Falling For A Cowboy. Karen Rock
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can’t help people with disabilities,” Amberley protested. “Not when I’m...”
Silence. Shifting in chairs. A light cough from Dr. Hamilton. A short exhale from her mother.
And then it dawned on her. She had the disability. She was a disability. And a liability. The realization settled in her chest like pneumonia, cold, dense and painful.
A strange urge to seek out her gelding, Harley, and share the news seized her. He’d always been her rock. Her confidant. Him and...
Jared.
Suddenly she pictured her best friend’s wide-open smile and his teasing, amber eyes. What would he think of her if he knew her marginalized status, someone without a purpose or real worth? A loser. Not a winner at all.
She hoped she’d never find out.
Sidelined by an injury last season, he’d return to the Broncos’ preseason training in a few weeks. Until then, she’d continue dodging his texts and calls and hole up in her room.
After that...
Her future stretched ahead of her, as narrow, bleak and distorted as her vision.
“So what do I do now?” she asked when the silence in the room stretched to its—her—breaking point.
“I’ll give you the number for the equine program and write you a referral to an occupational therapist. They’ll help you regain your independence and improve your quality of life.”
Her fingers curled around the worn wooden edge of her seat. Her quality of life? That made her sound a hundred years old. Then again, maybe the description fit: someone barely hanging on to a life that was, for all intents and purposes, over.
“No, thanks.”
“Excuse me?” Dr. Hamilton’s chair scraped and he stood.
“We’ll take the number and the referral, Doctor,” her mother interjected smoothly, in a brook-no-argument voice which had secured her status as the state’s most successful prosecutor turned judge.
Amberley’s nose tingled and her eyes ached with the effort to hold back her grief. She needed to get home, crawl into bed and bury herself under the covers.
“Is our time up?” She headed in the direction of the door, unmoored. Her life whirled, out of control, her independence—gone. She couldn’t even take off when she wanted—not when she couldn’t drive. And she missed her other Harley, a 2010 black Breakout that matched the one Jared bought the same year.
No more hopping on her bike and chasing down sunsets, free, the wind on her face, blowing through her hair, as close to flying as any human could get. No. With her wings clipped, she just wanted to duck under her covers and hide.
Her foot connected with the bottom of a tree stand. It tilted forward and fell on top of her.
“Amberley!”
Her mother and the doctor rushed to help, and she balled her hands at her sides.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
You may not have much, but you still have your pride.
A few minutes later, they were out the door and in her mother’s pickup. The warm June air flowed through her cracked-open window as they drove home. She picked out the scent of Smokey’s barbecue, sweet and tangy, and pictured the crispy, white-and-red awning and blue-covered picnic tables instead of the passing color smear.
Would she ever see it again?
No.
Another loss, one of the many ahead to grieve. Her future rose black and immutable, her past a cemetery filled with everything she once loved and now lost.
“Listen, sweetheart, I’m going to be with you every step of the way. Don’t worry.”
“I don’t want to be taken care of.”
The faint twang of a country song crooned through the radio. “No,” her mother said gently. “I suppose you don’t. You never did.”
Amberley let out a breath. “I love you, Ma. It’s just that I need not to need you right now.”
“Of course.”
They rode a while more in silence. Amberley dropped the back of her head to her seat and shut her eyes. When the air turned thick with pine scent, she imagined them crossing out of town and onto the highway that led to their home, a small log cabin with a deep porch that her father had built himself.
What would her dad say to her now?
He’d be so let down.
Sorry, Daddy.
Three more turns and the truck bounced on rough track. When the right side dipped, she imagined the ruts that marked the halfway point up her packed-dirt drive. Then her mother pulled to a stop and Amberley jerked open the door.
“I’m going to bed,” she called once she found the porch banister and stepped up the stairs.
“Shoot!” her mother exclaimed behind her.
Amberley stopped and turned—a pointless gesture since she could make out only her mother’s tall, thin shape. She pictured the narrow oval of her face, the long brow and upturned nose that’d always given her comfort as a child. Her heart squeezed. She’d never see her mother’s face again.
This was real.
Not temporary.
Not fixable.
Forever.
The porch step creaked, and her mother’s soft hand fell on Amberley’s wrist. “I completely forgot. We have company coming for supper.”
“I’ll just stay in my room. Tell them I have a headache.” A deep ache now clawed her brain.
Her mother guided her up to the porch, then paused by the front door. In the distance, chickens squawked and the American flag atop a flower bed’s pole snapped. The warm wind carried the scent of newly blooming wildflowers. “I don’t think he’ll accept that.”
“Why?” she asked through a yawn. Her heavy-lidded eyes closed. Sleep. She just wanted to sleep and not wake up for a long, long time.
Or ever.
“It’s Jared.”
* * *
“JARED!”
Jared Cade waved at a former high school buddy, then swept chalk over the tip of his pool stick. “What’s up, Red?”
“Not much.” Red clomped over in heavy boots, hitching up drooping work pants, a faint burnt odor preceding him. His short auburn hair stuck up around his smudged face.
“Phew.” Lane, one of their Saturday night poker buddies, wrinkled his long nose. “You come straight here from a cookout?”
A couple of the guys guffawed at their long-standing joke with the lone firefighter in their group. Many worked on ranches or in rodeo and gathered at this pool hall most nights.
From corner-mounted speakers, a George Strait tune blared. Pictures of local and state sports teams covered every inch of the wood-paneled walls, jockeying for space. Jared had signed a few of them, he recalled, eyeing a framed eleven-by-sixteen photo behind the cash register. It featured his senior year, record-breaking catch during a state division championship.
One thing he liked best about Carbondale, he’d always be its hero.
“Just finished toasting marshmallows on I-77,” Red drawled, referring to the location of a small wildfire that’d broken out over the weekend. He lifted a finger and waved it in a circle, signaling the waitress for a round of drinks. “What can I get you fellas?”
“I’ve got this,” Lane insisted. “Plus, it’s my turn to buy.” He turned