Man From Montana

“Carolyn!” In the background, Derrick heard his father’s booming voice. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Her reply was muffled.

“She’s hanging up now, Derrick—” Vernon spoke into the phone, his voice as cold as steel “—and don’t try calling her back. She’s out of her mind on painkillers. That’s all.”

The line went dead. Derrick stared at the phone for a long moment before hanging it up.

He’d nearly killed their only grandchild.

His dad would never forgive him.

THE SILVER SPUR looked more like a barn than a bar, painted a faded gray-brown to give it a weathered appearance. Three miles outside of town, the honky-tonk stood in the middle of a field near the intersection of two dirt roads.

Kara had decided to drive to the Spur early, to avoid arriving in the midst of a huge crowd. She needed to ease her way into this evening. She’d nurse a beer while she waited for Connor and Derrick, and hopefully get a grip on her nerves. The only reason she’d accepted Derrick’s invitation was because she’d decided Hannah was right. She needed to get out and do something for herself, before her grief drowned her.

And she planned to make it clear to Derrick that she hadn’t come here tonight for him. But when Kara pulled into the parking lot, Derrick’s truck was already there. Parked beside a van and another pickup, Derrick was busy unloading band equipment along with three other guys. Connor hovered nearby, watching. He raised his hand in greeting, and Kara took a step backward. Of course Wild Country would arrive early to set up before the crowd.

Derrick spotted her, too, and she let out a groan. He probably thought she’d arrived early because she couldn’t wait. This, on top of the lemonade fiasco, was too much.

Not knowing what else to do, Kara got out of the Ford and walked over to say hi.

“You’re here early,” Derrick said. He looked way too fine in his black cowboy hat, teal-blue western shirt and tight jeans.

“Yep. I plan to get a good table.”

“Smart. Just let me haul some of this stuff in and I’ll be right with you.”

“No worries. Connor can walk me in.” She turned and smiled at the boy, who was dressed in boots, faded jeans and a T-shirt with the picture of country singer Gretchen Wilson. “Is that all right with you, Connor?”

He shrugged. “Sure.” Deftly, he maneuvered his wheelchair across the dirt-and-gravel parking lot.

Kara walked beside him, wondering not for the first time what had caused the boy to be confined to the chair. Kara couldn’t imagine being in his situation.

“So, would you like to sit with me?” she asked. “It’s been a while since I’ve been here, and I hate sitting alone.”

“Sure.”

Drawing conversation out of the kid was like trying to coax a mule along with a piece of twine.

Farther on, the parking lot’s hard-packed surface became rutted, making the going somewhat difficult for Connor. He seemed to have a fair amount of upper body strength, his arms thin yet wiry. But it couldn’t be easy to wheel across this. Should she offer to help? Kara fought the urge to take hold of the wheelchair’s handles, sensing her gesture would not be welcomed.

At that moment, she heard the sound of teenaged laughter. She looked up to see a group of three boys and two girls, somewhere close to Connor’s age, walking through the nearby field. They stared at Connor as they passed. One of the boys said something, and the others laughed.

Connor shot the boy a look that would’ve stripped varnish off furniture. Kara’s heart ached for him. She remembered adolescence all too well, getting teased for being too skinny and wearing braces.

Only Evan had seen her in a different light.

Lost in thought, Kara barely noticed the huge pothole, stepping around it at the last minute. And Connor, wheeling the chair too hard in his anger, wasn’t really watching where he was going. Kara gasped as the wheel on one side of his chair dropped into the hole.

Before she could call out a warning, the boy tilted at a precarious angle, then tipped sideways. He thrust out his right arm and awkwardly caught himself, barely managing to keep the wheelchair from tipping completely over. But he couldn’t hold that position long and, wiry or not, he wasn’t strong enough to right himself.

Kara moved to help, but Derrick beat her to it.

With seemingly little effort, he righted his son’s chair and steadied the boy to keep him from sliding out onto the ground. “You okay, bud?”

Connor’s face turned red. “I’m fine! Jeez!” The kids were still staring and snickering, and his face turned an even deeper shade. “What are you looking at?”

“Not much, you little queer,” the tallest boy sneered.

“Screw off, asshole!”

“Connor!” Derrick frowned. “Watch your language.”

But the anger on his face matched Kara’s own. She wanted to race over and give them a piece of her mind—and a swift kick to their bratty butts.

It didn’t help that Derrick’s reprimand embarrassed Connor even more. He thrust his palms against the wheels of his chair, sending it flying across the parking lot in a way Kara was afraid would cause him to crash again.

Calling out a final round of taunts, the teens hurried away across the field, then turned down the dirt road.

Kara rushed to catch up with Connor, Derrick on her heels.

“Looks like you could use some peroxide,” she said. Connor’s palm was skinned, and his elbow scraped.

“I said I’m fine. You guys don’t need to make such a big deal out of it.”

Derrick grunted. “Yeah, well, if it’s not a big deal, then pour some peroxide on your road rash.” He rested one hand on his hip. “I’ll bet Tina has some in her first-aid kit in the back. Why don’t you go on in and ask her?” He looked at Kara. “Tina owns the Spur.”

“Oh—yes, I think I met her once.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Really? I thought you didn’t hang out in bars.”

“I don’t.” She shrugged. “But Evan and I used to come here to dance once in a while.”

Derrick nodded. “Guess I’d better haul in my stuff. See you later.” He clamped his hand on Connor’s shoulder, then headed back to his pickup.

“Come on,” Kara said. “Let’s get your elbow cleaned up.”

“I can do it,” Connor said. Then, as if he remembered Kara wasn’t the enemy, he added, “Thanks.”

“I know you can,” she said. “Actually, I’m only sticking to you like glue because I’m nervous.”

He looked at her, puzzled. “Why?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Like I told your dad, I haven’t been here since my husband died. It’s sort of hard to deal with, you know?”

The boy’s expression softened. “Yeah, I guess it would be. What happened to him anyway?” He began wheeling his chair along at a more reasonable pace as they talked.

“Evan was a construction worker—he built houses. He fell off a scaffold.” She took a deep breath. “The impact caused severe internal injuries. Nothing could be done to save him.”