Harlequin Heartwarming April 2018 Box Set

by Amy Vastine

  He shoved back his chair and held out his hand. “Dare accepted.”

  As he left the facility to meet his sister for a ride home, thoughts ran through Justin’s head. He hadn’t been able to save his brother, but perhaps it wasn’t too late to make some sort of amends and help others, even though he had little faith it’d make a difference with him.

  And deep down, he had to admit that the choice between spending the next one-plus month with Brielle Thompson versus Sheriff Travis Loveland wasn’t exactly hard to make.

  His lips curved as he pictured her fired-up expression.

  Nope.

  Not a difficult decision by a long shot.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “HE’S HERE. HE’S HERE!” Doreen stage-whispered, fluttering in Brielle’s office door the following day. Her gravity-defying bangs quivered like antennae.

  Brielle cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

  “Him… Justin Cade. He’s filling out his contact and insurance information.” Doreen waved a hand before her scarlet face. “And he’s wearing his dark leather jacket and black cowboy hat with the brim low over those eyes of his and…”

  “Decorum, Doreen,” Brielle chided gently, knowing herself to be a flat-out hypocrite considering she craned her neck to glimpse the dark rider just feet away.

  Anticipation fired her synapses, lighting her up inside. She’d nearly given up on Justin showing today, given the hour—4:55 p.m. A clear indicator of his reluctance, and his nerves, she suspected, no matter how tough and gruff the grizzly bear of a cowboy appeared.

  “Send him in when he’s finished, please.”

  “Can I offer him coffee?” Doreen bit her lip and shot a sideways glance over her shoulder. “Tea…some Twizzlers…?”

  Brielle tucked back a smile at her smitten secretary. Justin Cade was a tall, dark, dangerous drink of water. No wonder he had Doreen spinning in circles.

  “Whatever you like, but don’t stay past five, okay? You’ve put in too many extra hours as it is.” She shot her employee a grateful smile. They’d all been slaving, double time, to get the facility up and running. With her resident cowboy now on location, the final pieces fell into place…

  Except community buy-in.

  She clamped a hand over her jittering knee. In a few days, she’d face the town members who’d written complaints to the local paper’s editor. They’d air their grievances, and she’d settle their concerns. Simple, right? So why did she feel as though she was preparing to trundle down an IED-riddled road? One wrong move, one careless word, could destroy everything.

  Just this morning, a letter had appeared in the paper labeling Fresh Start a “Dangerous Den of Druggies.” She appreciated the alliteration—the sentiment, not so much. She’d defend this facility to her last breath just as she’d stood by her soldiers.

  Until she hadn’t…

  And look where that got you…

  Got them…

  The dog tags by her spider plant drew her eye, and she dumped the rest of her water into its dark soil. Mud flowed out the bottom and seeped onto her desk blotter. A yellow frond caught her eye. Was it dying? She scrutinized the rest of the greenery as she pinched it off, dropped it in her wastebasket then sopped up the wet with a tissue clump. Her fumbling hands knocked over her tea, and the scalding liquid shot onto her lap.

  “Mary, mother of Jesus!” She hopped in a circle, dabbing at the material. It burned a hole in her flesh—well, her skirt at least. What’d Doreen put in there?

  “Is this a bad time?” a man’s low bass voice rumbled.

  Her head snapped up, and the heat radiating down her leg paled in comparison to the firestorm of her cheeks. She pressed her hands to them and nodded, her eyes drinking in Justin Cade.

  In worn Wranglers, scuffed boots and a black hat that contrasted with his light hazel eyes, he pulled a sigh right out of her. Ragtag as all get-out, he still commanded attention. Hers, at least. He sauntered into her office, lanky, wiry as an apostrophe, his square-shouldered, loose-limbed gait oddly graceful, his dark beard a little menacing. Her heartbeat tripped into double time.

  “What gave you that impression?” She swept a hand toward a chair across from her desk, inviting him to sit.

  “Thought I interrupted some religious ritual.” He slouched into the chair and crossed his legs at the ankles. With his lids half lowered and the corners of his mouth hidden by his beard and mustache, she couldn’t tell if he was serious or teasing. “Any more saints you plan on summoning? Should I be worried about fire and brimstone, preacher?”

  “We’ll see how things go,” she replied wryly. “I’ve got ten thousand more to call on if need be.”

  “Jesus,” he muttered, slipping a toothpick into his mouth.

  “Technically, that’s the Lord’s son, but always a good go-to.”

  That drew a sputtering chuckle out of Justin, a rusty sound like an old engine starting up for the first time in years. It did something strange to her chest, expanding it so her lungs drew in more air, thin and heady.

