|LEMON ODELL| 

"Colt," I urge for what felt like the hundredth time in the last few hours, "you need to get some rest. Close your eyes and try to relax. Prop you're foot up. Take your meds. Sleep."

I wince, aware that I probably sound like an over baring mother nagging on her child. Was I turning into Mama at such a young age? She had been just a few years younger than me when she had met Daddy and had Stella.

I cringed inwardly, knowing I sounded more like an overbearing mother than anything else. Was I turning into Mama? She'd been just a few years younger than me when she met Daddy and had Stella. I shook my head, trying to push away the thought. Colt grumbled, stumbling across the gravel lot toward the barn in that ridiculous orthopedic boot. As if the pink cast on his arm wasn't enough of a blow to his pride, now he had this. He told me he had been joking about the pink cast.

No one should listen to a man hopped up on pain meds and dealing with a possible concussion. His dislocated and relocated shoulder was immobilized in a sling, and he looked nothing like the man who had been riding that bull just days ago. Hell, he barely resembled the man I'd met four months back. Now, he seemed worn out, too tired to resist the offer of living out of my loft until he got back on his feet. Even that small concession had been a struggle for him, as he kept insisting he'd still work on the ranch.

"One hour, honey," he groaned. I took his hand without thinking, guiding him up the stairs to the loft. I pushed the door open and shooed away the cats lounging in the entryway. They grumbled in protest but slinked back down the stairs. "That's all I need. Then I'll be back to usual."

I glanced down at the pink cast, my name scrawled in black Sharpie with a little smiley face beside it. A small smile tugged at my lips. "I don't doubt it for a moment, Colt."

While Colt was in the hospital, Caleb—one of his friends—had stopped by. I'd seen Caleb around at the rodeo before, always blending into the crowd of bull riders at the gate. But this was the first time we'd actually talked. Before Colt, I'd kept my distance from the other bull riders, steering clear of them like the plague. But now, maybe because of the situation, I found myself more open to engaging with them, stepping into a world I had always kept at arm's length.

"Ma'am," Caleb had said, tipping his hat at me with a cheeky grin as he led Red, Colt's horse, out of the trailer.

"You can call me Lemon," I replied, watching as Caleb studied me for a moment, his eyes taking me in before his smile widened.

And that had been it.

As we unloaded Red and got him settled in the field with Fiets, Caleb had gone on and on about the rodeo, asking me a lot of questions about Tex, which took me by surprise. But it was a welcome surprise, and I found myself sharing stories about the early days when I'd gone to my daddy's rodeos. I told him about my first run, and he told me about his.

"You know," he said, leaning against his truck door, "let Colt know that nationals isn't all that. Nothing wrong with staying in town a little longer."

I knew what he was getting at, but I did my best to brush it off. Mama had told me long ago that not all bull riders were like Daddy, and I'd listened to her advice instead of learning it the hard way.

Now, as I watched Colt ease himself into the loft, I couldn't help but wonder if Mama had been right all along. Maybe Colt was different, or maybe I was just fooling myself. But either way, I wasn't about to let him push himself too hard, not while he was under my roof.

"Get some rest," I said softly, placing a blanket on the edge of the bed. "You'll need your strength if you're planning on proving Caleb wrong."

Colt smirked, the weariness in his eyes giving way to something else—something more familiar. "Wouldn't dream of letting him get the last word."

Colt took a careful step forward, his movements slower than usual, as if every muscle in his body was protesting. He tossed his phone onto the coffee table and began unbuttoning his shirt with his good hand. His torso was wrapped in bandages, leaving only his neck and the upper parts of his chest exposed.

"You really need to rest that arm as much as possible," I said, my voice softer than I intended.

"Yeah, you're right," Colt murmured, his tone carrying that familiar mix of reluctance and stubbornness.

I hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer, reaching out to gently take the cowboy hat off his head. I felt him tense under my touch, his breath hitching slightly. His eyes flickered shut for a second, like he was wrestling with something deep inside. When he opened them again, they were clouded, vulnerable in a way I hadn't seen before. I placed the hat on the table.

"Is it safe to take the sling off?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Colt's lips curled into a slight smirk, trying to mask the exhaustion that was clearly etched across his face. "Only if you plan on washing my hair for me," he said, a teasing glint in his eye.

I blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. For a moment, I didn't know whether to laugh or step back, the air between us suddenly thick with something unspoken. "Oh, I plan to," I shot back, my words coming out more confidently than I felt. Was that too bold? I wondered, second-guessing myself. But before I could worry too much, I added with a light chuckle, "You can't get that cast wet, anyway."

Colt smiled, and I promised that I'll be just across the way in the big house if needed, leaving him time to unpack.

Colt's smile softened, a genuine warmth replacing the earlier tension. "You've got a point there," he said, his voice quieter now, almost grateful.

I took a step back, giving him space, but the weight of the moment lingered. "I'll be just across the way in the big house if you need anything," I offered, trying to give him a way out, a chance to rest and settle in.

————-

Life on the ranch had pretty much settled into its new rhythm since Colt came back from the hospital. The days had taken on a steady, if somewhat slower, pace, and we'd fallen into a routine that felt oddly comfortable. Familiar, even.

