Page 45 of SEAL of Valor

“Hang tight!” Weston calls out, then slips out into the storm. The horses remain still despite the raging storm, likely thankful to just be dry.

All while my hip might as well be on fire.

Did I break it? Dislocate it?

Either one is feeling like a pretty good possibility at the moment.

Seconds turn into minutes, all with the storm raging outside. Finally, Weston returns, and light bathes the inside of the barn from a lantern he hangs on a hook just inside the doors. After another few seconds of struggling, he gets the doors closed again, then rushes toward me. Reaching up, he pulls me down and into his arms.

“I can try to walk.”

“No.”

He starts to carry me outside, but I shake my head. “Horses first, Weston.”

“I need to check⁠—”

“It’s not life-threatening. Please unsaddle the horses first so no one tries to roll and ends up injured. I can’t tend to them and myself at the moment.”

The battle playing out on his face is one for the books, but finally, he deposits me onto an old chair and gets to work removing the tack from the animals. Watching him around horses has always fascinated me. Weston moves like he’s an extension of them, and as far as I know, the man has never met a horse who didn’t absolutely love him.

Which is one of the things I adored most about him. After all, I’d trust a horse’s judgement when it comes to a person before I trust my own perception.

“I repaired the stalls first, but we won’t have any bedding for them.” He puts Bobbi in the far stall and Buttercup into the one directly across from him so they can see each other.

After securing both horses in the stalls, he rushes back over toward me, then lifts me back into his arms. Though he tries to move carefully, every single step sends shooting pain up my side. I grit my teeth and let my head fall against his strong chest, trying to distract myself with the absolute rightness of being in his arms.

This is where I was always meant to be…so why did everything go so wrong?

He pushes open his door, and we step inside. Weston doesn’t turn to close the door; he just kicks it closed behind us and carries me over to the couch.

“You don’t want to set me down there. I’m really muddy.”

“I don’t care.” He sets me onto the leather couch, then steps back and strips out of his jacket. After tossing his jacket and hat aside, he turns to me.

Those gorgeous hazel eyes of his are wide and full of fear.

What could a man like this fear?

“Can I check?” he questions, gesturing toward my side.

“You’re going to need to because I definitely can’t.” I try to laugh, but the pain running up my side silences me really quickly.

“Lie down.”

“Weston, your couch⁠—”

“Can be cleaned. Lie down, Reese. I need to know if we’re going to the hospital.”

I do as he says, lying back on the couch, and he rips a throw blanket off the back and holds it up, turning his head so I can undo my jeans. Unfortunately, trying to get them down over my hips causes me far more pain than I thought it would, and breathing heavily through it becomes a necessity. “Okay.”

Keeping his gaze averted, Weston lays the blanket down over me, then reaches down and tugs the bottom of my jeans so they slide off. The wet fabric hits the floor with a loud slap when he tosses them to the side.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.” He kneels beside the couch as I pull the blanket down just above my hip, raising my soaked shirt slightly, too.

Weston’s gaze is unreadable as he studies my side. “Skin’s not broken, but there’s a nasty bruise. I need to feel it to see if the bone is out of place. Think you can manage that?”