“You sure you’re okay?” Travis asked.

“Perfect. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

“Bye, Abby.”

She pressed the end button with her thumb. “Why did you do that?” she asked Zach.

“I thought it would be one less thing for you to worry about.” His gaze was steady, sincere.

“You weren’t worried he was still ticked off at you?”

Zach shook his head. “You said it yourself. It was an exemption. That rule applies to everyone. And your brother doesn’t know you helped me.” Zach paused, his expression inscrutable. “Travis thinks he won our last fight, and I went away.”

She thought about taking Zach to task again for making her lie to her family, but she honestly didn’t have the energy. The throbbing in her arm was growing worse. She wished she’d said yes to the painkillers the medic offered. “Travis thought you were being neighborly.”

“I am. How’s your arm?”

“It’s fine.” She set the phone down on an end table, resisting the urge to cradle her injury. She hoped it didn’t keep her awake tonight.

“I won’t think any less of you because you feel pain, you know.”

“I know that.”

“Good. Then let’s try that again. Abby, how’s your arm?”

“It’s sore,” she admitted, tossing back her damp hair and raising her chin. “Can we move on now?”

He gave what looked like a reluctant smile. “Yeah. We can move on. Shot of whiskey, cowboy?”

“Sure. Why not.”

He rose smoothly to his feet. “I’ve got a thirty-year-old Glenlivet.” He opened a cupboard in the small kitchen alcove. “That ought to be in keeping with the theme of our surroundings.”

It sounded good to Abigail. She hoped he made it a double.

“On the rocks?” he asked, setting two short, crystal glasses on the countertop.

“Please.”

The ice cubes clinked, and the cork made a hollow popping sound as he pulled it out of the bottle. She watched as he poured the amber liquid over the small ice cubes. It looked like at least a double. Good. That would help her sleep.

He lifted both glasses and turned. “Do you think it would compromise beer sales if we were to offer scotch whiskey at the restaurant?”

“I think most customers would like to have the choice,” she answered.

“Me, too.” He handed her one of the glasses then sat back down in the armchair. “I liked your idea about flagons of ale. I think we could do a lot with a historic theme.” He swirled his glass and inhaled appreciatively. Then he took a first sip.

Abigail followed suit. The liquid burned her throat, but in a good way, and she appreciated the warmth that radiated out into her bloodstream. She took a second sip. This was going to feel very good on her arm.

“Alex has always been a bit of a scotch aficionado,” Zach continued. “He got me into it, too. There’s no reason why we couldn’t make that a specialty, maybe do a bit of recon through Scotland, check out some of the lesser-known distilleries, the rarer brands.”

Abigail found herself nodding. What a fantastic job that would be. And what a fun addition to the restaurant. She took another sip. It had taken her a while to develop a taste for scotch, but now that she had, she found it a very satisfying and civilized beverage.

“If you feel up to it tomorrow, will you help me hunt through the upper floors?”

“I have to get back to the ranch.” Though, at the moment, driving the stick shift didn’t sound very appealing.

“A hundred different people can drive the truck to the ranch,” said Zach. “You’re the only one who has a vision for my restaurant.”

Though she knew he was only being kind, her heart warmed at the compliment. She did have a vision for his restaurant. At least, she had a vision that she liked. There was no way to know if anyone else would like it. Staying definitely sounded more appealing than going.

Then again, staying anywhere lately sounded more appealing to her than going home to the ranch. She didn’t know whether she’d become spoiled or lazy. But she needed to get past that.

“I really have to go home,” she told him, knowing there was a trace of apology in her tone.

“Let’s play it by ear.” He swirled his drink.

Good enough.

She knew she wasn’t going to change her mind, but she could always tell him that in the morning.

She lifted her glass to her lips and realized she’d emptied it.

“Went down good?” he asked.

“Too good,” she acknowledged.

“Refill?”

She shook her head. She was already pleasantly woozy, and more than a little tired.

“You want to lie down?”

“I should try to sleep,” she admitted, coming to her feet. “Down the hall?” she asked, remembering there were a couple of smaller bedrooms between the suite and the back staircase.

He rose with her. “Take my bed.”

“Oh, no, no, no.” She shook her head.

