Must Love Horses. Vicki Tharp

Her green eyes flashed somehow cold and hot at the same time. But damn, it was hard to take her seriously when she barely came up to his chest. “You going to tell my mommy on me? Or Mac?”

      “I’m not five years old. I don’t tattle on the other kids on the playground.”

      “Then what’ll you do?”

      She glanced down at his crotch pointedly. “I’ll take the keys myself.”

      He laughed aloud at that. “I’d like to see you tr—”

      As the words left his lips, he knew he was in deep, deep shit. He’d forgotten he had his regular leg on—it fit in the cowboy boot, but didn’t have the spring effect the blade had. The effect that transferred his energy to the ground. The effect that gave him power. The effect that gave him speed.

      The effect that prevented him from having his nuts kicked up into the back of his throat.

      She was quick. Little-fairy-all-hopped-up-on-pixie-dust quick.

      His hand came down to block.

      He closed his eyes and braced for impact.

      The blow never came.

      He peaked out between his eyelids. What had he expected to see? That she’d up and disappeared? Isn’t that what fairies did? But she was in front of him, one leg raised like the karate kid with her pointy toe boot kissing distance from the boys.

      He grunted with relief. Whiskey never tasted good when it came back up. He swallowed. “For such a little thing, you sure are violent.”

      “When I have to be.”

      He unclenched his jaws and a slow smile spread across his face as he reached into his pocket for the keys. “Do you usually pull your punches?”

      “No,” she said. “But I also don’t take advantage of the handicapped.”

      His hand stopped above hers. The tips of his ears heated. He didn’t feel handicapped. He wasn’t handicapped. In fact, he’d worked his ever-loving ass off in physical therapy to regain his mobility. He still worked out hard. Every. Single. Day.

      “Don’t vapor lock on me now.” She snagged the keys from his fingers before he could change his mind. “I didn’t mean the leg, Einstein. I meant the booze.”

      Was that supposed to make him feel better?

      “Get in,” she ordered.

      He did, and for the first time in his life, he felt an odd kinship with Peter Pan. Did Tinker Bell give Peter Pan a rash of shit too?

      She started the engine and headed down the long drive to the main road. The surge of adrenaline had burned up what little alcohol had made it into his system. His skin pricked as if he was developing a heat rash. He fiddled with the climate control knobs, switched the selector to vent, and buzzed his window down to let in the cool air.

      He glanced behind him. The incline of the road had slid the flask to the tailgate. So close…

      “Is that why you drink?”

      “Because I’m Einstein?”

      “Because of your leg.”

      “What do you know about it? About losing a leg. About living with a prosthetic?” He tried to keep from sounding defensive, but by the way she narrowed her eyes at him, he’d failed miserably.

      She nodded. Not in agreement with anything he’d said, but as if she’d internalized something, accepted something. “Not a damn thing. That’s why I’m asking.”

      He didn’t owe her anything. But something in the way she’d asked sounded like she really wanted to know. Really wanted to understand. That she wasn’t asking so she could pass judgment.

      “It dulls,” he said, in a rare moment of honesty, “the pain. Of now, then, what happened…and after.”

      When she didn’t say anything, he continued.

      “I don’t drink because of the amputation or the phantom pains or the nightmares and flashbacks or the loss of my career or the stack of papers from the divorce lawyer. It isn’t any one of those things.”

      She stared through the windshield as if granting him privacy.

      “It’s all of those things,” she said as if she got it, got him.

      He shrugged, even though her eyes were on the gravel road ahead of them.

      “How did it happen?” Her voice was soft, like she was afraid of the answer but wanted to know anyway.

      His chest tightened and the words refused to come. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t talked about it before. The experts always said it got easier the more you talked about it.

      Sometimes they were right.

      Sometimes they were full of shit.

      And sometimes talking was harder than others, like when he was twelve feet from his flask.

      She slowed as they came up to the blacktop road. He needed to change the subject. Needed to get out of his head.

      “About the sheriff,” he said.

      * * * *

      Sidney turned right onto the pavement per Boomer’s instructions. The two-lane road stretched out in front of them—a long, undulating ribbon of asphalt snaking through the mountains. The tension in the cab curled around her, thick and weighty. Did she want to hear about the sheriff? Yeah, but she didn’t think she was up for any more revelations, about Bryan or the sheriff.

      “Can it wait?” she asked.

      “Sure.” He leaned his seat back, stretched his legs out in front of him, and settled his black Stetson low on his head.

      Besides giving directions and his order at the drive-through of a chain burger joint in town, Boomer didn’t say anything the rest of the ride in to Rock Springs. They ate their burgers and fries as they left the town, turned off on Lion Kol Road, and pulled into the facility parking lot fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.

      The silence between them wasn’t exactly awkward, but there was the whole no-talking thing going on. For three hours. So, yeah, she had to cowgirl up and say something.

      She sipped her cola until her straw gurgled, making her sound like the five-year-old she’d insisted she wasn’t. Fan-freaking-tastic. “Look, I’m sorry if I made you sad or mad or uncomfortable or whatever it was I made you. Don’t tell me about your leg or tell me, up to you. We gotta work together so…” She let her words trail off, hoping he’d jump in there and meet her halfway.

      He was quiet as if absorbing her words, weighing her intent, measuring her sincerity. Then he looked at her, his blue eyes flecked with green in the sun, the healthy scruff on his jaw leaning toward beard, not stubble. His lips tilted more up than down. “You mean that, don’t you? That if I never told you what happened to my leg, you would be fine with it.”

      “It’s your leg.”

      “Or not,” they said over each other.

      He chuckled and shook his head as if he was shaking off the funk. “Fair enough.”

      She held out her hand for him to shake. “Hi, I’m Sidney Teller, my parents are complete assholes, but I hope you won’t hold that against me.”

      He reached across and clasped her hand. “Bryan Wilcox. I drink, sometimes too much, sometimes not enough, but I try not to be a complete asshole when I do. Not sure I always succeed.”

      The world seemed brighter after shining the halogen on her skeleton. After owning her troubles. She hoped he felt the same.

      He didn’t hold her hand any longer than the second or two required to give it a couple of pumps. She liked that his grip was firm, maybe a little firmer than necessary.

      She