whatever it was he was trying to feel, or he wasn’t going to be much good as a volunteer to Mitch or Turning Point or anybody else.
“Yeah, it’s a permanent handicap,” he finally admitted.
The doctors had stitched up all the parts they could find. They’d added a few made of plastic and steel. Still, one leg would always be shorter than the other. One knee would never flex like the other. It would stop him at airport gates and keep him off the dance floor for anything faster than a waltz. It would be a target for arthritis before his time.
But he always played the injury down so nobody would notice. So nobody would treat him differently. So no one would think him any less capable, any less a man.
But Jolene noticed. “I didn’t think you were handicapped. I just thought you’d hurt yourself surfing or skiing or whatever it is you do out in California. Did I make it worse? You should have said something. I can drive slow if you need me to.”
“What?” Just what kind of old fart did she think he was, anyway? “ You need to slow down—” Your entire life, Nate wanted to add. To keep that baby and your own skin safe. But caught himself before his temper flared. Using that betraying right hand to remove his cap, he smoothed his hair and adjusted the hat back into place—adjusting his focus at the same time. “Look, I’m fine,” he reassured her, forcing half a grin to appear more convincing. “This leg isn’t any worse off than it was before. Lily Browning’s the one I’m worried about.”
Apparently he was convincing enough to alleviateher concern and get her focused on something besides his shortcomings. Good.
“Me, too.” Jolene shifted the truck into drive. “I mean, Dad would have called us with an update if there was any change in Lily’s condition. But we should still get there as soon as we can.”
“Agreed.” Nate stared out the window. The sky was turning grayer by the minute.
“And we won’t tell Dad about banging up my truck, okay? Since neither of us was hurt, and the truck still runs, I don’t see any need to report it. He’ll find out soon enough, and he worries about me too much as it is.”
Was it any wonder? But Nate nodded his agreement. Mitch had more than enough to handle today. Keeping Jolene out of trouble might be the best thing he could do to help her father. “That’s your call.”
“Yes, it is.” He glanced over at the sharp tone in her voice. But he suspected it had more to do with the worsening weather conditions than with him. The quick smile she spared him went a long way toward lightening his mood. “But thanks, anyway.”
He supposed keeping a secret was one small thing she’d let him do for her. “No problem.”
Jolene flipped the windshield wipers up to high and pressed on the accelerator, taking them along the soggy road at a saner speed. Though he could tell she was concentrating hard to steer the misaligned truck over the challenging terrain, nothing seemed able to stop her mouth. “I’m sorry if I hit a nerve,” she apologized. “I mean that figuratively, not literally. Unless I did hit a nerve, and that’s why your knee hurts—”
“Just drive.”
They jostled along for another half mile. “So what was it?” she asked.
“What was what?” Man, she liked to talk. About as fast as she liked to drive.
“What happened to your leg? You don’t look big enough for football. Was it a surfing accident? Skate-boarding? Tripping over a star in Hollywood?”
Actually it had been one son of a bitch bull that hadn’t taken a shine to rodeo life, being ridden, or Nate. Tossing his rider to the ground before his eight seconds were up hadn’t been enough payback. And though Nate’s memories were a little fuzzy after seeing a thousand plus pounds of angry bull charging him, when he woke up in the ambulance, he’d been quite clear about the fact his college rodeo scholarship and planned career as a professional bull rider were
“Yeah, it’s a permanent handicap,” he finally admitted.
The doctors had stitched up all the parts they could find. They’d added a few made of plastic and steel. Still, one leg would always be shorter than the other. One knee would never flex like the other. It would stop him at airport gates and keep him off the dance floor for anything faster than a waltz. It would be a target for arthritis before his time.
But he always played the injury down so nobody would notice. So nobody would treat him differently. So no one would think him any less capable, any less a man.
But Jolene noticed. “I didn’t think you were handicapped. I just thought you’d hurt yourself surfing or skiing or whatever it is you do out in California. Did I make it worse? You should have said something. I can drive slow if you need me to.”
“What?” Just what kind of old fart did she think he was, anyway? “ You need to slow down—” Your entire life, Nate wanted to add. To keep that baby and your own skin safe. But caught himself before his temper flared. Using that betraying right hand to remove his cap, he smoothed his hair and adjusted the hat back into place—adjusting his focus at the same time. “Look, I’m fine,” he reassured her, forcing half a grin to appear more convincing. “This leg isn’t any worse off than it was before. Lily Browning’s the one I’m worried about.”
Apparently he was convincing enough to alleviateher concern and get her focused on something besides his shortcomings. Good.
“Me, too.” Jolene shifted the truck into drive. “I mean, Dad would have called us with an update if there was any change in Lily’s condition. But we should still get there as soon as we can.”
“Agreed.” Nate stared out the window. The sky was turning grayer by the minute.
“And we won’t tell Dad about banging up my truck, okay? Since neither of us was hurt, and the truck still runs, I don’t see any need to report it. He’ll find out soon enough, and he worries about me too much as it is.”
Was it any wonder? But Nate nodded his agreement. Mitch had more than enough to handle today. Keeping Jolene out of trouble might be the best thing he could do to help her father. “That’s your call.”
“Yes, it is.” He glanced over at the sharp tone in her voice. But he suspected it had more to do with the worsening weather conditions than with him. The quick smile she spared him went a long way toward lightening his mood. “But thanks, anyway.”
He supposed keeping a secret was one small thing she’d let him do for her. “No problem.”
Jolene flipped the windshield wipers up to high and pressed on the accelerator, taking them along the soggy road at a saner speed. Though he could tell she was concentrating hard to steer the misaligned truck over the challenging terrain, nothing seemed able to stop her mouth. “I’m sorry if I hit a nerve,” she apologized. “I mean that figuratively, not literally. Unless I did hit a nerve, and that’s why your knee hurts—”
“Just drive.”
They jostled along for another half mile. “So what was it?” she asked.
“What was what?” Man, she liked to talk. About as fast as she liked to drive.
“What happened to your leg? You don’t look big enough for football. Was it a surfing accident? Skate-boarding? Tripping over a star in Hollywood?”
Actually it had been one son of a bitch bull that hadn’t taken a shine to rodeo life, being ridden, or Nate. Tossing his rider to the ground before his eight seconds were up hadn’t been enough payback. And though Nate’s memories were a little fuzzy after seeing a thousand plus pounds of angry bull charging him, when he woke up in the ambulance, he’d been quite clear about the fact his college rodeo scholarship and planned career as a professional bull rider were
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