by Karen Rock
“Justin?” she prompted, sensing she pressed a sore spot.
“Kilimanjaro,” he muttered.
Her eyebrows rose. “You want to climb mountains?”
“Was more Jesse’s idea.”
“Not yours?”
“I just wanted see what was beyond there.” He pointed at the horizon.
“What’s stopping you now?”
“My brother’s dead,” he said flatly, his voice shutting the door on her follow-up question.
Did Justin believe he didn’t deserve a life without his twin? Survivor’s guilt? She’d seen it often in squad members who couldn’t wrap their heads around why stopping to sneeze meant they survived an ambush that killed their platoon members. Random acts of destruction—life was full of them.
Justin squinted at her. “Why’d you leave Kandahar?”
“I was discharged.”
“Why were you discharged?”
She clenched the linen material of her skirt, the black tide of shame, remorse and grief crashing inside her. “We agreed to only one question.”
He stared at her from beneath lowered brows. “Fair enough.”
She unfurled her fingers. Hopefully, he’d forget the question...
“Have you consumed any alcohol in the last thirty days?”
“Just beer.”
“How much in the past month?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Around a couple a day or less.”
“Cans or six-packs?”
He blinked at her. “Six-packs...but not every day.”
She tabbed to the appropriate box on her screen. “How many days do you drink a twelve-pack?”
“Just on weekends, and Mondays.”
Her fingers curled over the keyboard, waiting. “Fridays, too?”
He nodded.
“So how much do you drink Tuesday through Thursday?”
He shifted in his seat. “I don’t have to drink every day.”
“But do you?”
His mouth scrunched side to side, then he nodded. “But it’s by choice.”
Right...
“We’re a dry facility here,” she underscored as she filled in his alcohol intake. “No drugs, no alcohol.”
“I don’t do drugs,” he growled.
Beyond her door, footsteps and voices heralded the start of dinner. Her stomach growled at the beefy scent of stew. She should have snitched a square of corn bread earlier. Was Justin hungry? He appeared so formidable, so hard-bitten, it was difficult to imagine him wanting—needing—anything. “How often do you drink to intoxication?”
“I don’t drink to get drunk. I drink to fall asleep.”
She nodded, understanding. Justin drank to shut his brain off completely, often a way to avoid the nightmares that plagued people with PTSD. She typed in a note to their physician about assessing Justin for a Prazosin prescription, the medication that allowed her to unplug every night. “Do you have trouble sleeping?”
“Not when I drink. Look. Are we through this part? Wouldn’t mind getting a plate of whatever’s cooking.”
“Dinner’s served for the next hour, so there’s plenty of time.” She glanced at the digital clock on her desk then continued. “How many years have you been drinking like this?”
“This much? Don’t know. It’s crept up on me...”
“Since...”
“Next question.” He snapped his mouth shut.
“Okay, then. Next section—”
“We agreed you’d answer my question first,” he chided. “Why’d you get discharged?”
“You didn’t answer everything. That was the deal. So, when’d you start drinking so much?” she demanded, holding her breath.
They stared at each other for a tense moment. In the strained quiet, a flock of migrating geese honked furiously overhead, the sound desperate, hectic, as though they ran for their lives. It mirrored her wish to escape Justin’s question, just as he sought to dodge hers.
“Next question,” he said at last, his voice low.
She released her breath and smoothed a hand over her tight bun. A couple of strands dangled by her temple, and she tucked them behind her ears, her fingers shaking slightly.
“How many times in your life have you been arrested for the following?” She ran down a list of charges.
“Only the DUI.”
“No assault charges?”
Justin’s grin was more grim than humorous. “We settle scores between ourselves around here.”
“No weapons offenses?”
“Nope.”
“Do you own any weapons?” Brielle persisted. Laughter rose and fell following a crash from the distant dining room.
He rattled off a list long enough to arm a small militia: handguns, rifles, knives, crossbows, even a grenade launcher.
“Why do you own so many?”
Justin shot her an inscrutable look. “Lots of people own more,” he said, dodging the question. “Is that the end of this section?”
At her nod, he asked, “Why’d you get discharged?”
Sheesh. He wasn’t letting up. She rubbed the back of her tense neck. “You didn’t explain why you own so many weapons.”
At his exasperated sigh, she tapped her keyboard, finished entering the information, then scrolled to the family/social section. “Are you married?”
“Do I look like someone’s husband?”
She studied the scruffy man, one eyebrow raised. He had the strong, silent type nailed. Rough as he might be, she suspected he cleaned up nice... “There’s no accounting for taste.”
That pulled a hard crack of laughter out of him. “Guess I’m no one’s taste, then.”
Not entirely true, not when it came to her, she admitted to herself, drawn more and more to this opaque man.
