by Amanda Renee
The chair Gunner had sat in at dinner was fewer than five feet away. His wrists and hands ached from his earlier physical therapy, but he refused to allow that to deter him. Inch by methodical inch, his arms and legs shook, rattling the walker. A few times, he questioned if it would support his six-foot-two-inch frame. With each step—regardless how small—Brady’s heartbeat drummed in his chest. His body tingled, rejuvenated by the accomplishment. When he reached the hard wooden chair, he felt like a king sitting on his throne.
He carefully tore the picture Gunner had drawn for him earlier from the notepad and set it aside. He unfolded the schedule and reviewed the list, noticing it contained not only next year’s dates, but this year’s too. Was it possible to compete again this year? Even if it was just one competition, he’d take it. If he hoped to make it to the National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas next December, he needed to get back in the ring sooner rather than later. Then he’d have a valid chance of winning some serious prize money. He’d just begun to hit his peak as a top competitor when the accident occurred. Most of the money he’d saved had gone toward his house and to pay down some of the debt he’d accumulated along the way. Winning the championship would more than support his son until his eighteenth birthday and possibly pay for college, providing he invested it wisely. Once Gunner’s future was set, then he’d retire and get a normal job. Even if it was just mucking stalls, he’d be satisfied knowing he had provided for his son and made his mother proud.
She’d supported his passion until her final day on earth. When he was growing up, she’d made sacrifices in order to afford his entry fees. Her desire to see him win was as strong as his own. And in his heart, Brady knew she’d been his guardian angel the day of his accident. She was smiling down on him and he refused to disappoint her.
* * *
WHEN SHEILA LEFT the hospital, it was almost nine o’clock. After her two scheduled surgeries, she’d been part of the trauma team treating a three-year-old child who’d fallen off a second-story deck. It would be a miracle if he survived through the night. Some surgeries were more difficult than others, not because of the size of the patient, but because of their age and circumstance. The boy’s spinal cord had sustained so much damage the neurosurgeon doubted he would walk again. Sheila still found it next to impossible to accept the cruel fate doled out to the unfortunate. And that’s what they ultimately were. Unfortunate.
She arrived home too wound up to sleep. Her patient had reminded her of many of the children at Dance of Hope. They were at the hippotherapy center for various reasons. Some had cerebral palsy while others had lost limbs to bone cancer. Sheila had debated for two long years before she’d decided to specialize in orthopedic trauma surgery. As a level-one trauma center for both pediatrics and adults, Grace General provided the most advanced and comprehensive care available within seconds of a patient’s arrival. Once Grace General accepted her into their fellowship program, her future would be set.
She’d lived only one other place in her life. Moving to Texas had been an adjustment, especially when she’d been forced to share a two-bedroom apartment with three other interns her first year. It had been all she could afford. Two years later, she’d moved into another shared apartment, but at least she’d had her own room. A few months ago, she had craved wide open spaces. Well, that and the rent was cheaper the farther she moved from town. The small house had rustic charm, a wraparound porch rivaling the main living area for square footage and a view of dairy cows across the street. Her life and career were headed in the right direction. So why did she feel so off balance?
Sheila trudged to the kitchen. Nothing relaxed her like baking sugar cookies. Between her and her mother, they’d perfected the recipe over the years. Her mother had been a high school English teacher and baking had been her way of unwinding after a particularly difficult day at work.
Sheila rummaged through her box of cookie cutters until she found a simple design she could easily decorate for both the pediatric wing at the hospital and Dance of Hope. She settled on a heart, knowing it would retain its shape without having to freeze the cutout cookies before baking as she usually did. Besides, who didn’t love a heart? She’d decorate them in gender neutral colors and everyone would be happy.
It was almost three in the morning when her last batch of cookies came out of the oven. She’d already begun flooding the cooled ones with royal icing and then added names to the ones she intended to hand-deliver to her patients. Her hand froze when she piped out Brady’s name on top of a bright red cookie.
“I did not just do that.”
But she had. Brady’s name sat on her kitchen table like a beacon glowing in the darkness. Out of the dozens of cookies laid out before her, Brady’s stood out the most. Probably because it was the only red cookie with a name on it.
She wanted to phone a friend or ask for a lifeline. She was quickly losing her heart to a virtual stranger—a patient. It was commonly known as the Florence Nightingale effect. She’d never experienced it herself, but she’d witnessed other doctors and nurses succumb to it—some had permanently damaged their careers.
Sheila backed away from the cookie. She was too close to becoming board certified to risk anything on anyone. She covered the cookie with a paper towel, then picked it up and tossed it in the garbage can. Now if she could manage to toss away any romantic inclinations toward Brady she’d be set. Why was that so difficult?
