Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Harlow
TWO WEEKS LATER
Icurl my body into itself on the pavement of our driveway and my hands cover my head as a metal bat slams into my ribs. Screaming out in pain, the tears flood down my cheeks.
“You fucking bitch!” the guy shouts above me for the second time.
The first was after I kneed him in the balls.
“Please stop,” I cry out.
“Get away from her!” Dad yells from inside the doorway of the garage, but he can’t help me. He’s in his wheelchair and no one else is home. “I’m gonna kill you, ya bastard!”
Dad’s roaring voice lands on deaf ears because the guy continues kicking me. When his heel digs into my chest, he forces my body to unfold and then the toe of his boot slams into the side of my head.
Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, I can’t feel much anymore.
My legs are probably broken. I know a few ribs cracked.
I taste blood from my nose.
“S-stop,” I whimper, the air constricting in my lungs.
My eyes can hardly stay open, but when I hear a shotgun blast, they struggle to see where it came from.
And then a second blast.
A harsh ringing in my ears and the sound of sirens are the last things I remember, and then I lose consciousness.
“Harlow! Sweetheart, wake up.” Mom’s panicked voice echoes as she palms my cheek.
The bed shakes when she taps my arm a few times and I finally come to enough to open my eyes.
“What is it?” I ask, looking around and finding Moose resting his head on my thigh.
“You…were screamin’. I assumed you were havin’ a nightmare.”
Oh shit, she’s right.
Blinking away the fog, I swallow hard and clear my throat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She helps me sit up and then sits on the bed next to me.
“Was it about—”
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “I haven’t had a nightmare about it in a while.”
“Could be stressed induced,” she offers. “Or maybe side effects of some of the new vitamins you’re takin’.”
“That’s possible,” I agree.
After being aware I could be vitamin K deficient, I made an appointment to get my blood checked and found out Mystery Guy was right. I only started taking supplements this past week.
But I don’t think that’s what’s causing the nightmares.
She probably doesn’t realize it—and I’m too nervous to remind her and Dad—but the man who broke both my legs and put me in a coma is up for parole soon.
I look up his case at least once a month.
Mostly to ensure he’s still behind bars.
Logically, I know he is, but I need to see the confirmation in order to sleep soundly at night.
After he was caught and I was able to confirm he was the one who did this to me, he made a plea deal instead of going to trial.
The police had video evidence from our neighbor’s security cameras, so there was no denying what he’d done. After that, Mom hired someone to put up cameras in and out of the house. It traumatized all of us.
I was in no condition to testify anyway, so him pleading guilty was the best outcome. Since Dad shot him in the shoulder, he had to undergo surgery before he could be arraigned.
Ten years for aggravated assault with the possibility of parole after eight.
And he’ll be eligible in a couple months.
He can apply for it, but he’s not guaranteed to get approved if he’s had any behavior issues while behind bars.
“Want some pancakes for breakfast?” Mom asks, breaking up my thoughts.
“Sure, that’d be great.” I smile.
Mom kisses the top of my head, then walks out toward the kitchen.
She’s off work today, which means I have a shift at Rodeo Belle this morning.
Yesterday was my first day back since getting poison ivy.
The rash is ninety-five percent gone and there’s very little itchiness, just some scabbing.
I could’ve probably taken another few days off work, but I was bored out of my mind.
Ever since Black Friday, the stores have been packed with early Christmas shoppers, so I wanted to get back and help out.
After my shift, I’ll come home and change before driving out to the ranch to see Piper. I missed her too and am so relieved I’ll get to ride her this afternoon.
Checking my phone, my cheeks heat at seeing a new message from him.
Mystery Guy
Good morning. How did you sleep?
We still haven’t bothered asking each other our names. We talk in the group chat sometimes but mostly separately now about anything and everything—mostly small talk.
We dived a little bit into mental health.
He asked what got me into horses after I mentioned I’d only been riding for four years and that it was a form of therapy to help with my anxiety and depression.
I didn’t get into where they stemmed from and he didn’t push me to explain further.
But then he admitted it’s something he and one of his brothers also suffer with and understood the challenges it brought from day to day.
His brother has been hospitalized for it and he worries about him every day.
Something I sadly relate to as well.
