by Karen Rock
He couldn’t spend six minutes alone with a low-down Loveland, let alone six months. Fury blasted Justin off his feet at arrogant Travis. Officer or not, he’d rip his darn head off. Arms grabbed Justin around the waist, checking his momentum.
“Hey!”
“Watch him!”
“Quit it, Justin!”
His siblings hollered, holding him fast as he thrashed and flailed.
“Time for you to move along now,” James spat, glaring at Travis.
Travis only hooked his thumbs in his uniform pants and looked, if anything, even calmer. Travis’s siblings, Maverick, Heath and Cole, lined up behind him, mountain tall like all Lovelands, their shadows long. While the Cades were hotheaded and passionate, the Lovelands barely had pulses, their cool, superior approach infuriating.
“You have no jurisdiction here, Cade,” Travis told Jack easily, with just a hint of menace.
Ma and Boyd Loveland stepped between their bristling offspring.
“Boys, home!” Boyd barked. He was as tall and lean as his sons, his shoulders unbowed by age. The grooves around his mouth spoke of hours in the saddle, the line between his brows suggesting long nights after, worrying. Rumor had it the local bank had initiated foreclosure proceedings on the Loveland ranch. Without easy access to the Crystal River, they had to drive their cattle miles out of the way to water, stressing and depleting their herds.
“Don’t embarrass me,” Justin’s mother hissed while smiling and nodding at the rubberneckers passing by on their way to the parking lot.
“See you in jail, Cade.” Travis pointed at Justin then guffawed with his brothers as they headed to the parking lot.
“Sorry about that, darlin’.”
The Cade siblings exchanged uneasy glances as Boyd pecked their mother on the cheek then strode after his sons. Overhead, a migrating V of geese honked.
Were things getting more serious between them?
Justin barely tolerated his mother and Boyd dating...but engaged? Not on his watch. He’d rather eat a rattler than become a relation to the lowlife Lovelands.
Before a despicable betrayal, the Cades had granted the Lovelands passage to the river. Now, if they weren’t vigilant, their families might become entangled again. So far, Ma and Boyd seemed content to simply date. Yet Justin and Jewel speculated Boyd’s financial predicament would prompt him to ask for her hand in marriage, gaining him the funds and water he needed.
How could Justin keep an eye on the situation from behind bars?
“Ms. Thompson!” his mother shouted, waving. “A moment?”
The lithe young woman halted then turned, her movements efficient and crisp. She wore a navy suit jacket with a matching skirt ending just below her knees, a white shirt buttoned tight around her throat. Despite the covered-up look, attraction spiked through Justin, taking him by surprise. Something about Brielle Thompson’s good-girl image challenged the hell-raiser in him. A red cape before the bull. A sudden urge to unpin her hair, remove that straitjacket and kiss off her immaculately applied lipstick seized him.
He shook away the wild thought.
“I’m afraid I’m running late for a meeting. Another time?”
“Justin just wanted to thank you and apologize.”
“The heck I do,” he muttered, unable to pull his gaze from Brielle’s arresting face. She wasn’t beautiful, exactly, but only because that was the wrong word. Lots of people were beautiful. They blended with the scenery. Brielle’s direct gaze and firm stance demanded attention. Out in the hall, she’d been aggressive, combative and lovely.
One by one, he admired her features. They weren’t remarkable. An upward tip spoiled the straight line of her nose. A heaviness lent her square jaw a stubborn look. Her generous lower lip dominated her mouth, making it uneven. And her eyes, a distinct green color resembling new leaves, oddly contrasted with her darker lashes and brow.
Yet it added up to something unique, compelling—something that made him look twice.
“Not necessary, but thanks.” She waved and turned to leave, the dismissive gesture getting under his skin.
“Wait!”
His call jerked her to a stop again. When her piercing eyes swung to his, his throat closed around whatever he’d been about to say.
Idiot.
Let her go.
