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His Girl From Nowhere
Tina Beckett


Equine therapist Trisha Bolton has a secret. One she’s not allowed to tell anyone. Finally given the chance to start over, she just needs the backing of local ultra-gorgeous neurosurgeon Mike Dunning! No stranger to betrayal, Mike has every reason to be wary of Trisha. Yet each touch sparks long-extinguished flames in Mike, and soon their sessions in the barn become more steamy than either of them bargained for! Mike’s had enough of secrets in his life. But can he convince Trisha that she can trust him with hers?







Dear Reader (#ulink_7ae976d7-f5a8-526e-ae49-c4e478d450a0)

There have been times in my life when I’ve jokingly said, ‘I wish I could start all over again—change my name, my location … go someplace where no one knows who I am.’ That got me thinking. What if, for reasons not of my choosing, I had to do all those things? What if I wound up in the wrong place at the wrong time and my life was put in danger—or the lives of my loved ones? Could I do it? Give up everything and assume a new identity?

That’s what hippotherapist Trisha Bolton must do when she enters a witness protection programme and finds herself in a new town with a brand-new name. She’s not allowed any contact with those from her past and has learned the hard way that it’s better not to trust anyone—not even neurologist Mike Dunning, whose quiet intensity puts her on guard from their very first meeting. Yes, there are sparks erupting between them, but it’s better not to become too attached—because at any moment her past might just catch up with her.

Thank you for joining Trisha and Mike as they navigate the waters of trust and betrayal and learn the true meaning of new beginnings. I hope you enjoy reading about these very special characters as much as I loved writing about them.

Love

Tina Beckett


His Girl From Nowhere

Tina Beckett






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Dedication (#ulink_ea9acfd7-de02-5c7a-bd77-0df7e96dfed2)

To my three children. Each of your births marked a new beginning. I love you very much.


Praise forTina Beckett: (#ulink_d4bf470c-7b73-5233-9dea-784ad688993f)

‘… a tension-filled emotional story with just the right amount of drama. The author’s vivid description of the Brazilian jungle and its people make this story something special.’

—RT Book Reviewson DOCTOR’S GUIDE TO DATING IN THE JUNGLE

‘Medical Romance™ lovers will definitely like NYC ANGELS: FLIRTING WITH DANGER

by Tina Beckett—for who doesn’t like a good forbidden romance?’ —HarlequinJunkie.com


Contents

Cover (#u2abd8948-48bd-5a62-8dc0-e765542d3e7c)

Dear Reader (#ulink_680a32c0-8e9d-5348-a7a6-ba03dd0b79f5)

Title Page (#u7000ce03-a253-53dc-9da2-75633e02fd99)

Dedication (#ulink_88f55682-6a54-5422-a5fa-4f081c414961)

Praise (#ulink_3f7d52e3-612b-596b-952b-82b2b150095d)

Chapter One (#ulink_13bfe088-fc58-58c2-8f70-f4203bbb4ca5)

Chapter Two (#ulink_c1910967-aab4-572f-83d9-7bc26012a7d7)

Chapter Three (#ulink_9f5d5bfd-ffbd-5413-ac20-8f2fee179bac)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_2f4df603-073c-5a52-a1c3-731c7360f316)

SOMEONE WAS IN her barn.

At least, according to her horse’s soft nicker there was. Balancing the bay gelding’s right rear hoof on her thigh, Trisha Bolton paused, the curved metal pick in her hand coming to a halt as she listened. Great. It had taken a couple of firm nudges to get Brutus to lift that last leg so she could finish scraping the debris from the bottoms of his hooves. She didn’t want to signal she was done until she actually was. Because she doubted he’d co-operate a second time—even for a chunk of carrot.

Brutus snuffed, a huge exhalation of sound, and shifted his weight. Maybe he was just impatient to be let out to graze with the other horses.

“Steady, boy.” She readjusted her grip so his hoof didn’t slide down her thigh and drop onto her foot. “We’re almost done.”

