Читать книгу His Girl From Nowhere - Tina Beckett, Tina Beckett - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

SHOW ME YOURS, and I’ll show you mine.

Trisha mounted and gathered the reins in her left hand, giving Brutus a quick pat on the neck with the other hand for standing still.

The good doctor had taken up her challenge two days ago and upped the ante in a way that was juvenile and yet, oh, so effective. He’d expected her to balk. Had counted on it, if she wasn’t mistaken. She’d made a quip about how safe her horses were, that her patients hadn’t shed a drop of blood yet—a good thing, she’d said laughingly, since she couldn’t stand the sight of blood.

He’d gotten this speculative gleam in his eye as soon as the words had passed between her lips, then had issued his ultimatum. And assured her that his profession did indeed involve blood.

Was she game?

Game? Really?

She’d been forced to stab a man—had almost killed him. So the doctor’s jibe had stuck in her craw. As if she had been some sissy, shying away from a paper cut or a bloody nose. It was so much more than that.

So she’d tilted her chin, taken her aversion to blood and guts and forced it to the back of her mind, drawing the heavy drapes closed on reality and agreeing to his request. He would sit through three sessions of therapy—as in literally sitting on Crow, her gentle giant—once he’d observed three sessions with a patient. She, in turn, had to sit in the glassed-in room above the surgical suite and watch him saw through a person’s skull. That wasn’t exactly the way he’d put it, but it was basically the same thing.

Dr. Dunning had definitely gotten the better end of that deal. Only she could tell that he didn’t see it that way. His fear of Brutus had been almost palpable.

I was trying not to scare him.

That thought had never crossed her mind as she’d stood in that stall, her own knees quivering with terror when he’d silently motioned her out of there. He’d been as scared as she had.

Did that mean their mutual fears canceled each other out?

Hardly.

But if he could push through his, then she needed to try to push through hers. As it was, she’d seized his words, telling him that meant he had to “see hers’ first—in other words, he was going to see how she operated. Whether or not he’d show up for her session with Bethany Williams this afternoon was still to be seen. She was counting on him really wanting to do what was right for his patient. And since Clara’s team of doctors had done almost all they could for her through surgery and the normal course of physical therapy, her mom wanted to expand their horizons. Try some other options.

Trisha had only been in Dusty Hills six months, so getting the endorsement of a local neurosurgeon seemed a good way to get her name out...to put her on the path toward making it in this small town. If he could just see Clara on a therapy horse, he’d see how much it could help her. The five-year-old had definitely responded to the way Trisha had stroked her tiny fingers over Crow’s inky-black coat. Trisha just needed Dr. Dunning to sign off on treatment, both for the sake of health insurance and her own liability insurance. Which reminded her, she’d have to list the good doctor as one of her patients for a little while so he’d be covered. Just in case.

She sighed and fanned her legs, making a clucking sound as she asked Brutus to break into a slow jog. She’d already warmed him up with some circles on the longe line, so he responded to the request quickly. “Someday soon I’m going to ask you to lope, big boy. Just to show you it’s safe.”

Her horse had endured the wrong end of a whip in his past life, the long pale scars—devoid of hair—visible on his haunches. He still shied away from sudden movements near his head—especially if those movements were made by a man—and Trisha couldn’t blame him. He was as much in need of therapy as any of her other patients. So when she’d told Dr. Dunning he was a special case, she hadn’t been kidding. But the horse had come a long way over the past several months. So had she.

In his own way, Brutus was helping her recover as much as she was helping him. Guiding the gelding to the center of the indoor arena to go through a large sweeping figure eight, they changed direction from clockwise to counterclockwise, and she smiled when one of his ears swiveled back to face her, listening for any verbal cues she might give. “Good boy.”

Although Brutus had shown his nerves at Dr. Dunning’s presence in no uncertain terms, things could have been a whole lot worse, according to what she’d been told by the rescue organization. Trisha might have maintained her poker face a little better than her horse had, but she hadn’t been unaffected. Oh, no. Especially not once she’d realized the man had not been a killer sent to deliver a personalized anniversary message, courtesy of her ex-husband. Her fear had morphed into something else entirely when he’d flipped her onto her back, his firm warm chest pressing against her breasts, his breath mingling with hers. Her thoughts had taken off in other directions. Dangerous directions.

