Page 7 of Wild Horses

While I say the words to Dr. Panter, she rolls her eyes and smiles. “Yes, I’m aware,Laramie,given I’ve been seeing you every Tuesday and Thursday for the past three weeks. Now, let’s get you warmed up. Then you can work on lifts.”

She moves me through a series of steady,slow,smooth movements. Only when I’m panting through gritted teeth and my shoulder burns does Dr. Panter offer me the tiny purple weight.

With all the determination I possess, I grip the weight, the small item deceptively heavy in my fist. My arm trembles as I raise it, not even making it to shoulder height. The pulling, twisting sensation makes my teeth clench. Tension pulls the muscles like rubber bands stretched too tight. It’s not just painful—it’s wrong. This isn’t the burn of a challenging workout; it’s the bite of overexertion, the wrench of scar tissue, and it’s almost enough to make me quit.

I lower the weight and repeat, but this time, I rotate my arm before slowly moving it outward. It hurts. There’s no other way to say it. Each tiny motion sends waves of agony through my shoulder, pulling at the place where the surgery stitched me back together. My muscles spasm in revolt, and my arm falls limp.

A dark, angry part of me relishes the burn. Yes, being able to do these movements at all is a good thing, but I deserve the hurt that comes with it.

It’s been seven weeks since theminorsurgery to repair theminortear in my rotator cuff, and I’m itching to get back in Xpresso’s saddle. But given I can’t even lift a five-pound weight higher than ninety degrees, the chance of my being able to ride my horse with the precision I expect is slim to none. So, instead of celebrating in Vegas, I’m stuck in Dallas.

The finals. My finals. I should be there.I was there. Everything I wanted was in my hands, and like a reckless idiot, I threw it away to prove a point to Cyrus fucking McClain.

Another groan of pain and frustration fills the open therapy room. Other PT patients, including War, give me a side-eye. If I weren’t trying to pretend that this minuscule hand weight wasn’t Sisyphus’ stone, I’d flip them off. Or, in War’s case, maybe blow a kiss.

He really is good-looking. Tall, trim, a little too clean-cut. His reddish-brown hair and those warm eyes—not unlike a chestnut stallion—definitely have appeal. Yes, that man would look mighty fine grazing in my pasture.

Biting my lip, I shake the image of War’s broad shoulders between my thighs from my head and refocus on lifting the weight. Refocus on why I’m here.

Turning my attention to the large whiteboard, I search until I find my initials written in neat handwriting with a list of goals. Sitting at number one? Compete in the High Plains Stampede. Slightly lower on the list—pat the top of my head. Dr. Panter says it’s important to have a wide range of objectives.

High Plains isn’t a huge event, but it’s big enough to make a statement. Most of the circuit will be there, thick in the swing of things. I picked it purposefully. When I return, I want everyone to remember why they should be worried.

The petty side of me refuses to watch the finals. It’s too tender a wound. When Dad asked if I wanted updates, I threatened to eat the stuffing from his Oreos if he spilled a word about it. I’ll find out soon enough, anyway.

My competition is out there now, either shining under the bright Vegas lights or resting and regrouping, mentally planning how to take the buckle, the crown, the title. Meanwhile, I’m struggling to lift the same weight my Memaw uses in herseventies-plus aerobics class. The thought of missing out on the finals—again—gnaws at my stomach, leaving a gaping hollow. What if I can’t come back from this? What if this is the new me? A weak, broken version of myself?

Lost in my thoughts, I lift my arm too high, twist it too fast, and the ache in my shoulder grows into a white-hot flare that shoots down my arm. My entire shoulder spasms and the weight falls to the ground. If I was a crier, I’d be fighting tears. Instead, I cuss a storm of words that would’ve had my mom washing my mouth out with soap.

War lurches forward as if coming my way, but before he can untangle himself from the pulley he’s currently working at, Dr. Panter’s cool hands settle on my shoulder.

“Laramie, breathe. It’s okay to take it down a notch,” she says as she kneads the muscle. “This isn’t about pushing as hard as you can. It’s about getting to where you were safely. Progress, even if it feels slow, is progress.”

Sighing, I say, “I wish it wasn’t so out of my control. My mind says I can, but my body…”

“In this case, listen to your body.” Dr. Panter works my arm, stretching and tugging. With each pass, she pulls my hand higher and higher. We’re at ninety degrees, and I know what’s coming. Biting the inside of my cheek to keep from making a noise, I prepare myself for the discomfort at the incision site—the pull deep in my shoulder blade.

I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend I’m somewhere else—in a bar kissing the corded muscles of War’s neck, maybe—as she pushes my arm to the side. My wrist is almost even with my ear when I can’t take anymore, and I jerk away from her grip.

“Easy, Laramie. You did great. I know you’re frustrated, but you’re making remarkable progress. Now, I want you to do wall presses and scapular retractions, then hit the hot tub.”

As much as I don’t want to do any more exercises, I’m totally on board with the hot tub. “No ice bath?”

Dr. Panter’s lips quirk. “Nope, you’re spared the trauma of the ice today. I’ll see you Thursday.”

Giving my thanks, I set to it. Warm, bubbly water and a chance to unwind are calling my name.

By the time I finish the last set ofscapular retractions,aka squeezing my shoulder blades together until I want to cry, the PT room is empty except for War and Dr. Panter. Nodding my goodbye to them, I push into the small changing room and slip into the functional one-piece I bought for aqua therapy.Doesn’t matter if it’s flattering, Laramie.Does a piece of me wish it was a cute bikini? And that a certain someone was joining me in the water?

Giving myself a mental slap, I push War and his handsome face from my mind. I swear my hormones are out of whack. I haven’t had a satisfying orgasm since before my accident. That’s all this crush is—the need to get laid.

Tinkling holiday music plays over the speakers, mixing with the bubbling of the jets and swishing of the lap pool. The sun sets behind the Dallas skyline, leaving the room bathed in soft shades. The faint scent of chlorine tickles my nose when I step into the hot tub, and I sigh as the warm water and pulse of the jets work my sore muscles. The heat wraps around my aching shoulder, and while it dulls the persistent throb, it does nothing to quiet my restless mind.

The memory of my last race replays in my head in hi-def: the high is intoxicating as X and I race, rounding each barrel so perfectly—the promise of a win in my grasp. Then, the scene changes, and I’m on my back in a red clay arena, staring up at the sky, unable to breathe. I rub my hand over my shoulder, the small scar hidden by my swimsuit a reminder of all I lost. Of my mistakes.

Regret and anger—at myself, at Cyrus, at the universe—knot together in a tangle of frustration inside me. I sink lower in the water until my ears are submerged, muffling the holiday music. Then deeper, until the entire world disappears. If I stay submerged long enough, can I drown the what-ifs swirling in my head?

Suddenly, a large hand yanks me upward, and I jolt, sputtering and coughing.

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