“Hello?” she called out, just in case. “I’m over in the cross ties.”

No one responded.

She frowned as she caught the soft sound of footsteps at the far end of the concrete aisle between the stalls, heading her way. So there was someone here. The shoes were quiet, making little sound, each step planted carefully. Not rubber-soled quiet like a tennis shoe, but not the defined click of a riding boot either.

Five miles south of Dusty Hills, Nevada, her little chunk of land lay at the very end of a quarter-mile dirt track. Not the kind of place someone just happened upon. If you found her operation, it was because you came looking for it. And she didn’t have a client at all today, which meant...

Oh, Lord. Roger?

She swallowed hard, then forced herself to relax. No, he’d been moved to Virginia. Would be there for a very long time, according to the courts.

Today was their third anniversary, though. It would be just like him to reach out and remind her that he was still a part of her world, no matter how many miles separated them.

Brutus would be able to see whoever was here from his position at the front of the stall. Trisha, however, still hunched over his back hoof, had her choice of two lovely views: the slatted back wall of the grooming area or her horse’s muscular backside. She could take her pick.

She tried again. “Who’s there? Larry?”

Her barn helper wasn’t scheduled to muck out the stalls again until tomorrow morning. And Penny was out at a supply fair, hoping to score a new bareback pad for those of their patients who had better control over their motor skills. And, besides, both of her workers knew enough to make their presence known when they came through those barn doors. As did all of her clients. There was even a cheerful sign to that effect over the entry beam: Feel free to say hello!

Fear of what could be out there still governed so many of her decisions. Most days she was okay, but today wasn’t one of them.

There was still no answer to her greeting. And the footsteps were closer now. Still quiet. Stealthy, almost.

Brutus tossed his head, the clips attached to either side of his halter jingling in a way that didn’t help her nerves. Her fingers tightened around the wooden handle of the hoof pick. She could always use the tool as a weapon, if need be, although the thought of cutting someone with it made her feel physically ill—reminded her too much of past events.

The agents had sworn her new identity was secure. That assurance, along with the many miles between her and her past, was supposed to ensure her safety. But she’d seen enough to know there were no guarantees—of anything—in this life.

Giving up on finishing her task, she took a step back and allowed Brutus’s hoof to settle heavily on the ground. He shifted his weight onto it and tried to glance back at her, probably wondering what the heck was going on. Then his ears pricked forward, and he looked at something off to the right. She flattened her hand on his haunch, so he’d know where she was as she swiveled toward the front, keeping her body close to that of her horse. The earthy smells of fresh manure and warm animal faded away as she struggled to keep track of the sounds.

Should she call out again?

What if it was someone she didn’t know? Or, worse, someone she did?

Get a grip, Trish, and think.

If it came down to it, an intruder would have to duck under one of the nylon ties that secured Brutus’s head to either side of the grooming stall, giving her a few precious seconds to slip behind the animal and out the other side—preferably without getting kicked in the ribs in the process, if something startled her horse.

Like a gunshot?

“Easy, boy.” The soft quaver in her voice made Brutus’s moist coat twitch beneath her fingertips. He could sense her growing fear.

Why she’d decided to keep her rifle locked in a safe in the house was beyond her. No, it wasn’t. She’d rather risk her own safety than that of her young patients.

She slid her hand back a few inches, tangling her fingers in the long silky strands of Brutus’s tail. There were no true pain receptors in the hairs, so he wouldn’t feel a thing if she had to use it to give herself some momentum to swing behind him.

If they’d found her, they’d target her and not her horse. At least, that was her hope.

There! A man came into view on Brutus’s left, silently facing her from the other side of the aisle with dark narrowed eyes. His shoes were black. Shiny. Leather bottoms. A professional’s shoes. Thick dark hair was swept back from his face, and his hands were buried in the pockets of his gray slacks. If her heart hadn’t been thundering in her chest like that of a racehorse headed for the finish line, she might think the stranger was dangerously handsome.

