Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 69468 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69468 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Something about my curt responses to Grayson or my expression must have warned the others off asking me too many questions. Their conversation swirled around me, familiar yet foreign, like taking a seat at a new chow hall as I started to piece together who was who. Adler sat next to Grayson. Maverick had mentioned last night that Grayson had a guy. Judging from how Adler ribbed Grayson, it had to be him, although his sunny demeanor was a stark contrast to Grayson’s stoicism.
After we ate, Grayson showed me to the bunk where Adler had tossed my duffel. Lower bunk, of course, and closest to the bathroom. More accommodations. My back was going to be a permanent stack of lumber by the end of the day, and I was more than a little relieved when we moved onto a tour of the barn with Grayson and Kat.
I’d hoped to let the two of them talk while I trailed along and got my bearings, but as we entered the large state-of-the-art horse barn with its rows of stalls and large, attached riding ring, Kat turned toward me.
“What sort of experience do you have with horses?” she asked, stopping near a tack room. “Can you ride?”
“Ride decent enough.” I measured out each word. Kat nodded, expression intent like she was expecting more info. I swallowed hard. “Worked…in school…for Colt’s…”
“He worked with Betsey’s folks’ horses during high school,” Grayson finished easily for me as I faltered. Fuck. I hated when others had to fill in the blanks for me, and I hated my relief at not having to explain further even more.
“Ah. I should have remembered that.” Kat gave a warm smile. Like Grayson, she was a longtime ranch employee, and she’d likely known Colt’s late wife Betsey, who’d come from a family of barrel racers. Colt had gotten me the job at her parents’ small stable and training facility when I’d been in high school. The area was small enough that everyone knew everyone else. “You were such a young’un back then. Guess I saw you around their barn a time or two.”
“Yep.” I didn’t have specific memories of her or Grayson, but our paths had likely crossed at some point.
“Better question is, are you cleared to ride?” Kat continued with the questions. “Any restrictions?”
“I’m good.” I offered an expression I hoped passed for friendly and competent. Hard to know what my face might actually be doing, especially as my temples throbbed and a muscle in my jaw twitched.
“Colt said the doctors recommended a riding helmet and caution around overexertion.” Grayson was too damn helpful.
“Helmet. Fine.” I’d served under enough commanding officers to know which battles to fight and which to let go. I’d let the helmet requirement go in favor of the war to be taken seriously as a hand. “I can work.”
Grayson looked ready to argue this point, but then he took a deep breath and gestured at a nearby muck cart. “Let’s get you started with some stalls then.”
I was at risk of strangling the next person who attempted to coddle me, so I threw myself into the task with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, enough so that Grayson and Kat let me be with a row of empty stalls needing my attention. It might have been fifteen years or so since I’d mucked a stall, but muscle memory took over.
Funny that. My brain had had to relearn walking, talking, and making basic facial expressions like smiling, but mucking came back with no effort at all. If only everything were as easy as shoveling shit. I moved from one stall to the next, lost in the rhythm of the task, muscles pleasantly warm from work.
I welcomed the burn. In addition to my TBI, I’d banged up both arms, several ribs, and my right leg, and it had been months since I’d had a workout beyond the grueling PT regimen. At least my hair had finally regrown from the multiple surgeries required to keep me alive. If I stayed on at the ranch, I was going to need a hat of some kind or possibly a bandanna to keep the sweat off my face.
As I paused to swipe at my forehead with the hem of my T-shirt, a tall, broad-shouldered guy came strolling up the aisle of stalls. Another cowboy. Black hat. Crisp, short-sleeve plaid shirt. Big belt buckle. Dark hair and beard.
“Hey there,” he greeted me as he approached. “You seen Kat?”
“Been an hour.” I probably wasn’t going to be more help than that, but the guy kept coming, shifting what looked like a large medic’s bag from one shoulder to the other so he could stick out a hand. I pulled my work glove off in order to give him a clean handshake.
“Carson, right?” He had an easy smile and eyes somewhere between hazel and brown. “You probably don’t remember me, but I’m—”