The next morning, I take Montana’s advice and call the therapist she used. I was able to make an appointment for today, which would have never happened in New Jersey. Typing the address into the GPS, I drive the twenty minutes into town and pull up in front of a small building.

I stroll in the office to a smiling receptionist. “Good morning,” she sings. “New patient?”

“Can you tell?” I tease”

She hands me a clipboard. “Please fill this out.” Taking it, I find a seat along the wall of the bright waiting area. I read the form over—typical paperwork you’d fill out for any doctor. I flex my hand, remembering how hard it is to write since I can’t squeeze my fingers together. Placing the pen in between my fingers, I jot down my information, trying to keep my answers legible. As I’m scribbling down my responses, a woman dressed in all blue appears from a door next to the receptionist. “Mr. Kane?” she calls out.

“That’s me,” I answer.

“When you’re finished, come on back.” With that, she disappears.

I fill out the remaining questions. My shoulder begins to throb from using muscles I haven’t used in a while. Once I sign and date it, I pass it back through the reception window. The smiling woman takes the clipboard and nods.

Opening the door, I walk into a large room that looks more like a gym than a doctor’s office. Along one wall are long leather tables. The other side is weightlifting equipment—medicine balls, treadmill, bicycles, ellipticals, the works. “Good morning,” the girl in blue announces. “My name is Brandi. Take a seat on the table over there.” She motions to the table at the end of the row, and I nod. After I hop up onto the table, she says, “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Go right ahead.”

“When you called, you said you’re here because of a shoulder injury?”

“That’s right.”

“Could you take off your shirt so I can get a look at the injury?” I nod, and pull my t-shirt over my head. Moving behind me, she examines my gunshot wound. “Wow,” she mutters.

“Yeah. Hollow point bullets make a big hole.”

“I didn’t know you were shot,” she whispers, running her finger around my scar. “Can I ask how?”

“I was a SEAL in my previous life,” I answer with a shrug.

“And it went straight through?” she asks as she moves around to examine the front, answering her own question. “Alright. I’m going to begin with some joint play testing, which examines the strength of the joints and muscles.”

“Sounds painless,” I chuckle. She takes my hand and begins moving my arm in all directions. “The shoulder is a complicated ball-and-socket joint with a series of different ligaments and muscles, all designed to help support and move it. Because of this, shoulders have a wide range of motion. I want to see where any pain or stiffness may be.” As she moves my arm in positions I didn’t know I could move, I occasionally flinch. Once she’s finished examining my shoulder, she moves down my arm. “I want to check your grip to see how bad the nerve damage is.” She walks across the room and picks up a ring.

“What’s that for, Doc?”

“There’s what we call anticipatory stability in the upper extremity when we grip.” Striding back toward me, she hands me a small, rubber circle.

“In words I can understand?” I say, lifting a brow.

Laughing, she answers, “Your brain knows that when you grip something, it now needs to turn on the muscles of the shoulder in order for the arm to function properly.” Motioning to the ring, she says, “I’m going to try to take the ring from you. Grip it as hard as you can.”

Taking a deep breath, I will my hand to hold the ring, but it doesn’t take much for her to remove it from my hand. “Fuck,” I utter under my breath.

“It’s fine,” she insists. “Let’s try it again.”

Again, she takes it from me with ease.

I’m growing frustrated, and she can sense it.

“It seems you’ve got some residual damage to your rotator cuff. With work, it can be strengthened.” Placing the ring on the bench next to me, she continues. “The main function of the rotator cuff is to stabilize and compress the head of the humerus in the glenoid through all ranges of active shoulder motion. This makes a lot of sense when you think about what your shoulder should reflexively be doing if you pick up something heavy that requires a strong grip. It should be activating to keep your shoulder stable and from popping out of socket. The damage from the bullet left scar tissue on your rotator cuff, along with some nerve damage. With some hard work, we can get your function back to seventy five percent or so.”

“Anything is better than this,” I admit. Improving my arm function is non-negotiable. If I’m going to help Montana, I need to strengthen my shoulder.

“Come with me,” she requests as she moves toward the gym equipment. Standing, I put my shirt back on and follow her.

“First thing we’ll do is the pendulum exercise. Bend at the waist, and to protect your back, brace yourself with your uninvolved hand on your knee. Let your arm dangle freely.”

“All right,” I answer, doing as she says.

“Okay. Slowly move your arm in small circles, allowing movement in the shoulder joint. Once you feel comfortable, you can progress to larger circles. I’ll time you for three minutes.”

