Page 99 of Josephine and Clay

So I help where I can. Or where Mom tells me to, which is usually the same thing.

I carry folded laundry one-handed down the hall and nearly knock over a framed photo of Boone’s wedding. I sit on a stool in the barn and untangle lead ropes until Rusty decides one is his mortal enemy. I help Nash label boxes for the dude ranch, which mostly means I write on them while he talks too fast about guest experience, trail packages, and whether people from Portland know how to behave around horses.

“They don’t,” I tell him.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know enough.”

“They’re paying guests.”

“That doesn’t make them smart.”

He grins. “You’re charming when you’re trapped here.”

The word lands wrong instantly. “I’m not trapped.”

Nash’s eyes flick to my cast before he can stop himself.

Heat crawls up the back of my neck.

I look at him until he finally lifts both hands in surrender and changes the subject.

By afternoon, the heat presses hard enough over the ranch that everyone starts moving slower, except Mom, who doesn’t believe in weather as an excuse. She finds me in the kitchen trying to make coffee with one crutch hooked awkwardly under my arm and Rusty sitting on my boot.

“You look ridiculous,” she says.

“Appreciate the support.”

“You want coffee or are you just threatening the pot?”

“I’m making coffee.”

“You forgot to put water in it.”

I pause and look at the machine.

“Well,” I say. “That explains the lack of progress.”

Her mouth twitches, but she doesn’t laugh. Mom’s got a talent for saving laughter until you least expect it. She reaches around me, fills the pot, and starts the coffee properly before taking the mug out of my hand. “Come help me in the office.”

I lean back against the counter. “That sounds like paperwork.”

“It is.”

“I’m injured.”

“Your leg is injured. Your hands aren't.”

“Spiritually, my hands are exhausted.”

“Clay.”

I sigh. “Yes, ma’am.”

Rusty gets up as if he’s been personally invited.

“Not you,” I tell him.