Chapter 15 #2
‘My dad did actually. Dev, Kirby, Ivan and Walt all helped. They did it while I was in hospital doing my rehab stint. Mom thought it’d be good for me to have a place to convalesce away from the ranch activity.’
‘That was… very thoughtful.’
‘Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘She’s like that.’
Stevie laughed. Theresa was like that. She gave the cabin one last glance before it slipped behind them, the conversation piquing her curiosity about Clay’s accident once again.
Her googling had been frustratingly generic.
Back injury covered a multitude of possibilities especially considering, from the outside at least, Clay appeared to be normal.
She’d love to know more about the injury that had ended his career, but it wasn’t really any of her business. Probably something he didn’t talk about.
Although maybe he’d talk about it to her?
Like she’d told him some of her stuff. Or was that just a one-way street for him?
The man on the horse that first day hadn’t looked like a guy who opened up to anyone, but the guy who’d listened to her sing in the stables, who’d held her after he’d brought her to climax and chatted with her in the hayloft?
That guy might.
Broaching the subject tentatively, she said, ‘Tell me to mind my own beeswax if you want but… can I ask you about the injury?’
He regarded her for long moments before looking away, his body bobbing fluidly with the rhythm of his horse like he’d been born in a saddle. ‘Google didn’t tell you?’
‘Google was frustratingly non-specific.’
Clearly amused by her honesty, he hooted out a laugh, which was unexpected, and Stevie laughed too. ‘Seriously, if this is something you don’t usually talk about you don’t have to tell me.’
Oh, but she wanted him to.
‘I don’t usually talk about it,’ he admitted, his steady amber eyes staring at her from under the brim of his hat. ‘But…’ He gave a deprecating smile. ‘I seem to want to tell you everything.’
The air stilled in Stevie’s lungs at the admission. She seemed to want to know everything.
Another few beats passed before Clay looked ahead and started talking. ‘I was riding a horse called Pegasus. Real mean. Take Electra and multiply that by ten. He lives to buck.’
He laughed then like he was remembering the thrill of riding this demon horse that was giving Stevie the shudders. What on earth did Clay get out of doing something so dangerous?
‘I managed to best him though and Pegasus does not like to be bested. That bell rang at eight seconds and I whooped so loud he gave one final spiral twist buck combo right out of the pits of hell and tossed me off. But in a freak set of circumstances my rigging slipped and my foot got stuck as I went down, which meant Pegasus, who was looking for revenge, took the opportunity to stomp on my back a few times before they freed my foot.’
Stevie winced. ‘I didn’t understand a lot of those words.’ Or really why anyone would do it. ‘But stomp on my back seems self-explanatory.’
Another deprecating laugh. ‘Yep. Broke it in three places, shattered several vertebrae causing major spinal swelling and contusions which caused some temporary paralysis down my right leg as well as several rib fractures and a lacerated spleen.’
A sick slick of bile rose in Stevie’s mouth at the thought, worming its way through her head. He could have been killed. And that was utterly horrifying. So much so she pulled Gertie to a stop and gaped at the back of his head.
She was extra pleased now she’d decided not to watch that video.
She’d known Clay Calhoun for less than two weeks and she couldn’t bear the thought that he might have been killed that day. He’d already taken over her entire life – for the better. What if she’d never met him because he’d gotten his damn fool body kicked to death by an angry horse?
It took him a few seconds to realise she’d stopped, glancing over his shoulder and meeting her eyes. He didn’t say anything, just turned Electra around and plodded back until he was alongside.
‘Stevie?’
Stupid tears misted her eyes as she stared at him. ‘You could have died.’
He wasn’t laughing now as he reached across, sliding his palm onto her cheek. ‘I didn’t. And I’m fine now.’
‘Now,’ she whispered, trying not to imagine him lying battered in the dirt.
‘Hey.’ His thumb drifted across her cheekbone and her eyes fluttered closed. When it brushed over her mouth, she opened them again. ‘I’m fine,’ he reiterated.
He leaned in then, his mouth landing on hers in sweet assurance. It was a tender gesture, so gentle, rising around her like the soft swell of a cymbal, cupping her heart as surely as his hand cupped her cheek.
‘I’m glad you’re fine,’ she whispered when he finally lifted her head. Glad was such a banal expression of her relief but Stevie wasn’t sure she had the right words to properly express the enormity of the feelings tangling in her chest.
Only a song could do that.