* * *
BRADY AWOKE THE following morning hopeful—more than hopeful—now that he had a definitive schedule to work toward. The balance in his life that he’d lacked during the past few months had begun to return. His first thought that morning had been to call Sheila and tell her about his progress with the walker. Then he realized he didn’t have her phone number. Why should he? She was his doctor, not his girlfriend. Calling and leaving a message at the hospital didn’t have quite the same effect. It was all right. By the time he did see and speak to her again, he’d have progressed even further.
Besides, his father deserved the first phone call. The man had supported every one of Brady’s hopes and dreams since he’d been a little boy. He’d never thought anything was out of Brady’s reach. Where his mother had been more cautious and had always feared Brady would be injured in the arena, his father ignored the odds and the statistics, relying more on gut instinct. As much as he missed his mother, he was glad she hadn’t been around to see him after his injury. It would have broken her heart to see her only child that close to death.
A shiver ran up Brady’s spine. He admitted it—he had almost died. Alice would be thrilled to hear him say the words, and apparently so would Sheila after the lecture she’d given him in the hospital. He assumed with balance came clarity. Okay, he admitted it to himself. Now everyone would be happy and he could move on.
Brady had purposely left his wheelchair by the closet last night. He’d instituted a new rule before he went to bed...no more wheelchair while inside the cottage. It was small enough for him to get around without it. He needed to push himself if there was a possibility of his competing again this year.
Throwing off the bedsheets, he swung his legs over the side. A deep, dull ache in his hips reminded him that he still had a lot of recovering to do. He wouldn’t allow a little pain to scare him. It hadn’t scared him yet.
Brady gripped the walker and slowly stood. By the time he reached the table a few steps later, he needed to sit down. He smiled at the picture Gunner had drawn yesterday. It was a stick figure with a hat on top of a large gray oval with horns. He ran his fingers over the image, the waxy crayon smooth to his touch. To his son, Brady was a bull rider. The rodeo was all he knew. He didn’t have a college education or a trade to fall back on. He’d started mutton busting at Gunner’s age and had kept his focus on winning the All-Around Cowboy championship in the years that followed. He wanted more for his son, which was why it was so important for him to win en
ough money to pay for Gunner’s education. He wanted him to have options—options Brady hadn’t had.
His last time on a bull could have been just that...his last time. Brady propped his elbows up on the table, rubbing his forehead. He stared down at Gunner’s drawing. They’d kept telling him in the hospital that GhostMaker’s horn had come within one inch of ending his life. One inch meant the difference between his son growing up with or without a father. The harsh reality was he didn’t have any options. It was one thing wanting his son to follow in his footsteps and compete, but he wouldn’t allow him to grow up without any skills outside the arena.
After calling his dad, Brady managed to get ready for therapy without using his wheelchair. It had been extremely slow going and he’d required numerous breaks, which had caused him to miss breakfast and his usual clandestine morning session at the fitness center, but his sense of accomplishment was even stronger than it had been his first day back on a horse. He quickly wheeled to hippotherapy, not wanting to keep his team waiting.
Brady was relieved to see Thomas when he entered the hippotherapy building. He respected the female therapists’ abilities, but there were times when a man felt more comfortable talking with another man.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you this happy before.” Thomas greeted him with a firm handshake. “What did you do, have a hot date last night? I saw you with that brunette yesterday.”
“Alice is just a friend.” Brady checked over his shoulder to see if anyone was listening. “I do have a reason to celebrate, though.”
After he finished telling Thomas about his progress with the walker, he fully expected another “don’t overdo it” lecture. Instead, Thomas shook his hand again. “Congratulations. I knew you had it in you. Let Abby know when you see her later at physical therapy because we have wheelchairs that double as walkers. They still have big wheels to get you around, but they have rotating handles on top that allow you to configure them in multiple positions. You may not be ready for one today. But if you keep progressing the way you are, I can easily see you reaching that point very soon.”
Brady’s morning continued to improve. His hippotherapy session with Thomas and Thomas’s wife, Gracie, was his best one yet. His body had begun to acclimate to the rhythms of the horse and all his different therapies combined. He knew what to expect with each session, even though they continually changed things up to work different muscles in his body. At Dance of Hope, his recovery was progressing at three times the speed it had in the hospital.
The only thing missing was someone to share it with. Before he could take his next breath, Sheila came to mind. He managed to push her out of his head while he did his therapy, but the second he stopped moving, the thought quickly returned.
“I don’t want to be here,” a young voice cried. “None of it matters. I’m just going to continue to get worse.”
Brady wheeled his chair down the pathway alongside the hippotherapy center. A boy a few years older than Gunner argued with a man and woman Brady assumed were his parents.
“You haven’t even given it a chance,” the woman said.
“I don’t want to. Please take me home.” Tears streamed down the child’s face, making Brady want to scoop him up into his arms and comfort him.
“Hey, hey,” Brady soothed as he wheeled closer to them. “It’s okay to be scared.” Brady smiled up at the boy’s parents, frustration etched on their faces. “I was scared on my first day too. But you know what? They take really good care of you here and help you in ways other places can’t.”
