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“Should you be up?” he asked.

The minute he said it he expected a snappy retort, something along the lines of Who made you the boss of me? That it didn’t come told him how rattled she still must be.

“I just wanted to thank you,” she said, her tone a bit formal. “For the cameras. It’s a huge relief to be able to see them.”

“I…good. You’re welcome.”

He still hadn’t told her. And obviously, neither had her mother. He’d thought he’d wait until she was feeling a little better. Maybe after she had the 3D cast on.

Ghost snorted and bobbed her head toward Britt.

Fine time to show you care, horse.

“I think right now this is about the right distance between you and her,” he said.

“I won’t argue that,” Britt said, sounding weary.

A thank you, and now no argument? She must still be in pain. He winced inwardly and turned to deal with the horse. He moved quickly and strongly, shoving his shoulder hard against Ghost’s withers. Surprised, the horse backed away from him. And right into her stall. Before she could decide to rebel against the indignity, he had the door shut and latched.

“Nicely done,” her mother said with a smile. Before he could respond her cell phone chimed. She pulled it out and looked. “It’s Maggie—we’re supposed to go to the festival planning meeting together.” She looked back at Cody. “And if I haven’t said, your video is magnificent. Thank you for doing it.”

He shifted his feet uncomfortably, wondering how she could thank him for something he’d done with the same kind of device that had landed her daughter where she was now.

“Thanks,” he said, sounding almost as uncomfortable as he felt.

“Will you see Brittany back to the main house so I can get going? This is her first time out and she shouldn’t push it.”

“Of course,” he said automatically, before he thought of what that would actually entail. Not that he could have said no if he had thought. But when she’d gone and he was left alone with the woman in the wheelchair, he almost wished he could have.

“You’d better get back inside and rest. Get that ankle elevated.”

“Yes,” she admitted.

She started to turn the chair, or try to, but it was painful to watch. He took a long stride toward her. “Just let me. Like your mom asked,” he added, in case she was thinking of fighting him.

Silently, she gave up. There was no conversation on the way back to the house. They stopped in front of the two steps of the front porch.

“It’ll be easier if I just carry you inside,” he said before he thought, before the memories rose up to nearly swamp him. It took him a moment to add, “Then I’ll come back for the chair.”

She didn’t argue.

He’d seen Britt Roth happy. He’d seen her triumphant. He’d seen—and heard—her sarcastic. And more than anything he’d seen her angry, usually at him. He’d never in his life seen her look defeated. Even if she lost at a rodeo, she was immediately looking forward to a victory in the next run.

But she was looking it now.

“How am I going to get through six to eight weeks of this? Maybe even more?” she whispered.

He knew how badly she was feeling by the simple fact that she’d let him hear that. She probably was barely aware he was even there. But he answered her anyway, because something in the way she looked was digging at him.

“It won’t stay this bad that whole time. It’ll get better as you go. And once your wrist is better, you can use the crutches.” She looked briefly startled, and he knew he’d been right that she hadn’t really meant for him to hear that. She wouldn’t like to betray what she’d see as weakness.

“And how long will it take to get back into competition shape after it’s healed?” she asked, her voice tight.

“Stubborn as you are? I’d say about three days.”

Her eyes widened. For a moment he thought she was going to fire back at him with some typical Roth salvo. But then something crazy happened.

She laughed. She actually laughed.