Rocky Mountain Cowboy. Tina Radcliffe
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limb remained hidden in the folds of his long-sleeve shirt, just the way he liked.
Becca cleared her throat and nodded. “Yes. I did. Thank you.”
Joe held open the door and nodded an invitation into the house. He was grateful the cleaning lady had been by on Friday. Everything still sparkled. High oak-beamed ceilings and polished oak floors made the interior appear huge. The décor had a Southwest theme, but the place was minimalist, like him.
“Beautiful room.”
“Thanks,” he muttered.
She turned her head and smiled. “Who do we have here?”
Joe followed her gaze. Dan’s dog padded into the room. The animal looked at them with baleful eyes.
“This is Millie.”
Millie whined, nudging Becca’s leg until she reached down to rub her ears. “Oh, goodness, isn’t she sweet?”
“She’s neurotic.”
“Excuse me?”
“Separation anxiety. She’s been like this since Dan and my mother left. The dog is driving me crazy.”
Becca tilted her head, and her ponytail swayed with the movement as she assessed Joe. “You do seem a little out of sorts. Do you want to reschedule?”
“No. Let’s get this over with.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “This way.”
Becca grabbed her briefcase handle and followed him down a short hall to a spacious kitchen, the wheels clicking on the tile floor.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“No, thank you.” She stopped, her gaze drawn to the mess on the floor. “What happened?”
“I got into a little argument with the coffeemaker.”
“I hate when that happens.”
Before he realized it, she had reached for a roll of paper towels on the counter. Joe insinuated himself between her and the spilled coffee.
“I don’t need help.”
“Sorry,” she murmured.
Joe carefully mopped up the counter, then the floor before pouring coffee into his travel mug and sealing the lid. “Would it be okay to work at the kitchen table? I have the prosthesis charging there.”
“Sure.” Becca glanced at the table and then the room.
Joe glanced around, as well. He was proud of the place. The same oak beams overhead dominated the room and held an oak ceiling fan with rows of recessed lights. The kitchen itself was oak, with stainless-steel appliances and black granite countertops. The room lacked clutter, and that was exactly the way he liked things.
“You built this place?”
Joe shrugged. “Can’t say I built anything. My job was to nod a lot. Somehow I ended up with this.” He walked to the table and set down his mug. When he lifted his gaze, Becca was intently watching him. “What?”
“Nothing. I didn’t expect...”
“Didn’t expect a poor cowboy to have a place like this?”
“That’s not what I meant, Joe.” She took a deep breath, then opened her briefcase and placed a thick file on the table along with her tablet computer. “Do you mind if I take a look at your residual limb?”
“Have at it.” Joe pulled off his sweatshirt and offered her his right upper extremity. He held his breath for moments, but she didn’t flinch or grimace as he’d expected.
Becca’s hands were soft and cool upon his skin as she examined first the biceps, then the triceps of the limb before moving to the slightly puckered, scarred incision line and the skin on either side of the amputation. She dappled her fingers along the entire surface, her gaze intent. Finally she looked up.
“Sensitivity?”
Joe shook his head in denial because he’d been just fine a minute ago. Until she touched him.
When she began to type notes in her tablet, Joe was unable to look away. He found himself assessing her concentrated effort as she worked. The ponytail shifted, exposing her neck and the curve of her face.
Becca raised her eyes, and her pupils widened as she caught him staring. With a flip of her fingers, she moved a wayward lock of hair behind her ear, then cleared her throat.
“Pain or phantom pain?”
“Nothing a couple ibuprofen won’t fix.”
“You’ve been doing your exercises and taking very good care of the area. The muscles are in excellent shape, and the skin tone and the incision line are very healthy. All in all, it looks beautiful.”
“Beautiful?” The tension in him eased. “Is that a medical term?”
“Would you prefer, ‘incision line healed, edges well approximated, clean and free of exudate, swelling or edema’?”
“Beautiful it is.”
“Obviously you followed your surgeon’s instructions to a T.”
“I’m pretty good at following orders. The army will do that to you.”
“The army? Right. I forgot about the army. Though, your upper body strength is indicative of more than following instructions.”
“I have a small gym set up in one of the bedrooms. I can’t afford any further setbacks.”
“Any other learning-curve issues with the left hand?”
“Yeah. A few. Roping cows. Brushing my teeth. Shaving with a razor remains an interesting experience. I had a beard for a long time, just to keep me from bleeding all over the place.”
“Too bad I didn’t come out here sooner. I could have saved you a couple pints of blood.” She smiled. “Anything else?”
“Still have the occasional clumsy episode, as you can see.” He nodded toward the spilled coffee.
“We all have the occasional clumsy episode in the morning, Joe.” She picked up the two pieces of his prosthesis he had ready on the table and inspected them. “Do you want to go ahead and don this?”
He massaged antiseptic lubricant into the area and examined the cosmetic silicone glove for damage. Then he disconnected the charger from his myoelectric prosthesis, snapped together the hand and forearm and applied the device to what remained of his right arm.
He held it up for her review. “There you go. Bionic man reporting for duty.”
“Are you always this hard on yourself?” she murmured.
“I deserve to be hard on myself. I messed up. I should have asked for help, as everyone keeps reminding me. If I had, I wouldn’t have this. I’d be normal. A normal rancher.”
Her jaw sagged slightly as she stared at him. “I don’t know what to say to that.”
“What’s there to say? I’m not the guy I used to be.”
“That’s not true, and believe me, normal is highly overrated.”
“Becca, I’m sure most people appreciate platitudes, but I deal in reality and I’m sorry, but you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She stiffened. “Joe, your arm doesn’t define you.”
“Sure it does.”
“You’re wrong. You’re a person who happens to be an amputee. That integral person inside is what people imprint in their minds when they define who you are.” She stared past him. “No matter how hard something else tries to change a person’s core, it generally doesn’t change.”
“What exactly is my core, Becca?”