Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
MACK
“ A re you sure you’ll be okay?” I ask as I slip my coat over my shoulders, cane leaning by the front table, Reed waiting on the threshold. Grace tilts her head with an exasperated expression.
“I will be fine, Mackinlay. Go to your appointment. I’m safe here.”
Reed shoves his Yankees cap onto his head. The thing is tattered and worn, but for some reason he won’t give it up. “She’ll be alright, Mack. We won’t be long.”
I shove my black hat on my head and close the space between Grace and me. Her hands rest on my coat, fingers fiddling with the collar as she studies my face. “Don’t forget to fill your prescription, okay?” she whispers.
I cup her jaw with my hands, planting my mouth over hers. She leans against me.
Fuck, I don’t wanna leave.
After yesterday, my nerves are up. As they should be. Despite the fact Joel left and hasn’t been heard from since, my gut tells me the threat isn’t over yet. My gut is usually right. Saved my ass more times than I can count on tour—I’m not about to ignore it now.
“Go. I’ll be painting the morning away, anyhow.” She pecks a final kiss to my jaw and slips out of my hold. Hesitating, I turn back to Reed. “Let’s get this over and done with, gunny.”
The trip to town is quiet. Me lost in thought, Reed glancing at me every few minutes as if he has something to say but hasn’t found the balls to let it out yet.
“Spill it,” I grunt.
He huffs a breath, running his hand behind his neck. “I dunno...”
“Don’t know what, Reed?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be doin’ so much ranchin’ work?” His gaze flicks to me and then back to the road.
“I’m not sitting’ around being a damn burden. That’s a fresh hell I’m not signin’ up for.”
“Sure. But?—”
“Stop.” I hold a hand up. I know he’s trying to look out for me. But I’m not having it. “It doesn’t matter how long it takes, Reed, I will be earnin’ my keep and workin’ the ranch. I’m not letting Grace shoulder the weight. Or anyone else, for that matter.” My gaze burns into his.
He nods, and I know the message sunk in.
“Just...” He sucks in a breath. “Don’t push it and end up worse off. Grace deserves the whole Mack, not the shell of him.”
He’s insinuating I’ll end up broken and leave her with less than a man. I punch his arm. Fuckin’ little shit.
We pull in by the doctor’s thirty minutes later, and three minutes late for my appointment. The doorbell chimes as I hobble through, making a halfhearted effort to hold the door open for my brother. He beams at the receptionist, and she perks up like a goddamn meerkat. Jesus, this guy will never lose that spunk, will he?
“Rawlins, for the ten o’clock,” I grunt.
“Doctor will be out in a moment. Take a seat.” She smiles and waves to the blue plastic chairs lined up against the wall. Only two others are waiting, both with their heads down, eyes on their damn screens.
I take the closest seat, and Reed drops into the one beside it, pushing his legs out. He tugs the ball cap down and closes his eyes before knitting his fingers behind his head.
“Worn out, gunny?” I mutter.
The grin splitting his stupid face tells me everything. I can only imagine the antics my little brother and his wife get up to. Ruby’s been his godsend. He’s the family and the loving arms she never had. It used to be hard not to be jealous of them both.
My thoughts drift to Grace. I need to get back to where I was. I refuse to be anything but whole. I won’t let her settle for anything less than a brilliant life and family. Meaning I need to man up and get this recovery done.
“Mackinlay?” the white coat says from the end of the hall, chart in hand.
Reed groans and sits up.
“Stay down. I got this. You look like you could use the nap.”
“Sure could,” he says with a shit-eating grin.
I shake my head at him and push to my feet. The corridor is short. I turn into the first room on the left and sink into the leatherette seat on the opposite side of the desk. I’ve been here before. Been through the motions. This time ‘round, I have a clear path, and the desire to power through this as soon as possible.
“How’s the pain?” the doc asks.
“Fine, nothing I can’t handle. When can I start the physio?”
“Let me check your most recent X-ray and your mobility, and we’ll see.” He shoots out of the chair he just sat in and pads to the light box hanging on the wall. So goddamn old school, like Lewistown was left behind when the rest of the medical world went digital. He plucks the pen from his pocket and taps the film with a hum.
Okay . . .
“The fractures are healing nicely. That’s good.”
“So, I can lose the support?”
“Should be okay, as long as you don’t exert yourself. Up on the bed and I’ll check your range of motion.”
I make a point of not using the cane and slide up onto the bed. A lance of pain travels down my hip and leg. I lay back and the doctor grips my calf, bending my leg up, to the side, rotating it in the ball and socket joint. I hold my breath.
