Cowgirl, Unexpectedly. Vicki Tharp

barring any major infections or other complications, they expect him to recover, though he may be left with a limp.”

      “He seems like a fighter. He’ll bounce back in no time, I’m sure.”

      “Like you?” Hank asked.

      He bobbed his chin toward my injured shoulder as he stood and moved behind me. He traced the pad of a finger over the ridges of scar tissue and into the dip in my shoulder muscle where the bullet had exited. His skin was warm on mine. Though his touch was platonic, I couldn’t remember the last time someone touched me—other than the casual touch when shaking hands or exchanging money with the person behind the register—and I didn’t shrink from it.

      “No, not like me.” I glanced at him over my shoulder. His hair was matted in a ring around his head from wearing his hat all day and stubble shadowed his jawline. I shoved the lock back on the haunting memories of the day I’d been shot before they could escape and wreak their usual havoc. I kept my voice down because I didn’t trust it not to crack. “I prefer to avoid a fight whenever I can.”

      “I know enough to recognize an entrance wound from an exit wound. From all appearances, you were running toward the fight, not from it.” His expression hardened and I couldn’t tell if he was impressed or mortified. He pressed his thumb on the outside of the divot and began working the muscle beneath the scar tissue.

      He was correct, so I didn’t say anything at all. Instead, I stifled a groan equal parts pain and pleasure and tried to concentrate on the tug and pull of his fingers as he worked his magic on my knotted muscles. I dozed with my head on the table.

      When Hank finished, he draped one of my T-shirts over my bare shoulders. Goose bumps covered my body and I convinced myself it was because the cabin had grown colder and that they had absolutely nothing to do with the feel of his warm, calloused hands on my skin.

      I pulled the shirt on over my head and accepted a hot mug of coffee and the anti-inflammatory tablets he’d placed in front of me. “Thanks.”

      “Better?” He stepped back to the coffee pot to retrieve his own mug.

      I nodded. “How did you know my shoulder was bothering me?”

      He stood hip-shot against the kitchen counter with the majority of his weight on his good leg. He rubbed a hand down the quads of his injured one. “I’ve had a little experience with damaged muscles. Mostly it’s a dull ache. I try to ignore it. Then sometimes I cramp for no reason and it brings me to my knees.”

      “What happened?”

      “I got old and slow,” he said, flashing a self-deprecating grin. “I was at the rodeo finals in Vegas. Came off a bull. The Machine, they called him, because he methodically dumped all his riders before time was up. I made the eight seconds. Then he slammed me into the ground, rammed a horn through my thigh, then stomped on my ribs as a departing ‘fuck you.’”

      “Ouch.”

      He chuckled, his laughter warm and deep. “You could say that.”

      “Is that why you’re here and not still on the circuit?”

      “More or less,” he allowed as the smile slipped from his lips.

      Silence fell between us. I waited for him to elaborate. He sipped his coffee and regarded me over the brim of his cup, content to let the subject drop. Holding his gaze, I wondered which one of us had the most secrets. Mine relentlessly gnawed at my soul, each day erasing a part of me, leaving me feeling more smudged—a faint outline of the person I once was.

      Hank’s eyes narrowed as if he was trying to understand, as if he could read my mind. I knew he couldn’t, but I looked away.

      There came a hollow thunk of boots on the front porch a second before a knock sounded. Hank straightened as I stood, but despite his bad leg, he still beat me to the door.

      A cold wind threw a handful of last fall’s leaves into the cabin as Dale strode in, a rifle with scabbard in each hand. He deposited the weapons on the table then unloaded four boxes of ammo from the pockets of his thick work coat.

      He eyed me pointedly, then dropped his hat on the table and waved me to one of the chairs. Hank handed Dale a cup of coffee, his limp more prominent as he stepped back to the counter and leaned against it.

      Even as an outsider, I knew a rancher’s life wasn’t all frolicking foals and fragrant flowers but the exhaustion on Dale’s face went beyond the fatigue of a long, hard day. Strain and worry creased his face more than age and sun accounted for.

      This I understood.

      After a year in Iraq, the daily stress of wondering if this was going to be the day that your buddy died or you died stamped that look on most everyone.

      “You’d better be a damn sight better with a rifle than you are at riding a horse,” Dale said, tearing a small piece out of my hide.

      I swallowed a sticky ball of saliva. “I am, sir.”

      I was no stranger to a dressing down. I deserved it. He had every right to be angry, to dismiss me. After all, I’d lied about my job qualifications. I’d never been fired before, and I wasn’t in any hurry to start today. “About the riding—”

      “I’ll make sure she gets up to speed.” Hank crossed his arms over his chest, coffee cup still in hand. His expression was flat, devoid of any excitement at the prospect, but he raised a single dirty-blond brow at me, daring me to argue. I bit my tongue and the urge.

      Dale shifted his gaze between the two of us several times. I don’t know if he saw what he wanted, but his mood shifted away from annoyance. “After what happened with Dink, I don’t want anyone riding out alone or unarmed.”

      I wasn’t surprised at his line of thinking even though I hoped he was wrong about the need for guns. “You don’t believe the trap was part of the trouble from before.”

      “No,” Dale allowed. “There had been mischief and thievery. Fences cut, feed troughs destroyed, cattle stolen. Nothing that directly harmed any of the animals. This feels different. There’s a meanness, a maliciousness out there that wasn’t here before.”

      Hank was quiet, quasi-listening. Leaning back in my chair I told Dale, “I don’t want any trouble.”

      “Then maybe it would be better if you left,” he said. He said it like someone might say, “Pass the bread.” No heat, no anger.

      My chin notched up and I held Dale’s gaze. “I’m not a coward.”

      “No one said you were.” He gave my sore shoulder a light squeeze. I tried to bite back a grimace. I didn’t want him to know how beat up I was.

      He snatched his hand back. “Sorry. Jenna said you’d gotten skinned up. How you doing?”

      Why Hank chose this moment to awaken from his half-stupor, I don’t know, but he hefted himself off the counter, a red flush on his face. “She’s—”

      I stood abruptly into his line of sight and froze him with a stare. Turning my attention back to Dale, I said, “She’s fine. And needs this job.” I forced the corners of my lips up to simulate a smile. “Really, it’s just a scratch. Isn’t that right, Hank?”

      After a beat, Hank slapped his mug on the counter. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

      I didn’t know why he was so mad. I hadn’t asked him to put his hand on a Bible and lie under oath. Was his anger with me, the world, or something else? His eyes turned a deep, icy blue and a shiver colonized my spine when his frigid stare stole the heat from my bones.

      “Well then,” Dale said, as he turned to leave. If he’d noted Hank’s nasty mood, he didn’t comment on it. “Target practice at the range tomorrow morning after breakfast and chores.”

      He nodded his goodbye and was almost at the door when Hank spoke. “How’s Jenna?”

      Dale didn’t look