The Bull Rider's Homecoming. Allie Pleiter

       Chapter Two

      The red scarf didn’t suit her.

      It was a weird thought to have, given the drama of seeing the girl you’d loved and left after so much time, but that was the first thing that went through his mind.

      Ruby, despite her name, wasn’t a red girl. She was more of a dusky pink, the color of Gran’s roses that ran along the back of the house. Red was trying too hard.

      The Ruby of his memory was a soft pink thing, kitten-like, full of wonder and amazed at whatever he did. She’d put him on a mile-high pedestal all through high school, and he’d liked that. Dad was lightning-quick with the put-downs, but Ruby looked at him—as Gran would put it—as if he hung the moon.

      He’d given her plenty of reason to admire him when they’d gotten to know each other. He’d swept her off her feet. First by accident, just to distract her from the tutoring she was supposed to be giving him, and then on purpose. The more he got to know her, the more he liked her. He’d delighted in romancing her with dramatic gestures and flat-out charm. By the spring of their senior year, like had turned to love.

      And then he’d done her wrong. Dropped her as dramatically and abruptly as he’d swept her up. If he could manage to regret anything—which was a reach for the likes of him—what he’d done to Ruby would top the list.

      Which made today excruciating on any number of levels.

      Right at this moment, however, what topped his list was that he couldn’t stand up much longer. The numbness was creeping up his leg, his sense of the floor beneath his left foot all but gone. If he turned to walk back into the house now, there was a fair chance his foot would drag against the ground, if not trip him outright. He’d left his cane back at the couch, determined to stand there on his own two feet and show her he was still strong. Now the only thing that felt strong was the throbbing in his wrist from the choke hold he currently had on the doorknob.

      This was the part he hated the most—he couldn’t tell if his knee would hold him or buckle, if his ankle would bend or drag. It was as if his body had dismembered itself, splitting off into strange pieces that refused to talk to each other.

      It’d be so much easier if it just hurt, just as it would be so much simpler if it didn’t have to be Ruby.

      As it was, she walked up to the guesthouse and stood waiting for an invitation to enter. The Ruby he’d known would have gotten back into her car after his first mean glare. This Ruby who’d just said “prove it” was an older, harder Ruby. It bugged him that he might be the reason for some of that armor.

      “Are you going to let me in?” Her voice tried too hard to be loud, mismatched to her personality just like the scarf the wind kept flapping up off her neck.

      “Do I have to?” The comeback sounded childish. Stupid, given that getting her here was what he’d wanted in the first place. He’d thought she was the only one who could get him out of this. Now that she stood in front of him, most of him hated the idea.

      Ruby stared at him, one eyebrow scrunched down in thought—the way she used to stare at a math problem. It had been one of his favorite things, watching Ruby’s mind whir into gear, but the fact that she was now trying to solve him sent an itchy feeling down his spine.

      “I forgot something in the car,” she said. It had the tone of a convenient excuse, and Luke swallowed the infuriating sense that she recognized his dilemma and was giving him a chance to spare his pride.

      Ruby made an exaggerated turn back toward her car. Luke wasn’t foolish enough to ignore the out she gave him and hobbled awkwardly back to the couch while she had her back turned. He left the door open. He couldn’t decide if he should be glad she’d given him the chance to sit down unseen, or ticked off she’d sensed he needed it. That was always the best and worst thing about Ruby—she could read him like a book.

      “You always wanted Granny B to let you live here,” came her voice as she closed the guesthouse’s front door behind her. There was no nostalgia in her tone; she recited it like fact, the way she’d recited the algebra theorems that gave him fits in school.

      Luke let his hand lead his numb leg to come up and cross casually over his good knee. She was watching the way his leg moved, and he fought the urge to cover it with the issue of Pro Bull Rider magazine lying on the couch next to him.

      Ruby settled herself in the chair opposite him, a file and clipboard balanced on her lap. She sat upright, knees together, elbows close, the way she used to sit with him in study hall back before he’d coaxed her out of her shell. Ruby had always been a much more entertaining equation to solve than algebra.

      “This won’t work,” he challenged again, knowing it made no sense but needing to keep her at a distance until the knots in his gut settled.

      “So you said.” Her eyes fell to the cane he’d forgotten to hide in his rush to get “casually” settled on the couch before she came in the door, and he bit back a scowl. She gave him what he was sure was her worst “therapist” glare. “Don’t think I haven’t heard that kind of talk before.”

      She’d heard it from him all those times he’d said he’d never be able to learn algebra. The history in the air between them was so thick and painful he could practically reach out and press his hand up against it like a cement wall.

      Ruby opened her file folder with an infuriatingly clinical air. “Left leg, nerve root injury close to the spinal cord. Concussion, loss of consciousness at the time of injury. Ongoing symptoms include loss of muscle strength and neuropathy.”

      Luke despised the clinical terms they used—why couldn’t they just say that a mean bull threw him against a fence at an event in Montana, knocked him out, and busted up his back. He remembered the ride, but any memory of the grisly fall came from video tape—he only woke up afterward in an ambulance with several panicked people poking and asking urgent questions.

      “How would you rate your current level of pain?”

      She’d have read every page of his file, so she knew that was a trick question. This new Ruby Sheldon wasn’t playing nice. “Ain’t nothin’,” he drawled, omitting the wink he usually gave the buckle bunnies. Those pretty, love-struck rodeo fans usually cooed and pouted over his collection of bruises and scratches after a show. They’d showed up at the hospital the first two days, then trickled off as the tour moved on.

      Her eyes narrowed, and she clicked her pen. “On a scale of one to ten, please.” He had to admit to a shred of surprise that she could produce such a hard shell in his presence. Maybe hate really was more powerful than love, like Dad always said.

      “Point-five.”

      “Do you have difficulty with any limbs other than the involved leg?”

      He sat back against the couch cushions. “I’ve been told all of me works just fine.”

      That irritated her—those kinds of lines always did. She stood up and put her hands on her hips.

      “Stand up.”

      He glared at her. “You know, I believe I’m fine right here.”

      Something shot through her eyes, a stubbornness that surprised him. “Stand up. I’m not going to be scared