“Virgin, my ass.”
“That would be the body part in question. Prepare to drop those jeans, buckaroo.”
Half an hour later he buttoned his jeans, reflecting that now he and Carma had both had their bare butts photographed for posterity. As he took a seat on the padded treatment table, there was a knock at the door. “I’m decent,” he yelled.
“That’s debatable.” Tori came in, pushed the door shut, and leaned against it, her ever-present tablet in hand.
Tension curled Gil’s toes. “What’s the verdict?”
“Thumbs up.” Her smile reflected his relief. “Everyone agrees that the MRI and X-rays look great. The docs are thrilled that their work stood up to the impact. I’ll do a full evaluation of the soft tissue, but once the bruising and stiffness have resolved, you have their blessing to return to full activity.”
His heart broke into a gallop. “How full?”
“My question exactly.” Her expression shifted into neutral. “Your pelvis is, if anything, stronger than normal because of the buttressing they did with the bone grafts. As far as the hip…there’s no definitive data regarding participation in contact sports after a total arthroplasty, but there are a lot of cowboys who’ve gone back to roping and steer wrestling without any problem. I found one bull rider who has competed successfully post-replacement, although he was in his early twenties. In every case where a fully healed prosthesis failed, it was under circumstances that most likely would have caused a fracture or dislocation in a normal individual.”
“So my risk of wrecking my hip is about the same as any other bareback rider?”
She inclined her head. “Everything else being equal…probably.”
“Probably?” he echoed. “That’s the best you can give me?”
“I’m not giving you anything. This is a call I can’t make.”
He frowned. “Why? You know me better than any of them.”
“Exactly. I’m too close.” She paused, lining up her words. “Delon has hit pretty much every goal a cowboy could have. Where his career is concerned, he could walk away tomorrow with no regrets…except one.” She raised her head and met Gil’s gaze. “It was supposed to be the Sanchez brothers, kicking ass and taking names together. I can’t trust myself to be objective when I know how much this could mean to him.”
Gil had to look down at his hands and swallow hard. He’d ruined that dream for both of them. On a personal level, he’d been lucky enough to get a second chance with his brother. But against him, in the arena? When they’d last gone head to head, Gil had had the advantage in age and experience. Delon was only nineteen years old and still finding his groove when Gil crashed. Now he was the best in the world.
And it wasn’t just Delon. The current bunch of cowboys were insanely talented. The horses were twice as rank. Gil might never have had what it took to compete at this new level.
Tori was studying her tablet, brows creased. “I am amazed at how well you’re bouncing back from this injury. You’re moving almost normally, and the bruising is much less than I expected.”
Geezus. Was she actually looking at those pictures? Gil blurted, “Carma did something Saturday night. A sort of massage.”
“Sort of?” Tori’s gaze snapped to his face, thank God.
“With peppermint and…well, it’s hard to explain.” He considered mentioning Carma’s story about the eagle and the rock, but it felt like spilling a very personal secret. “She doesn’t like to go into detail. I don’t want to push her.”
Tori frowned, but nodded. “It could be a tribal ritual. According to Hank, there are a lot of healers in the White Elk family, and from the stories he heard, it sounds as if quite a few of them would probably be INFJs—if you believe in that stuff.”
“You don’t?” Gil asked, surprised.
“Myers-Briggs isn’t based in solid science, even though some people treat it like gospel. Personally, I’m more intrigued by the theory that hyper-empathy is an electromagnetic phenomenon.”
“Which means?”
“They could be tuning in to brain waves and absorbing the energy emitted by the earth, the atmosphere, the sun…”
“And using it to heal?”
Tori flattened her brows. “It’s a big jump from sensing energy to being able to manipulate it.”
“You don’t think it’s possible?”
“I think there are a lot of things science can’t explain…yet.” She lifted the tablet. “I’ll consider anything that shows positive results, as long as there’s no risk of harm. I’d like to see what she could do with some of our patients.”
“That’s why you wanted to give her the personal tour.”
She nodded.
Carma must be thrilled by the invitation, since she’d admitted that getting inside the Patterson clinic was the reason she’d come to Texas.
And if they liked what they saw, Gil would have some stranger parked outside his office again. The thought was even less appealing than usual, and he feared it was the prospect of Carma’s absence that bothered him most.
“If I did swipe her, I’d give you Beth,” Tori said.
Gil blinked. “Give me? Does she get any say?”
“Sure, but she’ll jump at the chance to get out of Amarillo. Her first ex-husband’s new wife is stalking her, sure she’s trying to steal him back.” Tori rolled her eyes. “As if she’d want him. Suffice to say, Beth is ready for a change, and she’s seen enough of you to know exactly what she’s getting into.”
Gil massaged the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “That’s great, but can we deal with one thing at a time?”
“Sorry. Got a little sidetracked.” Tori folded her arms over the tablet. “Here’s what I can say. Riding again is physically possible. Your age is obviously a consideration, but you are in excellent condition. Since you train with Delon, your workouts are specifically designed to build a better bareback rider—speed, core strength, flexibility. Plus your body hasn’t had near the wear and tear of someone who has been competing for the last fifteen years.”
