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.
“WE’RE WORKING ON IT. I want to observe a few more of Ms. Bolton’s sessions before I’ll feel okay recommending this particular course of treatment.”
It was the best answer Mike could give Doris Trimble when she came into the office and asked again about going down the hippotherapy route. The woman nodded, the tightening of her hands in her lap showing she didn’t really understand what the problem was, but she didn’t try to pressure him into making a decision. She was willing to defer to his opinion, something that made his already low mood sink even lower.
He didn’t want his personal history to get in the way of doing what was best for his patients. He just wasn’t sure hippotherapy was what was best for Clara.
Then again, he was running out of options, other than saying that Clara’s current condition was the best they could hope for: limited mobility and function. The swelling in her brain had subsided thanks to surgery and time, but the damage caused by the horrific car accident a year ago had not. She had burn scars on various parts of her body—the skin stretched tightly over the joints, making bending them difficult. Her mother seemed to think that riding would help stretch that skin and make it more supple. She was probably right about that. He’d watched how Bethany Williams’s body had moved with the horse and though it had been subtle, her limbs and joints had followed the animal’s strides, her narrow shoulders stretching out and back as she’d gripped the straps on the saddle.
Muscle did have memory, so it was possible the same rhythmic movements could help Clara improve her balance and build some core strength. But improve cognitive function? That he wasn’t sure of. He promised himself he’d take some time this week to do some deeper research.
It would have all been so simple if Trisha had landed in someone else’s pond. But she hadn’t. She’d wound up in Dusty Hill’s tiny pool, and, as much as he didn’t want to, he was going to have to make a decision on how to deal with her. Because even though he practiced neurology in the next town over, he had a feeling Clara’s mom wasn’t the only one who was going to discover Trisha’s little outfit. More people were going to ask about her and her horses.
He knew exactly how much a referral from him could help her. He could be the best thing that ever happened to her, financially speaking. But that wasn’t his main concern. He knew that sooner or later some of his other patients—whether they were past, present or future—were going to come into his office, eyes shining with excitement about the possibilities of hippotherapy, asking if it could help their relative. Could he prescribe it? He needed to have a ready answer—an objective one—one backed by research and unclouded by his personal issues.
He moved his attention back to the girl in the wheelchair. “Let’s see how you’re doing, Clara, is that okay?”
The lolling of her head was the only answer he got, as she struggled to focus on his face. Clara was seeing a variety of specialists today, her graft team, her occupational therapist, along with her physical therapist and orthopedist. They would come together later in the day and discuss their individual findings and try to figure out where to go from here. As he lifted Clara and laid her on the exam table, he wondered how Trisha expected to keep children like this upright on that horse. Crow—was that the animal’s name?—was pretty large. He hadn’t paid close attention to the sizes of the other horses. And that saddle had seemed soft and flimsy, with fabric grips rather than a traditional saddle horn. How would Clara even hold on?
He hadn’t thought to ask, because something had distracted him. Namely the sight and scent of a certain equine therapist. One who’d stroked his hand down a horse’s neck and made him wonder what it would be like to stroke his fingers down the silky skin of her throat instead.
“Okay, Clara.” He reached over to grab his reflex hammer, putting Trisha out of his mind. “You know the drill.”
She still couldn’t sit completely under her own power, although he thought she’d grown a little more stable over the past few months. He smoothed a couple of strands of blonde hair back from her forehead with a smile that was a little more forced than normal. “Are you ready?”
He carefully went through Clara’s reflex reactions and strength, looking for any increase in weakness or spasticity on her left side. Things looked much the same as they had a month ago, something her mother found frustrating, and Mike couldn’t blame her. It had to be agonizing to work so hard and see so little improvement. It was another reason she was so eager to try something new. Anything new.
He couldn’t let himself be swayed by that.
Helping the five-year-old back into a sitting position and calling her mother over to help keep her stable, he studied Clara’s eyes, smiling at her and watching her reaction. Her lips curled as she tried to smile back, but the left side still lagged behind the right, not lifting as high. He did a few more tests
