Page 11 of Firefly Embers

There wasn’t much that could break my pops, especially not the wrath I’d been throwing around. After all, he had put up with Ma’s smart mouth for over forty years.

“I’d say after the year they’ve had, they deserve a little bit of happiness,” he scolded, shooting a cutting look in my direction.

My scoff echoed through the barn before being swallowed up by the whinnying of horses and stomping of hooves.

“Yeah, well, good for them. Glad they get their happily ever after.”

Pops just shook his head, not bothering to feed into the terrible mood I’d shrouded myself in. I brushed past him, heading toward the stables, shutting down the conversation. I grabbed a hay bale as I went, hefting it onto my shoulder with practiced ease, not bothering with putting on my gloves, hoping the bite of the twine around the straw would quell the raging fire inside me.

There was a frustration in me that grew stronger as I hefted each bale, reminding me that lifting heavy weights was fine, but getting on a horse was forbidden.

The doctors had cleared me for lifting, but the way my spine would compact with each jostle in the saddle was too dangerous to chance.

I could use a drink.

I stomped into the stables, dropping the bale of hay outside the first stall. My horse, Blackjack, slung his head over the gate and whined in protest, stomping his feet at the fact that I hadn’t yet given him attention. I stopped to quickly scratch his long, jet-black ears and run my hand down his whiskery snout.

Blackjack had been a present from Ma and Pops on my sixteenth birthday. We had trained hard over the years, and there was a sacred bond between us.

It killed me not to be able to take him out for another ride. I had toyed with the idea of selling him to a rider who could give him the attention he needed, but the selfishness in me wouldn’t allow that to happen.

With one last scratch to his neck, I hauled the hay bale into his stall and turned back to grab another.

I’d taken over the daily chores while Max and Stella were on their honeymoon, leaving little free time for anything enjoyable.

They’d opted to take a family vacation to one of the beaches in South Carolina instead of something more elaborate. Neither Stella nor Max wanted to be without Charlie, and honestly, I couldn’t blame them.

But getting up each day at the ass crack of dawn to feed the horses, muck stalls, and then working a full day training wasn’t my idea of a good time. Coupled with the fact that I couldn’t take the edge off with a ride left me grumpy as fuck.

I felt Pops’ presence at my back as I bent down and pulled out a pocketknife, sawing through the twine holding the bale of hay together.

I didn’t bother making idle chitchat. Neither of us was very keen to talk about feelings, so we didn’t bother discussing what had me slinging hay around like it had done me wrong.

I just needed to get through these chores, get through my training session, and then get back to the house so I could crack open a bottle and wash away the day.

Maybe I’d call up one of the buckle bunnies stored in my phone that lived close enough and get in a quick fuck. Nothing helped quell rage better than fucking out your feelings.

As I stood up straight, tucking the small knife back in the pocket of my jeans, a twinge of pain shot through my back. I hissed through my teeth, clamping them shut to fight off the burning sensation in my scar, as I waited for the fiery tendrils to recede.

It had been six months since the incident, and I still got residual shots of pain if I twisted wrong or stood up too fast. The bullet had nicked my lower lumbar, causing a chip of bone to break off.

During the surgery, they had done their best to remove any fragments left behind, but they said there was a possibility of minuscule pieces causing scar tissue to build, and I’d get little pains here and there.

Essentially, what they’d told me, in layman’s terms, was that I’d feel the pain of being shot in the back for the rest of my fucking life. I’d have to deal with debilitating pain no matter how much physical therapy I did, how many surgeries I had, or how much I tried to fight it. I’d have a constant reminder of the night my life had changed and the fact that I wasn’t ever going to be able to do the thing I loved most again.

“You okay there, son?” Pops asked from his seat on a wooden bench near the tack room, legs kicked out in front of him in relaxation.

Why he hung around the stables after he’d opted to retire from hard labor made no sense. But, truthfully, not much Pops did made much sense.

“Just fucking peachy,” I gritted out, not bothering to look up. I massaged my scar, helping break up the pressure until all that remained was a dull ache.

“You know⁠—”

“Good morning, handsome Daniels men!” a sing-songy voice echoed through the stables. I groaned, not wanting to deal with Ray’s sunshiny bullshit this morning, especially hungover.

She waltzed through the barn doors, all spitfire and sass, patting me on the chest as she passed by.

I turned my head skyward and internally counted to ten to keep myself from saying or doing something stupid.