Impulsion: A Station 32 Fire Men Novel (17 page)

In Collin’s eyes, when she looked the strongest
and most undefeatable was when she rode. Every horse gave her that outlook, but Danny Boy capitalized it. That horse had nothing but power, and Harley controlled it, made it look it graceful.

“Let’s get the big boy loaded, then,” Collin said as he slid back from the kitchen bar, then gathered the last small bags Harley had set by the door.

Danny Boy hated the trailer, knew that every time he loaded it would be hours before he got off.

“There is nothing Clandestine about that one,” Collin quipped as he reached up and rubbed Danny Boy’s nose through the open side window.

“He’s just spent too many hours of his life being transported,” Harley defended, and that was true.

Collin pulled Harley to him, landed a kiss on her forehead, then led her to the driver’s seat. “Bluetooth and GPS are on. Just relax and drive
. Say what you need, and the truck will give you an answer.”

She laughed at that, and he caught the irony. “Okay, so it will tell you what direction to go, answer the phone, and change your music at least.”

“I’ll call you when I stop,” she said, hugging him once more.

She climbed in and pulled away, taking a deep breath. Just about everything she owned was on this rig, at least what she cared to claim. For the first time in her life, at that moment she felt like she had freedom. Freedom to vanish, if only for a moment.

Her first layover was the longest distance in the entire journey, planned that way because she would be the freshest. She stayed a day with her friend, or acquaintance rather, named Anna. She let Danny Boy graze, then pulled out the next day.

Not long after she left, a few hours
at most, she had to detour, or at least her GPS had said so. There was some kind of lane blockage on the highway ahead. It irritated her when she figured out the highways it sent her down were taking her three hours out of her way, and that she now had at least an eight hour drive before her. That irritation faded, and panic set in later when she realized how close this jaunt would take her to Willowhaven.

That last flight home from Willowhaven, in her mind, she saw Wyatt pulling Dorcas into his arms, saw him betraying the memory of them. What burned more than anything was seeing those pictures online afterwards, the ones that told her that he had really moved on.

Harley had even gotten brave enough to look up Ava online. She still had insanely vivid dreams of Wyatt, still jolted out of her bed in the middle of the night. A few times, when the memory was pure agony, she’d look up Ava, or even Truman online. She’d tell herself she was just going to glance so that she could see he had forgotten she existed. She’d clicked away as soon as she saw Wyatt’s smile, the room full of people around him, girls leaning on him. That harsh reality check would numb the pain, make it easier to go through the motions of life.

Backbone
. She chanted that to herself as she passed all the signs telling her that the city of Willowhaven was nearing. She held her breath as she passed the exit. Her body was tense, but she told herself she’d made it and wondered how many miles she could make it before that memory left her.

Not long, it seemed.

Her day was getting worse. She was now not only detoured, but outrunning a line of storms. The wind was insane, forcing her to focus.

Harley’s hands were gripped on the steering wheel, but she was glancing to the GPS, to the camera monitor. Through the camera in the truck, she could see Danny Boy pawing.

It’s like he knows
, she thought.
He knows we just passed the only place they had ever fit, that they had ever been real
.

She glanced up when she heard the screech of tires, saw the truck in front of her overcorrect, tires spilling from its load. She ran over one before she could think to stop, felt the trailer run over the tire, then another slide under the truck. Everything was a blur after that point.

***

Wyatt was at the pool table, managing to kick Easton’s ass for once at this game. It had been a slow day, a slow week. All of the guys were starting to get a little stir crazy, so the sound of the screeching firehouse alarm was a welcome call, one that snapped life into action. The pool sticks were dropped immediately, and they all raced to their gear.

Wyatt had read the call just before he soared the engine forward.

“Daddy-o, give my mom a call. This says a horse trailer tipped on the Northbound,” Wyatt said to Easton, knowing there was a good chance that whoever this was would need transportation for their load off the side of the road.

“Call Doc Davis, too,” Memphis said from the passenger seat.

Everyone listened to the radio, trying to figure out if they knew whose rig it was. They were sure they didn’t.

Wyatt’s heart was pumping, all of theirs were. This was normal on a call. Being raised on a farm, knowing there was more than people that could be hurt made Wyatt’s pump twice as hard.

When they arrived, there were a few cruisers already there. There was a commercial truck on its side, tires everywhere
. Another car was caught behind it. The horse rig looked like it took most of the damage, the crew cab truck that was hauling it was on its side.

“I’m pretty sure the trailer nearly flipped to its side, then back. The truck is flipped. The one that caused it is in the ditch up ahead,” the officer said to Memphis.

“Injuries?” Memphis demanded. At the moment, he had command of the scene. He nodded for Easton and Truman to go to the pickup truck. They could give any medical aid needed without drugs until the ambulance got there, and they had to figure out what they needed to do to get the passengers out.

The officer recounted what they knew as Memphis nodded for Wyatt to check out the trailer.

Wyatt dropped the trailer gate and eased in. The partitions inside had fallen down indicating to Wyatt that there was no doubt this trailer had nearly flipped. He lifted the metal that was leaning into the massive horse.

“Easy now, big boy,” Wyatt said as he pulled out his flashlight. He could see gashes on the legs, a few cuts on its back and side, but the horse was standing, daring to rear up
. That was certainly a good sign.

As soon as Wyatt had spoken, the horse stilled, huffed out a breath. His mother had called him a horse whisperer more than once, but it was odd that the horse mellowed that fast
, especially since it was injured. Wyatt started to look him over, thinking his first assessment was way off. All at once, he recognized this horse.

