Page 21 of The Cowboy Who Stayed

“You good, man?”

“Fine,” I grit out. My features are clenched and my knuckles have gone white from how tight I’m clutching at the fence beam.

The afternoon heat doesn’t help. Together with the pain, it drags sweat from my pores and sends the beads dripping down my face.

Joaquin takes a step closer, his brow furrowing. “Your back again?”

“I said I’m fine, Estrada.”

He holds his hands up but doesn’t look convinced.

I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t convince me either right now.

But I loosen my grip on the fence, forcing my burning spine to straighten and my legs to carry me forward despite the nerves in my lower body throbbing at me to stop.

“Let’s get back to work,” I grunt.

I take it one stilted step at a time, slipping into an awkward gait that’s night and day from my usual stride.

Joaquin hangs back long enough to sigh, then speeds up to fall in step with me.

We don’t say a word between us.

…which is alright by me considering my body’s trapped in a burning spasm and my head’s stuck on the woman I can’t stop thinking about.

The warm September weather is chased away by rain the very next day. It rolls into Ironhaven and doesn’t let up for days.

It’s not a dramatic storm. More like a cool downpour that steadily turns the ranch into a mess of puddles and mud.

For most of the guys, it’s an inconvenience. Muddy boots, soaked shirts, cattle that don’t want to cooperate in the wet weather.

For me, it’s a punishment. Cold and damp are the two worst things for a spine held together by stubbornness and pain killers.

By the second day of rain, my lower back’s twinging like somebody’s taken a blowtorch to it from the inside.

I push through the way I always push through.

During the day I keep moving because motion is the only thing that keeps the muscles from completely locking up.

I haul feed in the rain, mend fencing soaking wet, and check on Buttercup because that’s what I do.

Nobody needs to see me hurting, and I don’t want their concern.

The evenings are a different story.

Alone in my quarters I let the mask drop, lying flat on the hard floor with a pillow under my knees because the mattress doesn’t give my spine enough support.

Two pain killers washed down with water, a heating pad pressed against my lower back, eyes fixed on the ceiling while I wait for the discomfort to dull enough to sleep.

This is the part of my life nobody sees, and I’d like to keep it that way.

What I can’t keep to myself—at least not inside my own head—is the frustration simmering underneath the pain.

Vivica’s still treating me like a stranger at the ranch. Dressed in her rainboots and windbreaker jacket, she’s given as many polite nods and clipped greetings as I can take. She won’t even look me in the eye anymore. Not after my most recent stable visit.

When day four of our rainstorm rolls around, I’m tired, sore, and running low on patience.

She’s out by the cattle barn when I spot her, focused on one of the pregnant heifers that’s been showing signs of discomfort. She’s got her work jacket pulled tight against the drizzle and her vet bag open beside her, completely absorbed in the examination with the same attentive care she gave Buttercup.