LITMIR.BIZ

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sure she does.”

      “Once I was the designated driver when her designated driver failed in his designated task.”

      Matt smiled without looking at the kid. Craig’s use of vocabulary slayed him.

      “So what shall we get?” he asked a half hour later as Craig pulled a cart out of the line.

      “We start with some real cereal.”

      “Wheaties aren’t real?”

      Craig shook his head and grabbed a box of Cap’n Crunch.

      “Would your mother approve?”

      “She practically has stock in the company. Check her purse. You’ll find a plastic bag full of the Cap’n.” Craig looked over his glasses. “For emergencies, of course.”

      “Of course,” Matt said, adding a box of Wheaties to the cart. “What else?”

      Craig led him through the aisles. In addition to his usual staples—steak, hamburger, salami, bread, eggs, milk, cheese, Pop-Tarts—Matt bought crackers and peanut butter, chocolate milk, frozen pizzas...lots of frozen pizzas...Hot Pockets, frozen dinners and a watermelon. Willa was allergic and never bought watermelon, so Matt gave in and bought a melon that the two of them would never get eaten. Not alone anyway.

      “Is this everything?” Matt asked before they got to the checkout stand, a bit in awe of the sheer amount of food in the cart—most of it of the snack variety.

      Craig’s expression changed. “Did Mom give you enough money?”

      “More than I need,” Matt said. “I was being literal. I hate shopping and don’t want to come back.”

      “If you let me drive—”

      Matt just shook his head and started for the nearest checkout stand, wishing he’d seen that Dirk Benson, the assistant manager of the store, was behind the register before he’d pushed the cart to the stand.

      “Hey, Dirk,” he said, pulling out the wallet he wouldn’t be needing for a while, what with the amount of food Dirk was going to ring up.

      Dirk called for backup, aka a courtesy clerk, and started sliding items over the scanner. He was almost done when he asked, “So what’s going on with you and Ryan Madison?”

      And just when Matt thought he was going to get out of there without an inquisition. He should have known better. Dirk’s son had rodeoed with Matt and Dirk and took local rodeo very seriously.

      “In what way?” Matt asked, knowing full well in what way, but not wanting to talk about it in front of the kid.

      “In the way that he did a lot better than you did at the NFR last year, what with him qualifying and all.”

      Matt nodded congenially, determined not to let the guy get to him. Dirk had never forgiven Matt for being a better athlete than his own son. Add to that the fact that Dirk’s kid and Ryan had buddied up in college and, yeah, Dirk was no Matt Montoya fan.

      “And now he’s pretty close to qualifying again and even though you’ve got a lot more earnings, doesn’t look like you’ll be adding to them.”

      Matt smiled tightly, then swiped his card with a quick motion that he hoped conveyed his feelings, as in...shut up, Dirk.

      “There’s a big purse for the challenge,” Dirk continued. “And Madison will probably win.” He blinked innocently at Matt. “What with you being injured and all.”

      “Don’t write me off.” Matt shoved his wallet deep into his back pocket and rearranged two of the bags that were balanced precariously on top of the load in the cart.

      “You saying you’ll be able to come back in time?”

      “Take it however you want,” Matt said as he loaded the last bag—the one Dirk had missed because he’d been so busy talking. And yes, he’d be back. He had a month and a half.

      “What’s he talking about?” Craig asked as they walked through the automatic doors and he tried to keep up with Matt, who was moving pretty good despite his knee.

      “Nothing.”

      “Sounded like something.”

      “Sounding like something and being something are not the same thing,” Matt muttered.

      “You don’t want to talk about it.”

      Matt hit the unlock button on his keys. “Who’s cooking tonight?”

      “I cooked last night.”

      “Pop-Tarts don’t count.”

      “I can’t cook.”

      “As I see it, you have all day to learn. Maybe a little internet research. We got a lot to work with here.”

      “What are you going to do while I research recipes?”

      “Practice.” He spent hours every day roping a dummy from both the ground and horseback. Next week he’d start roping calves again.

      “For your big comeback?”

      Matt exhaled. “Yeah. For my big comeback.”

      * * *

      “I DIDN’T EXPECT you to get home so late.” Tim slowly got up from his chair as Liv walked through the front door. He was trying hard to look normal, but wasn’t quite succeeding. Pain pinched his features.

      Liv hadn’t had a chance to talk to him before she’d left for practice, since he’d still been on the baler proving himself to be hale and hearty, so she’d made dinner and left it in the warming oven, loaded Beckett and left. It had taken everything she had not to march across the hayfield and rap on the tractor door to tell her father that he’d made his point—he was getting better—and he didn’t need to kill himself to prove it.

      But she hadn’t. Maybe once he got the hay knocked down, he’d set a more reasonable pace. One thing she knew for certain was that if she made a big deal, or continued to make a big deal, then her father’s stubbornness would kick into overdrive.

      “Did you eat?” Liv asked, walking past him and into the kitchen. The dishes were done and the food was put away. She turned back to find her father standing in the doorway, looking pale. “Don’t do the kitchen stuff,” she said sternly. “That’s my job.”

      “I’m used to doing the kitchen stuff.”

      “Well, then there’s no reason we can’t switch off for the day. I’ll handle the hay and you can take care of the cooking.”

      Haying wasn’t rocket science, but Tim had always insisted on doing it himself. When she was younger, Liv had thought Tim did everything around the ranch because he had an old-fashioned notion of men’s and women’s work, but now she suspected it was because he didn’t like to delegate. He was a man who depended on himself and only himself—end of story. He’d let her work by his side, which he had done while she’d stayed with him, finding it a way they could spend time together but not have to talk. But he flat out refused to let her take over operations.

      “I’ll do the field work.”

      Liv leaned back against the counter, folding her arms over her chest as she studied the closed-off man standing near the table.

      “How’re you feeling?” she asked flatly. Liv was not a fan of direct confrontation, thanks to all those years of training from her mother, but she’d just spent an entire evening out of her comfort zone, so a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

      “How am I feeling?” Tim asked stonily. Liv couldn’t say his barriers went up, because with her father they were never truly down, but he wasn’t in any hurry to answer. It was as if he hoped that if he stared her down long enough, she’d say, “Oh, never mind.” She didn’t, even though it was tempting, and he finally

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