I start out with small circles, and gradually increase the size. My shoulder feels a little stiff, but the more I do it, the looser it begins to feel.

After a few minutes, she stops me. “Next is grip strengthening.” Handing me a stress ball, she adds, “Squeeze the ball. This will help to increase the strength in your hand muscles and keep the arm muscles intact. I’ll time you again for three minutes.”

This is hard. I know the ball is in my grip, but I can barely feel it. Staring down at my hand, I move my fingers in and out, struggling to squeeze the squishy object. I keep repeating in the back of my mind, “I’ll get better. I’ll get stronger.”

“I know you’re frustrated, and that’s normal. It’s going to take some time before your grip is half of what it used to be. I’m going to make you work hard, and you’ll be cursing my name before long.”

Lifting my head, I look her right in the eyes. “I’m a SEAL. We have many mantras. One that always stuck with me was, ‘You’ve only got three choices in life: Give up, give in, or give it all you’ve got.’ I plan on doing the latter.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” she laughs. “Now, let’s get to work.” Moving across the room once again, she retrieves a towel.

“That doesn’t look like therapy equipment,” I quip.

Rolling her eyes, she throws the towel at me. “Towel stretches. Begin this exercise with the towel in your good hand. Drape it behind your back, then grab the towel with your affected hand. Slowly pull on the towel with your unaffected hand to stretch your affected arm up and across your body. Once you reach the top, hold it there for a few seconds to stretch, then slowly lower your arm.”

I follow her instructions, but the towel keeps slipping out of my grip. Nodding, she says, “Keep trying. You’ll get it soon enough. Two more minutes.”

For two minutes, I try to pull the towel up. By the last try, I’m able to hold it long enough to stretch my shoulder. It hurts, but pain is good.

“All right, tough guy. Let’s go over to the equipment for your last exercise for today.”

“Now we’re talking.” I follow her to the cable crossover machine. “This will help strengthen your rotator cuff muscles.” Brandi goes over to the back of the machine and adjusts the weights. Coming back around, she stands directly in front me. “Grab the cable bars. Bring your arms from the sides to the front of your body like you’re praying.”

I take a split stagger stance to steady myself, and pull the cable bars forward. “All right,” I say when my hands are where she told me to place them.

“Now, open back up, but not past the shoulders with soft elbows, and repeat until I tell you to stop.”

Damn, she’s getting bossy.

I repeat the motion for five minutes or so, then she tells me to stop. “Now, turn around and crisscross the hand grips. We’re going to work the back of the rotator cuff muscles.”

I do as I’m told, grabbing the grips from the opposite side so they look like an X.

“With a wide stance and soft knees, lift up and pull away while squeezing the shoulder blades. Do the best you can until I say stop.”

This exercise is more difficult than the last, since the bulk of my injury is the back of my shoulder. Lots of scar tissue that doesn’t like to stretch. I pull as far as I can, noticing with each rep I can move a little farther.

This is encouraging.

Painful, but encouraging.

“All right, stop,” she commands, and I comply. “How do you feel?

“Honestly, good. I’m sure I’ll feel like crap in the morning, but right now, pretty damn good.”

“Excellent.” Her smile is genuine, and I’m feeling confident for the first time in months. “I want you to do all of these exercises minus the crossover at home every day. Ten minutes tops for each set. I would like to see you twice a week if your schedule will allow it.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem.” Rolling my neck, the tension from when I entered the rehab center fades away.

“Great. Head back to reception and schedule your next session. I’ll see you then.”

“Fantastic. Thanks, Doc.”

I arrive back at the ranch to find Montana packing up a large leather bag. “Whatcha doin’?” I ask as I take a seat at the kitchen island.

“I want to take you on a tour of the grounds,” she answers, placing a bottle of wine and two glasses in the pouch.

“I thought we already did that.”

She chuckles. “No, silly. You only saw the barn and the grazing fields. The property goes on for another thirty acres past that.” My parents’ property in New Jersey was about an acre, and that was a lot for the area we were living in. I can’t imagine being able to maintain this much property.

“How far of a drive is it?” Montana bursts out laughing. “What?”

“Where we’re going, you can’t drive. We’re taking the horses.”

“Whoa.” I jump off my stool and place my hands defensively in front of me. “I’ve done a lot of things during my career as a SEAL, but riding a horse wasn’t one of them.”

She stops what she’s doing and looks at me. Her eyes soften when she realizes I’m not joking. “I’m not going to make you do jumps or race. We’ll take it slow. A nice, steady walk. You’ll be fine,” she coaxes, but I’m not so sure. “C’mon,” she insists, picking up the bag from the counter and sauntering to the back door.

