Page 3 of One Night to Fall
“Yeah, it’s a miracle,” I say wryly, shaking my head as I take a step backward.
“Hey, watch out?—”
Lake’s words are a moment too late as I lose my balance, my boot getting caught on the corner of the hay bale as I stumble back. Arms flailing, I’m at the mercy of gravity as I wait for impact.
It feels like a lifetime passes but then it all happens in a flash as well. My hip connects with the unforgiving ground as pain shoots up my back and down my leg.
Awesome.
I can hear them laughing, and if I weren’t the one on the ground I’d probably laugh too, but this shit hurts and I think I need a hand getting up. So I’ll wait until one of them collects themselves enough to help me. It’s not like I have anywhere to be.
Not at all.
2
JESSE
“Jesse, you’relimping?” my mother asks two days later as we all gather at our childhood home for dinner. “What happened?”
“I’m fine,” I tell her, kissing her cheek and giving her a smile.
“He fell in the barn the other day,” Beau says, “and needed help getting up.”
Our mother gasps and I narrow my eyes at him and open my mouth to tell him what I think of that helpful little piece of information when he pulls out the big guns.
My nephew.
Beau holds up his son, Cormack, and grins.
Dammit.
On the plus side, Beau and Indie made me Cormack’s godfather, so if I can’t get my brother back now, I’ll just make sure to find the most obnoxious toy for baby’s next birthday.
“What happened to you?” my sister asks as she comes in and hugs me from behind, and I sigh, resigned to this being a thing tonight.
“I tripped and fell backward over a hay bale and these two”—I point at Beau and Lake— “couldn’t be bothered to help because they were laughing too hard.”
“Hey!” Lake exclaims, hitching his thumb at Harlan. “He was there too!”
“Oh, my poor baby,” my mother coos and I smirk at my brothers as Wren covers her laugh with a cough. She’s the most like our mother in appearance with dark hair and eyes, but she has a mean right hook that our father is really proud of.
“I’ll make you an appointment to get a massage,” Wren says as Mom turns to our brothers to chastise them.
“You don’t need to do that; I’ll be fine. I’m just sore is all.”
“Yes, well, there’s a hot new massage therapist that just started and he’sexactlyyour type.”
“How do you know what my type is?”
“I’m your sister; I know everything.”
“That doesn’t make it weird at all,” I tell her with a roll of my eyes.
“Why would that be weird? A hot guy rubs you downandyou’re less sore when you’re done. Sounds like a win-win to me.”
“Fine. But you’re paying for it.”
“You’re really living up to all those youngest child stereotypes,” she teases, earning a side-eye from our mother.
