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had anything to say to me, you might’ve called or maybe shot me an email or—hey! You could’ve ‘liked me’ on fricking Facebook! But I haven’t heard squat from you, so trust me, you have absolutely no right to even suggest who I talk to.” She made a derisive sound. “Flirty,” she muttered. “Of all the nerve.”
    “Becca, no—” he said, reaching out to her.
    “Denny, yes!” And with that, she stepped out of the vehicle, forgot it was such a long step down from her brother’s jacked-up truck, hit the very narrow shoulder with one booted foot, twisted her ankle, buckled, fell and rolled off that raised road and down to the mushy, muddy field below. And she did it all with a scream that included a very unladylike expletive.
    In spite of himself, he laughed and lowered his head to the steering wheel. Well, he was an ass, like she said. And she never had listened. She was always full-steam ahead. He got out of the truck, walked around to her side and stood on the road, hands on his hips, looking down at her. She was sprawled, looking a little like she was ready to make a snow angel—in the mud. She glared up at him.
    It was all he could do to keep from doubling over in hysterical laughter.
    “I tried to stop you. I tried to tell you I’d take you back there…”
    She blew a sputter of air through her lips to rid them of a splatter of mud. “Sure.” Then she sat up. “Screw you.”
    “Come on,” he said, trying to carefully slide down the bank to help her. “You’re right and I was wrong. I have no right to tell you how to act or who to flirt with… I mean, talk to.” He smiled, ready to duck if a mud clot came at him. “All right, let’s just get you back to town so you can get out of those muddy clothes. I’m sorry, Becca,” he said, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice as he looked at her. He reached a hand out to her. “Really, I’m—”
    “Ah!” she cried, trying to stand. She grabbed her right leg. “Oh, crap!”
    “What?” he said, jumping in the mud with her.
    “Oh, God, I think I did something!” She reached for her ankle. “Damn, oh, damn! Oh, God!”
    Denny crouched. “Maybe you sprained it,” he said. “I can’t look at it with the boot on. I have to get you up the hill and back to the truck. Then we’ll look.”
    “On one leg?” she asked. Despite her sarcastic tone, tears of pain glistened in her eyes.
    “Well, it would be easiest to just carry you.” He reached out to pull her upright. “Just put the weight on your good leg.”
    “Denny…” she whimpered, giving in to the pain as she let him help her stand.
    “It’s okay, Becca, just lean on me.” Once she was upright, balancing on her left leg, he wiped the tears with his thumb. “Over my shoulder, that’s the best way.”
    “Noooo,” she wailed.
    “It’s the best way for me to keep my balance getting up to the truck.” He gave her a little smile. “You used to think it was fun.”
    She shook her head. “I used to think you were fun. I’m not sure I think so anymore.”
    He bent at the waist, put his shoulder in her midsection and folded her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “Try not to wiggle too much or you’ll topple us both.”
    “Ugh,” she said. “God, it hurts! What did I do?”
    He took a few wobbling steps up the hill and said, “Watch your head,” as he hefted her into the passenger seat. “Stay like this, legs dangling out. Sit tight.” He went to the truck bed, lifted Rich’s tool storage bin and found a tool with a sharp edge.
    When he came back to her, she pulled her knees up fearfully. “What are you going to do?”
    “I’m going to cut off your rubber boot, Becca. You don’t want me to pull it off—that would be awful. I’ll get you a new pair.”
    “I don’t care about the boots! I just don’t want you to cut my leg off with that thing!”
    “I’ll be very careful,” he promised.
    “I’ve had a run of bad luck lately. Owwww!” she