“He had one of them too. But he also had a stroke a few days ago. He’s home now, recovering, but it’s anyone’s guess what that will entail. Libby being there for him has been a godsend.”
Chance felt the air leak out of him like a balloon deflating. Things were worse than he imagined. Nodding at the older man, he thanked Ed Farley and then strode out of the showroom, finding sanctuary in the confining cabin of his truck.
He’d come to Cheyenne to tell Libby he’d missed her more than he thought possible, that he’d come to his senses, that she was what he needed to be complete.
He’d finally accepted who he was and who he wasn’t. And he’d come to terms with her leaving him and coming back to him. It had taken a lot of thought, and probably longer than it should have, but love finally won the battle.
Now, with things so bad with her father and Chance having left her when she needed him most, it might be too late.
Chapter 23
Libby heard the doorbell ring as she worked with her father on his arm exercises. The stroke had, gratefully, been a mild one, and the doctors had credited the aspirin she had given him and her quick response in getting an ambulance to the house for his condition not being worse.
His motor skills on his left side had been affected, but neither his vision nor speech had been impaired. Despite being in a wheelchair at the moment, his prognosis was good, but it would take a lot of work and care. They had a therapist coming to the house three days a week, since the first weeks of recovery were critical, and a nurse’s aide coming every weekday morning. The plumber had put safety bars in the master bathroom so her father could have support when taking care of the necessities, but he still needed her help.
Libby should have gone into nursing. Who knew that it would come in so handy these last few months between Chance and her father?
Chance…she’d hardly had time to think of him, and yet he always occupied the edges of her thoughts, regardless. She missed him. There were moments when she longed to simply escape into his strong arms and, for a moment, forget what had been thrown her way. But he wasn’t there and wasn’t likely to ever be there. She had to accept that her life had taken a different turn.
Maybe it was for the best. Maybe the fact her father needed her was why fate hadn’t allowed Chance to fall in love with her. But then why had fate allowed her to fall in love with him—or rather, to continue to love him, because she doubted she had ever fallen out of love.
The chimes rang again.
“You need to get that.” Her father’s voice was devoid of emotion or curiosity. He stated a flat fact. That had been indicative of his mood since he’d come home. Resigned, depressed, stoic.
“I’ll be right back,” Libby said, patting her father on the knee. Dressed in a new pair of sweats, something he would never have worn in the past, he sat, slumped in the wheelchair, a ghost of his former self.
He hadn’t given up as much as given in, and Libby was determined to change that mind-set.
Not wanting to leave her father too long, she scurried to the door and, without looking through the peephole, flung it open.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Chance stood before her dressed in a plaid western shirt, worn denim jeans, polished cowboy boots, and a familiar black Stetson covering his head, his face shadowed by its brim.
Libby took a deep breath and struggled to control the urge to fling herself in his arms and seek the strength she so desperately needed.
“Can I come in?” he asked, his voice low, his tone somber.
Momentarily unable to utter a sound, Libby moved aside and gestured for him to enter.
His spurs jangled with each step on the polished wood floor. He looked like he’d come straight from a rodeo, only his clothes weren’t covered in dust.
She closed the door, careful not to let it slam, as Cowboy came running toward them.
“Hey, little fella,” Chance said as he crouched on his haunches and rubbed the cat behind the ears. Cowboy purred loud enough for her to hear. “Miss me, did you?” Chance asked as he petted. Rising from his position, he turned to face her, his expression serious, too serious.
“Libby. Libby.” Her father’s voice was low and gravelly, having lost so much of its verve.
“I got it, Dad. I’ll be back in a minute,” she called, not wanting him to worry. She turned her attention to the heartbreaker cowboy who stood in her hallway beside the glass and metal console table.
“What are you doing here?” It came out more accusatory than she intended, but she was this side of exhausted—both physically and emotionally. She had no time for games and no desire to play them. She’d hung her heart out like a flashing Broadway sign, and he’d chosen not to see it. She wasn’t about to tiptoe around any issue.