A small noise grabbed my attention and I swung around. Brent was frowning at me, making the “okay” symbol with his fingers. I shook my head, but pointed at the open doors.
I took a deep breath through my mouth, as quietly as possible, and crept down the aisle. I looked back to see Brent following from the doors, ready to back me up. I nodded and checked the stalls as I passed.
Leaning against one long wall was a rake, and I grabbed it, holding it like a baseball bat. I stopped five foot from the opening, waiting for Brent to catch up after he grabbed a shovel.
He counted on his fingers … one … two … three. We rushed the open door.
I slammed into the big ass of Fire’s Fuel. She skidded forward, spilling the metal can of oats all over the floor. She reared and tried to back out of the room. Brent didn’t stop in time, pushing me further into Fire’s backside, and she tripped as she tried to turn.
We backed out, and I grabbed her forelock, pulling her head to me. I led her to the stall, realizing she pulled the equine equivalent of a Houdini.
Once the mess was cleaned, and Fire safely in her stall again, I walked outside of the stables, and fell about laughing. I laughed so hard I cried, falling to my knees, head bowed, roaring with mirth. Brent stood nearby, chuckling.
When I could breathe again, I looked at him, “She scared the shit out of me. And now I realize, I haven’t laughed this hard in years.”
He extended a hand, “Come on, I think we should let them all out for the day. That was enough excitement for the week.”
Chapter Thirty Eight
I fussed in front of the mirror, turning back and forth, messing with my hair, wondering if I should apply more than mascara and lip gloss. The scar dissecting my face was fading nicely, noticeable, but the bright pink gone. I wore a dress for the date with Mayers. I’d looked him up on the web and found out why he kept saying, “I get it.” It wasn’t just the accident call, or loss of the partner he’d told me about.
Mayers spent three years in Iraq, and two more in Afghanistan. He’d been shot twice, survived a bomb that went off too early, and when stateside, he left the Army and became a Colorado Highway Patrol officer. He’d been in a high speed car chase that flipped his cruiser three times, four accidents from speeding drivers, and one shoot out. The poor guy was a walking magnet for Oh Shit! moments.
Yet he deserved my respect. He’d been in the courtroom with me, as I testified against Rupert and his mother. Their sentencing hearing was coming up soon, but I wasn’t required to attend.
I smoothed the black pencil skirt with sweaty hands, plucked at the form fitting cashmere, three quarter sleeve sweater in periwinkle blue, and contemplated the new Manolo Blahniks I’d ordered from Barney’s of New York. I fluffed my hair, the goop helping keep the curls under control, yet bouncy.
“You look great. Stop doubting. His car just pulled up, by the way.” Maria grinned, standing at the door, motioning to join her.
I smoothed the skirt one more time, and grabbed the proffered hand. We walked down the steps, and I was insanely grateful for not falling on the three inch heels and breaking my neck.
At the bottom stood a very handsome Martin Mayers. He’d worn a nice suit, navy blue with a matching silver tie that set off his eyes perfectly. He looked up as we descended the last steps. I’d cherish the look on his face for as long as I lived. His eye grew round, jaw going slack, and all movements ceased.
I spun once, drawing it out. “Do I look okay?” I raised a newly waxed eyebrow.
“I, ahem, ye-ye-yes. Wow. Just, wow.” He looked me up and down, lingering on my curves, shook himself and offered an arm. “Are you ready? I’m with you every step.” He kissed my cheek.
I smiled, charmed to my toes. I slipped a hand over his elbow, gave Maria a cheeky smile over a shoulder, and allowed Mayers to take the lead.
He drove to Cheyenne, and the atmosphere in the car was charming. I saw a dimple appear several times, liked his deep, baritone laugh, and the animated way he talked, even while driving.
The lights of Cheyenne appeared over the hillside, and the smile vanished. My shoulders tensed, and the skin around my eyes became unbearably tight. I glanced down when a warm, calloused, masculine hand slid over mine, and gave a reassuring squeeze.
He took me to a higher end restaurant downtown, and I folded inwards as we walked from our parking space to the restaurant. Despite the cold early winter nights, everyone was out on a Friday night, and I couldn’t feel secure. He put an arm around my shoulders, whispering, “I’m here.”
I tried to put some steel in my spine, but it was too fractured, unstable. I pushed into his side, and he accepted.
We were given a table in the middle of the restaurant, a nice establishment on the corner of Lincoln Highway and Center Street. I tried not to look through every corner repeatedly, but failed half the time. Mayers took over the conversation, pushing me to answer questions about horses, reining, ranching in Laramie, the weather, my thoughts on new books, what movie to see. He kept it lively, making jokes. Before I knew it, I’d forgotten my surroundings, and laughed on several occasions.
We stood outside the restaurant, deciding to go to the old town theatre, the Lincoln. I turned, and he grabbed my jaw, forcing me to look at him as several people parted like small waves to walk around us.
“I’m going to kiss you.” His breath, hot and with hints of the after dinner mint, wafted over me. He moved slowly, eyes hooded, but the intention clear. I nodded, and closed my eyes, waiting. He had the softest lips imaginable, and they teased. He didn’t take possession, although a part of me wanted it. Instead, he inquired. He ran his tongue along the seams of my lips, and as the lightning shot through every inch of me, he went in for the kill. He tasted of hot chilis and cool mint, tongue sliding against mine, urging me to duel. The kiss deepened, I lost all sense of time and place. My body responded to the carnal nature of the kiss.
