Page 158 of Josephine and Clay

The warning in his voice drags at something old in me. Fifteen years old, covered in mud, getting caught sneaking out to a rodeo three counties over.

“What?”

“You can barely walk across the barn.”

“I’m improving.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re ready to get back on a bull.”

“Didn’t say I was riding tomorrow.”

“You’re thinking about it.”

I huff a humorless laugh. “You always this dramatic, or is that Rose rubbing off on you?”

He doesn’t smile. “I miss having you around.”

That shuts me up.

The barn goes quiet except for the horses shifting in their stalls and Rusty snuffling somewhere near the tack room, probably looking for something dead or edible. With that dog, there’s usually overlap.

I keep my eyes on the stall door. The wood grain, the old bite marks, anything but Boone.

“You’ve had me around,” I say. “I’ve been stuck here.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

No. It wouldn’t be.

Boone never says the easy thing when he can say the thing that digs straight under a rib.

He leans one shoulder against the stall. “I know this isn’t what you wanted. Getting hurt and coming home to this. But it’s been good, having you here.”

I almost laugh.

Good.

That’s a hell of a word for it.

I’ve been moody, useless, half drugged, half mad, and one bad moment away from chewing through the walls. I’ve snapped at Mom, ignored Dallas, dodged Nash, said things to Josie I still can’t think about without my stomach turning.

Good.

Sure.

“Glad my broken leg’s been a real blessing,” I mutter.

Boone’s jaw tightens. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Turn everything into a joke before anyone can mean it.”

I push away from the stall too fast.

Pain flares. I hide it badly. Boone notices and his face shifts, but he doesn’t reach for me. Smart man. I might’ve bitten.

“I’ve got a life out there,” I say, pointing vaguely toward anywhere that isn’t Buckhorn. “A job. Sponsors. People expecting me.”