But he also hadn’t ridden a real live bronc in all that time. “I don’t know if I remember how to put on a pair of chaps.”
“I hear your form looks pretty good on the spur board.” She smirked at his double take. “Delon isn’t that oblivious…and you aren’t that sneaky.”
Hell. That’s exactly what Tamela had said when Gil claimed his brother and friends didn’t know he had a drug problem. And here he was, having a real discussion about jumping back into his first and most powerful addiction.
“I wish I could give you more definitive answers,” Tori said.
“Me too.” Then he shook his head. “You can give me the odds, but I’m the only one who can decide if it’s worth the risk.”
And whether he could survive if he gambled everything he’d fought so hard for…and lost.
Chapter 22
Carma had agreed to work on Tuesday, since Gil had to be gone. She made an excuse to hang around after her shift and watch Analise soothe and scold, coax and command, an unlikely den mother to drivers more than twice her age, but Gil didn’t come directly home from his appointment with Tori.
He hadn’t texted. He hadn’t called. Did that mean bad news? Good? That he didn’t want to talk about it either way?
She’d expected him to say something Saturday night, when they were curled together in the cozy confines of the truck sleeper. People always spilled their guts to Carma. It had made her a master of ducking down grocery-store aisles before certain folks cornered her. But not Gil. He’d made it clear he intended to let his fingers do the talking…and walking.
What was she gonna do, say no to earth-shattering orgasm number two?
But now it was almost three days later and he still hadn’t said a word. When Analise caught Carma checking the clock for the umpteenth time, sh
e shook her head. “It’s Tuesday. Gil’s got his weekly meeting in Dumas. He never misses unless he’s out of town, and he usually goes out for coffee with his sponsor afterward.”
The fist of worry inside Carma loosened. Gil wasn’t inexplicably late. He just hadn’t chosen to share his schedule with her. Or any other vital information. Why should he? One night in a truck sleeper hadn’t changed their just-here-for-the-sex status. Gil was playing by the rules they’d laid out in black and white. It wasn’t his fault that Carma kept slipping into fantasies of something more.
Her visit to the Brookman ranch had not helped. Bing and her big, handsome Johnny. Hank and his precious Grace. Who wouldn’t envy that kind of happiness? But she couldn’t let all that bliss cloud her judgment where Gil was concerned.
Analise tapped a blob of green on the weather radar monitor. “Go take a walk before that rain hits. You need some fresh air.”
“Do you tell everyone what to do?” Carma asked, amused.
“Yes.” Analise crossed her legs and dangled one white Ked, impressively forceful for a woman in ponytails, pedal pushers, and a red gingham blouse. “It’s easier to just go along. Ask anyone.”
So Carma went, one eye on the gathering clouds as she hiked the quarter mile to the edge of town, then up and down random streets, her first real foray into Earnest. It looked and felt like it could’ve been plucked whole from anywhere on the Montana plains, complete with the blatantly curious stares from car windows and front yards. A few nodded or lifted a hand in greeting, but the gestures felt more like So you’re the one we heard about than a welcome.
By the time a gust of wind and dust chased her up the stairs to the apartment, the constant surveillance had left her more irritable than when she’d left.
The drum of rain on the metal roof only made the place feel more claustrophobic, so she grabbed a bottle of water and a towel and headed down to the weight room, where she sweated out three miles on the elliptical bike. The squall had passed when she stepped outside to gulp cool, damp air, but it was only the opening act of a series of storms. Thankfully, there were no tornado watches or warnings, though.
A quick peek showed nothing but wet concrete in front of Gil’s garage, where the Charger normally would be parked. Damn. Still not home.
The next line of thunderheads mustered on the western horizon, their billowing tops lit pink and gold by the setting sun. Drawn by the sight, Carma cut back up through the apartment, dragging the couch cushions and a fleece blanket onto the outside landing to enjoy the view. Very occasionally a vehicle passed, the engine a swelling then fading counterpoint to the ever-present cicadas and the repetitive ooh-OOH-ooh-ooh-ooh of the mourning doves—another familiar note from the Montana prairie.
As the sky darkened, she willed her mind to open, releasing her thoughts to be whisked away by the restless breeze. Despite her best efforts, Gil remained firmly lodged in her head. The suspense alone was driving her crazy. What had he learned today? Could he ride again? Would he?
She refused to break her self-imposed ban on interfering to ask…dammit.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel, launching her heart into her throat. There shouldn’t be anyone here but Analise. Carma rocked into a crouch, ready to make a break for the apartment door, then sagged in relief as Gil stepped around the front corner of the shop.
“You’re back. I didn’t see your car.”
“It was pouring when I got home, so I parked in the garage. I hope I didn’t scare you.”
“A little. Analise said you usually don’t get home until late on Tuesdays.”
“My sponsor is out of town, so I left right after the meeting.” He paused at the foot of the stairs, the angles of his face accentuated by the harsh glare of the security light, the guitar slung across his back somehow adding to the hint of danger clinging to him. “It shouldn’t matter tonight, but did Max show you the tornado shelter?”
