Chapter 1 The Gravity of Bone #5
"Grab on," she ordered.
Ryder reached up with his good arm. He gripped her shoulder. His hand felt huge and clumsy against her frame.
"Where do I put the other hand?" he asked, gesturing with his immobilized arm.
"Just... tuck it against your chest. Don't pull on me."
She grabbed the belt at his waist.
"Ready?"
"No."
"Too bad. One. Two. Three. UP."
She pulled. He pushed off his good leg.
He rose.
For a split second, he was standing. He was upright. The world corrected itself.
Then, he put a fraction of weight on the left leg.
The pain didn't just spike; it exploded. It was a blinding, white-hot supernova that erased the room, erased Elena, erased everything but the screaming need to stop.
His good knee buckled.
"I'm going down!" he gasped.
"I've got you!"
Elena didn't let go. She stepped in, driving her body against his to brace him. She locked her arms around the belt.
They slammed together.
Ryder’s chest hit hers. His chin hooked over her shoulder. He was dead weight, hanging off her, his face buried in the crook of her neck.
He was shaking violently. Sweat soaked his shirt.
"Hold it," Elena grunted, straining under his weight. "Find your balance, Ryder. Use the right leg. Stand up."
Ryder fought the black spots in his vision. He dug his right heel into the floor. He pushed.
He stabilized.
They were standing there, locked in a desperate, clumsy embrace in the middle of the guest room. He was panting, his breath hot against her skin. She was holding him up, her arms wrapped tight around his waist.
The pain in his leg was a dull roar now, receding slightly.
But the sensation of her body against his... that was new. That was loud.
He could feel her heart beating against his chest. Rapid. Strong.
He pulled his head back. He looked at her.
Her face was flushed. Her eyes were wide, dilated. She was looking up at him, her lips parted slightly.
For a second, the doctor was gone. The ex-girlfriend was gone. There was just a man and a woman, breathing the same air, surviving the same gravity.
Ryder felt a ghost sensation—the memory of kissing her in the rain, six years ago. The memory of how she felt under his hands.
The charm—the defense mechanism—kicked in automatically.
"You know," he wheezed, trying to force a grin. "If you wanted a hug, you could have just asked."
The spell broke.
Elena’s eyes went cold. The professional mask slammed back into place with an audible snap.
"Pivot," she snapped.
She twisted him, hard.
"Sit."
She practically threw him into the armchair.
Ryder landed with a grunt. He slumped back, exhausted, the adrenaline crash leaving him trembling.
Elena stood over him. She adjusted her white coat. She checked her hair. She was breathing hard, but her face was stone.
"You ran away, Ryder," she said. Her voice was low, vibrating with a suppressed anger that terrified him more than the pain. "You left me. You left this town. You don't get to make jokes. You don't get to be charming."
She pointed a finger at him.
"You are a patient. I am a doctor. That is the only connection we have. If you blur that line again, I will leave you in this chair to rot. Do you understand?"
Ryder looked at her. He saw the hurt behind the anger. He saw the scar he had left on her, invisible but deep as the bone inside his leg.
"I understand," he whispered.
"Good."
She grabbed her bag.
"Ice the leg. Twenty minutes on, twenty off. I'll be back tomorrow."
She walked out.
Ryder sat in the chair, staring at the empty doorway. His leg was throbbing. His heart was aching.
And for the first time in six years, he didn't want to run. He wanted to know why the woman who hated him had held him so tight before she let go.
CHAPTER 4: THE GHOST IN THE MINIATURE
I. The Watchtower
By Wednesday, Ryder Stone had decided that hell wasn't fire and brimstone. Hell was a porch swing and a leg that wouldn't bend.
He sat on the wrap-around porch of the farmhouse, his left leg propped up on a cooler Cole had graciously provided as an ottoman. The cast was heavy, itching in places he couldn't reach with a coat hanger. His shoulder was throbbing in time with the crickets.
He was bored. Violent, claw-your-eyes-out bored.
For a man whose baseline dopamine requirement was "near-death experience," sitting still was a form of torture. He watched the ranch operate without him.
He saw Cole driving the new tractor (purchased, apparently, with Maya’s magical money). He saw Maya—the "Partner"—walking the fence line with a clipboard, looking like she owned the place. He saw the new cabins rising on the ridge, sleek and modern and offensive to his cowboy sensibilities.
He was a spectator in his own home. A ghost haunting the porch.
He reached for the pack of cigarettes he had hidden in his pocket. Elena had confiscated his lighter ("Nicotine constricts blood vessels and slows bone healing. Do you want the bone to knit, or do you want to smoke?"), but he just liked holding the pack. It was a vice he could control.
He closed his eyes, listening to the wind in the cottonwoods.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
A sound. Not the wind.
