Gone Country (Central Texas #3)

1. Kit

1

KIT

My knee, which I’d darn near ruined on the rodeo circuit some twenty years ago, loathed my very existence. I laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling while I contemplated my life’s choices.

As owner of the Baker Dude Ranch along with other vacation rental properties, I didn’t have time for this mess, and knowing my day was already hosed at five a.m. made me want to punch something. Possibly my own face. After all, I was the one who’d insisted on doing all the things I’d already hired other people to do.

Lane, my right-hand guy, had fussed at me when he caught me mucking out the stalls yesterday, and I’d ignored him. I was paying for that hubris with interest this morning.

Deep breaths, Kit. Deep breaths. It’ll be better once your muscles are warmed up.

Ignoring the growing concern in my gut, I sat up . . . and then almost passed out. Once I got my bearings, I twisted toward the edge of the bed and put my foot down on the floor, letting out a string of expletives. I glared at the time on my phone and pushed myself to standing.

Good news: I didn’t throw up on myself.

Bad news: I couldn’t fully extend the leg.

That, plus the sensation of a thousand hot knives jamming into the back of my knee, was probably a bad sign.

Just get through today, Christopher.

By the way, you know it’s a bad day when you’re proper first-naming yourself.

I cursed all the way through my morning ablutions. I considered grabbing the knee brace I’d stuffed in the back of my towel closet, then discarded the idea when I thought about how tortuous it’d be to strap into the damned thing.

How many times had Skylar told me to slow down and stay in the dang brace?

A newer acquaintance in my tiny friend group, Skylar was an orthopedic nurse practitioner and a professional sugar baby—a confusing and heretofore unheard-of combination of careers. To be fair, I only knew about the sugar baby thing because I’d overheard Rowdy talking to Woody about it.

I didn’t pick up on everything, only that Rowdy was worried for his friend, which worried me. I’d liked Skylar from the first time I met him—he’d been flirty, but took no shit, and had helped me with a bout of knee pain. The makeup and styled hair took some getting used to, but Rowdy thought he was good people, and that was good enough for me.

Beyond that, my ex-wife liked to say that assumptions made assholes out of otherwise intelligent people, so I tried to judge people by their actions. When the knee’d become unbearable again, I called the number Skylar had given me and he came out the next day, all the way from Austin. It’d be easy to paint him with a certain type of brush, but he was saucy and bossy and generous, and I could find no fault in that.

He’d become saucier in recent weeks, warning me that these visits of his were merely a stop-gap measure. The last time Sky worked me over, he’d begged me to get the knee imaged. I’d become (predictably) ornery at the suggestion and refused.

Not like I’d ever admit it, but that might have been a mistake. The Baker stubbornness, likely branded on my DNA, had extended to my all-out refusal to buy myself a cane or any kind of walking support. It was this shortsightedness which made the long journey from my bedroom to the kitchen a well-deserved lesson in agony.

I finally limped into the breakfast nook, where my son was sitting at the table, the morning sun setting fire to his light brown hair, which was still messy from sleep. Reed Harrison Baker—both the light of my life and an entire pain in my ass—was a senior prom oops I’d never once regretted.

Reed shook his Totoro plushie at me in greeting, then tucked it under his chin before pulling up the text-to-voice app on his iPad. He typed for a few seconds before hitting the Send button.

“You were cursing this morning,” the mechanical voice said in a posh British accent. “Tsk, tsk. I’m buying us a swear jar.”

Our junior horse trainer, Stevie, had told him about her family’s swear jar, and Reed’d been vying for one ever since.

“It’s my knee,” I muttered, catching myself before stumbling toward the coffee station. “And we are not getting a swear jar.”

“C’mon, Dad,” he responded, sounding like a disappointed English librarian with a loose servo, “Do it for the plot.”

I chuckled. For a guy with nonverbal autism, Reed was a lot funnier than most people gave him credit for.

“Also, Lane said you did too much yesterday.” He ducked his head, pressing his chin into his plushie, a sure sign he was stressed out.

