37
I grind my teeth at the pain, at the sharp snap of order, at the smug look on my physical therapist’s face.
My fingers tighten on the bars. “Fuck. Fuck .”
Cali Ehlers, a peppy woman with insane biceps and a beaming smile, evaluates my form. “One more fuck and you get a prize.” Her tone is neutral as always, no matter how many times I curse and growl.
A chuckle rumbles out in the quiet space of the Beartooth PT and Rehab center. In a corner chair, Wyatt watches. He throws me a half-smile so charming my throat tightens. He’s been meeting me for every session, racing from his job at the ranch to downtown Resurrection.
Forget the cowboy. Focus on the exercise.
Inhaling a breath, I focus. Then I swing my leg and pant my way through a grueling series of leg extensions and hip flexors.
“Fuck.” I collapse back against the wall and wipe sweat from my brow. My pulse pounds wildly in my throat. The weakness in my leg that was there when I first started PT has lessened. I feel stronger, steadier now than I was months ago.
Not weak. Never weak.
Cali smiles. “Done for today.”
I puff a lock of hair out of my face. “Thank god.”
“How’d she do?” Wyatt asks, coming to my side and pocketing his phone.
Cali gives me an assessing look. “Still grumpy, but she aced today.”
My body locks up as Wyatt’s big hands land on my shoulders. “My favorite animal is Fallon when she’s told she can’t do something.”
Amused, I tilt my head, looking up at him. “I don’t like it when you two gang up on me.”
Cali chuckles. “I think four more weeks of PT, and she’ll be ready to conquer the underworld.”
My eyes shoot to Wyatt’s, finding his blue-eyed gaze already on me. Like he’s read my mind.
Four weeks means divorce. It’s a countdown I thought I’d welcome, only now, it’s too close. Too looming.
Four weeks also means my ride. A ride I still haven’t told Wyatt about.
Or anyone, for that matter. It’s a shitty, asshole thing to do.
Especially when I told Wyatt I wouldn’t push him away.
But I have to do this. I won’t be stopped.
It feels unbelievable to be back on a horse again.
But when I think of who did that for me—Wyatt—guilt hits and I feel like a lying, sneaky asshole.
Cali smiles. “You know what this means?”
I eye her suspiciously. “What?”
“You’re officially graduating from a walker to a cane.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Blinking, I look over at my walker. A strange choked-up emotion muscles its way into my throat. “So, now what?” I manage to ask.
“You limp that tight ass out of here and go grab a cane at your choice of medical supply store.” She shrugs. “Or we have some at the hospital shop.” She reaches out to squeeze my arm. “Congratulations, Fallon. You deserve it.”
Pride sweeps through me. Sadness, too.
“Should we go?” Wyat asks, his big hand palming the small of my back.
I nod, letting him guide me outside.
“Well, should we hit up Zeke’s?” I ask as we reach his pickup truck.
“Don’t need to.” He opens the back door of his truck. From the floorboards, he pulls out a cane. Coming closer, he holds it out to me. “Got you this.”
“Wyatt,” I breathe, stunned.
The cane is beautiful. Glossy, honey-colored wood covered in colors as bright as my tattoos. On closer inspection, I see the colors are woven images of cowgirls. Western script. Horseshoes. The handle is a cowboy hat.
I run my hands over the smooth wood, the brass handle. Fighting to keep my voice even, I ask, “Where’d you get this?”
His throat bobs. “I had it made for you.”
My throat tightens, my eyes stinging. The goodness of Wyatt Montgomery truly sets me on edge. He’s done this. For me.
Fuck. I can’t cry, not here, not now, even as the sweet gesture sinks into my soul.
“The best part,” Wyatt says with a grin. I shiver as his hands touch mine, guiding them back toward the handle where they find a small button. “Push it.”
I do.
I gasp then laugh in delight as a blade shoots out of the bottom of the cane.
“Knives, not flowers.” His gravelly voice sends a shiver through my body.
I swallow through my suddenly dry mouth. He remembered.
My heart starts to somersault, and that’s when I know I’m in trouble.
Big fucking—
“Trouble?”
I blink myself out of my daze to find Wyatt staring at me.
His handsome expression is creased in worry. “Do you like it?”
My heart tumbles again. I love that he’s worried about what I think. Even as he plays it off cool, nonchalant. He’s so sweet, so eager to make me happy.
The man’s utterly infuriating.
Smiling, I tug him forward until our chests touch. Instantly, his heart beats faster. Mine, too. Strange how a mass of pulpy muscle can admit more than I can.
My hand drifts up to his stubbled cheek. “I love it.”
“Good.” He grins. “Be careful with it. It’s sharp as fuck.” His fingers toy with my hair. Eyes on mine, he asks, “You want to go celebrate?”
“With you, absolutely,” I say then reach up to kiss him.