The boy stopped crying enough to look Brady up and down.
“My name is Brady. What’s yours?”
“Ethan,” the child squeaked out.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Ethan.” Brady wheeled a few inches closer to the boy. “Are these your parents?”
Ethan nodded his head.
“I’m Mary Fisher and this is my husband, William.” She crouched beside her son’s wheelchair. “See, honey, you’ve already made a friend.” Mary attempted to smooth Ethan’s hair but he dodged her hand. The pain of his rejection reflected in her eyes. “Ethan has multiple sclerosis. He was diagnosed when he was three, and this is his first flare-up in six months. It’s also the first time he’s needed a wheelchair. It’s lasted a few weeks and his doctors feel hippotherapy will be very beneficial to him getting out of the chair.”
“Why? I’m never going to be normal again.”
Brady knew the feeling. “Can I tell you something?” Brady asked Ethan.
Ethan shrugged.
“After my accident, I wondered if I’d ever be normal again. I have a four-year-old son and I couldn’t imagine not being able to do all the things other fathers and sons do together. And then I realized I had two choices. I could let my accident win and completely take over my life, or I could work really hard and hopefully get back to where I was. It wasn’t easy, and even though I’m sitting in a wheelchair now, I was walking earlier today and I was walking last night. I had help with a walker, but I did it. And each day I do more. If I don’t get back to normal, I’ll just have to redefine normal.”
“What happened to you?” Ethan asked.
“I had a little run-in with a bull.”
Ethan’s eyes grew wide. “Seriously?”
“I ride bulls and broncs for a living. It kind of goes with the territory.” Brady didn’t want to explain any further about his accident for fear the kid would equate falling off a bull with falling off a horse. “I’m doing much better now. And I think if you give this place a chance, you’ll feel better too.”
“I don’t know.” Ethan looked toward the corrals. “They look really big.”
“Ethan’s never been on a horse,” William said. We don’t live on a farm or a ranch. We live outside San Antonio and my wife and I both work in the city. This is new to all of us.”
The fear in William’s eyes matched his son’s. Brady knew it well. Here was a father wanting to do what was best for his child—trusting in what others had told him was best. But William had just as much fear of the unknown as Ethan had.
“If it helps you any,” Brady said to William. “I didn’t know much about hippotherapy until a few weeks ago. I researched it and after reading everything I could find I made an educated decision to come to Dance of Hope. If my son were in the same position—knowing what I know now—I wouldn’t hesitate to bring him here. New studies about the benefits of hippotherapy are conducted all the time.”
“Thank you, that does help.” William said.
“You must be Ethan Fisher,” Kay said as she joined them. “And I see you have met our resident superman. Brady’s improving more each day, just as I think you will too. Are you ready for a little tour?”
“Are we going to see horses?” Ethan asked.
“We can see them first if you’d like,” Kay said.
Ethan shook his head wildly back and forth.
“Would you like me to go with you to see the horses, Ethan?” Brady asked. If he could offer any comfort to the child, he was willing to lend a hand. “I promise they’re friendly.” Brady turned to Kay. “I don’t have another session until two o’clock. I’d be more than happy to tag along if that’s okay.”
“If it’s all right with Ethan and Mr. and Mrs. Fisher, then it’s fine with me.”
Mary reached for her son only to be rejected once again. “Do you want Brady to come with us?”
Ethan nodded sheepishly.
“I’ll be right beside you, champ,” Brady reassured him.
“Do you want me to push you or can you do it yourself?” Kay asked.
“Oh, he can’t wheel—”
Kay lightly touched Mary’s forearm, interrupting her. “Ethan, what do you feel comfortable with?”
“I can do it myself.” Ethan maneuvered his
wheelchair alongside Brady’s.
“William,” Mary whispered. “He tires too quickly. It’s too new to him.”
“Then we’ll be here to push him when he does. He needs to learn. Let him do it.”
Brady understood and appreciated both sides of the situation. Ethan felt much the same way Brady had when he’d first started getting around in his wheelchair. He’d practically taken Sheila’s head off when she’d pushed him without asking. In the same respect, he also understood the desire to do everything in your power to protect your child. His family had made similar adjustments for him the same way the Fishers needed to adjust to Ethan. Multiple sclerosis was foreign to Brady. When he got back to his cottage that night, he’d read more about it online. It was one thing for an adult to go through a life-changing event—it was altogether different for a child who had probably been running and playing with his friends days before to end up confined to a tiny seat on wheels. Half the time Brady couldn’t understand what was happening to his body. He couldn’t imagine how immense the confusion was for Ethan. It broke his heart. Children shouldn’t have to suffer physically or emotionally. That was the belief that drove him. He wouldn’t allow his son to suffer because of his mistakes. He’d recover to be there for Gunner, and if there was any way he could help in Ethan’s recovery, he would do that too.
* * *