  Or was the response Justin’s effect on her?

  “If you’ll tell me where I’m bunking, I’ll go on up.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Leave you to your tribal dance.”

  She smiled. Beneath Justin’s glower lurked a bit of a comedian. “Once I complete your intake, we’ll get you settled.”

  “Intake?” His lids lifted. “Thought I filled out all the paperwork.”

  “Some, but we need more information before we can admit you.”

  Justin tugged at the collar of his black T-shirt then pulled off his leather jacket. “How much more?”

  “Not much.” She crossed her fingers beneath the desk and tried not to admire the way his shirt stretched across the wide V of his chest. Tried being the operative word. “I’ll be asking you a series of questions. Your answers will be confidential.”

  “No, they won’t.” He dropped his leather jacket on the floor beside his duffel.

  “Yes, they will.”

  His broad shoulders lifted and fell in a shrug. “You’ll know them.”

  “I don’t count.”

  His eyes lasered into hers. “Says who?”

  She blinked at him. As a counselor, she served as a conduit for patients, channeling their fears, their rage, their despair. Justin’s comment solidified her somehow. He made her feel present and alive in a way she hadn’t in a long time. “The counselor you’re assigned can’t help you without this information.”

  “I don’t want help.”

  She counted backward from ten then said, “We can’t admit you without a completed intake, and you accepted the dare.”

  “To volunteer teaching your patients to tend cattle. Ride. Rope…” Justin folded his arms over his chest, mutinous.

  “You had the option, here or jail, and you chose Fresh Start. Whether you go to group sessions or not, you’re still a patient.”

  “Not so’s I see it,” he grumbled. Behind him, Doreen strolled past the doorway, rubbernecking.

  “Would you please close the door, Doreen?” Brielle called.

  “Can I get you two anything?” she asked, her eyes sticking to Justin like he was made of flypaper.

  “A beer?” Justin drawled.

  “That’ll be all, Doreen, thanks.”

  Once the door closed, Justin lifted his eyes and studied her. The slanting sun glinted on the gold flecks in his jewel-tone depths. “What kinds of questions?”

  She clicked on her keyboard and brought up his Addiction Severity Index sheet. “Medical, employment/support status, alcohol, drug, legal, family/social and psychiatric.”

  One thick eyebrow rose. “You said this’d be quick.”

  “We’ll be as fast as possible. All clients partake in this interview. The information helps us provide you with
the right care for your needs.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Need anything,” she finished for him, an edge entering her voice despite her effort to stay neutral. He wasn’t used to the tough, blunt talk she’d adopted with her soldiers. Sometimes it was the only way she’d gotten through. “Got it.”

  Justin waved a hand. “Let’s get this over with,” he mumbled around the toothpick.

  She squared her shoulders.

  Lord, give me strength.

  “You also have the right to refuse to answer any question.”

  “Now we’re talking.” He tipped his hat down so low it covered his eyes. His chin dropped to his chest. Her hands clasped each other, and it took all her self-discipline not to flick that blasted hat right off his head. She knew avoidance when she saw it. Knew how to handle it, too…so why was he getting under her skin?

  He’s a client.

  Yet she struggled to see him that way.

  “If you’re uncomfortable,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him, “or if it feels too personal or painful to give a response, then don’t answer.”

  His nostrils flared. “Are you calling me a coward?”

  “Some things are hard to talk about.”

  “I’m private. Big difference.” He spread his large hands, and she noticed his scraped knuckles. A boxer’s hands. A fighter, like her. Now she squared off against him, circling the ring, trying to pin him on the ropes. She didn’t want to beat him so much as break him down until his hard shell cracked. Until then, she couldn’t reach him—who he really was inside.

  “Private or just hiding?”

  He flipped up his hat brim and stared at her, aghast. “Is this part of your script?” He waved a hand at her computer.

  “Nope. My own improvisation. Oh, and when answering, please try to be as accurate as possible.”

  He angled forward in his seat. “You think I’m a coward and a liar?”

  “I don’t know you well enough to tell,” she said bluntly, though she felt as though she did know him, on some deeper level. She sensed the parts he hid because she concealed them, too.

  He shook his head and leaned back in his chair, turning the tables on Brielle. “What rank were you before you left the Army?”

  She shifted in her seat. “This isn’t about me.”

  “How about this?” His eyes bored into hers. “For every question you answer, I’ll return the favor.”

  A sheen of perspiration popped out on her brow. She crossed to the window and cranked it open, letting the cool early October air flow over her. How personal did Justin plan on getting? If she started talking about her past, she risked triggering her PTSD. She’d fall into the same depression that’d forced her to abandon her comrades during her last tour of duty when they’d needed her most.

