Free His Wife for One Night by Molly O'Keefe

Luis Obispo. He could torture himself with guilt, staring up at the ceiling over his own king-size bed.
    He didn’t need to be here anymore.
    So why did he stay?
    Because you deserve it, a voice said, ugly and insidious.
    Water seeped into his cast and the tickle turned to an itch. An itch that spread, as all the itches did. Spread like wildfire, like lice eating his skin. It was making him crazy.
    With his good hand he turned off the water and yanked a towel off the rack, tucking it around his waist. He flipped on the light, blinking at the sudden brightness. The drawers in the old oak vanity didn’t have any scissors big enough to do the job. The hallway led him to the kitchen, where the big knives were stuck to a magnetic stripe over the stove.
    He grabbed the biggest and slid it, sharp side up, under the loose plaster around his forearm. The knife sawed through the plaster, cutting it into ragged chunks. The tip of the knife pierced his skin but he didn’t let up because he needed the damn thing off. His leg was better. The cuts were healed. This cast was the last of the desert he still carried on his body and he wanted it gone. Now.
    With a gasp he sliced through the last of it, right between his fingers, and the cast fell off like old skin.
    He flexed his fingers, twisted his wrist, scratched all those places he hadn’t been able to get to for the past few weeks. His fingers scraped through a river of blood, smearing it over his fingers, across his palm. He watched, didn’t stop until his hands were covered.
    “Son?”
    He jumped at Walter’s voice, dropped his hands so fast they hit the counter, electric shots zipping up his arms.
    “What?” he asked, turning to rinse his hands. Collect himself from whatever edge he seemed to linger on.
    “You all right?” Walter shuffled into the room, his navy robe opening over a pale chest. Jack could barely see his grizzled face in the shadows.
    It was as if the night was eating him. One of them, anyway.
    “Just fine, Dad,” he said, shaking water off his hands.
    He brushed past him in the dark, noticing the damp in the corner of his dad’s eyes reflected the light like diamonds.

    A WEEK AFTER Jack’s arrival at the ranch, Mia dismounted Blue in the middle of the south pasture.
    “Heya,” she said, shooing some of the heifers away from the well. She pumped fresh water into the three-foot basin and the horse dipped his muzzle into the cool spring water.
    Days like this—with the sunshine hot and the breeze cool, with pastures full of healthy cows and the work manageable—were the days she lived for. The days that reminded her that as hard as the work was, this ranch was her happy place.
    Always had been.
    “Mia.” Chris, who’d been at the Rocky M almost as long as her, walked over to where she stood. The dogs, Daisy and Bear, trotted behind the wiry cowboy. Daisy and Bear followed him everywhere. Everyone at the ranch joked that the dogs thought Chris was a lost calf.
    Chris was brown from the sun and every year Mia thought he looked more and more like beef jerky. He was all sinew and grit, though his big blue eyes hinted at a hidden softness.
    “How are the mothers-to-be?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at the field of pregnant cows. Calving season was right around the corner.
    “Fat and happy.” Chris tipped his head off his forehead and sighed. “But we’re a week out,” he said. “Maybe less.”
    “A week?” Perfect. More than perfect. The sooner those calves were on the ground, the sooner they could be sold and the sooner they’d all be out of this mess. There was a light at the end of the tunnel.
    She smiled at Chris.
    He frowned back.
    Good old Chris. He could find a dark cloud on a sunny day.
    “Any chance we can get some more hands?” he asked.
    “No,” she said, with a sigh. Not in less than a week.
    “Old man screwed up good, didn’t he?”
    Mia didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. And she was trying, damn it, to