Her Rodeo Hero. Laura Marie Altom

She had a feeling she’d interrupted something important. Something life-changing. Whatever it was, she knew she should leave and give them some space.

      It was almost a relief when they closed themselves back inside. She paused at the top of the steps, hearing the quiet murmur of voices resuming, and glanced up at the sky. She remembered when she’d woken up in the hospital, unable to move, helpless, and how she’d looked out her hospital window and thought how odd it seemed that the sun still rose in the east and set in the west. People still went to work every morning. Life went on, but her life, her small slice of the world, had been changed irrevocably in the blink of an eye. At the very least there should have been a clap of thunder.

      She would leave, she thought, unloading Playboy. Come back later when whatever calamity had beset Colt’s life had had time to sink in. But as she unclipped the lead, tapping Playboy on the withers to send him inside his new stall, she knew that might be a while. When she turned to leave, she had a moment of dizziness, her hands instinctively reaching for the stall door she’d been about to swing closed.

      “Careful.”

      And suddenly he was there, supporting her, making sure she didn’t topple over, and she was looking into his eyes and thinking it wasn’t fair that there was so much sadness in the world.

      “I’m okay.” She’d clutched Colt’s forearms, and the material of his denim shirt felt coarse beneath her fingers, his muscles hard. When she met his gaze, she heard herself ask, “Are you?”

      She hadn’t meant to pry. Truly she hadn’t. The words felt as if they’d been pulled from her by something bigger than she was, something that recognized the look in his eyes as one she knew. Grief.

      “I’m fine.”

      He pushed away, ostensibly to peer at Playboy, his face in profile. The only light in the barn came from the massive front entrance. She saw Colt’s jaw tick, the muscle flexing in a way that told her he was clenching his teeth as firmly as he was his hands.

      “Colt, I’m sorry.”

      He shook his head. His hand relaxed. He threw his shoulders back as if facing off with an inner demon only he could see.

      “It’s nothing.”

      There was one thing she’d learned from her accident and that was to live in the moment. Perhaps that was why she reached for his hand, why she slipped her fingers into his. She didn’t know him all that well, but she recognized a human in pain.

      Outside, a truck started. He jerked his hand from hers and turned toward the entryway. A second later the woman drove by. The little boy in the front seat waved.

      “Adam,” she heard Colt mutter. “Son of a bitch.”

      She took a step back, so much pain, so much fear, so much sadness in his words it was like a physical slap.

      “Goddamn son of a bitch.”

      He waved at the disappearing truck until he couldn’t see it anymore. Then he turned back toward the barn. Natalie had no idea what he was about to do until he did it, picking up a bucket and pitching it at the hay pile hard enough that it clattered and fell to the ground, startling the horses in the barn.

      “Colt.”

      It sounded as if the bucket had broken. He didn’t seem to care, just moved to the pile, turned his back to her and stood there. She heard a horse snort, then nothing. Silence descended.

      That was when she heard it, his voice so low she would have missed it if it hadn’t been so quiet outside.

      “My nephew has cancer.”