Page 163 of Josephine and Clay

My chest locks. I look over her shoulder. “Walking to town isn’t running.”

“No,” she says softly. “But you’ve always been creative.”

Damn her. Damn this house. Damn everyone for seeing too much and still not seeing the one thing that matters.

Dad knew me better than anybody.

Maybe that was the problem. I step back. “I’ll be fine.”

She lets her hand fall.

I hate the look on her face.

So I leave before it follows me.

Town’s not far, but with the crutch and the leg, it’s dragging myself through a punishment I volunteered for. By the time Main Street comes into view, sweat has soaked down my spine, and my bad leg is pulsing hard enough to make me see white at the edges.

Good.

Pain gives the thoughts somewhere to go.

Buckhorn is doing what Buckhorn always does. Existing too loudly for a place this small.

Trucks line the curb. Folks remain outside the feed store as if there’s an official town requirement that all gossip be conducted within ten feet of Virgil Tucker’s register. Buttercup Bakery has the door propped open, cinnamon and sugar spilling onto the sidewalk. Across the street, a kid drops a paper bag, and three apples roll into the road while his mother scolds him in a voice half the town can hear.

I pause outside the diner, leaning on my crutch harder than I should, breathing through the throb in my leg.

A couple of people nod my way.

“Clay.”

“Good to see you walking.”

“Leg healing up?”

I answer with half smiles and easy lies.

“Getting there.”

“Can’t keep me down.”

“Doc says I’m too stubborn to die.”

They laugh because that’s what they expect from me.

The easy one, the wild one, the one who takes a hit and grins with blood in his teeth.

Nobody wants to know about the rest.

I keep moving.

I don’t mean to end up near the clinic.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

But there I am, across the street from the small building with its neat sign and clean front windows. Buckhorn Veterinary Clinic. The blinds are half open, sunlight glancing off the glass.

I slow before I can stop myself.