She’d wanted to wheel away from him just like her horse had. Only she hadn’t been able to, and not just because he’d had her pinned to the ground with his body, hands imprisoning hers.

Two days later she still couldn’t shy away from him. No, in all likelihood, she was going to have to work with the good doctor on a regular basis. If she could convince him she and her horses were not a danger to him or his patients.

To do that, she was going to have to find a way to keep her job at the forefront of her mind. And since he was due at the barn in two short hours, fifteen minutes ahead of her first young patient, she would have just enough time after working Brutus to shower and dress in something a bit more professional than her standard faded jeans and halter top combo. And somehow she needed to squash her silly reaction to the surgeon’s presence. Especially since she had big plans for the man. Plans that included making him shed that thick coat of control he wrapped around himself and get him to agree that she could help some of his patients.

If she could just get the man to co-operate.

* * *

Hippotherapist does sound a little bit like hypnotherapist.

Mike turned his car into the driveway leading up to Patricia’s place. This could have all turned out differently had he heard Doris Trimble correctly. He’d been so sure she’d said she wanted her young daughter to visit a hypnotherapist that he hadn’t even glanced up from his prescription pad, but had continued writing as he’d asked her what she thought that would accomplish. Then the word horse had been mentioned and his head had jerked up to attention as she’d explained about the new equine therapist in town. By the time he’d got the gist of what she’d been talking about, he’d been in too deep. He hadn’t been able to just shoot the suggestion down, especially after getting a good look at the hope imprinted on her face. Clara had grinned wider than he’d ever seen as her mother had continued to make her case.

“Have you already taken her to see this person?”

“Just for a quick peek at the horses,” she’d said, a fleeting look of guilt flashing through her eyes. “Clara seemed to love them. She responded immediately.”

Perfect. This wasn’t going to be a passing idea, evidently. He was either going to have to get behind the plan and support her, or give her at least one good reason why she shouldn’t let Clara anywhere near Ms. Bolton or her horses. Hopefully that reason would come today.

There was no paved parking area near the barn, so he pulled into the same spot he’d parked in the last time. Glancing to his left, he spotted two horses close to the fence. They seemed to be studying his arrival with interest. He thought one of them might be the infamous Brutus. He could swear the animal on the right gave him a look of pure dislike, lifting his head to follow Mike’s movements as he got out of the car. He had to fight not to climb back into his vehicle and beat a hasty retreat.

“Well, guess what? The feeling’s mutual.” He tossed the words at the animal, only to stiffen when a quiet feminine voice answered him.

“What feeling is that?”

He swiveled around. Patricia Bolton had evidently come out of the barn when she’d heard his car drive up. He shrugged. “Just talking to myself.”

She glanced out at the pasture, where Brutus was still staring at them. “I see.”

“Ms. Bolton, look, maybe we can save ourselves both a whole lot of—”

She held up a hand to stop him. “Call me Trisha. My patients do.”

His patients called him Dr. Mike, but it seemed a little presumptuous to ask her to do the same. So he said, “Okay...Trisha. Why don’t you call me Mike?”

“Great. If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you how I prepare for my first clients of the day.”

So much for leaving. She’d smoothly intercepted any pre-emptive strike he might have made and disarmed him.

Following her inside the barn to the very place he’d lain with her on the ground, the image of tangled arms and legs and of fingers running up his thighs came back with frightening clarity. He swore he could still feel her touch. He shook his head to banish the sensation.

There was a horse tethered in the same position that Brutus had been the other day, only this time there was some sort of saddle draped over a post, along with a brightly patterned blanket. “I was just grooming him before saddling up. This is Crow.”

Pitch black without the slightest trace of white, the animal’s coat had a healthy gleam that made Mike think she’d gussied him up just to show him off. His mane was even braided. She needn’t have bothered, though. Because just standing there near the horse made his gut contract.