Every atom in my body thrums the second we step inside Nowhere. Energetic, twangy country music sounds around me. Friday night, and it smells like stale beer, sawdust, and chaos.
God, I fucking love this bar.
I’m dying for a night out. After PT, Wyatt and I stopped back at the cottage, and after fucking ourselves into oblivion, we showered and dressed appropriately for a night out in Resurrection.
All eyes in the bar are on us. Locals nod hellos, ask me how I am. Even with my cane, I don’t feel self-conscious.
“Fuck,” Beef says when he sees us. Frazzled, he leans over the bar to point at his favorite black chalkboard. Etched in chalk, it reads, DAYS WITHOUT A FIGHT: 120 . “I’m countin’ on you, Wyatt. Don’t mess up my streak.”
Wyatt barks a laugh. “Whiskey and beer, Beef. And keep ’em comin’.”
Beef grumbles, “Got a new waitress, she’ll be right with you.” Then he winks at me. “Glad you’re back, Fallon. Attitude and all.”
I raise a middle finger but can’t keep the smile off my face. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this way. Idiotically happy.
I move myself across the floor with my cane. Behind me, Wyatt. His heat. His scent. His eyes clock my route. My stomach shouldn’t drop at the act of protection, but it does.
The way he braces his front to my back and guides me through the crowd like a bodyguard makes me melt. And I’m not a girl who melts. But when it’s with Wyatt, it feels right.
We take a seat in a torn-up booth along the wall. Wyatt nods as I settle my cane beside me. “How’s it feel?”
I arch a brow. “Murderous.”
He gives a rueful shake of his head. “Don’t know what I was thinkin’ givin’ you a weapon.”
I laugh. “Scout’s honor not to use it on you.”
“That’s a first.” He leans back in the booth. “So, you’re almost done. What’s after PT?”
The smile slides off my face. The last three months I’ve been recuperating, learning how to use my leg, to ride again. When PT is over, life begins. But what even is my life? Not stillness, that’s for damn sure.
“Shit.” He swears. “I shouldn’t have asked that.”
“No. It’s a good question.” I think of the ride in September. Guilt ripples. I decide to test out the waters. “I still want to rodeo.”
His throat works. “You oughta wait at least a year before you ride professional.”
My lips flatten. It’s not what I want to hear. And he’s probably right. But will I listen? Never.
We both jump as a bucket of beers and a bottle of whiskey slam onto the table.
I glare up at the interruption then blink.
“Holy shit.” I cackle as Sheena Wolfington stands there, dressed in a tight, black Nowhere T-shirt. “You’re the new waitress? Guess Beef’s really putting you to the test before you get hitched, huh?”
“Screw you, Fallon,” she snaps. Her eyes flick to Wyatt, and the memory of her and him, three years ago, curled up in this exact booth hits like a fist.
“There.” She smacks her gum, gestures at the drinks. “On the house. Courtesy of my fiancé .”
I throw her a mocking smile. “Don’t you have drinks to pour, Sheena?”
“Rather pour you poison,” she hisses then flounces off.
I look at Wyatt. “She’s such a buzz kill.” Across the bar, I lock eyes with Beef. Get rid of Sheena , I mouth, making a slicing motion across my throat.
A commotion at the jukebox attracts my attention. In addition to the regulars, there are new faces. Buckle bunnies, unfamiliar cowboys in from a rodeo most likely.
“Would you look at that,” I murmur. “No family members in sight.”
He snorts, sliding a beer and a shot my way. We clink drinks, shoot back our shots.
“Off doin’ that domestic shit they’re so fond of,” he drawls, pouring us each another shot.
I look at Wyatt sitting across from me. So damn handsome, so damn cowboy. A pang of hurt, of lust goes through me. For so long, I’ve wanted to be the one at his side, not Sheena, not some buckle bunny.
Are we together or not? If so, why in the fuck are we keeping our distance?
I lick my lips, wanting to kiss him. Wanting to crawl onto his lap and give him the ride of his life.
The jukebox thumps. A Shania Twain song that has my boot tapping. My mind spinning.
An idea comes to me. Maybe it’s the whiskey, but I want to do what we’ve always done at Nowhere. Play a game. Only this time, it’s more of a test. Test this, test us.
Test if we have changed, if we really can do this.
Because the longer Wyatt and I live together, the more it feels like we should be together. Even if we haven’t voiced it. Even if the thought of together is wholly terrifying.
We’ve been playing this game for the last five years. What’s one more night?
One more night with all our cards on the table.
I cut Wyatt a sideways glance as I swallow down another shot. “Lot of buckle bunnies here.”
“In from Ronan,” he hedges, sipping his whiskey. “Stock show just ended.”
I shrug. “Could dance with one.”
His head jerks back, so sharply you’d think I slapped him. “Dancin’ sounds like dangerous business.” His voice is wary.
“Why?” I prod. “All the Montgomery men have dance moves. I’ve seen you.”