  One especially…

  She wouldn’t risk failing her current charges. Fresh Start had to succeed, for her patients and herself. And that included a recalcitrant Justin Cade, who awakened her inborn need to help.

  Was she a fraud for refusing to open up while expecting others to share their secrets?

  Absolutely.

  But right now, it was about survival. Just like the airlines directed, you had to put the oxygen mask on yourself before you secured it on others. If she thought too hard—or at all—about her time in Kandahar, she wouldn’t be able to breathe.

  “How about I’ll answer one question for every section you answer completely. And I was a captain.”

  Justin saluted her. “Ask away, Captain.”

  She refreshed his chart on her computer screen and spied the general information Doreen had added before leaving for the day.

  “How many times have you been hospitalized for a medical condition?”

  “Lost track.”

  “Ballpark.”

  “Twenty.”

  Wow. She filled in the box. “How long ago since your last hospitalization for a physical problem?”

  “You know the answer to that as well as me.”

  Keeping her eyes locked on the screen, she hid her wince. She’d never forget the thud of his body as it crashed into her truck. Did this near tragedy fuel her compulsion to help Justin? Or was she just another good girl trying to convert a bad boy?

  All her life, she’d sought to bring light to those in the darkness. Now she fumbled in the gloom, lost, too. She had to find her way, or she’d never lead others to that light again.

  “Any chronic medical conditions?”

  “Nope.”

  “Injuries in the past month?”

  “Fifteen, give or take.”

  She stopped typing and peered at him. He gnawed on his toothpick, unfazed by that whopping number. “Fifteen?”

  “Give or take.”

  “How…?” He didn’t live in a war zone.

  “I ride dirt bikes. And bulls. Cliff dive in summers. Oh. Then there’s barn brawls.”

  “Barn brawls?”

  “Cage fighting, country style.” He cracked his reddened knuckles.

  “And you engage in these high-risk activities because…”

  He shrugged. “They’re fun.”

  “Risking your life…”

  “What’s it matter?”

  A shadow fell on her heart, making her shiver. She held out her palms. “See these?”

  He jerked his chin in acknowledgment.

  “They held the hands of mortally wounded soldiers, and you know what they all had in common?” Her voice shook ever so slightly.

  His eyes narrowed.

  “Life mattered to them. They fought for it, begged for it, wept for it…”

  Justin’s callused hand reached across the desk to cover hers. “I’m sorry.”

  Warmth exploded up her arm at his rough, tender touch. “Don’t be sorry. Be grateful.”

  “Where were you stationed?” he asked a moment later, releasing her.

  “Kandahar.”

  “My brother James served in Kabul.”

  “Where’s he now?”

  “Waging war against our neighbors the Lovelands. Much more dangerous.” The quirk of his lips siphoned her attention from her dark memory. Was he trying to settle her down? That was her job, not his.

  She forced a light tone. “Sounds serious.”

  “Our feud goes back over a hundred and twenty-five years.” Justin dropped his arms so they hung at his sides and faced her full on, his features relaxed. “It began when a Loveland kidnapped Maggie Cade to steal her dowry, a fifty-carat sapphire named Cora’s Tear.”

  “What happened to her?” Brielle asked. If following this tangent loosened Justin up and helped build rapport, she’d play along.

  “Murdered. Thrown off a cliff, and her jewel stolen.”

  Brielle shuddered and glanced at the dramatic vista beyond her windows. Soaring mountaintops glistened in the now fading light. She imagined falling from one, the absolute terror of such a plunge. “Did your family get Cora’s Tear back?”

  “Nope, but we strung up the Loveland lowlife who killed Maggie Cade, and we’ve been feuding ever since.” Satisfaction rounded out every syllable. Clearly Justin relished the ongoing tension, and no wonder…it provided an outlet for the anger she’d glimpsed inside him.

  What fueled his rage?

  “That’s quite a tale.”

  “And now my ma’s dating the head of the Loveland clan.” His boots clomped heavily on her wooden floor as he crossed to her wastebasket and tossed away his toothpick.

  “How does that make you feel?”

  He wheeled around and wagged a finger at her. “Uh-uh. I don’t want any of that psychobabble. Are we through yet?”

  “We’re just getting started.”

  A whistle of air escaped him. “Didn’t think so.” He dragged hi
mself back to his seat.

  After going through his employment and education history, she followed up with, “No dreams of leaving the ranch?”

  His gaze flitted out the window, and his lips pressed into a straight line.

  “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?”