“Do you want to touch him?” Trisha walked right over to the animal and stroked a hand down his neck, smoothing a misplaced braid.

“That’s okay.” He kept to the far side of the aisle, hoping against hope there wasn’t going to be another incident like the one a couple of days ago.

“Come on. He won’t hurt you. You’ve agreed to ride him next week, so you might as well get some of the preliminaries out of the way.”

What had he been thinking, coming out here again? His wife had died handling one of these animals. Did he really want to do this? No. But something about Trisha’s quiet voice and calm manner made him take a step closer. She wasn’t afraid at all.

But, then, Marcy hadn’t been either. And yet in the blink of an eye she’d been gone. And he’d still had to deal with her horses and clients in the midst of everything else. Thankfully, one of her close friends had helped out, going as far as buying the horse that had turned his world upside down. He’d tried to warn her off, but Gloria had insisted it was what Marcy would have wanted, that what had happened had been a tragic accident and not the horse’s fault. She was probably right.

Still, he didn’t want to be trapped in a confined space with one. Anything could happen. “Okay, but could we do this outside the barn?”

She blinked, but nodded. “Sure. Let me just saddle him up.”

Making short work of it, she talked him through the process of swapping the animal’s halter for a bridle, and then she explained the parts of the therapy saddle and showed him how to put it and the blanket on and how to tighten the strap beneath the horse’s belly. Why she thought he needed to know any of this, he had no idea. Marcy had taken him at his word when he’d said he wasn’t interested in riding. She’d never tried to force the issue. Maybe partly to cover up what she’d really been doing at the barn.

If he’d been with her that last day, would she still be alive?

That was something he really didn’t want to think about too closely.

She gave the saddle one last check then said, “Okay, let’s lead him outside.”

His lips quirked. “No wheelbarrow today?”

“Nope.” She grinned back at him. “You lucked out.”

He wasn’t sure he’d consider this lucking out, but he’d do whatever it took to get through this and head back to his own job. Where he felt secure and confident.

Like the last time he’d been here, he remained at Trisha’s side as she told him that a horse should always be led from the left. “Have you ever been around horses at all?”

How to explain without...explaining? “I have, but I haven’t worked with them closely.”

There. Not bad.

Then she arrived at a rectangular fenced-in area that was covered with sandy-looking material. It appeared to have been freshly raked, a system of grooves running through the grains—for his benefit? She stopped and tied the reins to the middle fence post and glanced at her watch. “We still have about five minutes before Bethany arrives so why don’t you introduce yourself to him? Come stand next to me.”

Mike stiffened when she patted the animal on the neck. It was either explain why he had an aversion to horses or do as she asked. He moved closer as she continued stroking the animal.

“This is how I’d approach a patient who’s here for the first time.” She took Mike by the hand, her fingers firm against his as she lifted it and pressed his palm to the animal’s coat, slowly guiding it down the length of the neck. “Isn’t he smooth?”

Was he supposed to answer her? Because, no, it didn’t feel smooth. All he could think about was how anything could happen. In the time it took for him to blink. And that familiar horsy smell that had clung to Marcy whenever she’d come home from the barn... It was right here, with all its terrible reminders of secret meetings and half-truths.

None of it was comforting.

And yet as Trisha continued to guide his hand in slow sweeping strokes over Crow’s coat, the horse stood extremely still, as if he somehow sensed the turmoil lurking just below the surface. And slowly the textures and temperature of the animal’s body began to make themselves known.

“Relax,” she murmured, her voice like the softest silk. “He won’t hurt you.”

He couldn’t bring himself to let his muscles go loose, but he did try to concentrate on things other than how huge and powerful the animal was. Like the warm grip of Trisha’s hand as she held his. Like the scent of her hair and the tickle of her ponytail as it brushed his neck when she twisted her head. He concentrated on her instead of the horse. She bent a little lower, her hand guiding his down the upper portion of the horse’s leg. “Crow could stand here all day and let you do this. He loves it.”

He gulped. Crow wasn’t the only one who could stand there all day. He was suddenly enjoying Trisha’s touch a little too much, allowing his hand to rest in hers a little too heavily.

