Page 6 of Wild Horses

Lap thirty.

Would I be stuck fighting for a share of afamilybusiness I’m not sure I want? I suck in ragged gasps, and my left shoulder throbs, impacting my stroke.

Lap thirty-five.

Would I have more than a shattered relationship with my only sibling? My lungs burn, and my arms are leaden, but stopping is surrender. So, despite the discomfort, I push.

Lap forty.

The water isn’t washing away my guilt; no, it’s drowning me in it. Then, with one wrong pull, pain, sharp and searing,radiates down my arm. I grit my teeth, stubbornly refusing to give up.

One more stroke. One more lap.

It’s too much to fight, and I slow, drifting to the wall, chest heaving as I clutch my shoulder. Just a strain, I tell myself, as I knead the muscle. Hauling myself from the water takes three times as long as it should, and it’s then I know I’m going to need more than some ibuprofen and a good night’s sleep to shake this off.

But it’s no less than I deserve.

CHAPTER THREE

laramie

Dallas, Texas

December

A very unladylike grunt slips between my lips as I glare at the five-pound dumbbell acting as the bane of my existence. How something so small, so inconsequential, can reduce me to such failure is baffling. When I try—and again fail—to lift the weight higher than ninety degrees, I drop it with a curse. Then kick it further away for good measure.

It only hurts a lot. “Stupid motherfu?—”

“What did that weight ever do to you?”

My eyes dart to the handsome man using the little arm bike thing. He shoots me a smile that would have a nun loosening her habit and I duck my head, looking away. This is the second physical therapy session he and I have shared, and while we spent the last one eye-flirting, I don’t have time for distractions today. Not when my entire career hangs by a thread.

He is an excellent distraction, though. Especially the wayhis biceps tighten and the veins in his forearms flex…Nope. Stop that right now.

Shaking off my lust-fueled haze, I grumble, “Why don’t you peddle yourself right on outta here, Pretty Boy?”

“Pretty Boy?” He arches an eyebrow and rubs the stubble along his chiseled jawline. Not that I’m staring or anything.

“I can see it, Mr. Phillips. Now move those arms.” Dr. Panter startles me; I’m so busy drowning in honey-brown eyes that I don’t notice her until she’s right next to me. And considering the reindeer antlers on her head, that’s saying something.

“War, Dr. Panter. Please call me War. Mr. Phillips isabsolutelymy father.” His deep tenor sours. Part of me wants to be nosy and ask what that’s about, but I have bigger things going on than prying into some random hottie’s business.

Dr. Panter waves at the man, War, and directs him back to his slow hand peddling. To me, she pats the padded therapy table.

Like a good patient, I hop up, mainly because I know I’m about to get scolded.

“Why are the free weights already out, Ms. Larson?”

I roll my shoulder as Dr. Panter watches, waiting. The dull throb I’ve learned to live with since October is there, a persistent reminder of my dumbassery.

Why did I pick up the weight first? Because it’s nothing. It’s five pounds. I’ve spent my life hauling bags of feed, saddles, and tack, shoveling out stalls, climbing fences and trees, and riding nine-hundred-pound animals. All of which require way more strength than simply lifting a five-fucking-pound weight.

“Oh, I got those out,” War says, still peddling his way to nowhere with his arms.

“You didn’t, but it’s admirable of you to lie for Ms. Larson.” Dr. Panter doesn’t take her discerning stare off me.

A smile tugs at my lips. “Thanks for trying to cover for me, Pretty Boy.” Louder, I add, “Laramie. Please call me Laramie.”

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