“Do you want to get married?”
“Are you improvising again?” he drawled, sounding amused.
“It’s on the list,” she rebutted. The question intrigued her, and she was curious about the answer, about Justin...just not for the right...the professionally appropriate reasons.
Once she finished his intake, she’d assign his case to Craig and step away from Justin Cade’s dangerous allure. His recklessness, his need to throw himself needlessly into harm’s way, could get him hurt or worse, thereby triggering her PTSD.
“I’m never getting married,” he pronounced, emphatic.
“That still doesn’t answer whether you want to or not.”
His eyes slid out from under hers. “Next question.”
“Do you live with your family?”
“No.”
She scrolled back up to his contact information. “But your address says—”
“I have a cabin on the property.”
Interesting. Despite living on his family ranch, he considered himself alone, not a part of their family unit.
“Are you satisfied with that arrangement?”
His gaze darted to the window again, and the yearning she glimpsed on his face made her ache. “It’ll do.”
She noted her low confidence in the honesty of his answers and moved on. It wasn’t that he was being untruthful with her. More likely he didn’t realize that he lied to himself. “Do you live with anyone with an alcohol problem or drug abuse issues?”
“Not anymore.”
“Jesse was an opiate addict?”
“He was a hell of a lot more than that.” A muscle jumped just above the line of his beard.
“I liked hearing about him the other day.”
Justin’s tense features relaxed, and she blinked at the transformation, his handsomeness snatching her breath. “It was the first time I’ve talked about him since he passed.”
“I’m honored you shared him with me.”
“No one.”
“Are you satisfied spending your free time alone?”
“Glad not to be making anyone else as miserable,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. An honest admission. One she connected to.
He avoided social situations so he didn’t bring others down...a classic move for a person suffering from depression. Sometimes it was situational, induced from a traumatic event. In other cases, it was a chronic, biological condition. She couldn’t determine which type of depression Justin suffered from...not yet, anyway, not with him being vague and semitruthful with his answers. She’d leave that diagnosis to Craig, but she hoped they’d be able to help him. To do that, though, he’d have to want to help himself, too.
“No close friends?” she asked.
“Jesse’s gone.” A bleak note entered his voice, and she wondered at the unique bond between twins. How devastating it must be to lose someone so close to you.
“Are we finished with this section?” Justin asked.
“Yes.” She braced herself. How to explain her discharge without giving too much away?
“Are you married?”
She released her grip on the sides of her chair. “No.”
“Do you want to get married?”
“That’s two questions,” she protested, turning on her brisk, military voice. No chink in her body armor...no sign of just how much she longed for a partner in life. Like Justin, she hadn’t the stomach to get close to anyone...
The dog tags gleamed in the corner of her eye.
After Justin denied any history of abuse, she asked him if he had any serious conflicts with family.
“They’re happy. I’m not,” he said offhandedly. “That’s a conflict.”
“It’s hard being around people who don’t understand.” She commiserated with Justin. Hadn’t she moved out to this remote part of the world for the same reason? She wanted a fresh start, one that’d buffer her from her PTSD, and part of that came from distancing herself from personal interactions that only reminded her of her past. “How much does that trouble you?”
He shrugged. “You can’t change what you can’t fix,” he quoted.
“That’s a cop-out.”
He whistled, rolling his shoulders. “You sure don’t mince words.”
“Fixing yourself is hard work.”
“I’m not afraid of hard work.” He bristled.
“Guess we’ll see. We’ve got a group session tonight if you’ve got the guts to attend.”
He stared at her, slack-jawed. “Thought ministers were supposed to be nice.”
“I’m called to help. Nice isn’t always required.” She bit back a smile at his shocked expression, enjoying catching the hard-nosed cowboy flat-footed. Maybe too much. “Ever been hospitalized for a mental illness?”
“Now you’re saying I’m a nutjob?”
Her jaw tightened. “We don’t use those kinds of terms. Have you ever been diagnosed with depression?”
“Do I look like I sit around and cry all day?” he blurted. “I’m not sad.”
“What emotions do you feel most often?”
“Nothing.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Except when I’m dirt biking or scrapping.”
“I see.” Her fingers flew across the keyboard. Justin’s behavior fell into the self-harm category. To feel something, he went to extreme lengths. Some cut themselves. Justin barreled directly into moving vans at ninety miles an hour.
“You never feel happy? Excited about things?”
“What’s to be excited about?” he asked through a yawn.
“How about anxiety, compulsion, trouble concentrating?”
He shook his head, his eyes lowering to half-mast again. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was about to fall asleep. But she did know better. He was hiding, ducking behind his wall, a strong indication her questions cut too close to the truth.
“Trouble controlling your anger? Episodes of rage or violence?”
