Impulsion (Station 32 #1)(39)

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 Easton 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.