“Yes?” She arched a brow, the provocative move sending a current of awareness sliding over his skin.
“I should have said it earlier. I’m sorry for hitting your truck.”
To his surprise, she strode forward and paused only a foot away. No one ever got this close to him anymore. Not even his ma, yet tough Army Chaplain Brielle Thompson had no problem getting right up in his face.
“Are you?” she asked, skeptical.
Jewel’s gasp turned into a surprised chuckle his brothers echoed.
“She’s got you figured out,” Jared guffawed.
“Shut it,” Justin growled without taking his eyes off Brielle.
“Let’s give these two some privacy,” he heard his ma murmur, then the group tromped away.
“You were saying?” Brielle prompted, her prim tone and serene nature revving him up. She didn’t fool him. He’d glimpsed the shadows in her eyes, witnessed her swift burst of anger, and knew she ran deeper, darker, wilder than she appeared.
“I’m sorry I hit your van.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He shifted in his boots, uneasy at her direct, unrelenting gaze. She sure didn’t tiptoe around delicate subjects. “I don’t care if you believe me.”
Her jaw jutted. “Yes, you do.”
His mouth dropped open. She’d just called him out. No one dared do that, other than his family, and even they trod lightly.
A breeze rustled the dry leaves of a nearby maple, sending a few spiraling to the ground. “Why would I care?” he asked, forcing a nonchalant tone.
Her mouth ticked up in the corners. “You’re still here talking to me.”
He pressed his lips together to stop an unbidden smile, amused despite himself. She wasn’t scared to give offense, and he liked that. “I’m doing it for my ma.”
“Not yourself then?”
He stared at her, mute. What was she driving at? A trio of crows alighted on the telephone line running to the courthouse, bobbing their sleek black heads.
“Did you let go of the handlebars before you hit me?”
His head jerked back as if she’d slapped it.
“You saw me in time to avoid me,” she pressed. “Why didn’t you slow down or turn?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders, defensive. Her questions pummeled him, pinning him on the ropes. “I was drinking. You heard...”
“Point oh nine?” Her eyes narrowed, a hard street stare, the pain he’d glimpsed the other night now settling into their corners. “That’s just barely over the limit. No. Alcohol didn’t have much to do with it.”
His eyes dropped to his boots. He scuffed a line in the graveled parking lot, alternately wishing himself away and enjoying this dustup with her. “Then what did?”
One of the crows cawed, a rough, harsh, nasty sound voicing the writhing blackness rising from the base of his skull.
“Why don’t you come to my clinic and find out?” she challenged, then turned neatly on her heel and marched away.
He watched her hop into a Jeep with temporary plates and peel out of the parking lot.
No shrinking violet there.
His mouth curved. He liked having a sparring partner.
She made him feel alive, a stinging rush like the return of blood to a limb that’d fallen asleep.
Except he liked—no, needed—to stay numb.
He didn’t want to wake and face reality.
Did he?
CHAPTER
THREE
“MY FAVORITE PIZZA toppings are pineapple and jalapeño peppers,” pronounced one of Fresh Start’s patients during their first group therapy session later that week. Brielle jotted down the unusual pairing on a stand-alone whiteboard then turned back to the speaker. He’d introduced himself earlier as Paul, a former artilleryman who’d served in Mosul. Per his intake, he suffered from PTSD and depression.
Paul took up most of one of the chairs circling the center of the converted ranch house’s living room. In his midthirties, he had wide ears, a round, expressive face and a stooped posture that seemed to be apologizing for the sheer size of him. Six inked names scrolled across his forearm.
Lost brothers in arms?
Names of fallen soldiers spun in Brielle’s mind then stopped on one, the thought like an ice pick to her brain.
“Dude. That’s the worst pizza topping combination ever,” a slouchy teenager said. Maya. She was a skeletal, black-haired girl with bruise-purple skin underlining eyes that looked up from the bottom of a deep well. She hailed from Denver and, according to her mother, had spent most of her life in facilities that’d failed to manage her bipolar and eating disorder.