“Yes.” The foreman had given her a grand tour of the concrete bunker built into the floor of the shop, big enough to squeeze in ten people, stocked with a two-way radio, first aid kit, flashlights, bottled water, and snacks. Gil’s doing, of course, situated for easy access if he and Quint had to dash over from their house.
Gil set a hand on the railing. “Can I come up?”
“Sure.” While he climbed the stairs, she rearranged the cushions to make space for him. “Have a seat.”
He shifted his guitar around to the front and settled beside her, the silver glow of the security lights emphasizing the lines of muscle bared by the short sleeves of his T-shirt. The breeze freshened and chilled, raising goosebumps on his skin.
Carma offered one end of her blanket. “I should warn you, though, I haven’t showered since I worked out.”
“No problem. I live with a junior-high boy.” Gil wrinkled his nose as he scooted close, bringing his heat and his woodsy scent along as he pulled the blanket across his shoulders. “I do not remember my feet smelling that bad, no matter what Violet says.”
“It’s probably like how other people’s farts stink worse,” she blurted, disoriented by his sudden invasion of every one of her senses.
He laughed. “And I thought I was romantic.”
“I, uh…” Her breath caught as his leg shifted against hers, denim caressing the bare skin below her shorts. “I didn’t realize romance was part of the package.”
He strummed a chord as thunder rumbled and lightning flickered inside the towering clouds. “A balcony, a guitar, a light show. What more could you want?”
Answers—but apparently they were still not talking about his future. And despite the joking, he was strung as tight as his guitar.
And then it struck her. Holy crap. The doctors must have said yes. Otherwise, why would he still be wound up? It was all she could do not to demand that he tell her everything. How could he not tell her anything?
Then she felt his sigh, a profound ripple of relief that traveled through every point of contact between their bodies, as if he’d been holding on by a thread for days and now, with her, he could finally let go. Answers could wait. He needed a break, so she would give it to him.
He tipped his head back to gaze at the stars that glittered in the deep velvet sky ahead of the storm. “Do you know their stories?”
“The stars?”
He nodded, his fingers playing randomly over the strings. “The Navajo have legends about the sun, the moon, the constellations. I remember my mother telling us about that little cluster…” His gaze raked across the sky. “I don’t see it.”
“If you mean Pleiades, it disappears from spring until fall, which is why it’s part of so many ancient religions. It marked the beginning and end of the growing season before there were calendars.” Even before then, when there were no religions. No rules for communing with the stars. Uncle Tony said she was a throwback to when people were in direct contact with nature, no go-between required. He thought it was pure and special.
Carma had learned that special wasn’t always meant as a compliment.
“What do the Blackfeet call it?” Gil asked.
“Something I can’t pronounce. And there’s a legend about how they’re starving orphans rescued by the Sun. Or maybe Morning Star.”
He cocked his head. “You don’t know?”
“Our branch of the family are what my uncle Tony calls powwow Indians. We show up for the dancing and major things like naming ceremonies, but we don’t practice the religion on a daily basis.” She shrugged, enjoying the slide of her shoulder against his. “It’s the Blackfeet equivalent of going to church for Christmas, Easter, weddings, and funerals—which we also do. We’re half-assed Methodists, too.”
His brows creased. “You told me a story the other night.”
“That was mine.” One she had shared with only a few people outside her immediate family. It had seemed natural and necessary, t
hough, a way of reciprocating for how he’d trusted his body to her. Before he could demand an explanation she said, “So now you owe me.”
“A story…or a massage?”
“A song. Preferably one of your own.”
He thought for a moment, then settled the guitar more squarely in his lap, his gaze still fixed on the sky as he began to pick out a melody. The notes were light, dancing on the breeze and drifting up and away into the darkness. She rested her cheek against the soft cotton and hard muscle of his shoulder, the better to feel the vibration of the strings. After a minute he angled a look at her, and she realized she’d started to hum along.
“Don’t stop,” he whispered, as if afraid to break the spell.
So she followed his lead from note to note, star to star, all across the sky. The clouds pressed closer and the song shifted, from low notes that resonated with the thunder to sharp, sudden crescendos of lightning. For a mesmerizing stretch of time they were all one—Carma, Gil, the music, and the churning sky.
Then a gust of wind tore across the lot, chased by a clap of thunder. Gil flattened his palm over the strings. “Time to go inside.”
“Do we have to?” she protested, unwilling to be dragged back to earth.
“Metal landing, metal shop, lightning.” He unhitched the strap and set the guitar aside. Then he turned, cradled her face between his hands, and kissed her.
It could have been their first kiss. Nothing that had come before had prepared her for this—tenderness and longing, gratitude and a plea. Touch me. Feel me. Know me. For the space of that kiss there were no walls. Only a man who’d been locked away for too long, desperate for contact. She gave it to him, opening up and letting him reach into the spaces where she stored the sunshine and moonlight she gathered to carry her through the coldest, darkest nights.
Lightning flashed again, only a few beats ahead of the thunder. When he pulled back, his eyes reflected her wonder. What was that?
Another gust of wind pummeled the shop and tore the blanket off her shoulders. Gil blinked, visibly struggling to resurface, then climbed to his feet, scooping up the guitar with one hand and holding the other out to her.
Relentless in Texas Page 18
