Time Tantrums by Ginger Simpson

flashed a boyish grin and removed his cowboy hat from the rack next to the back door. Placing his hat at a jaunty angle, he stepped onto the porch. Taylor scurried to the counter with her dirty plate and peered out the window. Frank paused for a moment, unbuckled his belt and tucked his denim shirt in more snugly. She released a long, slow breath.
      As if sensing she watched, he turned around and caught her gaze. She lowered her eyes and backed away from the window, too late to avoid his subtle smile and the flush creeping up her neck. Why did she feel like a child caught opening a Christmas package?
    Unable to resist another peek, she waited a moment then leaned her head over just enough to see out. Frank ambled across the yard and into the barn. Damn, he was a good-looking man; there was no doubt about that. His blue jeans hugged an ass tight enough to bounce a quarter off, and shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows gave him a rugged look. With the black hat as a finishing touch, she considered him very, very sexy.
      “Girl, you have a husband at home,” she chastised herself. “Stop slobbering over someone else’s man. You’re thinking thoughts you ought not be thinking, Taylor Morgan.”
    She turned somber again.
      Did she really have a husband at home, or was she making up a whole other life?
     
     
    * * * *
     
    Taylor inspected the quaint little carriage. “So, this is the buggy we’re riding in,” she said with trepidation.
    “Yep.”   He leapt down and came around to her side.
    “And… this is your horse!” She cautiously approached the animal and stood close until its eerie stare made her shiver. “I don’t think he likes me. He’s looking at me like I’m dinner.”
    Frank’s Adam’s apple bobbed when he threw his head back and laughed. “Don’t worry ,   ol’ Gert wouldn’t hurt a fly. She’s the best trotter I’ve got.”
    Taylor stared at the yellow, spoked wheels. “What’s the difference between a buggy and a wagon?”
    “A wagon is much sturdier.”   He patted Gert’s muzzle. “The wagon would have been my first choice for the rough ground around the ranch, but I haven’t gotten it fixed since…”   His voice faded into a whisper until he cleared his throat. “I should have replaced the wagon wheel by now, but I’ve been distracted by other things.”
    “I wouldn’t be one of those other things, would I?” she cooed, holding her head in a coquettish tilt.
     
     

 
     
    Chapter Twelve
     

Denver, Colorado—2002
     
    With the nurse following, David wheeled Mariah into the hallway. She held steadfast to the arms of the chair and glanced down the long corridor stretching in front of her. The ceiling lights reflected in the highly polished floors and sparkled like a nighttime sky. As David pushed her along, she peeked inside each open door. She wanted to ask questions, but the answers to previous ones only made her more confused.
    David maneuvered her chair around the corner, toward two large doors. He stopped in front and pushed a button on the wall. She sat silently, wondering what would happen. When nothing did, she glanced up at him. “What’s the button for?”
    “The elevator.” He responded like she should know.
    “Elevator?”
      “Yes!” The annoyance in his voice smacked her like a slap in the face. “It carries people from floor to floor—we’re going down.”
    Although puzzled by his attitude, she was more interested in this new-fangled lift. How did someone get carried from floor to floor by it?
    The massive doors slid open to reveal a strange little room. Without a word, David turned the wheeled chair around and, tugging at its resistance to a raised threshold, bumped her up, over, and inside. After the nurse entered, he pushed another button, and the doors came together and sealed them inside. The metal prison sucked every bit of air from Mariah’s chest. She panted in quick gasps, detesting the feeling of confinement in such a small