Page 16 of Spurred On

Sighing, I respond, “Go sit and I will warm up a rag so we can make a hot compress. We should probably rotate between heat and ice. Have you taken any ibuprofen?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet. I’ll get it taken before bed. Turn around so I can put some shorts on.”

I comply and turn, heading to the bathroom to grab a couple rags from the closet to run under hot water. When I walk back in, he’s sitting on his bed, scrolling on his phone.

“If you lay on your stomach, I can put these on your back.” I hold up the warm, damp towels.

“What?” he asks, putting down his cell phone and looking almost bewildered.

“This will help you heal faster, and hopefully, you won't hurt so bad tonight.”

Shockingly, he listens, rare for a stubborn man like him. I set the warm rags over the worst spots, hoping it will soothe his sore muscles, and sit on the side of his bed. Goosebumps break out over his skin when my hand brushes against his bare back. Every little touch sends a spark through me; it’s all completely innocent, but I can’t help but wonder what it would be like if it weren’t. I wonder if he thinks aboutit too, but I shut that thought down the second it enters my head. The warmth of him radiates and makes me want to curl up next to him. Wyoming mountain winters leave you chilled to the bone.

Settling myself next to him, I break the short silence. “Well, if you got beat to shit, did you at least win?” My hands fidget with washcloths, trying to get them in the right position and trying to keep my head on straight as my brain short-circuits.

He lets out a curt chuckle. “Unfortunately, no. But I did take home second. My bull wasn’t that great. I actually had to do a re-ride after he rammed me into the corral side and hit his knee on the ground.”

“Sure, blame it on the bull,” I tease.

He shoots me a faux glare over his shoulder. “Hey, half our scoring comes from the bull.”

Seriously, I need to do some research on bull riding so I don’t sound like a complete idiot when I talk to him. “Really? That doesn’t seem fair.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Bull riding is part skill, part gamble.” Seems to me like they are gambling more than just on the bull. With the way his body is beat, it seems like they’re gambling their lives.

I can’t imagine not knowing if you were going to come home or wind up severely injured. Makes me wonder what the point is. “Do you really like it? Bull riding?”

“Yeah, I mean, I’ve been doing it forever. I think I started playing bull rider when I was six. My body is getting real sick of it, though. But my head and my heart aren’t quite done. And I’ve still got some shit I need to prove.” Part of me wants to dig deeper into that last part, but this is the first time we’ve really done this and I don’t want to ruin it because his company is nice. It doesn’t feel like this is the first timewe’ve actually sat down and had a real conversation, it feels like we’ve known each other a lot longer.

“I don’t know if you could pay me enough to get the crap beat out of me all the time.” My hands have a hard time staying off him. I keep fiddling with his rags, telling myself it’s to reposition, but I’m drawn to him, addicted to the rush I feel every time my fingers brush against him.

“The adrenaline rush is like no other. And most days, I walk away just fine.”

“Yeah, you look so fine right now. You can call me grandma all you want. With the way you were walking in the door, you will need a cane by the Fourth of July.”

He lets out a deep chuckle and I savor the sound of it. It’s deep and raspy, and melts against me in the softest way. “Your bedside manner could use some work.”

“Hey, I’m not on the clock. If you want a nice nurse, I will take no less than thirty dollars an hour.” I reposition myself, getting more comfortable the longer I sit here.

He perks his head up at that. “I already told you, I’m happy to pay you. Speaking of, when does your new job start?”

“Sometime in March, but we’ll see. Hiring processes at hospitals take forever. So it very well could be April.”

“I know you said no, but if you need some help in the meantime, just let me know.”

My head begins shaking before he can even finish his sentence. “I don’t take handouts.”

“I can respect that, but technically you’re working right now so it wouldn’t be a handout. And if you want to get reallytechnical, I’m your husband. It’s my duty to make sure you’re supported.” My heart thrashes a little faster at that last part.

He sure has a way of spinning things to fit his narrative. “Well,husband, I’m doing fine. I’ve been figuring it out since I was eighteen, believe me, there is no one more skilled at stretching a dollar more than me.” In reality, if the hiring process gets too delayed, I’m going to have to find a part-time job around here. The thought of student loans, my car payment, and credit card payments all coming up makes me feel nauseous.

“What, did your parents give you the boot at eighteen?” His tone is light and inquisitive, like he’s asking a funny question, but the feelings that come along with talking about my parents are anything but.

“Actually, they died right after I turned eighteen.” I take a steadying breath, the same way I have to anytime I talk about this. I feel his body tense, then go completely still, probably a little shocked by my admission. “And I had no close relatives. So it was just me. I skimmed by on their life insurance for a while, but they didn’t have a lot so I had to make up the difference.”

There’s a heavy pause for a couple of seconds. “Both of them?”

I hum my confirmation. That’s all I want to give at the moment, all I can give. Talking about it still hurts. It took years for me to be able to blink without seeing them in the hospital. Even longer to sleep through the night.

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