I follow her out to the barn—the same barn I met Whinny not a few days before. Trey stands at the entrance as if he’s waiting for us. “Which horses do you want, Ms. Montana?”

“Um…Spartan and Lacey, please.”

“Sure thing. Just give me a few minutes to saddle them up.”

“Thank you, Trey,” she says with a smile.

“I’ve never been around a horse before,” I murmur, not happy with my current surroundings. I should have known—I am on a ranch, after all.”

“Come over here,” she coaxes. “Come meet Spartan.”

She walks out of the barn and toward one of the paddocks where a reddish-brown horse is running in circles. She whistles, and he turns his head. With a click of her tongue, he spins and gallops over to us.

“Squat down and put out your hand,” she commands, and I comply. Spartan takes a few steps toward me, his neck stretched toward my hand. As he gets close enough, he sniffs my fingers. When he’s satisfied, he nudges my arm with his nose. I look over at Montana, and she has a huge grin on her face. “Spartan is picky and doesn’t trust people easily. If he trusts you, then you must be worthy.”

She stands back up and I follow suit. Spartan comes closer and nudges my arm again. “What does he want?”

“He wants you to stroke his neck.” She walks over next to me and runs her fingers down the horse’s mane toward his back. “Like this.” Taking the back of my hand, she intertwines my fingers with hers and continues stroking Spartan. His muscular neck flexes, but he seems to be enjoying himself. “See, not so bad,” she whispers next to my ear.

Releasing my hand, she takes a few steps back. I continue to stroke his neck until he decides he’s had enough and bumps my chest with his head. “Now what?” I ask as I’m pushed backwards.

“He wants a treat.” She turns her head toward the barn. “Trey, if you wouldn’t mind bringing an apple out with Lacey.”

“Okay,” he calls back, and a few minutes later, he walks out with a saddled Lacey and an apple.

Montana takes Lacey’s reigns and the apple, then tosses the fruit to me. “Put it in your palm. He’ll take it,” she coaches.

I do as I’m told, and Spartan eats the entire thing. “Let me get him saddled up,” Trey tells me, grabbing Spartan’s lead.

Montana holds Lacey and strokes her neck while we wait for Spartan to come back. It doesn’t take long, and before I know it, I’m standing in front of this huge horse about to jump on to the saddle. “I promise, we’ll go slow,” she insists.

Placing my foot in the stirrup, I grab the saddle horn with my left hand and hoist myself up. Trey comes around and adjusts the length of the stirrups.

“Ready,” she sings from atop Lacey, the bag with the food and wine attached to the back of her saddle.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I answer, trying to balance myself.

She clicks her tongue and turns the horse away from the barn. Spartan follows without me having to tell him, and we walk toward an area of trees at the back of the property.

Once I get used to the rhythm of his footsteps, I grow more comfortable. It’s not as bad as I envisioned it, although she’s taking it easy on me.

The walk takes about half an hour before we get to the wooded area, and she keeps going down a path. At the end of the trail is a clearing and a lake with a thin, wooden pier. The water mirrors the sky above. Around the edges are pines, chaotic in their spacing, but never more than a few feet without a tree. The only sounds are the soft whispering of the trees and the random chirping of a bird.

It’s breathtaking.

Dismounting off her horse, she ties the reigns to a nearby tree.

I do the same and secure Spartan.

Unbuckling the saddle bag from Lacey, she swings it over her head and walks to the end of the makeshift dock.

“I didn’t realize this was part of your ranch,” I admit, admiring my surroundings. It’s quiet and picturesque, like living inside a painting. I follow her and take a seat beside her.

“It goes to the edge of the lake,” she says, pointing to the other side. “The cattle come down here sometimes for water.” She unpacks a plate of cheese and a bottle of Shiraz. After she uncorks the bottle, she pours us each a glass.

“It’s beautiful here,” I murmur. Looking down into the crystal-clear water, I observe the stones at the bottom. There are as many hues of brown and grey as there are on a painter's wheel, with some sprinkles of red and white. Nothing like the lakes in New Jersey.

“That’s why I wanted to show you. I come here when I’m stressed or need a time out.” I glance back up at her just as she’s handing me a glass of the dark, burgundy colored liquid. Holding up her glass, she toasts, “Here’s to new beginnings.”

We clink our glasses and sip the peppery flavored wine. Shifting, she leans into me, and her shoulders and neck muscles relax.

It’s a perfect place—with the perfect person.