Page 57 of Barbed Wire Hearts

“Great. My shortness working against me,” she sighs.

I can’t help but smile. “But it gives you other advantages.” I pull her fist down and press it against my crotch. Her eyes widen as I press her hand there. “If it’s a man, you kick him as hard as you can here. He’ll double over and then you can reach his nose. Then get away.”

“Nuts and nose and jaw,” she repeats. “Easy enough. You gonna let me hit you now?”

“Not in the nuts,” I warn, releasing her fist. “But feel free to try and hit me in the face.”

“Really?” she asks, her brow shooting up. “What if I hurt you?”

“You won’t even hit me,” I chuckle. “But hit my hand first to make sure you know how to throw a punch.”

We spend about an hour practicing, until my hand stings with her hit. When I feel like she’s figured it out enough, then I straighten and watch her. She’s covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Her cow print hat has long since been set off to the side and her boots kicked off to give her better momentum. Plus, I don’t know a single man who wants to get accidently kicked with boots on. It’s bad enough when you catch your shins on something.

“Okay, now hit me,” I tell her.

I’m much taller than her, so she isn’t gonna hit my nose with enough force to hurt me. If she gets my jaw just right, she may, but I’m more focused on her punching at my torso and getting fast enough to actually hit me. I may walk with a limp, but I can still move pretty well.

She swings and I take a step back, so she misses. When she swings again, I barely have to move to avoid it.

“Remember, if you’re close enough to punch someone, you’re already in danger. Your goal is to get away,” I instruct, dancing out of the way of another hit.

“You know, for someone who once broke his back, you move really fast,” she grunts, trying to hit me again and missing.

“It took years of physical therapy,” I admit, and she pauses to look up at me. “They didn’t think I was going to walk again. In fact, they told me I wouldn’t.”

“And you were too stubborn to believe them,” she says with a smile, and for the first time since the calf died, I see a spark enter her eyes. “What did they say when you started walking?”

“Oh, they took credit for it,” I say with a shrug.

“Of course, they did,” she sighs. “What was it like?”

I watch her carefully “Which part? The not walking or the almost dying?”

“Both.”

I straighten and study her, the way she holds herself, the curiosity in her eyes. Everything about her is perfect, despite the fact she doesn’t fit in here. I don’t think Kate fits in anywhere though. She’s too unique, too kind, too vulnerable. Emotions like hers are a weakness, or at least that’s the way I view them. Emotions have no place in my life. When they come out, shit like the Boot Scoot happen. People get hurt. I hate it. When you have demons, you can’t let them out to play. You have to keep them caged.

But here’s fucking Kate, a walking, talking key. And she keeps springing my goddamn lock open.

The thought makes me want to storm away, to remove myself from the situation. Instead, I take a deep breath and answer her question. I may be an asshole, but fuck if I don’t want to beherasshole. It’s dangerous, especially with so much heat on her, but I’m nothing if not foolish. I used to ride bulls for a living after all. My pa was right. I’m always chasing a high.

And right now, that high is Kate.

“Almost dying was humbling,” I admit, looking anywhere but her face. “There wasn’t a light at the end of the tunnel. I didn’t see Heaven. I just saw my pa.”

“Were you close?” she asks.

“No. Not in any way,” I admit. “He was a drunk bastard. Beat the fuck out of me a lot. Did. . .other things. That kind of man. He was long dead by the time of my accident, but there I saw him, berating me, telling me I was good for nothing, yelling about how I was always such a disappointment.” My words grow rough, and I have to clear my throat. “That’s the reason I woke up, to spite him.”

She moves closer and touches my forearm. “Sometimes, spite is the best tool. It’s okay that’s the reason you pulled through.”

My instinct is to pull away. Instead, I lean into her touch, relish it, want more of it. I’ve hungered for her since I’d had a taste out in the fields.

“And not walking was hell on earth. But I wouldn’t have made it through that without. . . well, Dakota and Wiley got me through that.”

I’m covered in scars now. Dozer added his in there, his horn spearing me through my gut, but there’s more from the surgeries I had to fix my back. I’ll never be the same, never be able to move like I once did, and my arthritis is a bitch when the weather gets cold, but I’m alive. And now I get to stand here before my sunflower.

I clear my throat. “I know I’m a grumpy bastard?—”

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