I stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him attempt to navigate from the couch to the kitchen with his walker—and I use the term "navigate" loosely, because the man was putting weight on his bad leg like Dr. Mehta's explicit instructions were merely polite suggestions he could choose to ignore.
"Pops. Left leg. Non-weight-bearing. Do those words mean anything to you, or should I get flash cards?"
"I know what they mean," he grumbled, hobbling forward with the grace of a three-legged mule. "They mean some fancy doctor who ain't never worked a day in her life thinks I should sit on my ass while my ranch falls apart."
"Your ranch is fine. I checked the cattle this morning. Jake's comin' tomorrow for the fence work. Your only job is healin', which you're actively sabotagin' by bein' the most stubborn man in Oklahoma—and that's sayin' somethin' considering the competition."
He made it to the kitchen counter, breathing harder than he'd ever admit, and shot me a look of pure Jameson defiance mixed with a hint of sheepishness. "Don't lecture me in my own house, kiddo. I was workin' this ranch before you were a twinkle in some mystery woman's eye."
I winced. "Wow. Nothing like a good abandonment joke to lighten the mood."
"Too far?"
"No." But I crossed the room to steady him when he wobbled, because that's what we did—made terrible jokes and held each other up anyway. "Come on, old man. Back to the couch. We're doing the exercises Dr. Mehta assigned. All of them. Including the ones you hate."
"All the ones I hate? That's the whole damn list." He let me guide him back, one careful step at a time. "Those exercises were designed by Satan himself. Probably in a torture chamber with bad lightin' and country music from the wrong decade."
"Those exercises are keeping you out of a wheelchair and me from having to install one of those stair-lift things that makes your house look like an AARP commercial."
"I'd rather die than have one of those contraptions. Die with dignity, face-down in the dirt like a real rancher."
"Good thing you won't, because you're doing your PT." I helped him settle onto the couch, his left leg extending stiffly in the brace that made him look like a rejected Transformer. "Sit. Stay. I'll get the resistance bands."
"You're talkin' to me like I'm a dog. Like that fool rooster of yours."
"If you acted less like a stubborn mule, I'd treat you more like a human." I disappeared into the kitchen where we'd stashed the PT supplies, returning with the bands and the printout. "Okay. Ankle pumps first. Twenty reps. And I'm counting, so don't try to sneak through at fifteen like last time."
He groaned like I'd asked him to dig a trench across the county with a teaspoon. "You know what? I'm startin' to think you're enjoyin' this.This whole bossy nurse routine. It's revenge, ain't it? For all those times I made you muck out stalls in July when it was hotter than hell's front porch."
"Absolutely." I knelt beside the couch, grinning despite the bone-deep exhaustion that had been my constant companion for three weeks. "Consider this payback with interest. Now flex and point. Slowly."
He complied with all the enthusiasm of a man facing a firing squad, flexing and pointing his ankle with exaggerated slowness while making increasingly dramatic groaning sounds.
"Are you doing PT or auditioning for a daytime drama?"
"Can't it be both?" He finished rep ten and paused. "You know, this'd be a whole lot easier if you'd bribed me. Maybe some of those cookies Cassie makes. The ones with the chocolate chips that taste like heaven wrapped in butter."
"You're on a low-sodium diet, remember? Doctor's orders."
"That doctor's tryin' to kill me. Death by boredom and flavorless food. Might as well just shoot me now and save us all the trouble." But he kept going, hitting rep fifteen with a grunt that suggested his leg was actually working harder than he wanted to admit.
"You're doing good," I said, meaning it. "Two weeks ago you couldn't lift that leg six inches. Today you're clearing a foot."
"Don't patronize me, girl."
"I'm serious. That's real progress, Pops. You keep this up, you'll be back to bossing ranch hands around by spring."
He finished the set and leaned back, catching his breath. "Spring. That's five months away. You know what happens in five months if I'm sittin' on this couch like some useless old fart?"
"You heal properly and don't end up needing a second surgery?"
"The ranch falls apart. You work yourself into an early grave tryin' to do it all. And I become one of those useless old men who just takes up space and complains about the weather." His voice lost its joking edge, going quiet and serious. "I don't wanna be that, Winnie."
My throat tightened. "You're not useless. You're healing. There's a difference." I squeezed his hand, the calluses familiar under my palm. "And I'm not doing it alone. We hired Jake, remember? Plus Cassie helps when she can. And the sponsorship money means we're not drowning anymore. We're actually okay."
"You got those sponsors 'cause you won. 'Cause you're talented as hell." Pride crept into his voice. "Nana would've lost her damn mind seein' you take first place. Probably would've called everyone in the county to brag."
"She would've called everyone in the state," I corrected, smiling at the memory. "Remember when I placed third at that junior rodeo when I was 10? She had it in the local paper within twenty-four hours."
