Page 46 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

“Because we know how that goes…” The words came quieter. I ran my hand down her neck. Men had wanted me before. Some had wanted me after the accident too. Until reality replaced imagination. I learned quickly that there was a difference between someone knowing I had a prosthetic and someone actually seeing what that meant.

The scars.

The shape of my residual limb.

The socket marks.

The moments when I couldn’t simply stand up and walk across a room.

I didn’t blame every man who couldn’t handle it. I just stopped volunteering to discover which kind they were.

My gaze traveled toward Blueberry’s saddle hanging on the far wall. I still cleaned it. Still conditioned the leather. Still refused to get rid of it. But I hadn’t put it on her since the accident.

My fingers curled into her mane.

“Maybe one day,” I whispered. I wasn’t sure whether I meant riding again. Or Beau.

Maybe neither.

Maybe both.

The next morning started before sunrise. By six, I’d fed Blueberry, checked the calves, helped move two cows into the milking parlor, discovered another section of fencing that needed repairing, and listened to Earl complain for twelve minutes about a gate hinge he’d been telling me to replace since July.

By seven thirty, I was sitting at Pops’s old desk in the ranch office with coffee going cold beside me and three different bills spread across the wood.

Feed.

Electricity.

Mortgage.

The numbers refused to become prettier no matter how many times I rearranged them.

My phone rang.

JONES AUTOMOTIVE.

My stomach tightened for an entirely different reason than it had when I’d looked at the mortgage statement. I answered on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Morning, Carson.”

Beau. His voice was lower over the phone. Rougher. I absolutely did not need to notice that, but I did.

“Morning,” I greeted while taking a sip of my lukewarm coffee, and instantly regretted it.

“I’ve got your estimate.” I wasn’t expecting him to go straight to business, but it was better that way. Exactly what I wanted.

I grabbed a pen. “Hit me.”

He gave me the number. My pen stopped.

For a moment, all I could hear was the hum of the old refrigerator in the corner of the office.

“Sorry, how much?”

He repeated it slower this time.