He didn’t understand why his thoughts were even heading in this direction. He’d been with a couple of other woman since his wife’s death, but those had been quick clinical sessions born out of physical need more than anything.

When Trisha’s thumb curled into his palm as she lifted his arm to place it high on the horse’s back, the friction caused a chain reaction in his body.

She wasn’t purposely trying to switch on his motor, but it was cranking to life anyway. He tried to close his eyes to blot out her face, but it just heightened all of his other senses. The heat of her body next to his. The soothing little sounds she made as she murmured to the horse...to him.

“Isn’t this nice?” she whispered.

Definitely not soothing.

“Trisha...” He turned his head to find her looking right at him, eyes soft and inviting.

He swallowed again.

Hell. He couldn’t believe what he was thinking of doing. Or, worse, that he might actually be getting ready to...

His free hand came up to cup the back of her head, just as a shrill childish voice sounded from behind them.

“Cwow! Cwow! I come see you!”

Crow’s head went up, and Trisha’s eyes jerked away from Mike’s, breaking the spell. She let go of him, and he took a couple of quick steps back, though she seemed to recover her composure with ease.

“Bethany,” she said. “Hello! We’ve gotten Crow all ready for you.”

A dark-haired child in a wheelchair rolled toward them, accompanied by two women, one about Trisha’s age and the other about twenty years older. The younger one came over and stood next to the horse, draping an arm over his neck as Trisha walked over to the other two. She embraced the woman and murmured something to her, then knelt in front of the child. “Are you ready for your ride? We’re going to work really hard on our balance today, aren’t we?”

The child nodded, her hands gripping the armrest of her chair as if she was preparing to rise. When she didn’t actually leave the seat, Mike started to move forward to help, only to have Trisha meet his glance with a subtle shake of her head. He stopped in his tracks.

“Dr. Dunning, this is Bethany Williams and her mom, Gretchen. And this is my assistant, Penny.”

He somehow managed to mutter out the appropriate greetings, although he was still feeling shakier than he cared to admit by what had happened a moment ago. He’d been about to kiss the woman.

Struggling to make sense of this crazy day, he watched while Trisha strapped a shiny black helmet onto the girl’s head before helping her from her chair and leading her step by step to the horse. He was surprised by the headgear, but maybe things were different with kids. Marcy had certainly never used a helmet. If she had...

Mike turned his attention back to the girl to distract himself. She had a lisp, but her eyes were bright with intelligence. Her gait, though, was uneven and periodic shudders rippled through her muscles. Cerebral palsy? Possibly. She had enough control over her body that she could lift her foot toward the low stirrup with help and then between the three of them—helper on one side, Trisha and the mother on the other—they boosted her thin frame into the saddle. She immediately reached for and gripped the nylon straps on either side of the saddle for all she was worth.

She wasn’t totally steady, but she wasn’t afraid. Of that Mike was certain. Giddy was the term that came to mind. Once Bethany was in position, she grinned and scrubbed at the horse’s shoulder with the tips of her fingers, still holding onto the straps. Her obvious joy at being there made Mike feel a little bit ridiculous about how cautious he’d been when even petting Crow. Then again, no one else had seen Brutus flip out a few days ago. And no one else had driven out to a barn four years ago to see why their wife wasn’t answering his calls, only to discover her sprawled unconscious on the ground, a black horse that looked very much like this one standing over her.

But that’s not what he was here for. Neither was he here to hit on the woman in charge of this horse and pony show. He was here to observe, and that’s exactly what he should be doing.

* * *

“R-references?” Trisha somehow got the word past her paralyzed vocal cords, although she wasn’t sure how. He’d watched her like a hawk the entire time she’d worked with Bethany. And out of the corner of her eyes she’d noticed him speak to the girl’s mother. Gretchen loved bringing Bethany here. She figured of all her patients, Gretchen—a fellow horse owner—would be the most vocal about the benefits of hippotherapy. Which was why it shocked her so much to have him ask for references as soon as Bethany and her mom had left in their gray SUV.

