Christa Wick [Wick - Sutton Lee

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Suggested reading order for books in the Real Cowboys Love Curves series

Adler JamesBook One

Walker PierceBook Two

Barrett ColeBook Three

Sutton LeeBook Four

Finished with my quad curls, I swivel on the weight bench and stare at the scars running from the middle of my right thigh to where they disappear into the sock. Time has lessened the legs Frankenstein appearance. Gone are the once swollen red welts stitched together. The dents in the flesh have filled in, dark auburn hair returning to lightly dust the skin.

Only the white lines remain. They will always remain, mocking me on the loss of a life filled with action, purpose and concrete results.

My mood jumps from dark lament to guilt. I didn't lose a lifeI lost a lifestyle. Im still breathing. Gimp leg or not, Im still kicking. Others in my unit were not so lucky. Three of them have died in the time since a mortar round shredded my parachute in a country I am forbidden from naming.

Grief chases away guilt. The emotion rising up is not for my fallen comrades. I never met two of the men. The third I knew only loosely. He transferred into the unit to fill my spot after the Army pushed me out on a medical discharge.

The grief suddenly grinding me down is for the father and sister I lost a few months before my injury. It is for all the family they left behind, especially my sweet little niece who must grow up without a mother or a grandfather. The preschoolers cherubic face reminds me daily of what real loss looks like, reminds me why I cant sit on my ass whining because the military no longer finds me fit to serve.

So I get off my ass, put the weights away and head into the kitchen. Scooping up a Gatorade I left out, I crack the seal and chug it down. When the bottle is empty, I toss it into the recycling bin and grab a cold one from the refrigerator.

Drinking the second bottle more slowly, I stare at the warped reflection of my body in the appliance's shiny metallic surface.

My first year home, I lost weight, all of it muscle. Recovery took massive amounts of calories as bone knitted itself together. Therapy concentrated on getting me on my feet, walking with crutches and then a cane, progressing from there to an off-loading brace and then to walking without any assistance.

Now I am busting my ass to put the muscle back onall so I can risk taking my first jump since the injury, a jump the Army doctors proclaimed I would never be able to make again.

I don't plan on anything fancy or dangerous. And I definitely wont do it close to home. My widowed mother has enough problems to stress and fuss over. Maybe after the first few jumps, Ill let her know what Ive done.

First, however, I need to strap my balls back on and book a date for the jump before my brain conveniently wanders off to some other task and Im left looking for my balls all over again.

Mind firmly set, I take the Gatorade into the living room and plop down on the couch. My sweaty back immediately suctions to the leather. I shift, unstick, then stick again.

Abandoning the attempt to get comfortable, I balance my laptop across my legs, open the browser and click the link I favorited for a skydiving company in Whitefish. The little city bordering Glacier National Park is in-state but nearly four-hundred miles away. I can book a jump and not worry about the news reaching any of Willow Gaps gossips.

Yep, I coax my restless thoughts. All I have to do is click the RESERVATION button, pick a date, enter my bank card number, and then Ill be good to go.

Fingers strumming against the computers edge, I glare at the button. Its nothing more than pixels, just a rounded rectangle filled with a green background and white text waiting patiently to be clicked.

I skim a finger across the touchpad until my mouse hovers over the button.

Fresh sweat dots my face.

Its just a booking. Worst case scenario, something comes up and I lose the deposit. And if I show for the jump, its not like anyone will shoot at me. I wont be staring at a pre-dawn sky while the ribbons of my mortar-shredded parachute flap at terminal velocity.

Its just a booking

Three short raps sound against my front door. I slam the laptop shut, but dont move to answer. I dont recognize the knock, didnt hear any footsteps on the porch beforehand.

Silly for me to think someone is sneaking up on the place. My house is on the edge of a town that itself feels like it teeters at the edge of the world. The only danger in Willow Gap comes from the kind of hard work some folks have to dohandling horses and cattle, logging, working the oil fields. It doesnt come from home invasions or ISIS death squads.

The three raps repeat. I slide the laptop onto the coffee table and quietly approach the front door from the side. My heart shouldnt be pounding in my chest, but it is. I shouldnt be able to hear the tattered strips of my parachute from that distant morning, but I do.

Footsteps sound at last on the porch, their direction heading away from the door. Still moving cautiously, I turn the knob and pull.

The way Im sweating, my soldier's instinct expects an assassin. For one flashing second, I am instead treated to the shapely backside of a woman dressed in a summery skirt. Soft flounces of the material play around the middle of her calves as a lustrous cascade of dark red hair spills down her shoulders and the center of her back.

The hair is gorgeous, but it cannot compete with the plump hips that my eyes lock on. I want to reach out and touch that backside, palm one rounded cheek and give a little squeeze.

Okay, more than a little squeeze and more than once.

Burying the impulse, I clear my throat and speak.

Can I help you?

The woman slowly pivots in my direction. My gaze doesnt make it up to her face before she answers. Im too hooked on the sight of the full breasts bouncing against the same gauzy fabric as the skirt.