I wanted to tell him to piss off, I wasn’t a child. Except I was dying inside my clamped down chest, and his voice helped. I dragged in a couple of ragged breaths and managed to match Seth’s words. Slow in, hold, slower out, puffs of breath over and over that gradually let my cramped muscles relax. “Thanks,” I said, letting go of his hand and opening my eyes.
Seth shook out his fingers, eyeing me carefully. “Better?”
“Yeah.” I straightened.
“I should’ve guessed this trip might be a bad idea.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” I protested. “I was caught by surprise. You know I’ve had a few panic attacks back home too.”
“Not in years, though.”
“No.” I leaned back in my seat and wiped my sweaty forehead with the back of my hand.
Oddly, I hadn’t had an episode at first when I was actually running from my father for three terrified days, or starving in the woods, or living in a rat-hole motel with drug-dealers in the stairwell. The first panic attack I ever had was almost a year after I started full time at the Star & Bar.
Just an ordinary day, November-dreary weather at dusk, and me tooling along in Joe’s old truck with a dozen things on my mind— a California Highway Patrol car pulled out of a layby and flashed me over.
I hadn’t been speeding, hadn’t failed to signal. All my brain could come up with was that my father had somehow found me at last. I was lucky my shaking fingers were able to unearth my license for the cop. Lucky that he let me nod my understanding of his warning to get my taillights fixed and didn’t make me speak. He’d peered closely at my sweaty face for an unending minute before a crackle from his radio pulled him away.
After he’d gone, I’d sat parked on the shoulder, hunched over the wheel, convinced I was having a heart attack. Then, once I could breathe, I drove home like a little old lady in her 1950s Buick. I hadn’t told Seth that time, since I’d realized the heart palpitations were all in my head, but he saw the next one— the arrival of a new dude who was a dead ringer for my uncle Hal.
That was when Seth looked up calming breathing, in search of some way to be useful to me. We’d done this drill a few times since then. It sucked.
“Should we call the ranch off?” Seth asked. “We could drive back to Denver, explore the city for a few days. I’m sure we can find a motel.”
“Fuck, no.” I glared at him, unearthed a tissue, and blew my nose. “I’m okay. Or I will be. I’m not letting my father’s ghost keep me from saying thank you to Joe.”
I could almost feel Seth wanting to remind me Dad wasn’t dead. Sometimes he got too literal. This time he just nodded. “Let me know when you want me to drive.”
“Maybe put your Bon Jovi album on the stereo and kiss me first.”
Seth’s smile warmed my chilled core. “Can do.” He fumbled with his phone, knowing what I wanted, and then “It’s My Life” blasted out of the Miata’s speakers. Seth set a hand under my chin, leaned into my seat, and kissed me.
Slowly, the shakes and the ice inside me melted under the press of Seth’s mouth and the gentle insistence of his tongue. I laid my hand on his face, relishing the prickle of his stubble against my palm. “Love you,” I murmured. “Okay, let’s get this show on the road.”
He didn’t ask me if I was sure. I kept a grip on his thigh, grounding myself as Seth pulled back onto the road. He shifted smoothly, picking up speed, and gave me a half-wattage smile. “I kind of like this car.”
“She ain’t no pickup truck, that’s for sure,” I agreed, watching his face and not the scenery.
Fifteen minutes later, we turned in under a hanging sign for the Circle-K Ranch. A pair of Quarter Horse colts raced us along the other side of the driveway fence before wheeling away, bucking in high spirits. The familiar sight of those horses calmed me some more. The fear-sweat cooled and dried on my face and under my arms. Seth slowed to a crawl and followed a sign to guest parking.
He cut the engine. “Shall we?”
“Yeah. Let’s stretch our legs.” I was lucky to be short. This car would never fit a tall man like Joe.
Speaking of tall, a lanky cowboy in a charcoal Stetson strode across the gravel to meet us, holding out his hand. “Hello,” hesaid, his voice an echo deep in my skull. “Welcome to the Circle-K, I’m—” Joe stopped short, staring at me.
“Hey, Joe,” I squeaked through my tight throat. “Long time, no see.” All the ways my father might’ve messed with Joe because of me flashed through my head in an ugly parade. Just because Joe wasn’t dead didn’t mean he’d escaped his good deed unscathed.
But he grinned with pure happiness, grabbed my hand, and shook it like he wanted to yank my arm off. “Frankie! Holy shit, Frankie Morse!” Joe turned and shouted over his shoulder, “Sylvester, get your ass out here!”
A very tall, slim man with styled dark hair, eyes like ice chips, and jeans that fit so perfectly they looked painted on, strolled out of the barn toward us. “You bellowed?”
“Look who’s here. It’s Frankie Morse. You remember, I told you.” Joe finally let go of my hand and gave me a sheepish grin. “Sorry, but it’s fucking great to see you.”
The stylish guy looked me over. “I remember. The truck. I don’t recall seeing your name on the guest list, though. Are you just stopping by?”
Seth moved closer behind me. “Austin Grant. He’s my husband. I’m Seth Grant.”
