Page 48 of Ride Me Reckless
Helen’s features morphed into quiet empathy. She didn’t try to smooth it over. She didn’t offer platitudes. Just let the moment hang.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah,” I whispered, blinking hard. “Me too.”
We sat there in that stillness, and for the first time since all this began, I felt the grief settle, not like a wave, but like roots wrapping around my ribs.
“I can help with placement,” Helen said. “Rehab facilities with memory care. We can start with short-term options and reevaluate as the trial progresses.”
“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” I admitted. “I don’t trust reviews on Google right now.”
Her smile was understanding. “I’ll send over a list of vetted facilities after I review availability. You’ll have a few days to think through it. Nothing’s final today.”
I nodded, and she handed me a slim stack of forms.
I signed. My name looked foreign on the paper.
By the time we wrapped up, the room felt smaller. Like the air had thickened with everything that wasn’t said. I rose from the chair, unsure if my legs would hold.
Helen walked me to the door. Her hand brushed my arm, warm and solid.
“You’re doing better than you think,” she said softly.
I gave her a nod. One of those automatic, polite things you do when someone means well.
But inside?
I wasn’t so sure. Something felt different.
I found Colt standing on his own two feet—or trying to, anyway.
Colt gripped the walker like it had personally offended him. His back was stiff, his arms tense, but he was upright and stubborn about it, which meant he was definitely on the mend.
“If you tell Rhett I look like a baby giraffe, I swear…” he muttered without looking up.
I grinned, walking over. “Too late. I already texted him. Added a photo for dramatic effect.”
He groaned and side-eyed me, but I saw the smile threatening behind it. “You’re cruel.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t add a caption.”
He shook his head with mock dismay, and I stepped closer. “Want a hand?”
He hesitated for a second—pride, probably—but then nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
I offered my arm, and he slid one hand over it. The contact was warm. Familiar. It sent a flicker of something sweet and sharp straight through me.
We took it slow, the two of us shuffling down the hallway like we had nowhere better to be. In a way, maybe we didn’t.
The family room wasn’t far—just past a nurse’s station, where a cluster of bad paintings hung like they might distract from fluorescent lights and antiseptic air.
Inside, wide windows looked out toward the hills. Beyond them, just barely in view, lay the long stretch of pastureland, Lucky Ranch.
We sat, easing into mismatched armchairs that had probably been donated two decades ago. I watched the muscles in his jaw relax once he was off his feet.
“You good?” I asked.
He nodded. “Better with you here.”