As it was, he just looked dangerous. Hard carved lines made up his jawline. And a muscle tensed and released repeatedly in his cheek.

Terror swept over her as he withdrew a hand—empty, thank God—and motioned her out of the stall without a word.

She stayed put.

“C-can I help you?” The hand in Brutus’s tail tightened into a fist as she prepared to bolt. She held the pick slightly away from her body, hoping to draw the man’s attention to it and make him think twice about coming in after her. The memory of blood—too much blood—made bile rise in her throat. Could she really slash him with it?

Yes. She’d already proven she was capable of things she’d never dreamed possible.

He motioned to her again, his frown deepening as his eyes moved to the horse and then back to her.

Why didn’t he say something?

If you think I’m coming out of this stall, without knowing exactly—

Her horse had had enough of the thickening tension. He pinned his ears and shied to the right, hindquarters shimmying in an arc away from her. The abrupt movement caused her to lose her grip on his tail just as he let out a shrill whinny.

It was as if a bomb had gone off. Trisha found herself flying through the air, steel bands around either arm as she tumbled through space and landed in a heap on the hard concrete outside the stall.

Scratch that. It wasn’t concrete. It was a body. The steel bands: hands, which still gripped her upper arms. His breath whooshed against her ear in rhythmic gusts.

And the words coming out of his mouth... Well, those weren’t sweet nothings.

So he could talk.

She patted the ground in a panic, searching for her hoof pick. And then her heart stopped as she saw it. Five feet above the guy’s head. Too far to reach.

Her thighs were wedged between his, and she felt every hard muscle of his torso tensed and ready, but that wasn’t what she was worried about. As quick as a bunny she stroked both palms over the stranger’s sides, down his lean hips, and then dragged them back up the front of his thighs, feeling for any lump that wasn’t a body part. Roger had taught her exactly where to look. Had made her pat down her contact. Right before he’d aimed his gun and...

She reached the man’s pelvis, fingers probing, searching.

“What the hell?” The stranger flipped her over so that he was on top—weight resting on his bent elbows, strong thighs still bracketing her legs. Only now her hands were imprisoned by his on either side of her head. “Are you seriously doing this? Now? You could have been killed.”

Her brain hitched. She’d thought she was going to be killed. By him.

There was still one place she hadn’t checked. The back of his waistband. But she couldn’t move. And she was having second thoughts about who’d sent him. Especially since things were beginning to show some interest at the spot where they were joined together.

Breath still sawing in and out of her lungs, she stared up at him, trying to hold perfectly still. “Who are you? And why are you here?”

One eyebrow crept up, and his frown eased. “Maybe you should have stopped to ask that before feeling me up.”

Feeling him...

“Excuse me?”

This was no killer. So who was he? She licked her lips, praying he wasn’t an estranged parent of one of her patients. If so, she’d definitely not made the best first impression. Then again, neither had he.

“Why didn’t you say something, instead of just standing there? You scared me to death. Not to mention dragging me out of the...” She closed her eyes for a second before reopening them and glaring. “You never make sudden movements around a horse. Especially not that horse. You could have gotten us both killed.”

The harsh dipping of something in his throat caught her attention. He stayed put for another second or two then rolled off her with a harsh oath and climbed to his feet. “Believe it or not, I was trying not to scare him into doing something crazy.”

He held a hand toward her, but she ignored it and scrambled to her feet under her own power, hoping she looked more in control of herself than she felt. “Well, consider that a fail.” She glanced at Brutus for proof, only to find him with his head hung low, lids half-shut. His nostrils flared as he huffed out a tired breath.

Really? Trisha rolled her eyes. Thanks for backing me up there, bud. You could at least look a little shaken up.

The stranger eyed the horse as well, looking more than a little wary. “I guess now’s as good a time as any to ask. Are you Patricia Bolton?”

