Rocky Mountain Cowboy

by Tina Radcliffe

  Joan nodded slowly. “You’re absolutely right.”

  “I want you to do the same. Promise me, Mom.”

  “I will, but you know it’s hard. Casey is your baby, and you’ll always be mine. I hurt when you hurt.” She reached up to gently place her hands on either side of her daughter’s face. “Even though you were far away in Denver, don’t think I haven’t read between the lines these past years. I always suspected there was a problem. I should have pushed harder, even when you denied anything was wrong.”

  Rebecca bit her lip, her eyes shuttering closed for a brief moment, all the while rhythmically rubbing her right arm, as her mother continued. Yes, she could recall the too many times that she visited her mother, all the while disguising the bruises and scars on her arm with long sleeves. Or answering a phone call while holding back tears and pretending everything was perfectly fine when it wasn’t.

  “All I knew to do was to get down on my knees and pray,” Joan continued.

  “Oh, Mom.” Rebecca’s voice cracked, and she paused to swallow hard. “I thank God every single day that I have a mother like you.”

  * * *

  Joe glanced at the clock. Nearly nine a.m. He’d finished his Monday morning chores in record time before heading back to the house to shower and wait for Becca.

  Reaching in his drawer for a clean white undershirt, his hand touched a box in the back of the bureau. Joe pulled it out. The ring. Twelve years ago he’d withdrawn everything out of savings to purchase the silver band with the solitaire diamond. His plan was to propose after college graduation, in the spring, his favorite time of year. He’d be working full-time at the ranch again, and he’d hoped Becca would transfer to a college close by.

  Yeah, that was the idea.

  Only Becca had married Nick Simpson.

  He should have sold the ring right then and there. Bought a car maybe. Except he couldn’t do it. Instead he kept it to remind himself that he didn’t know a thing about women back then, and he sure hadn’t learned anything since.

  Shoving the box out of sight, Joe yanked an undershirt and a sweatshirt from the open drawer.

  A glance in the mirror confirmed that he wore a permanent frown on his face, but there wasn’t a thing he could do at the moment to change that. It wasn’t just the weather souring his disposition. He’d hardly slept last night knowing that Becca would be back today. That meant that he’d have to show her his arm.

  Why was he nervous? No big deal, right? After all, she worked for the prosthesis company. Seeing amputees and amputations was part of her job on a daily basis. Only this wasn’t just another day in Paradise for him. His stomach churned at the thought of being fully exposed, figuratively, as well as literally. No one had seen his arm since the accident, except medical professionals. He’d made sure of that. Yeah, she was a medical professional, except this was different. It was Becca.

  Would she be as repulsed as he was at the sight of his misshapen flesh? The residual limb was a shameful, daily reminder of his mistake and all he’d lost.

  Joe groaned as he rubbed the taut muscles at the base of his neck. He needed coffee. Lots of coffee and he needed it now. Java might soothe the beast rumbling inside him. He headed to the kitchen where the coffeepot’s spitting noises indicated the brew was nearly ready.

  The doorbell rang. Without thinking, he reached for the glass carafe with his left hand. He fumbled, causing the hot, dark liquid to slosh over the lip of the container onto the counter. In seconds it became a moving stream that raced to the tile floor.

  It took an effort to bite back angry words. Shoving the carafe back into place, Joe tossed a towel onto the dark puddle on the floor and headed out of the room, nearly tripping over his brother’s black lab, Millie, on the way.

  He swung open the front door. As his gaze met Becca’s through the screen, the building irritation that stalked him diffused. She wore a crisp blue shirt with OrthoBorne stitched on the pocket, and dark slacks, with a rolling briefcase at her side. Her long hair had been pulled back into a ponytail. Dressed like a professional, and she was bright-eyed and chipper to boot.

  “Hey, Becca.”

  “Joe.”

  “Find the place all right?” He folded his arms across his chest. The residual limb remained hidden in the folds of his long-sleeve shirt, just the way he liked.

  Becca cleared her throat and nodded. “Yes. I did. Thank you.”

  Joe held open the door and nodded an invitation into the house. He was grateful the cleaning lady had been by on Friday. Everything still sparkled. High oak-beamed ceilings and polished oak floors made the interior appear huge. The décor had a Southwest theme, but the place was minimalist, like him.

  “Beautiful room.”

  “Thanks,” he muttered.

  She turned her head and smiled. “Who do we have here?”

  Joe followed her gaze. Dan’s dog padded into the room. The animal looked at them with baleful eyes.

  “This is Millie.”

  Millie whined, nudging Becca’s leg until she reached down to rub her ears. “Oh, goodness, isn’t she sweet?”

  “She’s neurotic.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Separation anxiety. She’s been like this since Dan and my mother left. The dog is driving me crazy.”

  Becca tilted her head, and her ponytail swayed with the movement as she assessed Joe. “You do seem a little out of sorts. Do you want to reschedule?”

  “No. Let’s get this over with.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “This way.”