Ryder opened one eye.
Something was moving near the lilac bushes at the edge of the yard. A small, frantic shape.
A dog? A coyote?
Ryder sat up straighter, wincing as his ribs protested.
The bushes rustled. A figure burst out.
It was a boy.
He couldn't have been more than five or six. He was wearing denim overalls that were stained green at the knees, a striped t-shirt, and a pair of red rubber boots that looked comically large on his feet. He had a mop of unruly dark curls that bounced as he ran.
He wasn't running aimlessly. He was running a pattern. He would sprint ten feet, stop, spin, and throw his hand in the air.
Ryder watched, fascinated. The kid was living in a movie only he could see.
The boy stopped near the porch steps. He didn't see Ryder in the shadows of the swing. He was focused on the object in his hand.
Ryder squinted.
It was a toy bull. Plastic. Black and white. One horn was broken off.
The boy crouched down in the dirt. He positioned the bull. Then he picked up a stick—his "rider"—and smashed it against the bull.
"Pshhh!" the boy made a sound like an explosion. "Eight seconds! And the crowd goes wild!"
Ryder smiled. He couldn't help it.
"He's bucking too flat," Ryder called out.
The boy froze. He dropped the stick. He spun around, eyes wide, searching for the source of the voice.
"Up here," Ryder said, waving his good hand.
The boy looked up. He saw the man on the porch. The man with the cast. The man with the scars.
Most kids would have run. Strangers on porches were generally to be avoided. But this kid just stared. He looked at Ryder’s leg. Then he looked at Ryder’s face.
He walked up the steps. One. Two. Three.
He stood at the top of the stairs, clutching his plastic bull.
"Are you the pirate?" the boy asked.
Ryder blinked. "The pirate?"
"Mom said a pirate lives in the guest room. She said he has a peg leg and I'm not allowed to talk to him."
Ryder laughed. It hurt his ribs, but it was worth it. Elena. Of course.
"I'm not a pirate," Ryder said. "I'm a cowboy. And it's not a peg leg. It's fiberglass."
"Oh." The boy looked disappointed. "Can you still walk the plank?"
"Not currently. Currently, I'm anchored."
The boy took a step closer. He held out the bull.
"It's Bodacious," the boy said solemnly. " The toughest bull ever."
Ryder looked at the toy. Bodacious. The bull that had broken Tuff Hedeman’s face. A legend.
"That's a serious bull," Ryder agreed. "But you're playing him wrong."
"Am not."
"Are too. You're making him spin flat. Bodacious didn't spin flat. He was a power jumper. He came out of the chute, took two jumps to test the rider, then he whipped his head back to break your nose."
The boy’s eyes went wide. "Really?"
"Really. I've seen the tapes."
"Show me," the boy challenged.
Ryder hesitated. He looked at the door. Elena wasn't due for another hour. Cole was in the field.
"Come here," Ryder said.
The boy walked over. He handed Ryder the plastic bull.
Ryder took it. His hand—large, scarred, calloused—engulfed the small toy. He felt a strange ping in his chest. He wasn't good with kids. He avoided them. Kids were sticky. Kids were loud. Kids were responsibility.
But this kid... this kid smelled like dirt and soap. He looked at Ryder with an intensity that felt familiar.
"Okay," Ryder said, setting the bull on the flat arm of the swing. "Here's the chute."
He used his hand to simulate the gate opening.
"When he comes out," Ryder explained, moving the toy, "he drops the shoulder. Boom. Then he lifts. High. See?"
The boy nodded, entranced.
"Then," Ryder continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, "he feels the rider shift. And he attacks."
Ryder whipped the toy bull backward.
"Pow."
The boy gasped. A grin spread across his face—a gap-toothed, infectious grin that lit up the porch.
"Awesome," the boy breathed.
Ryder handed the bull back. Their fingers touched. A static spark jumped between them.
"You try," Ryder said.
The boy took the bull. He mimicked the move. He had good hands. quick. Precise.
"Who taught you to like bulls?" Ryder asked. "Your dad?"
The boy stopped playing. He looked down at his red boots.
"I don't have a dad," he said matter-of-factly. "My mom says he's traveling."
"Traveling?"
"Yeah. Like an astronaut. Or a spy."
"Or a pirate," Ryder added.
"Maybe," the boy shrugged. "Mom says he's busy saving the world. But I think he just got lost."
Ryder felt a sudden, sharp ache in his throat. Just got lost.
He looked at the kid. Dark curls. Brown eyes with gold flecks. A stubborn chin.
"What's your name, cowboy?" Ryder asked.
"Leo," the boy said.
"Leo," Ryder repeated. It was a good name. Strong.
"I'm Ryder."
Leo’s eyes widened. "Ryder? Like the guy on the TV?"
"Sometimes."