He ended the kiss, and as I panted, looking at him, I realized my hands were deep in his thick black hair, ensuring every inch of me was against him.
“Thank you,” the only words I could think of.
He gently pushed curls out of my face, “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.” He smiled, and the dimple reappeared. “Now, let’s go see a movie.”
I stepped back, taking his hand, giving a shy smile.
Maybe I could reenter the world after all.
Chapter Thirty Nine
Two Years Later
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, quit! You look fine, but you’re going to pluck the entire shirt out of the jeans if you don’t stop,” Maria fussed. She jerked on the ostentatious black shirt I had to wear, adjusted the god awful sequined cowboy hat, smoothed one hair out of my face, followed by squatting to run an old rag across my belt buckle, then my boots.
“Good god, get up. This is not dignified!” I grabbed her shoulder, squeezing hard enough to make her wince and stand. “Why are you acting more nervous than me?”
Five Alarm put his nose on my back, and I relaxed. I couldn’t be tense and do this. We’d both crash and burn in the worst way.
Our scars were visible, but faded. The two of us were slicked up within an inch of our lives, and if I showed nerves, I’d back out. I was going to face this damned demon, even if I lost my sanity doing it.
Over the loudspeakers, a man announced, “Welcome to the AQHA Freestyle Reining Competition! We have several treats in store for you tonight, folks. First, we are welcoming Five Alarm back into the Reining ring! Everyone let Karen Barnes know how much we appreciate the return of this great horse and dedication to helping him heal!”
I swallowed hard against the big lump in my throat, and walked into the arena. I saw Mayers in the first row, doing the “look at me” motion. I gave a light nod. I led Five Alarm, my scarred, beautiful, gelding to the middle of the ring. We’d left the tack off, I was riding without a bridle or saddle, and I had an embroidered bandana around his face. I stopped in the m
iddle, wondering what the audience really thought.
Panic tried to force me out of the ring, to overlay bad memories over the new ones I was trying to make. But for my Five Alarm, for myself, I beat it back. I’d let it loose later in the safety of the hotel room, with Mayers and Maria to help if necessary.
I realized the entire arena was packed to the gills. All of them stood and applauded. Cat calls, and wolf whistles echoed against the girders, bounced around, making it deafening. Five Alarm stood quietly, and I tried to plaster on a happy face. I turned, taking my hat off and waving it. The noise grew. I put two fingers against Five’s muzzle, and moved to the side, letting them see his marred glory. I walked in a circle, a hand on his cheek.
I gave Five a different signal, and he bowed, much to the crowds’ delight.
The music started, a song I’d chosen just for this occasion. September Sky’s The Fight. It pumped through the speakers, pounding into the stadium, as I put a hand over Five’s withers, and tapped him to move out. I swung onto his back as he picked up speed. The further into the routine we dove, the less the crowd mattered. It was only Five Alarm and me, proving we had the strength to overcome. Together, we could do it.
The broken horse, and the fractured woman.
Note from the Author:
Dear Readers –
Writing this book was exceptionally hard, for several reasons. I’m going to confess to three.
First, Joey Francisco, best friend, a fellow writing warrior, and sufferer of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), died a few days after reading the prologue, the only words I’d written in Fractured Steel. She was only forty-four years old, leaving a wonderful husband and a smart, loving, teenage son. She was the one I called at two a.m. when the nightmares were at their worst, the one who called me when she couldn’t get out of the car. She knew exactly what the book was about, in a few short paragraphs. She is the reason I completed this novel, the one behind the driving force to keep going, even when life throws some horrible curve balls.
Second, I had to write about my own symptoms. For some of us, confessing to PTSD is hard, dealing with it even years after the inciting incident.
Third, letting people into the world of living with PTSD. Every person who lives with this life altering disorder has their own path, symptoms, journey to find peace. It isn’t “in their head,” nor is it easily overcome in a few short weeks. There is no “one size fits all” cure. Some manage to live in society quickly, others never do. Don’t judge, listen. It is the best thing you could ever do.
For more information about PTSD, and how you can help, please visit www.ptsd.org.
Sincerely,
TJ Loveless
For those of you who live with PTSD:
Every day you get up, and put your feet on the floor, is a victory. You count, you are worthy, you are not broken beyond repair. It is not “just in your head.” You are my heroes. I’m here for you. If you just need to talk, or speak to someone who knows, email me anytime.
~ TJ~
Theme Song for Fractured Steel
The Fight, by September Sky
You can download the song for free here: www.septemberskyband.com
Social Media Links for TJ Loveless:
Facebook
Twitter
Google+
Website
Subscribe to BiMonthly Newsletter
Sneak Peek
Coming Summer of 2014
(Sneak peek is rough draft and fall under copyright laws)
Twisted Iron
Prologue
I stood over the kid, finger on the trigger, waiting for him to decide.
“Live or die, it makes no difference to me.” I shouldered the twelve gauge, sighting his head. I knew what it would look like, how it would sound should I pull the trigger. The bits and pieces of blowback I’d wash off. Another memory to be held in the black hole filled with years of blood and death.
How did it come to the point I was threatening a child, a boy no more than eighteen?
The static foam in my head vibrated, emotions trying to come forward. Years of training wouldn’t allow it, not when survival was on the line.
All for a house, a piece of property. For my home. The years of history and memories. For a past I had nothing to do with, a man hell bent on revenge for an imagined slight one hundred years ago. For water. For money.
I pulled the trigger.
If the world was going to burn, I was going to feed the flames.
Fractured Steel Page 19
