LITMIR.BIZ

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as he recalled how other women had reacted to him, screaming his name and cheering while he flung his hat across the arena in celebration of a great ride. Pressing around after the event as he loaded his gear into his truck. Sidling up to him in the bars the cowboys frequented. Offering to come to his hotel room, or inviting him to theirs. Depending on how pretty she was or how drunk he was, Seth had taken some of them up on their offers. They had never looked at him with pity.

      His blood pumped hard with rising anger. He sure as hell didn’t want Claire pitying him. He wanted that old sense of power, that cocksure attitude that had carried him to victory in and out of the arena. Sweat popped out on his forehead when he stood, and the ache in his leg threatened to lay him flat again. The anger turned into a hot, fluid rush of terror. What if he never got back to where he had been before the accident? What if it just never happened?

      Stop it! He forced his breathing back to normal. Chased the dread out of his mind. No way would he surrender to a broken leg. He’d faced injury before, and looked at death every time he settled on a bull’s back. This was just a bigger setback than most. Still, as he hobbled to the shower, uncertainty gripped his stomach, like a hunger he couldn’t sate.

      A hot shower and a big dose of ibuprofen eased the pain. He rubbed a hand over his freshly shaved jaw and splashed on aftershave. With a towel wrapped around his waist, he went to the closet in search of clothes. As usual, Libby had arranged his shirts by color and lined up a row of perfectly pressed jeans next to them. Maybe that was another reason she wanted him gone. Her life had been a lot simpler before he barged in. In all fairness, he had tried to convince her he could do his own laundry. He couldn’t help it if she was such a mother hen.

      He pulled out a pair of jeans, rummaged in his drawer for underwear and moved to the bed. One of these days, he’d be able to step into pants again like a normal human being. Since the surgery, he hadn’t been able to lift his left leg high enough to dress standing up. Instead, he had to sit and drag the pants on like an old man. It had absolutely infuriated him at first, but he’d grown resigned over the weeks. Either do it that way or go naked—not an option as long as he lived in somebody else’s house. At least he could put his boots on by himself now.

      He went back to the closet for a shirt, which he put on and tucked in. His eye caught a glimpse of his best pair of chaps hung across a heavy-duty hanger at the far end of the closet. He fingered the long, silky silver fringe, which feathered across his hand like a woman’s hair.

      On a whim, he pulled the chaps off the hanger and buckled them on, along with his other riding gear. Standing before the mirror, Seth allowed his gaze to run the length of his reflection, from the black hat cocked on his head to the crisp white shirt and black flak vest emblazoned with sponsor emblems, to the long shimmering fringe on black-and-red leather chaps, and to square-toed, spurred boots that had seen more than one rodeo.

      He lifted his eyes to stare at the oversize trophy buckle on his belt, the one for the win that was announced while he was en route to the hospital—his “Rotten buckle,” as he called it. Seth’s heart plummeted. The man in the mirror was the man he used to be. The man he still wanted to be. The man he might never be again.

      A bull rider—all he’d ever wanted to be.

      Seth snatched off the vest and chaps and threw them on the closet floor, followed by the trophy buckle. He found another, unassuming belt and took the spurs off his boots. He wasn’t going around pretending to be something he wasn’t, and right now he didn’t know what he was.

      He recalled Claire’s offer to help him rehab his leg. Maybe that wouldn’t be a bad idea. And Libby had him over a barrel. He’d do anything not to have to tangle with his dad right now. Maybe by the time summer was done, he would be healed enough to make a decision—one that might change him forever.

      MICAH SAT ON THE rickety front steps of his hotter’n hell trailer. Inside, his mother lay sprawled across her bed in a stupor, the result of cheap liquor and ill-gotten prescription drugs.

      Knee-high weeds surrounded the trailer and the rusting pickup truck parked alongside. It had sat there since Pop went to prison. When his mother had said he couldn’t drive it, Micah had taken it without permission. Until she’d thrown the keys somewhere out in the overgrown field, and he’d never been able to find them. What did it matter now? All the tires were flat and the truck probably wouldn’t start, anyway.

      Micah propped his elbow on his knee and rested his chin in his palm. Stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to do…His buddies wouldn’t be by today. Most of them were grounded for a month of Sundays for getting drunk and blowing up mailboxes last week. It had been fun while it lasted. Especially driving back around and laughing at the angry owners.

      Unfortunately, one of them had nailed the culprits. The boys would have to replace all the mailboxes with their own money and labor. The ones who had money would pay for the boxes, and the ones who didn’t, like Micah, would have to do the grunt work of digging out the old posts, pouring fast-acting concrete, setting the posts, waiting for the concrete to harden, then attaching the new mailboxes. A lot of payback for a quick thrill.

      Micah wasn’t grounded. His mother didn’t care if he blew up mailboxes. She didn’t care what he did as long as she had a stash of booze and pills. He closed his eyes, feeling the hot sun burn his face.

      At least he felt something, even if it was just physical. He’d long ago learned to zone out most of the emotional stuff. It had begun about the time his father lost his job with a big construction company, a good-paying job painting the walls of new buildings. When Micah was young, the family had enjoyed a decent life. They’d lived in a modest house in town, the truck had been new and shiny, and Micah was allowed to sit on his pop’s lap and “drive” down the dirt roads outside of town. His mother had been pretty and kept a tidy house and cooked good food. Life had been okay until three years ago, when his father got caught stealing some paint from work to make the house look better…and worse, the investigation revealed that he’d been sneaking other material out the gate for years. Ten in the pen.

      That was then, this is now. Micah shoved himself up from the porch, went down the steps to tinker with the rusted-out truck. If he could just get it going again, he’d be free….

      “GOOD MORNING.”

      Claire jumped at the sound of the deep voice. Her hand flew to her heart as she swiveled around in her chair. She’d been so lost in thought she hadn’t heard Seth come into the barn. He lounged against the door frame of her tiny office, arms crossed, watching her.

      “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

      “I’m not scared,” she said, her heart still double-timing. “Just startled. How long have you been there?”

      “Long enough to know you concentrate very well—and if I can sneak up on you, just about anybody could.”

      Claire found herself mesmerized by the steady eyes that locked with hers and wouldn’t let go. “That’s not good,” she said.

      “Depends on who’s sneaking, I guess.” Seth pushed away from the frame with his shoulder and shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “Well, I’m here to take that job offer, if it’s still open. Libby’s going to throw me to the wolves if I don’t.”

      Claire smiled. Any port in a storm, sometimes. Thanks, Libby. “I hate for you to be pushed into something you don’t want to do, but I am desperate.”

      “Like I said, I don’t have much choice, either.” He cleared his throat and added, “I was wondering about that therapeutic riding, too. Do you think it might heal my leg quicker?”

      “We could sure give it a try.”

      “I guess that sort of thing’s pretty expensive, though, and my insurance has paid all it’s going to for physical therapy.”

      “Therapy lessons aren’t cheap,” Claire agreed. “Most of my students are subsidized by donations.”

      “That’s what I figured,” Seth said, shrugging.

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