  Becca grabbed her briefcase handle and followed him down a short hall to a spacious kitchen, the wheels clicking on the tile floor.

  “Coffee?” he asked.

  “No, thank you.” She stopped, her gaze drawn to the mess on the floor. “What happened?”

  “I got into a little argument with the coffeemaker.”

  “I hate when that happens.”

  Before he realized it, she had reached for a roll of paper towels on the counter. Joe insinuated himself between her and the spilled coffee.

  “I don’t need help.”

  “Sorry,” she murmured.

  Joe carefully mopped up the counter, then the floor before pouring coffee into his travel mug and sealing the lid. “Would it be okay to work at the kitchen table? I have the prosthesis charging there.”

  “Sure.” Becca glanced at the table and then the room.

  Joe glanced around, as well. He was proud of the place. The same oak beams overhead dominated the room and held an oak ceiling fan with rows of recessed lights. The kitchen itself was oak, with stainless-steel appliances and black granite countertops. The room lacked clutter, and that was exactly the way he liked things.

  “You built this place?”

  Joe shrugged. “Can’t say I built anything. My job was to nod a lot. Somehow I ended up with this.” He walked to the table and set down his mug. When he lifted his gaze, Becca was intently watching him. “What?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t expect...”

  “Didn’t expect a poor cowboy to have a place like this?”

  “That’s not what I meant, Joe.” She took a deep breath, then opened her briefcase and placed a thick file on the table along with her tablet computer. “Do you mind if I take a look at your residual limb?”

  “Have at it.” Joe pulled off his sweatshirt and offered her his right upper extremity. He held his breath for moments, but she didn’t flinch or grimace as he’d expected.

  Becca’s hands were soft and cool upon his skin as she examined first the biceps, then the triceps of the limb before moving to the slightly puckered, scarred incision line and the skin on either side of the amputation. She dappled her fingers along the entire surface, her gaze intent. Finally she looked up.

  “Sensitivity
?”

  Joe shook his head in denial because he’d been just fine a minute ago. Until she touched him.

  When she began to type notes in her tablet, Joe was unable to look away. He found himself assessing her concentrated effort as she worked. The ponytail shifted, exposing her neck and the curve of her face.

  Becca raised her eyes, and her pupils widened as she caught him staring. With a flip of her fingers, she moved a wayward lock of hair behind her ear, then cleared her throat.

  “Pain or phantom pain?”

  “Nothing a couple ibuprofen won’t fix.”

  “You’ve been doing your exercises and taking very good care of the area. The muscles are in excellent shape, and the skin tone and the incision line are very healthy. All in all, it looks beautiful.”

  “Beautiful?” The tension in him eased. “Is that a medical term?”

  “Would you prefer, ‘incision line healed, edges well approximated, clean and free of exudate, swelling or edema’?”

  “Beautiful it is.”

  “Obviously you followed your surgeon’s instructions to a T.”

  “I’m pretty good at following orders. The army will do that to you.”

  “The army? Right. I forgot about the army. Though, your upper body strength is indicative of more than following instructions.”

  “I have a small gym set up in one of the bedrooms. I can’t afford any further setbacks.”

  “Any other learning-curve issues with the left hand?”

  “Yeah. A few. Roping cows. Brushing my teeth. Shaving with a razor remains an interesting experience. I had a beard for a long time, just to keep me from bleeding all over the place.”

  “Too bad I didn’t come out here sooner. I could have saved you a couple pints of blood.” She smiled. “Anything else?”

  “Still have the occasional clumsy episode, as you can see.” He nodded toward the spilled coffee.

  “We all have the occasional clumsy episode in the morning, Joe.” She picked up the two pieces of his prosthesis he had ready on the table and inspected them. “Do you want to go ahead and don this?”

  He massaged antiseptic lubricant into the area and examined the cosmetic silicone glove for damage. Then he disconnected the charger from his myoelectric prosthesis, snapped together the hand and forearm and applied the device to what remained of his right arm.

  He held it up for her review. “There you go. Bionic man reporting for duty.”

  “Are you always this hard on yourself?” she murmured.

  “I deserve to be hard on myself. I messed up. I should have asked for help, as everyone keeps reminding me. If I had, I wouldn’t have this. I’d be normal. A normal rancher.”

  Her jaw sagged slightly as she stared at him. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

  “What’s there to say? I’m not the guy I used to be.”

  “That’s not true, and believe me, normal is highly overrated.”

  “Becca, I’m sure most people appreciate platitudes, but I deal in reality and I’m sorry, but you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She stiffened. “Joe, your arm doesn’t define you.”

  “Sure it does.”

  “You’re wrong. You’re a person who happens to be an amputee. That integral person inside is what people imprint in their minds when they define who you are.” She stared past him. “No matter how hard something else tries to change a person’s core, it generally doesn’t change.”

  “What exactly is my core, Becca?”

  When she met his gaze, she reached out to lay a hand on his arm.

  Joe moved from her touch.

  The rebuff only seemed to make her more determined to make her point, and she leaned closer.