I'd been dealing with a nagging pain near my rib cage where that puncture wound had been. It was healing, sure, but it made every task a bit harder, more frustrating. Colt wasn't much better off. His range of motion was limited; he couldn't lift his arms too high, carry anything over ten pounds, or bend over without wincing. But he was stubborn, more stubborn than I'd given him credit for, and he refused to let me pick up any slack. Despite the pain, he gritted his teeth and did whatever he could anyway.

So it wasn't much of a surprise when I came up from the barn, dusty and a little sweaty from the morning's work, to find Colt by the side of the barn where Fiets and Red were kept. He was leaning against the weathered wood, hand-feeding them carrots and murmuring something low and soft into their ears. I couldn't help but smile, grateful that he was finally taking my advice to stick to light duty—my way of telling him to take it easy for two weeks. Of course, "light duty" meant he could still handle things like bookkeeping, talking to vendors, and planning next year's planting. It also meant reminding him to "rest," "use your spirometer," and "stop trying to carry things—you'll rip your stitches."

"Mornin'," I called as I moved to the hose attached to the barn, washing the grime from my hands.

I hadn't heard him move, but I felt his arms wrap around my waist from behind, pulling me back gently into him. I paused, letting the sensation settle, the familiarity of it surprising yet not unwelcome. It was hard to pinpoint when our friendship had started to shift, but it had.

Maybe it was in those quiet nights when the cattle finally quieted down, and the only sound was the soft murmur of our voices mingling with the distant hum of cicadas. We'd sit there, side by side against the barn's old beams, too tired to do much more than talk. And talk we did, about everything and nothing at all, the kind of conversations that only happened when the day's work had stripped away all the pretense.

It was different, and I knew it. There was a comfort in the way we'd lean on each other, not just physically but in all the ways that mattered. The loft's dim light cast just enough shadow to soften the edges of the day, making the quiet moments feel like they belonged to just us.

As we tended to each other's wounds—mine from a rough day's work, his from a bull that had no mercy—I started to see something more in Colt, something I hadn't noticed before. He wasn't just the stoic cowboy I'd first met. There was a gentleness in him, a depth that wasn't so obvious at first glance.

I turned off the hose and wiped my hands on my jeans, feeling the warmth of his embrace, his strength and softness mingling in a way that made me want to lean in a little closer.

"Good mornin', darlin'," Colt murmured, his voice low and gravelly, a small smile tugging at his lips. His cobalt blue eyes, usually so guarded, were soft as he looked at me. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

I met his gaze, feeling that familiar flutter in my chest, the one that had become harder to ignore.

"Just finished up at the barn," I replied, wrapping my arms around his neck, my fingers brushing the back of his hair. "Thought I'd come see what trouble you're getting into. I also have to check your bandages."

His smile widened slightly, a mix of amusement and something deeper. "You caught me," he said, his tone teasing but there was a weight behind it, something unspoken. "Just trying to keep these two company." He nodded toward the horses, who were happily munching on their carrots.

I let out a small laugh, shaking my head. "You know, you're supposed to be resting."

"I am resting," he countered, not quite convincingly.

"Right," I said, rolling my eyes but smiling. "Because feeding horses is what the doctor ordered."

I nuzzled the side of his face and neck, the scent of wood, hay, and something sweet like honey filling my senses. Colt's smile deepened, and he murmured, "If you're trying to rile me up, it's working."

I pulled back, laughing as he smiled down at me. "Come on, let me check your bandages. You'll rip something if you keep pushing yourself like this."

"I'm fine, just tired is all," Colt said, releasing his hold on my waist, though neither of us stepped away.

"I know you can handle it, but I want you to get better because..." I trailed off as Colt spun me around and pulled me close again, our bodies flush. "I just want to know where your head's at. I know nationals are weighing on you."

Colt sighed and dropped his eyes, moving over to Fiets, who neighed softly. "You're right. I'm just...frustrated. Why is this taking so long to heal?" He gestured to his ribs and the neon pink cast on his hand, his voice tinged with annoyance. "I've been resting, taking my meds, going to the appointments, doing everything I'm supposed to. But it feels like these things," he gestured again, "just aren't cooperating."

I stayed silent, feeling the heat of his frustration radiating off him. He was bottling it all up—the pain, the anger, the sheer irritation with himself and life. I frowned, nodding slightly, understanding where he was coming from.

"I want to help out around here," he continued, his voice quieter now. "You're working all day, taking care of me, and I know this isn't what you imagined you'd be doing—nursing a grown man back to health."

I studied his face, considering his words. "Colt, this isn't going to be an easy recovery. But you will get better." I took his rough hand in mine, feeling the tension in his grip. "And I'll be here for you while you do."

Colt reminded me so much of Fiets when I first found him—broken, battered, but strong in a way not many could see. I offered a small, reassuring smile, and he nodded, a bit of that weight lifting from his expression.

"Just until the cast is off," he said, his voice softer now, as if he was making a promise to himself as much as to me.

I nodded, letting go of his hand. "Just until then."