Blair
“I think I want to try running barrels,” I say as Denver and I ride side by side along the ranch road.
In the two weeks since the day I scared the crap out of myself in the storm, we’ve ridden together four times. It’s brought me more joy than anything has in years, and I’m ready to feel the rush of ecstasy I’ve only experienced barrel racing—the invincible, weightless air in my lungs and galloping beat in my chest.
“Yeah?” He veers left, toward the riding arena, instead of the barn. “Let’s do it, Bear.”
My heart rattles against my sternum, begging to be set free, adrenaline coursing through my veins as Denver shuts the arena gate behind me. I’m not anticipating it being a smooth ride, given I’m out of practice and this horse has likely never seen barrels in its life.
We take the barrels easy the first time, curving around the last section of the clover pattern and bringing it on home to Denver, who’s leaning on the fence rail. For a moment, I genuinely expect to see Lucy Wells standing next to him, cheering and jumping up and down. My eyes burn harder than my chest. I sniffle back the urge to cry and rake a hand through my windswept hair.
I was right. I needed this.
“Baby, you’re a natural,” Denver calls out. “And I fucking love you.”
Pawing at the strands of hair strewn across my face, I look up at the vibrant blue sky and let the sun soak my bare skin. Once my breathing is mostly normal, I set up to go again.
Faster.
Without a second thought, my heels strike the gelding’s sides and we charge toward the barrel, rounding the first without question.
On the next, my focus has already shifted to barrel three, and there’s a roller-coaster-like drop in the pit of my stomach when the horse’s feet slip. He tries to catch it, and I ease up on the reins, leaning left as if my body weight will be enough to keep us from going over.
In a cloud of dust, I land so hard it knocks the wind from my chest, and I’m left gasping under a horse who’s fighting like hell to stand back up.
I’m okay, I tell myself silently, assessing whether there’s any pain.
In a pleasant surprise, there’s not. Until the gelding finally gets his footing, directly on my boot, sending fireworks radiating under my skin and a scream clawing up my throat.
Within seconds, Denver’s hovering over me, face blanched. “, holy shit. Are you okay?”
“Um, I think my ankle might be broken.”
Also, I’m most definitely in shock, because I’m way too chill right now.
“Can you move it?”
With gritted teeth, I try to roll my ankle gingerly. “N-no.”
“Let’s get you to the hospital,” he says, already scooping an arm under my armpits to pick me up. “Prepare to be very impressed by your man’s strength again.”
There’s no argument from me this time—looping my arms around his neck and letting him hoist me into the air.
“You good?” he asks, adjusting his grip on me before attempting to take a step.
“Been better.” I hold up an unconvincing thumbs-up. “But I’ll live.”
As we awkwardly stumble down the driveway, each jostling movement has me clenching my jaw to keep from crying out in agony. Holding my breath, I press my forehead against the crook of his neck, and a loud sigh of relief escapes my lungs at the sight of his pickup.
Setting me gently in the passenger seat with a kiss on the forehead, he says, “I’m gonna go grab my keys and wallet, and tell somebody to put the horses away. Stay here.”
I raise my eyebrow and point at my leg. “I can’t exactly run away.”
“Knowing you, you’d hop away on one foot to go get in your car and drive yourself to the hospital simply to avoid accepting my help.”
I scoff. “Calling me out like that is rude. I promise I’ll wait here for you.”
“Good.” He reaches to buckle me in, despite the look of absolute horror I’m giving him. “Let me love you, .”
How can I argue with that request?
He jogs over to the bunkhouse, stepping back outside less than a minute later to slide onto the truck bench seat with a natural smile.
“Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re enjoying yourself way too much for somebody who’s taking their girlfriend to the—” I catch myself, but not fast enough.
“ Girlfriend? ” He turns in his seat, tucking his tongue to his cheek while he beams at me. “Do I need to be worried that you might’ve hit your head?”
“It accidentally slipped out. Shush.” I shift awkwardly in my seat, pretending to be stabilizing my throbbing limb. “Please just drive.”
“Well now, hold on a second.” His hands leave the steering wheel, and I toss my head back against the seat with a groan. “If it accidentally slipped out, that tells me you’ve thought about it. So much for taking it day by day, eh?”
“Says the guy who’s mentioned marrying me how many times since we started hanging out?”
He winks, finally deciding to start driving. “The difference is I’ve been straight up with you about what I want since theambulance ride months ago. I cut things off with Peytonbecause you showed up. From day one I was fully committed to winning you over, until you threw me for a real loop when youwore an engagement ring, and I backed off for a bit.”
I bite back a laugh knowing the fake-as-hell ring I paid ten dollars for tricked him into thinking I was taken.
“Well, it’s a good thing you did. Mark might be a plastic surgeon, but he’s not afraid to fuck up his money-making, insured hands to defend my honor.”
That’s the exact second his brain malfunctions. Face pinched, he blinks rapidly, clearly struggling to process the information.
“Mark is fake,” I clarify before he spontaneously combusts from the mental gymnastics going on in his head. “I mean, he’s real in my heart. But he’s fictional.”
“So it was a fake ring.” A statement rather than a question, putting two and two together. “I’ll kick the absolute shit out of Mark, for the record. Those bitch-boy surgeon hands ain’t got nothin’ on me. I’d love nothing more than to steal you away from him.”
I can’t help but smile, an increasingly common occurrence whenever he’s around. “For some reason, I like you better anyway.”
—
“I promise, I’m fine,” I insist, getting comfortable on the couch while Denver slides a pillow under my foot.
Turns out, I was right about the broken ankle. Denver drove to the hospital in Sheridan, sat with me for hours, and slept in the waiting room while they performed surgery to align the bones. He kept my parents updated, fed me, and softly stroked my hair when the drugs made me nauseous.
