Page 3 of My Match with the Cowboy (Sterling Brothers Ranch #4)

TWO

IMOGEN

M iss Iris is a local legend, the other nurses claim. She’s been a staple of the community for decades, has done more for the town than most, and it was apparently devastating when she decided to hand over the keys of her iconic bar to someone else.

I still don’t know all the lore surrounding the town of Willow Ridge, but it’s a little intimidating standing before someone held in such high regard.

Maybe under other circumstances, it would be a little too much.

But this is exactly what I need to keep my mind off my grandfather’s death and everything that came with it.

Bury myself in work and forget the last couple of weeks.

The elderly woman watches me with narrowed eyes as I make her bed. The small studio is tight with an overstuffed armchair, a TV, a dining table full of flowers, one huge bookshelf stuffed to the brim with old books, and her support bed that has more blankets than I own piled on top.

“It’s going to start cooling down now in the evenings, and I need my blankets. None of that fake warmth,” Miss Iris says, waving her hand as I fold another throw blanket to add to the end of the bed. “I miss my fireplace.”

I give her a sympathetic smile. I’ve read her file, listened to the rundown on what her needs are, and yet, as I watch her knit in the old armchair, I can’t help but wonder why she can’t have this care at home. Surely, a legend like her has plenty of people on her side prepared to help her.

But I also know from her files she doesn’t have any family.

“How cold does it get here?” I ask, folding the final blanket and setting it down so it at least looks intentional. Not my best work, but her bed is made, blankets folded, and I have a load of laundry to run for her next bed change.

“Cold,” is all she says, following me with her eyes as I pick up the basket with her dirty sheets and start for the washer and dryer in the bathroom.

I try not to let her chilly vibe get to me. Of course, she’s going to be a little standoffish. Her usual nurse is on maternity leave, and she doesn’t know me. It was a last minute adjustment, and the last thing we want to do is upset the patients who are used to their routines and familiar faces.

It’s not Iris’s fault for the changes. It’s just chance that I transferred here and they put me on her rotation.

I’m glad I have something else to think about other than what’s waiting for me at home.

The house Grandpa left me isn’t in the best shape. And I wouldn’t really call it a house, but more a cabin. Hell, it’s not even that.

At least the water runs. And there’s a fireplace.

I don’t even know how to manage that.

I sigh, throw the sheets in the machine, and set it to a full cycle.

When I walk into the main living space, Miss Iris looks up from her knitting, brows furrowed. “Where are you from?” she asks, setting the needles down.

“Denver,” I reply, smiling stiffly. “I grew up there.”

I can’t tell if she’s curious or critical when she narrows her eyes. “And what brings you to Willow Ridge?”

Should I tell her the truth? She’s got that…aura of attentiveness that makes you want to spill your darkest secrets to her. I mean, she used to be a bartender, so it makes sense. How many sad stories similar to mine had she heard during her years running the town’s most famous bar?

Probably too many. Enough for a lifetime. And likely more that were actually sad.

“I just needed a fresh start,” I tell her, half-true. “My grandfather passed, and he left me a place nearby. Decided I should relocate.”

Miss Iris’s dark eyes meet mine, the furrow of her brows deepening. “That’s not all though, is it?” She points one of her needles at me. “Give me something good at least. Especially before my date arrives.”

I raise a brow at her as I check my watch. Almost time for her afternoon meds, and then a nap—though by the sounds of it, she won’t want the latter.

“Date?” I start for her little kitchen, which is overflowing with floral patterns—mugs, glasses, plates, and even washcloths. All flowers. “When will that happen?”

“Whenever the little asshole appears,” she snaps. “Come on.”

I sigh, turning back to her, and I lean against the counter. “My grandfather passed recently, and he gave almost everything to his new girlfriend.”

Miss Iris’s mouth pops open in disbelief. “Oh,” she says. “He had one of those .”

“One of those?” I cross my arms. “What does that mean?”

“He had a tart and maybe an STD.” She barks a laugh and sets her project down on her lap. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

I shrug, though my throat tightens with emotion. “Death happens,” I say, and I mean it. Grandpa wasn’t the first person I lost. My parents both died when I was young, and he was all I had left.

Something in Miss Iris’s stare softens the longer we stare at one another. The critical way she looked at me before morphs into pity.

It’s something I can’t take. Because if I let her soften me, then I’ll break.

And I’ve done so well holding myself together since Grandpa’s death.

I’ve kept myself busy finishing my studies and getting relocated. I don’t need to be getting close to anyone again.

I clear my throat and push away from the counter.

“What are you having for lunch with your meds?” I ask, moving to the fridge.

I open the door and breathe in that stale, refrigerator smell.

It turns my stomach in the same way the old one at the cabin does.

“You’ve got some pre-made meals here. I see fettuccini, meatloaf, and something with chicken. ”

Miss Iris groans; the armchair creeks as she rises, drawing my attention back to her.

She’s bone thin from the cancer wrecking her body.

She’s not sick enough for hospice, which is how she’s decided to go, but I get why she can’t stay in her own home alone.

Here, at least, she’s safe. There’s staff checking in twenty-four-seven, alert buttons everywhere, and after she broke her hip—when she was allowed to live at home—she had to come here.

I go to take a step towards her, but she waves a hand. The walker is right by her armchair, but she ignores it as she makes her way to the dining table.

“I could have warmed it and brought the lap table over,” I tell her, keeping my voice soft.

She grunts, sitting at the table. “I will not admit defeat,” she replies without looking at me. “Give me the thing with chicken. I won’t complain.”

I press my lips together and pull the container out. As I do, a knock sounds at the door to her apartment.

“Your date?” I ask, glancing at her, then the door.

A smile unfurls across her face. “Get the door,” she says. “We’re eating good today.”