She nodded. At least he hadn’t used her other name. A few more muscles came off high alert.

He continued, “Well, Ms. Bolton, despite our rather questionable introduction, it seems we share a mutual acquaintance.” One of his hands shifted to the small of his back. The one place she hadn’t checked.

Her brain skittered back toward panic, the blood draining from her head. “Is it Roger?” she whispered.

His gaze sharpened, and he lowered his hand, taking a step forward, only to stop when she jerked backwards. He shook his head, his eyes still focused on her face. “No, not Roger. Clara. Clara Trimble. Her mother said you were hoping to work with her. I’m Mike Dunning, the neurosurgeon who performed her operation.”

* * *

Mike had seen all kinds of expressions on a woman’s face as she lay beneath him—lust, need, affection, love. But never in his life had he inspired abject terror. He should have realized the hands sweeping over his body had had a quick furtive quality to them, not the slow, languorous touches he was used to. She’d been looking for something specific.

“I’m sorry I scared you.” He’d been a little panicked himself when that animal had given that high-pitched shriek. His nerves had already been stretched to breaking point the second he’d set foot in the barn, and each step had made the feeling that much worse. He hadn’t dared call out to her, had barely been able to push one foot in front of the other.

Mike and horses could no longer be considered friends. Not that they’d ever been particularly close. But four years and a whole lot of distance had changed nothing, it seemed. He still couldn’t stand to be near them.

The woman in question gave a rough exhalation of breath, drawing the back of her hand over her brow and leaving a smudge of some dark substance that made his lips curve.

He’d tackled her to the ground, what did he expect?

“Clara,” she said. “Of course. Doris said she was going to ask you to contact me. I expected a phone call, not a visit.”

His brows went up, more convinced than ever that putting his patient on the back of a thousand-pound animal was a bad idea. Both the horse—and its owner—seemed strong-headed, unpredictable. He’d seen first-hand what kind of devastation that combination could cause. He curled his left hand into a loose fist, the emptiness he found there mirroring the void within his chest. “I’m not about to prescribe something for a patient I can’t fully endorse.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip and backed up another pace or two before dropping onto a white plastic bucket against a nearby stall door. “If you had just called first...”

“I did try. I left a message on your machine a few hours ago. I had a break and decided to stop over in person, instead of waiting for you to return my call.” He turned to look at the animal behind him, expecting it to break free of its ties and grab hold of his shirt at any second. He gestured at it. “And if this is your idea of safe, then I’m afraid—”

She stood in a rush. “Brutus isn’t one of my therapy horses. I can assure you the horses I use with my patients are extremely gentle and love their job. Brutus is a...special case.”

Special. Yes, he could see that. About as special as its name.

He glanced around the rest of the barn, but it was empty. “So where are the other horses?”

“Out in the pasture. It’s their day off. Brutus was just about to join them.” She crossed over to her horse, murmuring something in a low voice before wrapping an arm under the creature’s neck and leaning her temple against it.

He swallowed back a ball of fear when the big animal shifted closer to her. “Could you come away from there, please?”

Instead of doing as he asked, she leaned sideways and grabbed a loop of leather off a peg on the wall and unclipped one of the ties holding the horse in place. She replaced it with a hook from the loop in her hand. Then she unsnapped the tie on the other side.

The creature was free, except for that thin cord she held.

As if knowing exactly what he was thinking, the horse snorted and bobbed its head.

“What are you doing?”

She eyed him, a slight pucker between her brows. “I told you. Brutus needs to be turned out.”

To his shock, she held the length of leather out to him. “Do you mind leading him while I take the wheelbarrow out to the compost heap?”

“I’d prefer it if you just put him in a stall.” He gestured to the row of empty boxes.

