He wanted to fight with her because he hated so much of himself and his condition. This was not him, this cripple, this drunkard, this miscreant malcontent. In his old life, before his own father had had him kidnapped and then refused to pay the ransom, none of this would be happening.

“I don’t know if you should be walking.”

As Shelby spoke, he swung his “good” bad leg out because the knee didn’t like bending, and then relied on her to carry his weight because the ankle he’d just hurt wouldn’t have any of it. “Of course I shouldn’t. You’ve seen me naked. You know how bad off I am.”

After all, she’d caught him in the bath … when she had barged past a closed door, clearly expecting to find him dead and floating in the tub.

“I’m worried about your ankle.”

He gritted his teeth. “Such a Good Samaritan.”

“I’m calling the doctor.”

“No, you’re not.”

As they emerged into the sunlight, he blinked, although not because he was hungover. One had to be sober for that. And indeed, compared to the coolness of the stables, the golden morning air felt like cashmere against his prickling skin, and oh, the view. All around, the rolling blue-grass fields with their five-rail fences and solitary maples were a balm to the soul, a promise of succor to the impeccable equine bloodlines that would wander and crop at the segregated meadows as they bore forth future generations of Derby and stakes champions.

Even Triple Crown winners.

The earth and its bounties could be trusted, Edward thought. Trees could be relied upon to provide shade in summer’s heat, and thunder-heads never failed to give you rain, and brooks might swell in the spring and go dry in the fall, but a man could predict their seasons. Hell, even the fury of tornadoes and snowstorms had rhythms that were not personal and never, ever unscrupulous.

Whatever wrath might come down from the heavens was not directed upon any specific person: Although one might feel targeted, in fact, that was never the case.

The same was true for horses and dogs, barn cats and raccoons, even the lowly, ugly possum and the snakes who ate their young. For certain, his stallion, Neb, was a mean cur, but that animal never pretended to be aught than he was. He didn’t smile in your face and then tear into your back as you turned away.

Humans were so much more dangerous than so-called “unpredictable” animals and finger-of-God events.

And yes, that made him bitter.

Then again, he was bitter about most things these days.

By the time he and Shelby came up to the caretaker’s cottage, his internal rants were tempered by the pain that had bubbled through his intoxication, as if the overload to his nervous system forced so much electrical impulse to his brain that his synapses had no choice but to downgrade his pessimism.

The old door creaked as Shelby pushed it wide, and the one-room interior was as dark as night, the heavy wool drapes pulled closed, the sole light in the galley kitchen like a coal miner’s helmet lamp, dulled and at a loss to cover all its territory. The furniture was sparse, cheap and old, the opposite of the precious things he’d grown up with at Easterly—although he supposed that the shelves of sterling silver racing trophies across the way did hold a certainly commonality.

Breaking free of his human crutch, he shambled over to his armchair, the ratty, Archie Bunker–deep seat cupping his weight like a meatpacker’s palm. His head fell back and he breathed through his mouth while attempting not to inflate his ribs any more than he absolutely had to.

A tugging on his right foot had him looking down. “What are you doing?”

Shelby’s blond head was angled at his boot, her workman’s hands moving so much faster over those laces than his ever could. “I’m taking this off so I can see how bad your ankle is.”

Edward opened his mouth, a sarcastic bomb on the tip of his tongue.

But God curbed his crassness as that boot came off with a roar. “Damn it!”

“I think you’ve broken it.”

Bracing his hands against the armchair, his heart jumped rope with his ribs. And when all that passed, he sagged.

“I’ll bring my truck around—”

“No!” He puffed through his clenched teeth. “You are doing no such thing.”

As Shelby looked up at him from the floor, in the back of his mind, he took note of how rare it was for her to meet his eyes. She was always willing to parry his verbal jabs, but rarely would her stare linger anywhere near his.

Her eyes were … rather extraordinary. Rimmed with thick, dark, natural lashes, they had flecks of the dawn light in their sky blue color.

“If you’re not gonna go to the hospital, what’s the name of your private physician? And do not pretend you don’t got one. You’re a Bradford.”

“Not anymore, darling.”

She winced at the sobriquet, as if recognizing that she was not the sort of woman that would ever be called such, especially not by someone with his pedigree. And he was ashamed to admit it, but he’d wanted to hurt her for no good reason.

No, actually, that wasn’t true. The lack of a reason, that was.

Shelby had an unerring ability to catch him in vulnerable moments, and the defensive part of him hated her for it.

“How long did you take care of your father?” he demanded.

“All my life.”

Jeb Landis had been a terrible drinker, gambler, womanizer … He had known horses, though. And had taught Edward all he knew at a time when Edward had never thought of going into the racing business as anything other than a rich man’s hobby—and certainly never envisioned himself employing the man’s daughter.

Hell, he hadn’t even known Jeb had a child.

For some reason, Edward found himself wondering how many sarcastic cuts Shelby had taken over the years, the ego-draining obstacle course presented by her miscreant sire training her well … for her going on to care for exactly the kind of man Edward had become.

It was as if Jeb, in sending her here, had been determined that his cruelty survive his grave.

Edward sat forward. Reaching out a trembling hand, he touched Shelby’s face. He’d expected her skin to be rough. It was not.

As she recoiled away, he focused on her lips. “I want to kiss you.”

Back at Lizzie’s farmhouse, Lane stared out at the rising sun as her words hung in the quiet air between them.