nodded in answer to her question. “Cutting Captain Rayford loose, giving him the benefit of the doubt, was the only thing the military could do, especially since he was diagnosed as having dissociative amnesia as a result of torture.”
Andrea lifted a brow. “Not to mention all the suffering the screwup over the body caused both his family and the other soldier’s. What a PR nightmare that boondoggle’s been.”
“So I’m told,” said Julian, “which brings us back to you.”
Apprehension crawled over her skin like live ants. “Let Michael take him. Or Connor. He’s a real pro, and the guys love that he’s ex-military himself.”
“Neither of the counselors will do, or Cassidy, either, for this case,” Julian said, though as a psychiatric nurse-practitioner, Cassidy had both the experience and the ability to dispense any necessary medications. “You see, Captain Rayford has refused to come here. Refused to leave the family’s ranch at all. Says he’s had enough of shrinks poking through his head—”
“So you want to send me, a psychologist?”
“The man doesn’t need or want a psychologist right now, but a friend, he might accept. And a trained friend, someone with your sensitivity, might find a way to break through. A way to help a man whose plight has drawn so much attention—and a way to help us, too, at Warriors-4-Life.”
She folded her arms beneath her chest. “Really, Julian? That’s what this is all about? The money?”
He sighed. “Come on, Andrea. You know I’m 100 percent focused on these soldiers. But as director, fund-raising is a big part of my job description, and if we don’t get donations up before next quarter, we’re going to have way bigger problems than a broken AC system.”
Worry fluttered in her stomach. “I know we’re working on a shoestring out here, but what do you mean, way bigger problems? We’re not—tell me we’re not in danger of shutting down already. We’ve barely gotten up and running, and more and more returning soldiers are applying for our help every day. They need us, desperately. Where else can they go, if they don’t have places like this when their lives come crashing down around them? Who else will prepare them to reintegrate into their families and meaningful employment?”
He held up a hand to stop her. “You’re preaching to the choir. There’s no need to sell me on what we do. I never would’ve come aboard if I weren’t 100 percent behind it.”
“I know that. I do.” Like everyone else who worked at Warriors-4-Life, Julian had accepted little more than the use of one of the center’s Spartan housing units and a nominal salary in exchange for his sixty-to eighty-hour workweeks. He even donated a portion of his military retirement pay to the cause, saying he couldn’t encourage others to do something he wasn’t doing on his own. Inspired by his generosity, Andrea gave whenever she could, as well, despite the mountain of student loans she would probably still be paying into her dotage.
“Then don’t look so shocked that I’m thinking practically. I have to. Otherwise, we’ll have no choice but to scale back the number of young men and women we can assist—and reduce our staff levels, as well.”
She gritted her teeth, thinking of how overworked all of them were already, how many sacrifices they had made. And the look in his eyes told her that if the cutbacks didn’t solve the issue, the doors they’d fought so hard to open might be forever shuttered. What would happen to their clients, then, people like twenty-year-old Ty Dawson, who’d gone missing for hours just yesterday after a lawn mower had kicked up a stone and cracked a window. He was found shaking and hiding in the darkened corner of a storage closet.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll rearrange tomorrow morning’s schedule and try to get back by—”
“Your schedule’s cleared, for the time being. Michael, Cassidy, Connor and I will all pitch in while you’re away.”
“Away? What do you mean? It’s, what, an hour or so from here to Rusted Spur? If I leave early, I’m sure I can be back by lunchtime to help cover the afternoon group sessions.”
Julian shook his head. “For the next two weeks, you’ll be staying at the ranch.”
“Staying at the ranch? With my ex-fiancé? Are you serious? You won’t— This won’t worry you at all?”
She studied his face and caught the flicker of discomfort. But he quickly squared his shoulders and reclaimed his usual composure. The composure that had made her feel so safe.
“I’ll admit I was hesitant at first. You know about my ex-wife, about what happened between us?”
Andrea nodded, remembering what he’d told her about a marriage in his twenties—and a wife who’d eased her loneliness with multiple affairs during his deployments. He’d spoken of it matter-of-factly, but she had seen the hurt, the vulnerability lurking behind his solemn brown eyes. And she’d sworn to herself she would be the wife that he deserved.
He reached across the desk and found her hand, then squeezed it. “I refuse to let it change me, let that pain turn me jealous and suspicious when you’ve done nothing to deserve it. When I could never imagine a consummate professional like yourself—a generous, decent woman—betraying what we have.”
“Of course, I wouldn’t.” She’d learned her lessons young; she would never be her father. “Especially not for a man who broke my heart. But I will do my best to help him, just the way I’d help any other client who was hurting.”
“Then it’s settled,” he answered with a nod. “I’ll need you to log in and update your contact records daily, but I’m told there’s wireless available.”
“When have I ever forgotten my logs?” It was a protocol she frequently reminded the counselors to follow, since the portion of their funding received from government grants depended on the number of recorded contact hours. The case notes themselves, however, remained password protected, covered by patient confidentiality.
“Also,” Julian said, “I thought you’d like to know that when Captain Rayford’s family extended the invitation for you to come, they mentioned they’d set up a suite of rooms for your use.”
“A suite of rooms, just for me?” It sounded like paradise, since her own quarters consisted of a single bedroom in the women’s dormitory, where female staff and clients alike shared a communal bath and kitchen.
“Play your cards right, and I’ll throw in some bubble bath.” From across the desk, he winked at her, a gesture so at odds with his usual demeanor that it made her laugh with delight.
“Ooh la la.” She waggled her brows at the man who’d asked her to keep their engagement under wraps for the time being, to avoid causing any suspicions of favoritism among the staff. And given that there was no way either of them could visit the other’s room without drawing speculation, the physical side of their relationship had been largely confined to their imaginations—a situation that was growing more frustrating by the day. “But it’d be ever better if you could join me in that bathtub.”
He smiled. “With or without strategically placed bubbles?”
“Up to you, Colonel,” she teased, standing when he left his chair and came around the desk.
He pulled her into a