“Give me a break. I mean you should sleep in it alone. You’ve got the bathroom here, and it’s comfortable-”

“I’ll be fine anywhere. I’ve slept beside campfires and in line shacks half my life.”

He moved toward her. “Good for you. But not when you’re hurt. And not on my watch.”

“I’m not made of spun glass, Zach.”

“Really? Could have fooled me, cowboy.” His arm encircled her shoulder. “What with all your pouting, impatience and temper tantrums.”

“Stop mocking me.”

He urged her away from the couch, while Ozzy settled himself in the warm spot she’d left behind. “Humor me. Please. I’ll feel like a cad if I send you to a cold bedroom down the hall while I snuggle in here.”

She couldn’t help chuckling. “Snuggle?”

Once he had her walking, he steered her to the bed. “Yes. I want you to snuggle.” He pulled back the covers.

“Fine,” she reluctantly agreed. She was here. She was tired. She was sore. If he was going to insist, she’d bloody well sleep in his bed.

She sat down on the crisp sheet, and the robe slipped off her knee. After a moment, she was aware of Zach’s still silence. She glanced up at him.

“What happened?” he demanded.

She followed the direction of his gaze, coming to a purple, half-healed bruise on the middle of her thigh.

“Oh, that.” She covered it up with the robe. “I was painting the other day. I tripped halfway down the ladder and smacked into one of the rails.”

“You were painting a house?”

“A shed.”

“And you fell down a ladder?”

“It wasn’t a big deal.” Embarrassed that he was going to think she was a hopeless klutz, she pulled her legs up onto the bed, curling them under the covers.

“And this?” he asked.

Too late, she realized the robe had fallen off her shoulder.

Zach’s thumb traced a barely visible bruise on the tip.

“Pulling a horseshoe.”

“Oh, Doll-Face.” He sighed.

Before she knew what was happening, he’d leaned in and kissed the fading bruise.

“Zach,” she warned.

“Scoot over.”

They couldn’t do this. She couldn’t do this. No matter how much she might think she wanted to do this.

“I can’t,” she managed to say.

“That’s not what I meant. You’re hurt. You’re tired. You’re a little drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“I gave you a lot of scotch.”

“It helped.”

“That was the point.”

“But I’m not drunk.”

“I just want to hold you.” He eased her to the middle of the bed. “Just for a few minutes.”

“Why?” she asked with suspicion, holding herself stiff.

He stretched out beside her. “I don’t know.” He circled an arm around her, but stopped before he touched her. “Any other sore spots I should know about?”

“My ribs,” she answered before she thought it through. She probably should have kept that to herself.

His expression darkened. “What happened to your ribs?”

“I came off a horse. It happens a lot.”

He closed his eyes for a long second, but then his arm curled ever so gently around her stomach. “It never happens to me.”

She couldn’t help smiling at that. The warmth of his arm felt very good against her stomach. As her body relaxed, he put his own head down on the pillow.

“You need to find a safer job,” he muttered.

“I need to find someone who won’t fight with me all the time.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“Well, there’s a first.”


* * *

Abigail awoke in Zach’s arms. There was no way to tell how long he’d stayed with her last night. The whiskey had put her into a sound sleep, and this morning he was showered and changed, lying on top of the quilt, while she was tucked underneath it.

“Morning,” he intoned in a deep, lazy voice, smoothing her hair back from her forehead.

“What time is it?” She stifled a yawn.

“Nearly nine.”

“Nine?” She started to sit up, but a jolt of pain shot through her arm. She gritted her teeth, just barely controlling an outburst. “I have to call Travis.”

“I already did.”

“Excuse me?” She must have misunderstood.

“I called Travis. He’s sending someone out to the highway to pick up the truck.”

Abigail struggled to a sitting position, using her good arm to hold the covers across her chest where the robe had come open while she slept. “You had no right to do that.”

“You’re definitely in no shape to drive home.”

She groaned out a frustrated exclamation.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“I don’t even know what to say to that.”

“Yes?”

“Since when did you become Travis’s best friend?”

“I told him about the stitches.”

“He already knew I had stitches.”

“You downplayed it. And we agreed it would be better for you to wait a day or two before going back to work.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“He offered to come and pick you up, but I told him I’d make sure you got home.”

“Seriously, Zach. You can’t just up and plan another person’s life.”