He moved his hands all over him, and Danny Boy kicked back. Right then, a sick thought hit him. He charged out the side of the trailer to yell at Easton and the others that this was Danny Boy, but as soon as he did he saw Ea
ston looking back at him, along with Truman. The grave looks on their faces knocked the wind out of Wyatt.

Wyatt charged forward, feeling Memphis grasp him from behind,
and other guys from the squad attempting to hold him back. They might as well have been paper dolls. He plowed right through them and dove across the glass on the pavement.

It was Harley. She was still fastened in her belt. The air bag had deployed, and there was a gash on her forehead
along with red burns from the power of the air bag. She was unconscious. Easton had been giving her oxygen. Wyatt moved further in, let his shaking hand move across her face, feeling the burn in his eyes. There was no worse nightmare than showing up to a scene where someone you loved was hurt.

Harley was having the best dream of her life. Everything was so real. She was back at Willowhaven, riding Danny Boy. She could smell the fields, the scent of hay and horses. She saw Wyatt’s eyes smile at her as she rode by him, felt the blanket of him wash over her, could smell his cologne.

All at once, he looked right at her and said, “You’re safe.”

Her eyes flew open then. She breathed in, then ripped the mask from her face. She was sure she was still dreaming. He was right there, an inch from her, his piercing blue eyes moving across her face. Like any dream she had before, she leaned up and took his lips with hers.

Only this time, she felt warmth; this time, she felt his breath on her skin, felt the force behind his lips. Impulsion.

She couldn’t figure out why he was holding her in place, why he would not let her move her neck, move at all.

It wasn’t until he broke away, until she heard him say, “You’re safe,” once again that the idea came to her that this wasn’t a dream.

Wyatt backed out of sight, and a girl appeared asking her what her name was, what day of the week it was
—a million stupid questions, questions that she couldn’t answer because she was still trying to figure out how much was real, what had even happened.

“Backboard!” the girl yelled.

She vanished from sight, then Wyatt appeared again. She did her best to focus on him, on his uniform, as she felt herself cut loose from the seat belt, being gently pulled from the cab with a board strapped to her back, a brace around her neck.

Wyatt stayed at her side, holding her hand.

“Danny Boy,” she rasped.

“We’re helping him, too,” Wyatt said, squeezing her hand. She saw Easton’s face flash by, Truman’s, even Memphis’. She was sure she had drifted into some kind of insanity. Some alternate reality.

The paramedic did something, and whatever it was made Harley drift. Her mind was insane, caught somewhere between the past and the present. She kept seeing herself trying to explain what she wanted to Wyatt, to her father, but no words could come. Through all of that, all she could hear was the screech of tires, the horrified neigh Danny Boy had made.

Her eyes flew open, and she pulled herself up, ready to run.

“Shh,” she heard someone say. She felt their calloused, warm hands on her arm as they reached past her and pushed a button on her bed.

It was Camille Doran. Before Harley could say a word, two nurses and a doctor came in.

They had their little flashlights and pointless questions that Harley answered without thought. She was trying to read the look on Camille’s face. For an instant when she woke, she thought she had dreamed of seeing Wyatt, seeing all the boys. Seeing Camille told her there was a good chance it wasn’t a dream, sent a shock of hope through her—but it also terrified her.

Camille never showed emotion, but Harley could see pain in her eyes. She was sure she had lost Danny Boy, that something irrevocable had happened.

“We think you may have a slight concussion,” the doctor said to her. “Nothing beyond that. You’re a lucky girl.”

Harley only swallowed in response.

“We are going to keep you here for the rest of the night. I’m not going to admit you, but I want to monitor you, measure any pain you have. You’re sure to be sore.”

Once the nurses and doctors cleared away, Harley looked nervously to Camille. “Where is he?”

Camille let no expression come to her face as she crossed her arms. “My son, or Danny Boy?”

Harley’s eyes welled, but she refused to cry,
refused to apologize for loving Wyatt when she was just a girl, but she had no qualms with apologizing for hurting Camille.

Camille was more of a mother to Harley than her own. She never doted on Harley or was sweet, but she was honest. She encouraged Harley, pushed her to be a better rider, a better person. Told her it was okay to live, to smile.

“I never meant to hurt you. To lie to you.”

Camille let her stare move over Harley. She looked so weak
and fragile in that bed. More fragile than the first time she had seen her, a young girl who was accustomed to being alone, accustomed to hiding what she really wanted in life.

Through all of it, through all the times Beckett had to go out and get Wyatt when he drank too much, all the times she had to go to the school and convince them to give Wyatt one more shot, through the moment Beckett told her he was sending Wyatt on the road, she blamed herself.

Camille had always seen herself in Harley, and it wasn’t just because her mount was the spitting image of the first horse she had loved. It was because of her background. Camille came from southern money. High standards. When she was just a girl, she fell in love with a blacksmith-slash-bareback rider that came to her farm every week. They had a torrid love affair, wild and free. She knew her parents would never let her marry him, so she ran and they eloped.

She and her husband worked their asses off, proved everyone wrong day by day. The day Wyatt was born, her father found a way to accept Beckett. Two families became one,
and a legacy was built.

Camille should have known her son was just like his father, that he would not give a damn about any restrictions in front of him, that if anything, that would only push him to fight harder. In Camille’s mind, not only should she have seen this love affair, but she should have found a way to help Harley through it, gave her the courage, told her that if she really loved him, nothing mattered but that. But she was too stubborn to say any of this aloud. Her son didn’t even know this story; only Beckett understood where Camille was coming from, how she felt.