Josh did as she bid, and was doing a darn good job of it. Or at least he was until she "helped him get started." He'd gotten himself almost supine when she slid her hands under him, one supporting his shoulders, the other the small of his back.
"Good. Now just relax, Josh," she said in a soft, smoky voice.
Relax? With her hands on him, feeling like liquid silk against his skin? With his face not six inches from her full breasts? With her looking at him with those wide, incredible eyes? Not much chance of that.
To his embarrassment, he started floundering like a fish on a hook, his arms and legs flailing. Certainly no one who saw him now would ever believe that he possessed an innate, nearly flawless sense of balance that had enabled him to win four consecutive world rodeo championships.
"Take it easy," she said. "Close your eyes and take slow, deep breaths. Hold on to the side with one hand and let yourself go limp. I've got you."
Limp. Yeah, right. Definitely not much chance of that. He snapped his eyes shut, grabbed the concrete edge of the pool, and forced himself to relax, one tense muscle at a time-a feat much easier to accomplish now that he wasn't looking at her, and easier still once he pretended she was an old man. With one tooth. And a grizzled beard.
But then her velvety-soft voice flowed over him once more. "Much better, Josh."
His eyes popped open and he found himself staring up into her lovely face, which hovered so tantalizingly close… so close he had only to reach up to tangle his fingers in her wet hair and pull her mouth down to his…
The flailing and splashing started all over again. If she'd let go of him, he'd have sunk like a millstone, arms and legs waving like a flag in a gale storm. Of course, if she hadn't been holding him, touching him in the first place, he wouldn't have been flopping around in such an undignified way. Damn it, it was downright humiliating that he couldn't master such a simple task. Not to mention aggravating. It left him feeling vulnerable in a way he couldn't recall ever before experiencing. Gritting his teeth, he squeezed his eyes shut once again, pulled together all his concentration, and forced himself to relax.
"Good," she said. "Now, I'm going to move, to stand behind you, by your head, and support your shoulders. Don't worry about sinking below the surface. I promise I won't let you. What I want you to do is to move your arms and legs slowly in the water, like you're making a snow angel. I bet you made a lot of those in Montana."
He kept his eyes firmly closed. "Sure did."
"Then you'll be an expert floater in no time. Just pretend you're lying in a pile of snow. Remember, relax, and balance. You don't have to let go of the side until you feel ready. There's no rush. I'm going to move now, so start making that angel."
Her arm slipped from beneath the small of his back. Focusing on the task for all he was worth, he followed her instructions, conjuring up a mental image of himself as a child, tossing his body into a snowdrift with youthful abandon to create white, frosty angels. That's it, old boy. Think snow. Ice. Relax and balance. As long as he kept his mind on the task at hand instead of on her, he'd be fine.
He moved his limbs slowly back and forth in the water, and the more he felt the tension ease from his shoulders, the more buoyant he became. Still, he'd best not relinquish his hold on the side yet.
"Tell me about your home, Josh," he heard her say, though she sounded muffled as his ears were under water. "What's it like in Manhattan, Montana?"
He grasped the opportunity to keep his thoughts away from her like a drowning man seizes a life ring, although he wryly admitted to himself that that was not a good analogy under the present circumstances.
" Manhattan is beautiful. Peaceful." One corner of his mouth quirked upward. "They don't call Montana 'Big Sky Country' for nothing. The sky is so blue it can make your eyes hurt to look at it. The air is crisp and clean, and the mountains look close enough to reach out and touch. Manhattan 's rural, lots of wide-open spaces, but the town itself has everything anyone could need-movie theater, restaurants, lots of businesses and shops and such."
"Do you live on a ranch?"
"I do. On a small spread my dad and I bought together last year. Before that I lived and worked at the Dry Creek Ranch where Dad was foreman."
"Does he still work there?"
The familiar grief rolled through him, tightening his throat. "No. He died. Six months ago. On the job. Heart attack."
He felt her fingers flex on his shoulders blades. "I'm so sorry."
A long breath eased from his lips. "Me, too. My dad was a great guy. Patient, kind, always had a friendly word for everyone, no matter how ornery they might be. And I've never met anyone who could handle animals the way he could. He had a true gift."
His dad's weather-beaten features, blue eyes crinkling at the corners, rose in his mind's eye. He could almost hear Dad's husky-timbered voice say, Let go of the edge now, son. A man can't succeed if he doesn't try, and if he's gonna try, he's gotta try his best.
Slowly, one finger at a time, Josh let go of the edge. He felt himself dip lower in the water, but true to her promise, Lexie didn't let him sink below the surface. Balance and relax. He gently swished both arms through the water, delight and surprise filling him when he actually remained afloat.
"What about the rest of your family?" came her next muffled question.
"Don't have much, except my uncle and two cousins in Texas. We only see each other maybe once a year, if that. No brothers or sisters, and my mom passed away when I was twelve. After she died, Dad and I moved out to Dry Creek Ranch."
"Your dad never remarried?"
"No. Over the years there were a few ladies whose company he enjoyed, and Lord knows, plenty of women batted their eyes in his direction, but he died loving my mother. They were high school sweethearts. They'd been married fifteen years when she died, but they'd still acted like kids on a date. Huggin' and kissin' and holding hands."
He thought he heard her blow out one of those feminine, dreamy sighs. "That's lovely. Romantic. And sad. And… lovely."
"Yeah. They were great together. And she sure was a great mom. I remember coming home from school, doing my homework at the kitchen table. Mom would chat with me while she rolled out dough for another loaf of bread she would either burn or undercook." A chuckle worked its way up his throat. "Man, oh, man, she made the worst bread in the world, but she was determined. Can't tell you how many loaves Dad and I slathered butter on and bravely ate because she'd tried so hard. She had a beautiful smile. It lit up her whole face. I remember she smelled like chocolate-chip cookies. She baked them for me every Monday. She burned those a lot, too, but I ate them anyway. They're still my favorite…"
His voice trailed off as a barrage of memories assaulted him… of himself, after his mother's death, angry at the world and the insidious cancer that had taken her so cruelly and quickly, leaving a yawning hole in his heart where her love and laughter and smiles had always dwelt.
And of Dad, so heartbroken that Josh feared he'd lose him, too. The man didn't eat, didn't sleep. Six months after his mother died, he woke up in the middle of the night and found Dad sitting in Mom's favorite easy chair. Tears streamed silently down Bill Maynard's face as he clutched his dead wife's favorite flannel shirt to his chest. It was threadbare at the elbows and faded from hundreds of washings. It used to be Dad's shirt, but he'd loaned it to her on their first date to a high school football game, and the shirt, along with Dad, had been hers from that day forward.
He'd looked at his father, his tears falling onto that soft cotton, and all the grief he'd stored inside came pouring out like a burst dam. They'd spent the rest of the night talking. About her. About the million things they loved about her. As dawn broke, they agreed that living in their small house, where she permeated every corner of every room, was too painful. She'd made the cozy space into a place filled with love, but it wasn't home without her. Better to keep it a happy home and let another family enjoy it. They sold it to a young couple with a baby on the way, then moved out to the Dry Creek, their memories of Maggie Maynard stored in boxes and embedded in their hearts. It had taken them a while to find their footing again, but they'd eventually succeeded.