Chance shook his head as if he couldn’t believe that. Or wouldn’t.
She had hoped he would have softened toward his mother. But it appeared too many layers of protection had been built up over the years to allow a simple explanation to undo it all. And then she had added to those layers.
“Did you go to where she lived?”
His question caught her off guard.
“Yes. I got the address and phone number from my dad. She had gotten in touch with him a few years ago to see if he knew where you were. Seems she’d known we’d dated. She’d gone to school with my mother, so they’d been acquainted at one time.”
“What kind of place was it?” Chance resumed looking at the bar top.
“Where your mom lives? It’s decent. It’s a small apartment in Portland, but cozy. Clean.”
And on the mantel were pictures of a young Chance. Happy. Smiling for the camera. And one with him sitting contentedly on his mother’s lap, another with his hand in an older man’s—the same picture she’d seen on Chance’s mantel in his great room.
“She said she didn’t need any money.”
“She looked comfortable enough, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“But you decided to interfere anyway.” He took a long sip from the bottle and stared after the bartender.
“I just thought…”
He swung his gaze in her direction again and assessed her with clear-eyed skepticism. “I know what you thought. If only I could see my mother’s side to things, all would be right.”
“I just felt you’d like to know about her.”
“No, you thought I should want to know about her.”
“Yes, all right?” Libby couldn’t hide her frustration. “Did you at least give her a chance to tell her side?”
He nodded, and she said a silent prayer of thanks for small favors.
“I’ll admit, things aren’t as clear cut as I thought, but all that means is that the prospect for getting hurt in this world is pretty much guaranteed.”
“A lot like bronc riding, then. Getting hurt being pretty much guaranteed, I mean.”
He snorted. “I guess so.”
“And still you get back on that saddle and ride, even after being hurt. Even knowing getting hurt is more a question of when than of if.”
He stared at her a minute, as if considering. “Only this hurt is deeper—and lasts longer.”
Libby could see it in his sad eyes. She’d opened up old wounds, wounds that went beyond his mother, wounds that led to her. She’d so wanted this to work. But he wouldn’t let it work, ever.
“I never thought you were scared of anything.” Had she thought about it, she wouldn’t have blurted out such a thing as soon as it popped into her head. But maybe he needed to hear it.
“I’m not.”
“You are. You’re scared of getting hurt. More than of being alone in this crazy world. But have you thought about when there are no more broncs to ride? No more events to enter? When you truly are alone. I know you think you’re cut out to be a loner, but I know you. You need someone in your life. Someone who loves you. Someone you can love. I want to be that person.”
He stood up. “I need to go, Libby. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”
With that, he walked away and took her hopes with him.
Chapter 21
The announcer at the Pendleton Rodeo called out Chance’s name, and he settled onto the bronc. With music blaring, the gate opened, and the thunder of hooves mingled with the roar of the crowd. Five seconds, six seconds, twist, turn, the buzzer. Chance hung on, waited for the pick-up man to close in as the horse continued whirling and bucking.
“Let me down easy,” he told the rider as he was lifted off the bronc. They all knew about his injury, but it didn’t hurt to remind them. Some days the thing throbbed and swelled up so that he could hardly put a boot on. But each time slightly less.
When he felt the hard turf under his soles, he settled his legs and looked up into the crowd. What he was looking for, he wouldn’t admit, not even to himself. But as he scanned the seats closest to the rail, his eye caught a flutter of blue, a head of brassy blonde hair, and a face he could never forget even if he tried—and he’d given up trying. Deidre Cochran was staring right at him. She waved as she realized he’d spotted her.
Without waving back, he lumbered off, lifting his hat to the audience before he slipped behind the iron-bar gate and headed down the cinderblock alleyway. What was Deidre doing at the rodeo? Why was she turning up in his life? What would he do if she showed up at the locker room?
He’d be polite, of course. But he had to make it clear he didn’t want to be part of her life. But the question of what she wanted gnawed at him like a beaver working wood.