Page 35 of Believe in Caloosa Springs

“Take a couple deep breaths. It’s all right. I’ve got you…” Porter whispered, bringing his hand up to cradle the back of my head against him. God, he smelled good. Like aftershave and weed.

I took some slow, deep breaths and started to try to assess myself for any serious injuries. I wiggled my toes, and shifted a bit on my hips. No pain there. Porter loosed his hold around me and took a small step back.

There was some pain in my left wrist as I flexed my hands, but it was moving okay. It didn’t feel like it was broken. I think I just sprained it when my hand banged against the steering wheel as I hit the other car.

“It was so slippery. I just couldn’t stop. I-I tried!” My voice cracked as I spoke, and I blinked a few times, trying not to completely break down again.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s not your fault that the roads are icy. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

I normally find cutesy pet names gag-worthy, but something about the way Porter said it only helped to put me at ease.

A beat-up white pickup truck with a faded SHERIFF decal on the side pulled up next to us, and Wyatt stepped out.

“Everybody okay? Do we need a medic?”

Porter glanced at me as a new wave of worry crossed his face.

“I’m fine. Really. I think I just sprained my wrist.” I was answering Wyatt, but I said the words to Porter. He just looked so terrified. It was a strange look for him.

“Any idea whose car this is?” I asked, feeling guilty and embarrassed for having demolished the back of their car. “I’ll pay for all the damages, I swear!”

My voice got a little louder as I began to panic. Wyatt was the sheriff.Was I going to jail? Do you go to jail for car accidents? I wasn’t drunk…

“It’s Tian, right?” the sheriff asked.

I nodded. “My full name is Christian. Christian Hartright.” I leaned back into the car and grabbed my wallet from the center console to give him my driver’s license.

“Don’t need your license,” he said. “This car belongs to George Barlosky.” Wyatt gestured up the road towards the saloon. “Baropened twenty minutes ago. If I had to guess, ol’ George is warming his belly as we speak.”

I reluctantly fell in step behind Wyatt as we walked towards the saloon doors. It was hard—Wyatt was super tall, and even his casual stride made me scurry. Porter walked close at my side and tried to pick up my hand.

“Ouch!”

“I’m so sorry,” Porter said, pulling his hand away.

“It’s just a little sore, sorry.” I stepped behind him to get on his other side and laced my fingers with his.

“Are you sure you don’t need to see a doctor?” he asked.

“Really, I think it’s just sprained. I’ve broken my arm before, and it feelswayworse than this. Honest.”

The look on Porter’s face said he didn’t believe me at all, but didn’t push.

Wyatt held the swinging saloon door open as we entered the small space. Despite the dreary gray sky, the single-room building was bathed in warm light from a hanging chandelier made of deer antlers. At least, I assumed they were deer antlers?Moose have antlers, too. Were there moose in Colorado? Maybe there weren’t any deer either, though that didn’t seem right.I was pulled from my momentary hyper-focus when Wyatt spoke.

“Morning, George.”

A stout, grizzled man looking to be in his late sixties turned around. His brown leather cowboy hat showed decades of wear, with its frayed brim and lopsided bend. His brown eyes went wide as his gaze landed on Wyatt.

“I just got here! This is my first round, Wyatt! Tell him, Jackie, I wasn’t doin’ nothin’!” Without waiting for a response, George’s gaze flickered around the room before he grabbed the small glass of amber liquid sitting in front of him and downed it in one large gulp. Across the bar, the female bartender raised an eyebrow.

“Jesus Christ, George, relax. I’m not here for you…this time.”Wyatt shrugged, “Actually, scratch that. I kinda am. There was a minor accident this morning, and I’m afraid Tian, here…” Wyatt gestured to me, “...hit some black ice and smashed into your car.”

George turned his attention to me.

“I’m so sorry, I really am. I will totally pay for the damage. I’m just not used to driving in snow, or driving that much at all, really, and it all just happened so fast, and It’s not evenmycar…”

George kept his rheumy blue eyes locked inscrutably on my face as I rambled excuses and apologies like a six-year-old who’d just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar before dinner.

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