Chapter 5 #3
Crew nods, then jerks his chin toward the pillow at her side. Standing up from the bed, he commands, “Lay down. On your stomach.”
A flush of heat blooms in her cheeks. “What?”
That familiar, amused look flashes in his eyes again. “The best way to fix a subluxation is to stretch the arm until it pops back into place. It shouldn’t take long.” He stands before her bunk and folds his arms over his chest. “Unless you’re difficult.”
They stare each other down. Grace wants to argue, wants to tell him she’d rather let the arm fall off entirely before putting herself in such a vulnerable position, but there’s something nagging at her to cooperate.
A flare of intuition that is urging her to trust him.
She finally gives in, positioning herself slowly, as he instructed, hissing a little when she moves her arm to lie flat against her body.
“Let it hang off the bed.”
Grace’s eyes flicker up to his. When she doesn’t immediately obey, he tilts his head, evening out their eye contact.
“Can’t stretch it if it’s glued to your side like that.”
Once again, she complies, slowly and painfully, until her fingertips graze the wood floor beneath her bed.
Though she should’ve expected it, it’s still surprising when Crew lowers himself to his knees and sidles up next to her—so close that she can feel the warmth emanating from his body.
She’s never given much thought to how he might smell this close up, just sort of assumed it’d be some combination of outside mixed with man, but it’s something else entirely.
A lingering cologne, spicy like a cigar but with a hint of clean, fresh linen.
There is definitely some of that outside smell, but it isn’t unpleasant or excessive.
It mixes perfectly into a strangely entrancing blend that has her almost leaning closer, if only to understand it better.
He breaks her out of this ridiculous train of thought when he reaches for her upper arm, taking it carefully into his hands.
They’re large enough that they dwarf her bicep entirely, but somehow, they’re gentle, too.
He starts slow, introducing a small amount of movement, rocking it back and forth.
The pain throbs, and though she wants to keep her eyes open to be able to anticipate what he’s going to do next—she can’t.
They squeeze shut, and she tries to fall into the blackness, into some lovely, beautiful other place where her arm doesn’t feel like it’s about to unhinge itself from her body.
Crew picks up the pace gradually. He works the limb like he’s been trained to do this, and it’s growing more tolerable by the second—but then he slowly tries to pull her arm upward and Grace lets out a grunt, eyes opening wide as her vision swims.
“Easy,” he says, keeping her arm elevated but still. “You’re okay. Keep breathing.”
She grits her teeth and nods. His thumb caresses soft circles into the skin of her forearm, and she lets out a shaky breath at the sensation.
It gets a hell of a lot worse before it gets better, but eventually, he gets her close to a full range of motion. It doesn’t feel good or normal, but it’s something.
“You should wear a brace for a couple of days,” Crew advises, leaning back on his haunches as Grace shifts into a seated position on the bed.
Her throat is muddy from the exertion, so her response is raspy. “A what?”
Crew huffs through his nose. That little half smile he seems so fond of returns to his lips. “A brace. We’ve got one around here somewhere.”
“I can’t halter a horse with a brace on.”
“You also can’t halter a horse if you cause permanent damage to your shoulder. It needs to heal properly first. In a brace.”
Grace’s stomach sinks. If Crew thinks she’s out of commission, there’s a chance he could walk out of here and tell Renata they need to bring in someone else.
Someone less fragile. She looks away from him, mentally preparing to argue her case—she doesn’t need a brace, even if it is the smart thing to do.
Permanent damage isn’t a sure thing. She can be cautious and use her left arm, it’ll just take some getting used to.
Crew—continuing to surprise her with his emotional intuition—seems to sense her panic. He cuts into her spiral with a simple, direct “You’re not gonna get kicked off the ranch for hurting your shoulder.”
She looks at him. There’s an earnestness to his words that makes her want to believe him, but that’s not what convinces her. It’s his eyes, the deep pools of darkness that convey every word he can’t bring himself to say.
I’m not going to do that to you, they seem to whisper.
Then he’s standing, and, as quickly as he appeared, he’s gone.
Grace sleeps like a rock after that, only waking up when the sounds of chirping birds outside her window signal that daylight has come.
She rubs the sleep out of her eyes and sits up, the pain in her shoulder reduced to a dull throb.
She kicks something at the foot of her bed, and when she narrows her eyes to get a better look, she smiles, realizing what it is.
Brand-new. Unopened.
A brace.