She bent over to pick up the curved metal instrument she’d been using when he’d arrived. For a second or two he’d wondered if she’d planned on gutting him with it, before dismissing the idea as ridiculous. She tossed the item into a wooden chest then shrugged. “Okay. I’ll lead him and you can take the wheelbarrow. The compost heap is on the way out to the pasture. We can talk on the way and you can see the other horses.” She gave a quick laugh, seeming to have recovered her composure. “You might want to watch your shoes, though. Wouldn’t want to ruin them.”

He glanced to the side and saw a wheelbarrow filled with a substance he recognized, and which looked suspiciously like the smudge on Ms. Bolton’s forehead. Despite the situation, he couldn’t stop a smile from forming. She thought he was afraid of a little horse manure? He would have set her straight, but she was already on the move, the horse swinging out of the stall and passing within two feet of where he stood. Its hooves made a familiar clop-clop as the pair moved toward the far doors.

He rolled his eyes. The things he did for his patients.

Okay, Mike. You’re a brain surgeon. You’ve seen a whole lot worse than this.

Yes, he had.

He curled his hands around the handles of the wheelbarrow and lifted, finding the thing surprisingly heavy. Marcy had boarded her horses at another location, heading out there in the mornings and coming home in the evenings. He’d never had much to do with her profession. Until the night she hadn’t come home at all. And he’d been left to live with the aftermath.

An aftermath that still rose up to choke him at times.

Like now?

Hell. The sooner he got off Patricia Bolton’s property, the better.

He caught up to her within a minute, making sure to stay on her far side, away from the horse, which trudged forward like it hadn’t a care in the world. You’d never know it was the same animal who’d minutes ago caused him to charge into the pen, his only thought to drag Ms. Bolton out of harm’s way.

Apparently, she hadn’t needed his help after all.

“So, what set him off?” He wasn’t sure why he asked. Maybe to try to understand what had happened four years ago.

She glanced at him. “The way you motioned me out of the cross ties. He’s leery of arms that move in quick jerky motions. Especially if they’re flicked back and then brought down in a rush.”

That made him pause. “Why didn’t you say something the first time I did it?” She’d just stood there and let him repeat the gesture a second time without saying a word.

“I thought you were...” She shook her head. “It’s complicated. Just don’t do it again.”

Not much chance of that, since he’d probably never see Ms. Bolton—or Brutus—again after today. That included those deep green eyes fringed with thick dark lashes. And her cute blonde ponytail that was currently swishing back and forth with every step she took. And her extremely inviting derrière, which seemed custom made for gripping.

Tightening his fingers on the handles of the wheelbarrow and glad the metal object hid a certain wayward body part, he tried to shift his thoughts back to his patient. “So Doris Trimble thinks you can help Clara.”

“I think I can too.” She glanced sideways at him and then back ahead.

There was no hint of conceit or of trying to win him over to her position, just a matter-of-fact response. Did she actually expect him to take that at face value, without any substantive proof? Well, he’d just match her short response with one of his own.

“How?”

“There are studies. Testimonials—”

That word made him snort.

She drew up short and her horse halted as well, heaving a huge breath and then blowing it out with a blubber of lips, like a child irritated at being kept from his recess.

“Look, if you’ve already made up your mind, why are you even here?”

Good question. He could have told Clara’s mother no. Or just signed off on the recommendation form that would allow insurance to cover the therapy. Or, like Patricia had said, he could have just called and had a brief conversation with her. He had tried, as he’d told her, but he couldn’t bring himself to put a child in harm’s way, no matter how uncomfortable coming out here might be for him. Still, she was right. He needed to extend her the same courtesy he expected to have afforded to him. He needed to hear her out.

“I want Clara to have the best treatment options, so I’m not ready to rule out anything.”

“And yet when you ask me for data, you make scoffing sounds before I’ve said ten words.”

“Fair enough. So convince me.” He let the wheelbarrow’s supports touch the ground and crossed his arms over his chest, waiting.

“Great.” She shook her head and started back down the path without a word, the horse again moving with her.

This woman was impossible. He grabbed the handles and followed her. It was really hard to carry on an intelligent conversation while hauling a load of manure.