“Comes with being a Cade.”
Her fingers stilled. “Excuse me?”
“We’re known as the town hotheads.”
She cocked her head and recalled how he’d lunged at Sheriff Loveland in the courthouse parking lot. In the comments section, she jotted down a note to Craig to assess for anger management.
“Any thoughts of suicide?”
“No,” Justin said quickly. Too fast.
“Have you ever attempted suicide?”
“No.”
“What about when you hit my van?”
“That was an accident,” he insisted.
“You said you weren’t a liar.”
His hands clenched in his lap. “It’s more like a dare.”
“To who?”
He studied her for a long moment then blew out a breath, his jaw working. “Death.”
Outside, a wind rose and howled off the mountain peaks. “I don’t understand.”
“It came for Jesse.”
“So?”
“Why hasn’t it come for me?” The vein of anguish in his voice was even more powerful for its restraint. It pulled at her.
“Should it?”
He nodded.
“Why?”
“Jesse was the good one.”
And had been given the halo effect from his grieving brother, she added silently. “And you’re not?”
He shook his head, his face a heartbreak. “I’m nothing but trouble. Always have been. Always will be.”
She studied him closely, absorbing his words, frustration rising at seeing him give up on himself so easily. He’d anointed his departed brother with sainthood while labeling himself a sinner, someone who deserved the bad in life or no life at all. “Then do something about it.”
“Like?”
For the first time, in a long time, she found herself getting angry. And it felt good to replace the hopeless despair that’d dogged her. “Something worthwhile. You’re volunteering here to help the facility. How about helping yourself while you’re at it?”
His expression grew guarded, and he stood. “Are we finished?”
She ducked her head and ran her eyes over the screen to hide her irritation. So much for neutrality, for professionalism, for avoiding personal involvement. “Yes.”
He headed to the door then stopped at her voice. “The dining room’s just down the hall to the left. I’ll have your counselor, Craig, show you to your room.”
“You’re not eating with the group?”
“No.”
“Guess you’re not much of a joiner, either,” he said then let himself out, shutting the door softly behind him. Quiet descended, and her shoulders sagged. She met her restless eyes in her computer screen’s reflection.
Justin Cade was trouble...to her. He saw too much. Made her feel too much.
But how to keep him at arm’s length now that they’d be living together for the next six weeks?
CHAPTER FIVE
JUSTIN HUNCHED OVER a plate of stew and mopped up gravy with his buttered bread. With his hat pulled low, his isolated seat in a far corner, he tuned out the dining room babble and rehashed his conversation with Brielle.
She dished out a lot of questions, but she couldn’t take them. Why was she discharged? Why didn’t she want to get married? Her vague answers, her deflections, piqued his curiosity, and he found himself interested in something—in someone—for the first time since Jesse died.
She was full of vim and vinegar, as his gram used to say. Tart tongued and strong as all get-out. He respected her irritating directness. The vulnerability he glimpsed attracted him, too. What was she hiding?
And why was she hiding?
Since Jesse’s death, he lived in suspended animation. He believed Brielle when she’d warned him therapy was hard work. If he needed it, he’d put in the time. One day. But right now, his comfortable numbness insulated him from the feelings she’d mentioned.
Depression? Crazy.
According to his brother Jack, his wife, Dani, had cried for a month straight after they’d had their baby. Postpartum depression. That wasn’t Justin. In fact, none of this mental health stuff applied. He should have just gone to jail. He’d barely gotten through thirty minutes of Brielle’s pointed questions without crawling right out of his skin. How would he survive six weeks of feelings?
They inflicted more damage than any dirt-bike crash or knockout punch.
A chair scraped across the polished wood floor, and he spied a reed-thin teenage girl slumped in the opposite seat. Blond roots shone at the crown of her shoulder-length, uneven black hair, and purple circles pouched beneath sunken eyes. Her bony fingers fidgeted with her fork as the tines chased peas around on her plate. Silver scars dragged from her wrist up along her forearms.
Suicide attempts?
How old was she? No more than sixteen, he’d wager. Too young to cash in. She hadn’t even been dealt her full hand yet.
“Stop staring,” she snapped without tearing her eyes from her plate. “It’s creepy.”
“Don’t recall inviting you to sit here,” he said easily, her irritability relaxing him more than his family’s cheer.
“You were the only one I didn’t think I’d have to talk to,” she grumbled.
He felt a grin come on. “Good. I hate talking.”
“Good.”
Stony silence settled between them. As he polished off his plate, she jabbed her beef chunks with short, vicious stabs.
“What’d that meat ever do to you?”
“Trying to eat here,” she grumbled. Dark eyes rolled up to his from beneath thin brows.
“Didn’t know you could do that without putting any food in your mouth.”