I storm into the living room, rummaging through my bag. I’m looking for my tweezers, the little silver pair I keep in my makeup bag for precisely these kinds of emergencies (a lawyer is always prepared). But in my frantic search, I don’t notice that the front door, which I thought I’d latched, has swung slightly ajar.
I don’t notice until I hear a happy yip and the scrabble of claws on the porch.
“Doggy, no!” I shout, but it’s too late. He’s slipped through the gap and is bounding across the yard, a golden rocket aimed directly for the broken section of fence down by the creek.
Panic, cold and sharp, slices through me. “Doggy! Come back here! Slow down!”
I’m out the door and running, the splinter in my hand forgotten. I’m not wearing the right shoes for this. My boots, the practical ones I bought in town, are still by the door. I’m in socks, my feet sliding on the damp grass. The ground is uneven, pocked with gopher holes and hidden rocks.
I can see him, a flash of gold near the old drainage culvert, a place my grandfather always warned me to stay away from.
“Doggy, please!” I beg, my lungs burning. “Slow down!”
He’s sniffing around the edge of the culvert, a large, concrete pipe half-buried in the ground, its mouth dark and inviting to a curious puppy. I’m so focused on him, on calling his name, that I don’t see the loose piece of sod covering a shallow hole.
My foot catches. I go down, hard. The world tilts, a sickening lurch, and I throw my hands out to break my fall. My right wrist takes the brunt of it. A sickening crack echoes in my head, followed by a white-hot blast of pain that shoots up my arm.
I scream. It’s not a word, just a raw, agonized sound that tears from my throat. I cradle my wrist to my chest, my vision swimming with black spots. For a moment, I can’t breathe. The pain is everything.
Doggy, startled by my cry, stops his exploration and comes trotting back, whining softly. He licks my face, his rough tongue a small, comforting anchor in a sea of agony. I pull him onto my lap with my good arm, burying my face in his soft fur, and try to call for help.
“Boone!” I shout, my voice a ragged sob. “Rhett! Knox! Someone!”
But my voice is thin, lost in the vastness of the ranch. The only response is the mournful sound of the wind. I’m stuck. Lying in a patch of weeds near a dangerous culvert, with a puppy on my lap and a wrist that feels like it’s been shattered into a thousand pieces. Tears of pain and frustration stream down my face.
This is not happening. This cannot be happening.
And then, through the haze of tears, I see him. Boone. He’s running toward me, his long legs eating up the distance, his face a mask of concern. He skids to a halt beside me, dropping to his knees.
“Saramaria, are you okay?” His eyes scan me, a frantic, searching gaze that takes in my tear-streaked face, my cradled arm, the puppy whimpering in my lap.
I lift my injured hand, trying to be casual, trying to downplay the blinding, searing pain. “I have a splinter.”
“Oh, baby,” he says, and the words are not condescending. They’re filled with a deep, weary exasperation, a knowing ache that seems to span the eight years between us. He sees right through me. He always has.
He gently moves the puppy aside and then his hands are on me, careful, sure. He checks my head, my neck, my arms, his touch clinical but warm. “Where does it hurt the most?”
“My wrist,” I finally admit, a fresh wave of tears blurring my vision.
He doesn’t hesitate. He slides one arm under my back and another under my knees, lifting me as if I weigh nothing. I gasp, my good hand flying to his shoulder to steady myself. The scent of him—rosemary and citrus and cool mint—envelops me, a dizzying, overwhelming wave of memory and present. He tucks Doggy under his other arm like a football.
He carries me back to the house, his steps sure and steady on the uneven ground. I don’t say anything. I just close my eyes and breathe him in, hating myself for it but unable to stop.
He sets me down gently on the sofa in the living room, the same sofa I’ve been sleeping on. Doggy immediately curls up at my feet. Boone kneels in front of me, his eyes serious as he looks me over again, checking for scrapes and bruises.
“It’s definitely swelling,” he says, his gaze fixed on my wrist, which is already starting to look puffy and discolored. “I have an ice pack. And tweezers. For the splinter,” he adds, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “I’ll be right back.”
He turns and walks out, leaving me alone in the quiet house, my wrist throbbing, my heart pounding a frantic, painful rhythm against my ribs. And for the first time since I came back to Muddy Creek, I don’t feel alone. I feel... cared for. And that’s almost more terrifying than the fall.
The sound of his boots on the porch is a steady, measured rhythm that does nothing to calm the frantic thumping of my heart. The door creaks open, and he’s back. In his hands, he holds a clean white towel, a plastic bag filled with ice cubes, and a pair of silver tweezers that look like they could perform surgery. He moves with an economy of motion that’s both reassuring and intimidating.
He kneels in front of me again, his scent filling my personal space. He gently takes my injured hand, his touch surprisingly soft. “Let’s get this out,” he says.
The tweezers are cold against my skin. He probes the area around the splinter, his brow furrowed in concentration. The first touch of the metal against the embedded wood sends a searing pain up my arm. I flinch, a gasp escaping my lips.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, not looking up. “It’s in deep. Just... try to hold still.”
He tries again, and the pain is worse this time, a bright, blinding starburst of agony. I can’t help it, I try to pull my hand away.