He smiled as his hand slid from her cheek. ‘Me too.’
Stevie returned his smile albeit slightly more forced. ‘They fixed you?’
‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘I have quite a lot of instrumentation in my back and it took time and many sessions with the physio to get full strength and function back in my leg.’
‘How long were you in hospital?’
‘A month initially and then I transferred to an inpatient specialist spinal rehab facility for three months.’
Stevie’s brows knitted together to form a V. ‘Three months? That seems like a long time?’
Clay shook his head. ‘It’s not really. Not when you’re talking spinal or neurological injuries which can take up to two years to achieve any level of meaningful recovery.’
‘Two years?’
‘Uh huh. Even after three months I was only at the point where I was able to be discharged home. It took another six months of physio at the cabin before my leg had fully recovered. Mom and Dad got all the equipment in as well as hiring me a personal physio who lived at the ranch house. I also flew back and forth to LA every month for a few days of inpatient treatment at the rehab facility. It was a full year before I could get back on a horse.’
Despite her horror, Stevie found herself even more impressed by that hair-raising ride he’d taken on Electra. He’d obviously been through hell and back but there’d been no hint of it as he’d brought the filly to heel.
He must have nerves of steel. Or, to coin one of Yolly’s favourite sayings – big, hairy cojones.
‘I can’t believe you’d even want to get back on a horse after that.’
He shook his head. ‘Riding again was the only thing keeping me motivated.’
Of course it was. The man was a cowboy to his bones. And his connection with horses was almost supernatural. Electra standing here placidly while they chatted, a good case in point. Still, she shuddered at what could have been.
‘You were lucky.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, the line of his jaw tightening as he averted his gaze to a point past her shoulder. ‘I guess.’
‘You guess? Clay… you could have died. Or been severely, permanently catastrophically injured.’
‘I know.’ He nodded. ‘I know. I just… I wanted to get back on the circuit.’
Stevie blinked. ‘You did?’
His gaze cut back to her, the incredulity in her voice clearly irritating him as his amber eyes turned cool.
‘Of course I did. I was twenty-seven and the rodeo was my entire life. I could have ridden for another ten years, even longer. I busted my ass to fully recover and get my fitness back while they dangled promises of a contract in front of me, but when push came to shove the doctors said there was too much metal in my back to ride safely at a competitive level, which meant the pro-circuit organisation wouldn’t insure me and no insurance means no competing. ’
The bitterness in his voice was so visceral, Stevie could taste it on her tongue.
It was obvious he still had a lot of anger over the way his career ended and he was allowed to feel the way he felt but she, for one, was grateful that wiser heads had prevailed over a twenty-seven-year-old thwarted cowboy with a Superman complex.
Why else had he been riding Electra that day? Even after nearly being stomped to death and a spine full of metal, Clay Calhoun somehow thought he was bulletproof.
‘I’m sorry it ended that way,’ she said quietly, because she really was. Sure, she was glad of it, too, but she could feel what a body blow it had been for Clay. ‘That can’t have been easy.’
He shook his head, his mouth flattening into a grim line at what must have sounded like a trite platitude. ‘Imagine,’ he said, his voice deep as pitch, ‘if something happened to you and you couldn’t write songs any more.’
Oof.
It was said without malice, but it hit Stevie square in the solar plexus. So much so the palm of her hand subconsciously flattened over the spot. It was a testament to how much he’d listened to her that he knew exactly where to aim.
That he hadn’t said perform, he’d said write.
Writing songs was her oxygen. It was how she made sense of the world. Even after Yolly’s death she could still write songs. Writing songs had gotten her through her darkest hours. Like the promise of the circuit had gotten Clay through his.
Stevie didn’t know who she was if she wasn’t doing that. And the fact that this man knew that was both heartening and disconcerting.
‘Yeah.’ She nodded because there was nothing else she could say to that other than maybe touché. Clay understood her and now, thanks to his ability to boil them both down to their most basic parts, she understood him, too.
Neither of them moved for long beats, they just sat, the horses quiet and patient beneath them as if they knew they were witnessing something important.
‘Come on then,’ he murmured, a slow smile disrupting the grim set of his mouth, letting in a crack of light through the darkness that had descended upon him during their discussion.
‘This day is too beautiful to waste on depressing shit from my past. There’s a tree with our name on it and my mother’s chocolate brownies to devour. ’
Stevie, already a fan of Theresa’s brownies, perked up. ‘After you,’ she murmured.