Hopefully Fresh Start would succeed where others had failed. With its real-world immersion program through ranching experiences, it was designed to build confidence and end self-defeating behaviors. The clinic now housed fifteen residents, half its capacity, with eight more expected at the end of the week.
“This is a judgment-free zone,” Craig, the group leader, intoned, mock serious.
Brielle crossed one leg over the other and smiled encouragingly at her latest hire. At fifty-eight, Dr. Craig Sheldon brought decades of experience as well as a deep personal understanding of what it was like to survive a war after his service as a gunner in the second Gulf War. He sported a pointy goatee, long sideburns and thinning hair he’d pulled into a ponytail at the back of his neck. An enamel yin-yang symbol on a leather cord appeared in the open neck of his golf shirt.
“Lame.” Maya flicked her hand. A shower of tinkling silver bangles slid down her forearm and revealed a freshly healed wrist scar.
“Do we get pizza here?” asked a man with white hair that looked electrified. Stew’s children had tracked him down in an Aspen homeless shelter last week and admitted him for heroin addiction treatment. He’d stopped taking his mental health medications and had been suffering from hallucinations.
“Every Friday,” Brielle supplied and the group slowly turned her way, their eyes wary. She hadn’t spoken this whole hour save for a brief introduction. While Craig took the lead and built rapport, she’d stayed at the whiteboard and jotted down group responses while taking mental notes about her charges. “We’ll make them, so you can have any toppings you want.”
Pizza night was one of several activities she and Craig had brainstormed to build trust, confidence and self-esteem. Yet Fresh Start needed to add ranch skills to reach the potential envisioned by its owner. Thus far, no one had responded to her ad seeking a cowboy to run those activities. Did her lack of applicants stem from the disapproval locals had expressed about the clinic?
“Sweet!” Paul quirked an eyebrow at Maya. “If you’re lucky I’ll let you try mine.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’d kill myself first.”
An appalled silence descended. First-time group therapies needed to stay light and upbeat as the clients learned about each other and built trust; Maya’s statement was anything but that.
“Kidding. Jeez,” she muttered, then slid even farther into her seat. Her stick-thin arms crossed against her chest.
“Hey, if you can’t joke about suicide here, where can you?” Craig put in, a twinkle in his hooded blue eyes.
A twentysomething woman with Tourette’s syndrome giggled then clapped a hand over her mouth. Paul mouthed “what?” and guffawed. Stew joined in with an infectious belly laugh that got the rest of the group going, including Maya, who perked up enough to resume picking the rubber soles off her Converse sneakers.
Brielle stood, crossed the room and shot Craig a thumbs-up at the door. Very nice. Exactly the right touch of levity and reality, she thought as she strode back to her office. Her plans were finally coming together.
During the last three weeks, she’d fallen into a comforting routine with predictable schedules and specified activities. Now that she’d inserted order in her world, she’d begun to feel, for the first time since her discharge, she fit in...at least within these walls. Her days flew by at breakneck speed as she conducted staff interviews, oversaw patient admissions, supervised daily operations and provided individual therapy sessions to lighten Craig’s load.
She rounded a corner and her receptionist, Doreen, a petite redhead wearing oversize glasses, waved at her. Half a bologna sandwich dangled from her fingers.
“Call,” she mumbled around a mouthful, then pointed at Brielle’s office. “Mayor.”
The mayor?
Brielle hustled around her desk and snatched up the handset. Outside her open window was a domed blue sky, the mountains crystal clear around the valley. A light wind carried the scent of wild sage. “Hello, Mr. Cantwell. What can I do for you?”
“Hi, Ms. Thompson. I hope your first week’s going well.”
She thought of the missing paper supply order and the wrong-size bedsheets that failed to fit their overlong mattresses.