And now he’s in my house, propping my ankle up and completely ignoring my requests to let me do anything myself.
“You broke your ankle and had surgery last night.” He shakes his head, dragging the coffee table closer so I can reach the million drink and snack options he has laid out for me. “Take full advantage of the royal treatment, princess.”
Mom looks up from her recliner with a smile. “Hopefully your ankle is healed up in time for your wedding, .”
Her confusion about the relationship between Denver and me is the one thing she’s consistent about. To be fair, I’m also unsure about our relationship. Are we officially together? We are, aren’t we?
“That’s why I gotta take good care of my girl, isn’t that right, Mrs. Hart?” He gestures at me to sit up straight so he can plop down on the couch, then I fall back into his lap. “She needs to be able to walk down the aisle.”
Mom laughs. “She’s a klutz—I bet she trips walking down the aisle, anyway. At least it’s harder to fall if she’s already in a wheelchair.”
“Oh, good point.” Denver smiles over at her. “Although, if anyone can have a wheelchair accident during a wedding, it’s Bear.”
“Um, you two know I can hear you, right?” I toss my hands up in annoyance. But a big part of me is also relieved Mom seems to be having a good day. I don’t think I could handle the pain in my ankle while also managing Mom’s symptoms, and the emotional pain that comes with it.
“It’s said with love.” Denver rubs his thumb over my cheek, looking down at me with a softness in his eyes.
Mom flips on her daily Wheel of Fortune binge, and Denver sinks deeper into the couch, stroking my hair.
“How old are these reruns?” he quietly asks. “There’s no way this was filmed more recently than the nineties.”
“Eighties, for sure. Look at that Madonna hair.” I pretend like I’m reaching for my drink, and tap the info button on the remote, much to my mother’s chagrin. A box pops up in the corner with the original air date, and I smile up at Denver. “April 24, 1986.”
With a deviant smile, he pulls his phone from the front pocket of his blue jeans and taps away on the screen during a commercial break.
“I know the answers,” he mouths. “All of them.”
When the commercial ends, there’s a T and an N on the board. And Denver sits there pondering alongside Mom. She leans in to study the board, and Denver clears his throat before innocently asking, “Could it be demolition derby?”
Mom glances over at him, shaking her head. “No, I don’t think so. It’s too soon to guess, anyway.”
“Hrm.” He grins at me. “My vote is demolition derby.”
A few minutes, and a lot more letters later, his answer is right. Because of course it is. And Mom is in a state of shock, gawking between the television and Denver, asking him how on Earth he knew the answer.
“I don’t know. It just seemed right…with the T and the N .” He shrugs impishly.
“You’re evil,” I whisper up to him, shifting my head on his lap to get comfortable. “Tricking her like that.”
“Not evil. Smart. ”
And when he gets the second puzzle correct with only a P and an S, Mom nearly loses her shit entirely.
Smacking the armrest of her recliner, she practically shrieks my name. “Did you know how smart this boy of yours is? Gosh, I can’t believe it. The two of you— ugh —you’re going to have perfect children. Smart, beautiful, funny.”
“I mean, if our kids are anything like , I’d say I’m pretty damn lucky.” He smiles softly at my mom, and suddenly I’m considering asking him to impregnate me right this second. Broken ankle and all—just prop the entire lower half of my body up with pillows, and kill two birds with one stone.
In the middle of a lady with the poofiest hair I’ve ever seen buying a U, an obnoxious beeping starts playing on Denver’s phone. I thought the only alarm he had set was in the morning for my Lexapro, but it’s midday.
Silencing his phone in the nick of time—just before my mom snaps at him—he taps my shoulder. “Hey, time to take your meds.”
“Oh, okay.” Honestly, thank God he’s keeping track, because I already forget when I last took anything. “I have to go pee, so I got it. You can stay here.”
“ Knock it off. ” He glares at me as I sit up. “You can go pee on your own, but for God’s sake, let me help with something .”
I’m not trying to be difficult. Although I’ve been slowly letting Denver in, my gut instinct is always to turn down his offers to do anything for me.
“Okay. Thank you.”
He hands me the crutches, then follows closely as I hobble my way down the hall, struggling to get accustomed to my new mode of transport. I can sense his hand hovering behind me, ready to catch me the entire time.
“I’ll go grab your drugs while you’re in the bathroom, and I’ll be right back, if you need me.” He opens the door to let me in. “Please keep it unlocked, just in case.”
“You’re naughty. My parents are right down the hall.” I waggle my eyebrows at him.
“Under any other circumstance, I wouldn’t give a shit that they’re right there. That would even add to the thrill. But right now, you need drugs, a snack, and a nap.”
“ Boring, ” I tease, even though drugs and a snack sound wonderful. Not a nap, though. During my depressive episodes, I’d pray for sleep because staying forever with my dreams meant forever without pain. With him now, being awake is better.
After the most complicated pee of my life, I swing the bathroom door open to find Denver leaning against the frame. Once again, he hovers over me on the short journey back to the couch. And when I’m settled with my leg propped up, he thrusts a fistful of pills toward me.
“I grabbed your antidepressant, since you didn’t have one this morning.” He squeezes my thigh. “And your painkillers…which you should take with food. So let me grab you a snack.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, picking up the pills one by one and popping them in my mouth as I lean back on the plush pillow.
My heart billows at the sight of Denver in my parents’ kitchen. On the outside, it looks like he’s dumping a bag of tortilla chips in a bowl and grabbing guacamole from the fridge. But it’s so much more. He’s making up for lost time. Picking up where we left off. And he’s loving me the way he should’ve all those years ago.