“Lane needs to mind his own business,” I sniped.

Even if he was right, who the hell cared if I want to muck out my own stalls?

“I made your coffee like you like it,” the mechanical voice said as Reed pointed to the steaming French press on the buffet.

While I appreciated the change in subject, I knew the fancy caffeine was a ploy. Reed, who turned twenty-one last month, had been asking to move into the old foreman’s apartment in our training barn. My ex, Cynthia, was open to the idea, but I was finding it difficult to adjust to our son’s newfound desire for independence. Problem was, I had a damn good memory, and it wasn’t that long ago when everything overwhelmed him, and the smallest upset would result in dramatic, hours-long meltdowns.

I promised him I was getting there, but it would take a minute.

I needed coffee before I could engage in this particular battle of wills, so I reached for a mug and hellfire . The move shot an arrow of pain right through the angry joint. Cursing a blue streak, I dropped into my chair and tried not to throw up. Seriously, it was like someone was stabbing the back of my knee with a red-hot poker.

Tap-tap-tap. “Do you need me to call Mom?”

I held up my hand. “Don’t do that. Just pour me a cup and I’ll be fine.”

I could get my own damned coffee, but I needed to distract Reed from calling my ex. He pressed his chin into Totoro a few times, then jerkily grabbed the abandoned mug and carefully poured the coffee. He set it in front of me, swaying as I waited for the nausea to pass.

The sharpest part of the pain didn’t last long, and as soon as I knew I wasn’t going to throw it up, I took a sip to show him I was fine. Only, the coffee was so good I cursed again. Reed sent me a proud little smile. Bastard knew what he was doing.

“Honestly, if you’re trying to bribe me into okaying the apartment, this coffee might push me over the edge.”

He pumped his fist, and I chuckled. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to give Reed his own space. As I was considering this, though, I caught his shifting expression.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, wary.

He pointed at my knee, then typed, “You need to wear your brace. And have that pretty ortho come out to look at your knee again.”

I froze for a second. “How do you know about Skylar?”

The folks out here liked to put their noses where they didn’t belong, so I tended to ask Skylar to come by when I knew no one would see him. Had Reed seen him leaving my place?

“I follow him online.”

How the hell had he found Skylar’s account? I wasn’t a huge fan of Sky’s sugar baby lifestyle page, but I’d felt like I had to keep an eye on him after he’d helped me with my knee. Reed’s eyebrows met, and he sent me a confused look, then started typing.

“You showed me his page when my wrist started hurting. He helped you with your knee before, right?”

Oh, right.

I’d found Skylar’s sugar baby account after I saw it on Rowdy’s phone and completely forgot about his alternate account for his adventures in fashion, makeup, and orthopedic physical therapy.

Come to think of it, the sugar baby account was probably his alternate account.

When Reed complained about how his wrists had ached from hours of holding his iPad, I’d shown him a few of Sky’s posts. Reed then DM’d him—I didn’t know my son knew how to do that—and Sky’d responded immediately. Reed was currently using the grip Sky had recommended.

“You okay, Dad?” the mechanical voice inquired as my son nuzzled the stuffy.

Was it weird that I could hear the uncertainty in his digital voice?

“Sure, son. Just . . . lots to do today. Got that big wedding this afternoon.”

More tapping. “Get your knee looked at, or I’m going to tell Mom when she gets back.”

I raised my brow, and he responded by curling in on himself, his nearly silent laugh both the joy and bane of my existence. He would totally tell Cynthia about my knee and then my ex-wife would lovingly nag me until I caved.

Fine , I signed, jamming my thumb into my sternum. More nearly silent laughing as Reed rocked back and forth. Setting down his iPad, he signed back Silly Dad , the gestures awkward since he still had Totoro tucked under his chin.

While Reed preferred the voice-to-text app, we all learned ASL so he could express himself when the iPad wasn’t the right tool for the situation. More often than not, the signs came out for the purposes of snark and teasing.