“Couldn’t be better.” Her eyes wandered to a picture of her parents from a cruise they’d taken during her first deployment. They stood barefoot in sand, their faces red and their smiles wide. She’d been surrounded by sand, too, back then. It hadn’t been a photo op, though. Not that she needed a picture to remind her. She could still see, feel and taste that sand. Grains of it clung and scraped inside her, out of reach.
“As you might have seen in the paper, some of our residents have raised concerns about your facility.”
“I’ve read them.” The one delivered to her house, the one delivered to the center, even the one sitting on the diner’s counter when she ordered her coffee this morning—each one reminding her of how unwelcome her facility was in this close-knit town.
Doreen appeared and set a glass of iced tea and a pile of mail on Brielle’s desk. She smiled her gratitude, passed Doreen completed applicant forms for data entry and picked up the welcome refreshment.
“The town council has taken an interest.”
The iced tea sloshed over the side of the glass and splatted her desk blotter. “And what does that mean exactly?”
“They’re calling a meeting to allow residents to air their grievances.”
“Grievances?” she echoed. “I don’t understand. We haven’t caused any problems...”
“You haven’t, and believe me, Carbondale is happy to have you,” the mayor soothed, then—“Hold a moment, I’ve got to get rid of this other call.”
“Not all of Carbondale’s pleased,” she muttered under her breath, thinking of Justin Cade as she awaited the mayor’s return. A sip of her sweet, lemony caffeine jump-started her jittering knee.
Despite her burgeoning responsibilities, she found herself thinking often about her dark rider, as she’d begun calling Justin after one particularly blushworthy dream. He’d taken her on a moonlight motorcycle ride to a secluded spot and then... She’d woken up.
Luckily.
Her full-to-bursting life, one she needed to succeed at, didn’t allow for romantic fantasies about some tragic Brontë-esque hero in cowboy boots. Her attention and focus needed to be on the clinic and its patients, not an angst-ridden bad boy with possible suicidal tendencies...especially one who might soon be a resident here.
Would he accept the challenge she’d issued after the hearing?
“Sorry about that,” the mayor said, back on the line. “More business about this year’s Halloween parade. Some are requesting a costume ban because t
hey may scare the children. A Halloween parade without costumes? Can you picture it?”
She made a sympathetic noise, and the man continued, “Anyway, if you would attend the town meeting and present your case...?”
“Is Fresh Start on trial?” Her fingers traced a cross pattern in the condensation beading her glass. She’d expected a bit of pushback from a few of the old-time residents and figured it would just blow over in a few months...a town meeting was way more than she’d bargained for.
“No.” The sound of rustling papers crinkled in her ear. “But Fresh Start’s charter is conditional and can be revoked. It’d be helpful if you’d discuss the good work you do to help some of the more—” he cleared his throat “—cautious community members understand there’s no reason to fear your patients.”
“They’re just trying to get their lives back together. The only harm my clients pose is to themselves.” Her eyes swung to the dog tags stowed in a paper clip holder beside an overwatered spider plant. A discolored ring encircled the pot’s bottom.
“I know. But keep in mind this isn’t a big city like Chicago. We don’t have those sorts of problems here...”
They had those problems everywhere, she thought wearily. Carbondale just might be a bit too close-minded, too proud, too much in denial to acknowledge it. Maybe they believed a problem wasn’t a problem until you identified it.
“What about Jesse Cade?” she blurted, her mind zooming back to Justin.
Neither he nor his family had contacted her about admission. Given his impending sentencing tomorrow, did his silence suggest he’d chosen jail over the clinic?
Clearly, he wasn’t ready for therapy’s hard work. He’d refused to thank her for helping him or admit he’d endangered his life. And with more protest letters to the editor appearing in this morning’s paper, the last thing she wanted were resistant, negative residents during her center’s opening. He didn’t see the program’s benefit and refused to be saved.
So why did she still yearn to do just that?