“No, ma’am. Thank you though.” Mrs. Johnston heads inside. Mom comes to sit beside me in the other chair.
“I’ve been worried about you, but I knew Blakely would be here. I always knew that girl was meant to be my daughter-in-law, so don’t screw it up.” She’s not mincing words today.
“Yeah, well, let me get back on both feet before you start planning the wedding. I’d like to ask her to by my wife without being a gimp and needing her help just to get up from bended knee.” What I wouldn’t give for a cold beer right now, but even that’s out of the question for the time being, not with the medicine I’m on.
“And how’s that going? I know you’ve only been in physical therapy for less than a week, but something has had to help already.” Her hand reaches for mine, squeezing it in a motherly way. Even though she ended up with two boys, there’s nothing hard about her when it comes to us, her affection flows freely with all the men in her life.
“Today isn’t a good day. It was aggressive, and I’m sitting on my ass, whining like a pansy. Not so sure therapy is going to work though.” Mom knows how I feel about surgery, it’s not even about riding bulls either.
“Well, tell me what’s going on in that head of yours. Knowing Nancy, she’ll play twenty-one questions with Blakely, that poor girl.” We both laugh. It’s funny because it’s true.
“For starters, the downtime is more than I expected it to be. That means less help on the ranch. Then there’s the thought of them opening my knee, it being worse and them having to replace the dumb thing,” I tell her.
“Well, you always were my methodical thinker, picking things apart until you’re stuck in your own head. You’d come home from school and we’d spend an hour on one math question because you’d overthink it. I’m not saying that’s what you’re doing now, but maybe you are,” she tells me.
“The longer I’m down, the more of a burden it is for everyone, including Blakely, Trace, Dad, and you,” I tell her my main concern.
“None of us think of it like that. We’re all family, and you know the Johnstons will help, just like you boys did last summer when Kyle needed help after he broke his arm. All we care about is you being healthy. Now, if you get back on a bull right away, we might give you the what for, but other than that, as long as you’re happy and healthy, we’ll do whatever we can.” She stands up, kisses my cheek. I’m sure she’s going inside to get even more information from Blakely, just like Nancy.
“I hear you. I’m going to give it another few sessions and go from there. And, Mom?” I get her attention before she opens the door.
“Yes, honey?” Yep, she’s up to no good.
“If you hold Blake hostage too long in there, I’ll get Dad over.” She blows out a breath.
“Fun suckers, the lot of you.” I smile at that because as right as she is, I’ll still look out for my woman and her well-being, even if it that means protecting her from our moms.
Eighteen
Blakely
One Month Later
“You know I love you, Knox McCray, but you’re as stubborn as a horse’s ass!” I slam the door to the house right in front of him. The whole ride home, I was boiling with anger, trying to hold it together and not yell at the man who makes my damn heart beat out of its chest like a pack of wild horses. This, though, this has me ready to throttle him.
“That’s a hell of a way to say those three words, darlin’.” He’s not even pissed that I slammed the door in his face. I figured it would at least get his attention. Apparently not.
“Well, it’s the truth, but I’m still pissed as hell at you.” I throw my hands up in the air, walk into the kitchen, sling the refrigerator door open, and grab the lunch meat, cheese, lettuce, tomato, and condiments to make for lunch. The only reason I didn’t slam that door shut was because it won’t make a loud sound, but you better bet your ass the rest of the cabinets and drawers will work well with the anger I’m feeling.
“I love you too, Blakely Johnston, but there’s no fucking way I’m getting that surgery. Did you see the downtime? Six to eight fucking weeks,” he bellows back. Yep, I guess this is what happens when you have your first argument, and I don’t care if Trace hears us from his house, or his parents, who are more than a few hundred feet away.
“That’s just dumb. So, you’d rather hobble around here, using a crutch, unable to do what you truly love. Which, by the way, has everything to do with the ranch and what you stand for, so please tell me how damn smart that is?” I’m sure my face and neck are bright red because I can’t seem to get this cowboy to keep his head out of his ass. I open and close the cabinet, grabbing paper plates, then let the loudness from it closing echo through the kitchen. Knox hasn’t responded. I continue on my rampage, grabbing a knife out of the drawer, and then sloppily put our sandwiches together, grab a bag of chips and two cans of Coke. It isn’t until everything is said and done that my anger finally deflates.