He does the same on the other side.
“Hmmm. Roll onto your side, facing the wall.”
I roll and stare at the wall. His cold hands press and explore my lower spine. When he says nothing, removing his hands, I roll back over and sit up. “Well, when can I get back on a horse?”
His eyes widen before tightening with concern. “Mackinlay, your injuries may be healing, but I’m afraid riding is not recommended. Not anymore.”
“It’s not optional. Comes with the job description,” I snap.
Like hell I’m standing around watching my family pick up my slack.
“If you fall from a horse again, you run a considerable risk of permanent damage.”
“So I don’t come off. I’m not going to be a burden to my family.”
He shakes his head and sinks into his seat, as if defeated. He slides the chart across his desk and steeples his fingers. “Have you considered another line of work?”
“Have you ?”
His lips purse together. “All I can do is educate you on the risks and facts. What you choose to do with the information is up to you.”
“Are we done?” I snatch up the cane.
He simply nods, and I’m out the door like the room is on fire. Reed stands when he sees me. I blow past the receptionist, heading for the door.
“Mr. Rawlins?” she calls from behind me. “Ah, your account?”
“Send it out!” I slam a hand onto the door and burst onto the sidewalk. Fresh air sinks into my lungs and I fight to keep it there. Fuck.
FUCK.
Jaw clenched tight, I stalk for Reed’s truck.
He rounds me at a jog and pulls the door open for me.
Fuck my life.
I clamber into the truck as Reed slips around the grill and slides into the driver’s seat.
“Take me the fuck home.” I release a breath.
He starts the truck and pulls away from the curb. We break the town limits before he speaks.
“Not great news, I take it?”
“Nope.”
“What did he say?” He glances from me to the road, alternating his gaze like a skittish gangster.
Sweet Jesus.
“Gettin’ back on a horse is not recommended. Overdoing it, is not—FUCK!” I punch the dash.
“You’ll come back. You did last time. If anyon?—”
“What if I can’t? Don’t? What then?” I’m yelling. It’s not his fault. But this feels like the last fuckin’ straw.
“Then we’ll figure something out.” His brows are pulled down. A far cry from the cheeky bastard who was full of himself thirty minutes ago. “Grace will know what to do.”
Instantly my anger fades, replaced by the worry that was gnawing at my gut before I walked into the doctor’s office. The overload of emotions has my blood invading my skull at a rapid rate. Dizziness creeps in. “Drive faster, gunny,” I choke out.
The F250 bursts into a roar. We fly down the highway until we turn onto the gravel road. He sends the truck along and every minute that passes ratchets up the tension in my body. Muscles tense to rigidity, molars grinding. I grip the door handle, willing the ranch to come into view. Reed sends her round the corner and sideways into the driveway, and I let out a breath of relief. No white Volvo.
He skids the truck to a halt, and I fly out the door before the engine splutters out. Reed is hot on my heels.
Then I see it.
Tire tracks.
Not Reed’s.
Not Blue’s.
Fuck.
I pray it was Rubes or Adds paying Gracie a visit. The sinking feeling in my gut knots and grows. I fling the cane to the ground and Reed jogs ahead, bursting in through the front door.
“Gracie? You here?” Reed yells. I make it up the porch, cursing my useless body, anger growing like a damn wildfire on summer winds.
“Check her art room. I’ll check the bedroom!” I holler.
I lengthen my strides until the pain splinters through my lower back. Ignoring it, I swing into her room. It’s empty. Void of Grace or any trace of her.
A strangled curse echoes down the hallway. Then, “Mack!”
I scramble toward the sound. Reed steps out of the art room, his face wrecked. His shoulders heave.
Oh god, no!
His gaze drops to the floor. I falter to a stop before the doorway. Blue paint is swiped over the doorjamb as if someone had hung on for dear life, the remnants of a smudged handprint in blue. Her favorite color.
Short, ragged breaths burn their way through my lungs as I step into the space Grace loves the most. It’s destroyed. Paint pots on their sides. Furniture disturbed. Her stool toppled over. The easel Huddo made is the only item not ransacked. A canvas lies at its feet, a huge rip through the center.
She put up a fight.
“Mack. The paint’s wet.”
I spin back. His finger is held in the air, blue paint smeared over it. “It’s still wet. We can catch up.”
“Go, now!” I roar.
We fly from the house. I’m running with a disjointed gait. Numb from the adrenaline, I don’t feel the pain I know should be lancing through my body right now. Reed fires up the F250. We leave gravel streaking through the air, shooting for the highway.