“Yeah, yeah. Silly Dad.” I winced as my knee throbbed. “But yes, I’ll get a hold of Sky after I’m done with my to-do list.”

Sky? he signed, gesturing an arc over his head.

“It’s what his friends call him,” I answered, feeling a little self-conscious.

Promise to text him?

Yes, I promise.

Having both bribed and bullied me, Reed stuffed Totoro and the iPad into his Totoro-shaped backpack and went out to work with the horses. Stevie—of the swear jar contingent—was a massive fan of the animated Studio Ghibli movies, and Reed’s obsession with My Friend Totoro was a cornerstone of their deep and abiding friendship.

Now that he was off, I got to the business of the day. Besides taking a double dose of Naproxen, I’d planned on staying off my feet and just being available to the staff who were handling the wedding.

Best laid plans, and all that.

While the ceremony started off without a hitch, we got wind of a jail break right as the couple was saying their I do’s. I had adopted several exotics from my buddy Woody’s sanctuary, and one of my giraffes was moseying down the two-lane after several of the Dalls—those dang troublesome sheep—had once again shredded my fence.

Lane offered to handle it, but he had other fish to fry, so I waved him off and saddled up my working horse, Orion. I had to use a mounting block, but thankfully no one was around to see it.

Stevie, who was also Woody’s stepdaughter, was familiar with my runaways, so she joined me and the two of us were able to wrangle all the escapees. To be fair, she did all the wrangling while I barked out instructions from my horse and tried not to fall off.

Thankfully, the wedding party loved the impromptu parade of animals, which became the backdrop for several of their photos. Here’s hoping they remember to tag us when they post their pictures on social media.

That wasn’t the afternoon’s only disaster, and I didn’t lead Orion into the stables until the sun had already started dipping below the horizon. Reed came out to greet me, a disgruntled look on his face as he held his Totoro squishy in a death grip. I should’ve switched over to the golf cart after rounding up the animals, but it was hard to pull me off the horse once I got up there.

I gingerly dismounted Orion—without the mounting block—and smiled through the agony, all the while hoping Reed didn’t see the flop sweat on my upper lip. Gravity had other plans with my dignity, though, and two seconds later I was looking up at my son from the dirt.

Reed started signing in a rush. Ambulance? Hospital? Lane?

“No,” I choked out, then switched to sign. Don’t get Lane. One minute.

Pretty man, he signed. S-K-Y-L-A-R. Knee. Now.

“I know, son. I know. Calling him as soon as I get in.”

Cancel McKenzie?

“Don’t cancel your date on my behalf. I’ll be fine.”

You’ll call?

“Yes, I’ll text him.”

Standing with my son’s help was an adventure, and I threw up canteen water the second I was upright.

Call now, he signed furiously.

Yes, yes. I will.

Against my express wishes, Reed texted Lane to take care of Orion, then insisted on putting me in the damned cart. He drove me home and helped me into the living room. He then sat me down on the couch and gave me Totoro to hold while he gently elevated my leg and set me up with a frozen gel pack resting on the throbbing joint.

“You’re being a mother hen,” I teased, knowing it would provoke a response. “I thought autistic people didn’t have any empathy.”

Reed grabbed his iPad, and furious tapping ensued. “You’re thinking of psychopathy. And I haven’t killed you in your sleep yet, so . . .”

I gave a dry laugh. “I should be grateful, then. But you’ve got a date and you need to stop fussing with me.”

Fine , he signed, then took off to his mom’s house—just on the other side of the main building—to get ready.

Remembering it was my turn to drive the two lovebirds on their date, I texted Cynthia, who, after some light fussing about going to see the doctor, said she was happy to sub in for me. I sighed, grateful she and I could still work together.

I got comfortable and pulled up Skylar’s social media. He hadn’t posted to his sugar baby account in a few days, and it worried me. I hoped he was okay.

Not sure if he knew I followed his spicier account, I quickly switched over to his therapy/lifestyle account and was surprised to see he’d just posted about pasta night with Stevie and their family. A man of my word, I pulled up the messaging app and started typing.