nash glanced from the child to Gus.
The old man nodded. “Play the boy, Nash. He knows how. Just needs direction here and there.”
“Is that right?” To the bright, sweet face he said, “You want to play checkers?”
An eager nod was his answer.
Other than the children of friends and teammates, Nash had not spent extended time in the company of kids, but he visited lots of children’s hospitals. This was Harlow’s child, which made him extra special.
“Hop up here, Davis.” Nash patted a chair seat. “I’m a little rusty with checkers. You promise not to beat me too badly like your Poppy did?”
The sweetest giggle pealed from Davis’s throat. Light brownish-green eyes, so like Harlow’s, sparkled with fun and just the right amount of boyish orneriness. A dimple flashed on his left cheekbone, directly below the eye.
Nash stilled, frowned. The dimple looked familiar.
Real familiar.
He brushed away the thought.
A cheekbone dimple in that exact spot was unusual, but not rare, was it? Just because Nash’s own mother sported one in the same place didn’t mean the two of them were related.
Why couldn’t he get that idea out of his head? Harlow had already explained about Davis’s parentage.
Yet, it haunted him.
Gus popped the handle on his recliner and tilted back, his eyes closed, a soft smile visible beneath his mustache.
Davis started to chatter about red being his favorite color. Except for blue. And purple.
Glad for the distraction, Nash pushed the red checkers in his direction.
Handsome kid. Friendly. Smart.
Davis glanced at Gus and put a tiny finger to his lips. “I has to be quiet. Poppy’s hurt. I prayed for him.”
Nash nodded, his chest pinched at the thoughtful gesture.
Whoever fathered Davis was a foolish man for letting go of Harlow and the boy.
Nash hoped it wasn’t him.