She held up the tip of her rope and pointed off to the left. “Dump it over there behind that wooden barricade, if you don’t mind. You can leave the wheelbarrow there. Thanks.”

By the time he’d done as she asked, she’d released Demon Seed—a better name than Brutus, in his opinion—into a large fenced grassy area.

Mike arrived just in time to see four other horses making a beeline for the newcomer, tails flowing out behind them as they galloped toward the fence. There was a kind of strange powwow between the animals, accompanied by various sounds, then one of the horses wheeled around and raced away from the group. The others soon followed suit. None of them looked particularly tame.

“Those are your therapy horses?”

“Yes. Brutus is the only one not used in the program.”

“How do you keep them under control?”

She glanced out at the field. “They know when it’s time to work and when it’s time to play. I can assure you that they take their jobs as seriously as any other kind of service animal.”

Was she talking about seeing-eye dogs? “But not Brutus.”

“No. Not Brutus. I told you, he’s a special case. The other horses are teaching him what it means to be a...” She shrugged. “Well, a horse. Sometimes horses—and people—have to relearn what it means to be normal.”

That was one thing on which they could both agree. He hadn’t quite made it there yet. “So tell me about your program.”

She waited for a minute then smiled. “You say you want to know about it, but every time I start to talk you shut yourself off.”

“Sorry?”

Her fingers touched his left forearm, sending a jolt through him. “You cross your arms. Meaning you’re not going to accept what I have to say.”

He unfolded his limbs, mostly to dislodge her fingers. “Not true.”

“No?”

Okay, so she was right. But he wasn’t sure how to get past it. He could stand there with his arms hanging straight down, but it wouldn’t mean a thing. He’d still be skeptical, and he couldn’t think of anything she could do that would change the way he felt. Marcy had told him one thing and then gone and done another. How did he know Patricia wouldn’t bend the truth to suit her own purposes? “I guess we’re at an impasse, then.”

“Not quite. I think I might have a solution.”

He couldn’t think of one to save his life. “I’m listening.” This time he kept his arms loose at his sides, his innards knotting up instead.

“You have to experience what it’s like to be one of my patients.”

He thumbed through his mental schedule. “If you’ll give me a specific time, I’ll see if I can make it out to observe—”

“Oh, no. I don’t mean you can watch. I want you to ‘do.”’ She leaned a curvy hip against the rail of the wooden fence next to her.

“Do?” The muscles of his chest tightened, and he realized he’d crossed his arms again. This time he let them stay put.

“I want you to go through therapy as if you were one of my patients.”

“I don’t understand.” Actually, he did understand. He just didn’t want to. Already the gears in his head were beginning to whine like one of the bone saws he used in surgery.

Her smile grew, a genuine flashing of straight white teeth, her ponytail whisking back and forth as she shook her head. “You don’t have to understand, Dr. Dunning. Not yet. You just have to show up.”


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_18f6d58d-88a4-5df7-b9a5-bac5f5b1c8ef)

SHOW ME YOURS, and I’ll show you mine.

Trisha mounted and gathered the reins in her left hand, giving Brutus a quick pat on the neck with the other hand for standing still.

The good doctor had taken up her challenge two days ago and upped the ante in a way that was juvenile and yet, oh, so effective. He’d expected her to balk. Had counted on it, if she wasn’t mistaken. She’d made a quip about how safe her horses were, that her patients hadn’t shed a drop of blood yet—a good thing, she’d said laughingly, since she couldn’t stand the sight of blood.

He’d gotten this speculative gleam in his eye as soon as the words had passed between her lips, then had issued his ultimatum. And assured her that his profession did indeed involve blood.

Was she game?

Game? Really?

She’d been forced to stab a man—had almost killed him. So the doctor’s jibe had stuck in her craw. As if she had been some sissy, shying away from a paper cut or a bloody nose. It was so much more than that.