The more he talked about it, the more it validated my own experience because he understood that depression isn’t black and white, and it doesn’t look the same for everyone. Some days are good, but then some are bad and they can seemingly come out of nowhere.
Although I’d love to put a name to his messages and maybe even a face, I’m enjoying the simpleness of having a friend who doesn’t know anything about me outside of what I tell him.
Someone who doesn’t know about my past or what I’ve been through. Someone who won’t look at me with pity and see a weak, scared little girl who was traumatized years ago.
Every time I meet someone new and tell them my name, they already know who I am based on what they heard. It was big news in Sugarland Creek, and since Dad’s accident was the year prior, our family name had been in the local and state news a lot.
And even though the conversation turns flirty sometimes, it’s been harmless fun so far and I’m okay keeping it that way for now.
Harlow
Fine, until I had a nightmare. How about you?
Mystery Guy
Aww, sorry to hear that. I’ve had my fair share of nightmares, too. Luckily, I slept good until my alarm went off at 5:30. But I was sad we didn’t get to chat before I went to bed.
Yesterday was Thursday, which means it was Grey’s Anatomy night with Natalie.
Besides last night, we’ve texted every night for the past week.
Usually until one of us falls asleep and then we start up again in the morning during his break.
We don’t talk about anything specific, mostly random stuff.
Nothing too personal but enough to keep the conversation flowing.
So far, I know he works on a ranch—which isn’t uncommon around here—and has a few brothers and a sister.
Harlow
Sorry I’m with a friend on Thursday nights and keep my phone on silent so there aren’t any interruptions.
The jumping dots appear on the screen and then disappear, twice, before he leaves me on read.
Well, damn. Now he probably thinks I meant a boyfriend.
“Harlow, breakfast is ready!” Mom calls from the kitchen.
I set my phone down on my nightstand and make my way to the table with Moose trailing behind me. Then I greet Dad with a kiss before I take my seat.
“Morning, Daddy.”
“Hi, sweetie. I heard you had a bad dream?”
I sigh, my shoulders drooping as I nod. “I’m fine.”
Smiling in his direction, I try to give him reassurance so he doesn’t worry, but he already knows what it was about.
Delilah slept in my room with me most nights before she moved out because I’d have them so frequently after the incident. But it’s been at least two years since my last one.
Halfway through breakfast, Dad’s fork clunks loudly against the plate as he groans in pain. He squeezes his eyes and his hands ball into fists.
“Deep breaths, Dad,” I softly remind him.
He tenses when another wave of pain shoots through his body.
Mom and I stop eating while we wait for his pain to decrease. Sometimes it’s subtle and tolerable, but other times, it can be extreme and come out of nowhere.
When a piece of farm equipment fell on his legs, it cut his upper thigh so deep, it was irreparable.
They had to amputate to avoid infection, so sometimes when the phantom pain is at its worst, it feels like his leg is being crushed.
Almost like his brain is having a flashback of the accident and since it doesn’t know that part of his limb is gone, it sends nerve signals to alert another part of his brain that there’s pain.
But since the physical part of the body doesn’t exist, narcotics and other pain medications don’t work.
“Daddy, you okay?”
He shakes his head, purses his lips, and smacks his stump a few times. Sometimes that works to startle the nerves, but oftentimes, he has to suffer through it until it goes away.
“Finish eatin’. I’ll be fine in a few minutes,” he grumbles.
I hate seeing him suffer. Hate it with a passion.
Mom and I continue eating so he doesn’t feel awkward having us wait for him. But instead, the room stays silent.
When his accident happened, we dropped everything to help him through his “new normal.” I was only twelve and took it hard because I had never seen him so helpless.
Mom was a wreck but was trying to remain strong for the rest of us.
Delilah and I were left alone a lot so Mom could stay at the hospital with him.
Besides my own incident, it was the scariest moment of my life being told my dad had a bad accident and they weren’t sure if he’d survive.
Once he was home to recover, he quickly fell into a depressive state because he was bed-bound and physically limited.
For someone who’d worked every day for the past thirty-five years, he didn’t adjust well to it.
He helped support the household and felt pride in his hard work, but then had to sit and do nothing while the rest of us did everything for him.