Page 157 of Josephine and Clay

The first time I put weight on my bad leg without wanting to black out, I take it as a sign.

Probably not the sign the doctor meant, or the sign Mom wants. Definitely not the sign Boone, Dallas, or Nash would appreciate if I said it out loud. But it’s there.

A little less pain. A little more strength. A little less of that sick, broken feeling every time I shift wrong.

Progress.

Enough that my brain immediately latches onto the only conclusion it wants.

I’m getting out of here.

I stand in the barn with one hand braced against a stall door, and I test my weight slowly and carefully. Pain has a way of making a man negotiate with the lord even when he doesn’t mean to.

It bites. Sharp enough to make my jaw lock, but I don’t fold.

I breathe through it, sweat gathering under my shirt, fingers tight on the wood.

“Clay.” Boone comes from behind me.

I close my eyes for half a second.

Of course.

Man has a gift for appearing right when I’d rather not be witnessed.

“I’m standing,” I say without turning. “Hold your applause.”

Boots scrape over the barn floor. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“I did rest.” I ease my weight back onto the good leg. “For about a hundred years.”

“It’s been a few weeks.”

“Same thing.”

Boone stops beside me, arms folded, gaze dropping to my leg as if he can assess it better than the doctor. That’s Boone.

“You push too hard, you’ll set yourself back.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s July.”

He gives me that look.

The Boone look.

The one that says he knows I’m full of shit, but he’s deciding whether calling me on it's worth the effort. Usually, he decides yes. Today, apparently, is no different.

“You already called your circuit manager?”

I glance toward the horses instead.

That’s answer enough.

Boone exhales through his nose. “Clay.”