So she’d tilted her chin, taken her aversion to blood and guts and forced it to the back of her mind, drawing the heavy drapes closed on reality and agreeing to his request. He would sit through three sessions of therapy—as in literally sitting on Crow, her gentle giant—once he’d observed three sessions with a patient. She, in turn, had to sit in the glassed-in room above the surgical suite and watch him saw through a person’s skull. That wasn’t exactly the way he’d put it, but it was basically the same thing.

Dr. Dunning had definitely gotten the better end of that deal. Only she could tell that he didn’t see it that way. His fear of Brutus had been almost palpable.

I was trying not to scare him.

That thought had never crossed her mind as she’d stood in that stall, her own knees quivering with terror when he’d silently motioned her out of there. He’d been as scared as she had.

Did that mean their mutual fears canceled each other out?

Hardly.

But if he could push through his, then she needed to try to push through hers. As it was, she’d seized his words, telling him that meant he had to “see hers’ first—in other words, he was going to see how she operated. Whether or not he’d show up for her session with Bethany Williams this afternoon was still to be seen. She was counting on him really wanting to do what was right for his patient. And since Clara’s team of doctors had done almost all they could for her through surgery and the normal course of physical therapy, her mom wanted to expand their horizons. Try some other options.

Trisha had only been in Dusty Hills six months, so getting the endorsement of a local neurosurgeon seemed a good way to get her name out...to put her on the path toward making it in this small town. If he could just see Clara on a therapy horse, he’d see how much it could help her. The five-year-old had definitely responded to the way Trisha had stroked her tiny fingers over Crow’s inky-black coat. Trisha just needed Dr. Dunning to sign off on treatment, both for the sake of health insurance and her own liability insurance. Which reminded her, she’d have to list the good doctor as one of her patients for a little while so he’d be covered. Just in case.

She sighed and fanned her legs, making a clucking sound as she asked Brutus to break into a slow jog. She’d already warmed him up with some circles on the longe line, so he responded to the request quickly. “Someday soon I’m going to ask you to lope, big boy. Just to show you it’s safe.”

Her horse had endured the wrong end of a whip in his past life, the long pale scars—devoid of hair—visible on his haunches. He still shied away from sudden movements near his head—especially if those movements were made by a man—and Trisha couldn’t blame him. He was as much in need of therapy as any of her other patients. So when she’d told Dr. Dunning he was a special case, she hadn’t been kidding. But the horse had come a long way over the past several months. So had she.

In his own way, Brutus was helping her recover as much as she was helping him. Guiding the gelding to the center of the indoor arena to go through a large sweeping figure eight, they changed direction from clockwise to counterclockwise, and she smiled when one of his ears swiveled back to face her, listening for any verbal cues she might give. “Good boy.”

Although Brutus had shown his nerves at Dr. Dunning’s presence in no uncertain terms, things could have been a whole lot worse, according to what she’d been told by the rescue organization. Trisha might have maintained her poker face a little better than her horse had, but she hadn’t been unaffected. Oh, no. Especially not once she’d realized the man had not been a killer sent to deliver a personalized anniversary message, courtesy of her ex-husband. Her fear had morphed into something else entirely when he’d flipped her onto her back, his firm warm chest pressing against her breasts, his breath mingling with hers. Her thoughts had taken off in other directions. Dangerous directions.

She’d wanted to wheel away from him just like her horse had. Only she hadn’t been able to, and not just because he’d had her pinned to the ground with his body, hands imprisoning hers.

Two days later she still couldn’t shy away from him. No, in all likelihood, she was going to have to work with the good doctor on a regular basis. If she could convince him she and her horses were not a danger to him or his patients.

To do that, she was going to have to find a way to keep her job at the forefront of her mind. And since he was due at the barn in two short hours, fifteen minutes ahead of her first young patient, she would have just enough time after working Brutus to shower and dress in something a bit more professional than her standard faded jeans and halter top combo. And somehow she needed to squash her silly reaction to the surgeon’s presence. Especially since she had big plans for the man. Plans that included making him shed that thick coat of control he wrapped around himself and get him to agree that she could help some of his patients.