“Yes. Mrs. Williams certainly seems to like what you do here, but I’d like to hear from a few people you no longer work with. Maybe a few clients from your last location.”

So he knew she was fairly new to Dusty Hills but no way could she give him any names of people from her past. She stood next to his vehicle and thought through her possible responses. Why hadn’t she realized someone could ask her this? Because everyone else had been happy to see her credentials—which were real enough. The FBI had somehow gotten them altered to show her current name, but all the classes and certifications were valid. They’d just cautioned her about using her university diplomas as actual references, or hanging any documents on the wall of her home or office, saying they wouldn’t hold up if someone dug too deeply.

“I’d rather just stick with my current clients, if you don’t mind.”

His fingers paused on the door handle to his car. “Do you have something to hide, Ms. Bolton?”

Great, they were back to last names, evidently. She couldn’t blame him but, dammit, she was good at her job—had worked hard to get her HPCS certification. Doing what she loved was the one thing that had been non-negotiable with her relocation deal, especially after everything that had happened. The only concession she’d made had been that she’d promised not to advertise or be listed on any specific hippotherapy database. Which meant word of mouth was all she had to go by—and it was proving much tougher than she’d thought in a small town like Dusty Hills.

She tried her rehearsed explanation. “I just think there are enough clients in the area, some of whom you probably know, who would be able to answer any questions you might have. I teach straight riding lessons as well. I can give you some of those names too.”

He seemed to consider that for a moment or two before he relented. “I guess that will have to do, provided some of those names are from people who are no longer with you. I don’t want there to be any question of conflict of interest.”

Conflict of interest? She wasn’t sure what he meant by that.

Did she have any patients she no longer treated? She didn’t think so. Her client list wasn’t that long, and those who were on it seemed to stick around. “Let me see what I can come up with, and I’ll get back to you.”

“I’m not a very patient man, Ms. Bolton. Don’t make me wait too long.” Mike opened the door to his car and propped one foot on the floorboard.

Don’t make me wait too long.

A shiver went over her as her mind headed down a very different avenue. Had he said it that way on purpose? There was no indication he had, not even an embarrassed shifting of his glance away from hers. Just a cool, calm gaze that held hers far too long. How could the man wall off what had almost happened between them before Bethany’s session? She was still a mass of conflicting nerves and emotions. Her legs were shaking, and she felt like she was going to lose it at any second. Mike, on the other hand, seemed to have forgotten...or maybe he hadn’t been getting ready to kiss her at all.

That thought was even more mortifying. Could her radar be that far off base?

Evidently it could. At least, with this man.

Ha! Just look at how far off base she’d been with Roger, a man capable of murdering someone in cold blood and then acting as if he were the injured party. Even his name had been fake.

Yeah? Well, so was hers now. Evidently aliases were all the rage.

As Mike folded his length into his car and pulled out of her lot in a cloud of dust, she gave a choked cough and noticed that Larry and Penny were both standing in the doorway of the barn, staring after the car. And Larry—the old coot—had the silliest grin imaginable on his grizzled face.

Oh, no. The last thing she needed was for them to get the wrong idea.

Because she was having enough trouble wrestling her own “ideas” back into place without giving them any more ammunition.

Ammunition.

Another shiver went through her, a little more wary this time as she remembered a few days ago—the way her fingers had clutched that hoof pick, palm sweaty, throat tight.

She’d thought she was going to die.

That’s what she needed to focus on. What could happen, if she wasn’t careful. What had already happened to the man who’d been sent to protect her a year ago. He’d died. All because of her.

Roger had almost killed her too, choking her on his desk in a jealous rage. Only her flailing hands had landed on a letter opener and she’d swung it round as hard as she could, stabbing him in the side. The FBI, alerted to the situation by their dying agent, had arrived in a hail of gunfire minutes later, arresting Roger and the rest of his minions.

Her ex had lived to stand trial, and he could still try to find her even now. He had the money and the contacts. The only thing she wasn’t sure of at this point was how hot his rage still burned.

And how far those flames were able to reach.