  “You’re an intelligent, kind, godly man.”

  “Are you sure you’re not confusing me with someone else? God and I haven’t been buddies for some time, and I’m not as kind as you like to think.” He shook his head. “Sometimes our mind blocks out the not-so-memorable things about people we haven’t seen in a long time. We tend to remember people in a skewed positive light. I’m not that boy from high school.”

  “Trust me. I don’t have that problem. I’m cynical enough to remember everything from the past.” Becca chuckled softly. “I’m absolutely certain you haven’t changed as much as you’d like to believe.” She refused to give him eye contact; instead, she reached for her tablet, her fingers sliding across the keys on the screen once again.

  “It’s been over a year since your accident. You began prosthesis fittings and training six months ago. Why didn’t you complete certification then?”

  “It’s taken me a while to actually commit to the whole prosthesis thing. After the accident and a couple of surgeries and rehab and all, I’d already been going back and forth to Denver so many times for preprosthetic therapy, and interim prosthetic therapy, that my head was spinning. I admit I didn’t adhere to the usual patient guidelines.”

  “You aren’t exactly the usual patient,” she said.

  “Bingo.” He took a deep breath. “Dan ran the ranch and my mother helped. I needed to take that load from them as soon as possible.”

  “Is your mother still living in the main house?”

  “Yeah. She and my niece just left for California. They’ve gone to visit my sisters, then meet up with Dan and his wife.”

  “Dan’s married?”

  “Yeah. Sort of a newlywed, too. He postponed his honeymoon for me.”

  “That’s a great brother.” She paused, thinking. “Family is everything, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes it’s the only thing that gets me through the day.”

  “And faith,” she said softly, her eyes averted.

  “Truthfully, I’m not sure what faith is anymore.” Joe cleared his throat. “No disrespect. I know you’ve been through a lot, and if your faith is what helped you, then good for you.”

  “Good for me?” She offered a scoffing laugh. When she met his gaze, her eyes were hard and unflinching. “But we’re not here to talk about me, are we?”

  He nodded. “Understood.”

  “I need you to fill out this paperwork.”

  Joe groaned. “More paperwork? OrthoBorne is big on it, aren’t they?” He glanced at the clock. “Could we save that for another session? I’m getting behind on my day.”

  “I promise this is the last of it.”

  He looked her in the eye. “You know what’s been the most difficult part of this transition?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Learning to write with my left hand. I’ll do anything to get out of paper shuffling.”

  Becca paused. “We are in the field. I’m willing to compromise. We can skip that and go straight to shadowing. However, don’t be surprised if I come up with some unique teaching sessions while I’m shadowing you.”

  “Deal.” He looked at her. “What do you mean by shadowing?”

  “That means that I show up tomorrow and follow you around for a couple of days, asking you the questions. I basically need to document the tasks that make up the majority of your workday so I can create a plan of care for your specific occupational therapy.”

  “I get up at four thirty, and I’m ready to start the day at five.

  “Seriously?”

  “Too early for you?”

  “No. I meant you’re okay with me following you around from dawn to dusk for a few days?”

  “I’ll do anything to avoid wasting my time—” he glanced with distaste at the paperwork “—checking little boxes and writing answers to inane questions. But five seems a little early for someone who isn’t punching a clock.”

  “I understand my job, thank you. This is all about getting to know your world. So if you start y
our day at five, so do I, at least to start with.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll meet you at the barn.” He glanced at her outfit. “You do have boots, right?”

  “Yes. Several pairs, in fact.”

  “Ranch boots. We’re not talking city girl, fancy boots.”

  “Yes, ranch boots. You seem to forget that I worked on a ranch with my father practically my whole life.”

  “I didn’t forget.” He paused. “But people change.”

  “I’m still the same ranch girl I was twelve years ago.”

  “I guess we’ll see,” Joe murmured.

  “I guess we will,” Becca answered without missing a beat. She closed the cover on her tablet.

  “What time does your crew arrive?”

  “Nine thirty.”

  “They’re late,” he observed with a glance at the big stainless-steel clock on the wall.

  “I don’t want to keep you from your chores.” She began to pack up her briefcase. “I’ll wait outside for them.”

  “You’re welcome to wait in the house.”

  “Oh, no. I’ll wait outside.”

  “Your call.” He reached for his keys, with his left hand, and fumbled. The keys clattered to the oak floor.

  An awkward silence ensued as they both stared at the ground between them.

  “I got ’em.” Joe scooped up the keys with his other hand and shoved them in his pocket.

  “Do you mind if I give you a little impromptu lesson?” Becca asked.

  “Okay,” he said slowly.

  “You’re using the myoelectric hand statically.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Static. Like a placeholder. I’ve observed your hand mostly in the relaxed position. You have quite a few positions available. Utilize them. The more you do, the more it will be automatic. Like the lateral pinch. You could have picked up the keys that way.” She demonstrated, putting her own keys on the table. “See how much more accurate?”

  He nodded. “I’ll, ah, give it a try.”