Chapter 3

Never once has it occurred to her that he might be fucking Lizzie.

She knows they're seeing each other. He hasn't come right out and admitted it, but they all know, and they're all happy for him, including her. She's the one who encouraged him to get back in the saddle, isn't she? And what's it to her anyway?

It just never crosses her mind that they'd be sleeping together. The way she sees it, they're courting, early 20th Century style, minimal threat level. Not that she's threatened.

But she is understandably knocked for a loop the morning she follows Ferg to the cabin to return the Bronco, and Walt comes scampering out into the yard in his socks, with his shirt untucked and his hair disheveled, like he's hiding something. And that's the point right there: His behavior is suspect, yet she thinks close to nothing of it because it's him.

Then moments later Lizzie appears on the porch, casual and perky and pretty, which is the worst part. She waves and offers them coffee as though it's hers to offer.

That's when everything shifts.

Maybe she and Ferg look sideswiped and intrigued, and that would be an accurate assessment, because Walt growls at them under his breath, "Not a word."

Like she'd say anything.

It's no big deal. It's just she's never thought of him as being particularly sexual, that's all.

After that, though, she can't not think of him that way. It's those long legs, and the huge hands, and that sweet, musky smell he gets at the end of a hot day, and the way he tilts his head when he smiles at her, and God, the way his belt buckle lies against what isn't technically his stomach, and the hair on his forearms. Even the way he teases her has a sexual undertone she now realizes might have been there all along. But he doesn't tease her as much anymore.

So she has to do something, and ultimately, she does what any self-respecting, emotionally-avoidant woman would do: She detaches.

The guy's name is Wyatt, and he's a rodeo rider. She figures all that physicality must mean something. As it turns out, it doesn't. Within a couple of weeks she's bored with the most exciting man she's met in the year she's been out here in bumfuck nowhere. To rub it in, Lizzie drops by the station every third day, and she has to be fine with that because what reason could she possibly have for being bugged?

She won't be defeated, though, and she's ready, sort of, to get right back on her own warn saddle with Sean's old boss from Newett. But then she gets shot, and everything shifts again.

She's out in the forest with Omar and the ranger, and the next thing she knows, she's waking up in a hospital bed, and a male nurse named Olaf, no accent, is saying, "We're still trying to get hold of your husband, Mrs. Moretti."

Her hands and her lips and her tongue feel like balloons.

"Husband?"

"Sean?"

"I don't think he's my husband anymore," she says.

Then Walt comes in, and he's Sasquatch next to Olaf and against the white walls.

"They're trying to get hold of my husband," she says to him. She's grinning like a moron because that's how he makes her feel, and her defenses are down for the count. "Could you stop them please?"

"We'll get her home," Walt says to Olaf.

Olaf nods and walks out.

"I'm glad you're here," she says. She hears herself all inflated and dreamy as though she's somebody else, somebody weak. "I'm really sorry I got shot."

"You already said that, Vic," he says, but not like he's annoyed.

"I did? When?"

"Ten minutes ago."

"Did I say I just need a couple of Tylenol and a glass of water and I'm ready to get back out there?"

"You did."

"What did you say?"

"I said you're going home to rest for at least a day."

"It wasn't a real bullet, Walt."

He smiles. "Real enough."

Then it's like a forward cue on an old VHS machine and they're at her front door.

He's got his arm around her, holding her steady. He helps her to the couch where she plops down and watches him go into the kitchen as though he knows the place, as though he belongs here.

He brings her a glass of water.

"And a Tylenol?"

"Not yet."

He sits down on the other end of the couch. She pulls her legs up with a staggering amount of effort, and sits cross-legged, facing him. His eyes are bloodshot and shadowed.

"What time is it?" she says.

"Seven."

"We should have dinner."

"In the morning," he says.

"Then breakfast."

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

"No."

"You should get some sleep then."

"Can I tell you something?"

"Sure," he says.

"The idea of you having sex with Lizzie makes me feel a little unhinged."

His eyes widen, but other than that, he's completely still.

She's not sure how long it is before he says, "Vic."

"What? Is that inappropriate?"

"I think so," he says. "Yes."

He gets up, but he doesn't go anywhere. He just stands in front of where he'd been sitting, squeezing his hands into balls and releasing them.

"I never thought you were all that attractive," she says.

"Thanks."

She sees his discomfort, but with all the drugs in her system, she can't feel it, and only feeling it would make her stop.

"You were so grumpy."

"I still am," he says, kind of jokey, but eyes still fixed and wary.

"She's lucky," she says. It sounds pathetic, even to her.

"Thank you, Vic." He comes over to her and holds out his hand to help her up. "You should get some sleep."

She doesn't take his hand. Maybe she's giving him a chance to change his mind about this particular move at this particular moment, but she's not lucid enough to put that thought together in its entirety.

"They said I might die if I go to sleep," she says.

"I don't think they said that."

"But they told you not to leave me alone."

"It's a precaution."

So she lets him pull her up, and when he does, she does exactly what he might have expected her to do at this particular moment in this particular emotional state, mere seconds beyond the loaded conversation she started: She wraps her arms around his middle.

"Thank you for saving me," she says into his shirt.

"I didn't save you." His voice rumbles in her ear.

"But you would have."

She looks up at him. His chin is close. She touches the stubble, and he says, "Vic," but there's no voice, it's all air.

Then her fingers crawl up and they're on his lips. His stomach is rising and falling, deeper each time, against her chest.

"Vic," he says. "Come on."

She stands on her toes and kisses him lightly.

He pulls his head back, but it's a delayed reaction.

She says, "I'm sorry."

Her hands are still on his chest, and she doesn't sound all that sorry. Still, she's aware enough to know she doesn't want to sexually assault him.

All fuzzy and floaty, she begins to step back, but instead of stepping back himself out of her reach, he steps towards her. He slides his hand slowly around her waist, one or maybe two fingers slipping between her shirt and the waistband of her sweats and landing on the sensitive skin of her hip, and he pulls her to him.

There's a moment when he's just looking down at her, from eye to eye. As usual she thinks he's about to say something, but in the end he doesn't. He leans down, at the same slow pace, and he kisses her. The other hand comes up and brushes her hair back. He tilts his head, and he opens his mouth, which opens hers, and now it's on both of them.

It lasts a beat or maybe two, and then it's over, and she's sitting again, and he's looking off towards the kitchen with his hand covering his mouth.

Somehow, she manages to drag her ass up the stairs to her bedroom. He follows at a safe distance. While she gets under the covers, he stands in the doorway.

When he turns to go back downstairs, she says, "Do you think I'll remember this?"

"The doctor said you might not."

"That's probably good."