If she could just get the man to co-operate.

* * *

Hippotherapist does sound a little bit like hypnotherapist.

Mike turned his car into the driveway leading up to Patricia’s place. This could have all turned out differently had he heard Doris Trimble correctly. He’d been so sure she’d said she wanted her young daughter to visit a hypnotherapist that he hadn’t even glanced up from his prescription pad, but had continued writing as he’d asked her what she thought that would accomplish. Then the word horse had been mentioned and his head had jerked up to attention as she’d explained about the new equine therapist in town. By the time he’d got the gist of what she’d been talking about, he’d been in too deep. He hadn’t been able to just shoot the suggestion down, especially after getting a good look at the hope imprinted on her face. Clara had grinned wider than he’d ever seen as her mother had continued to make her case.

“Have you already taken her to see this person?”

“Just for a quick peek at the horses,” she’d said, a fleeting look of guilt flashing through her eyes. “Clara seemed to love them. She responded immediately.”

Perfect. This wasn’t going to be a passing idea, evidently. He was either going to have to get behind the plan and support her, or give her at least one good reason why she shouldn’t let Clara anywhere near Ms. Bolton or her horses. Hopefully that reason would come today.

There was no paved parking area near the barn, so he pulled into the same spot he’d parked in the last time. Glancing to his left, he spotted two horses close to the fence. They seemed to be studying his arrival with interest. He thought one of them might be the infamous Brutus. He could swear the animal on the right gave him a look of pure dislike, lifting his head to follow Mike’s movements as he got out of the car. He had to fight not to climb back into his vehicle and beat a hasty retreat.

“Well, guess what? The feeling’s mutual.” He tossed the words at the animal, only to stiffen when a quiet feminine voice answered him.

“What feeling is that?”

He swiveled around. Patricia Bolton had evidently come out of the barn when she’d heard his car drive up. He shrugged. “Just talking to myself.”

She glanced out at the pasture, where Brutus was still staring at them. “I see.”

“Ms. Bolton, look, maybe we can save ourselves both a whole lot of—”

She held up a hand to stop him. “Call me Trisha. My patients do.”

His patients called him Dr. Mike, but it seemed a little presumptuous to ask her to do the same. So he said, “Okay...Trisha. Why don’t you call me Mike?”

“Great. If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you how I prepare for my first clients of the day.”

So much for leaving. She’d smoothly intercepted any pre-emptive strike he might have made and disarmed him.

Following her inside the barn to the very place he’d lain with her on the ground, the image of tangled arms and legs and of fingers running up his thighs came back with frightening clarity. He swore he could still feel her touch. He shook his head to banish the sensation.

There was a horse tethered in the same position that Brutus had been the other day, only this time there was some sort of saddle draped over a post, along with a brightly patterned blanket. “I was just grooming him before saddling up. This is Crow.”

Pitch black without the slightest trace of white, the animal’s coat had a healthy gleam that made Mike think she’d gussied him up just to show him off. His mane was even braided. She needn’t have bothered, though. Because just standing there near the horse made his gut contract.

“Do you want to touch him?” Trisha walked right over to the animal and stroked a hand down his neck, smoothing a misplaced braid.

“That’s okay.” He kept to the far side of the aisle, hoping against hope there wasn’t going to be another incident like the one a couple of days ago.

“Come on. He won’t hurt you. You’ve agreed to ride him next week, so you might as well get some of the preliminaries out of the way.”

What had he been thinking, coming out here again? His wife had died handling one of these animals. Did he really want to do this? No. But something about Trisha’s quiet voice and calm manner made him take a step closer. She wasn’t afraid at all.

But, then, Marcy hadn’t been either. And yet in the blink of an eye she’d been gone. And he’d still had to deal with her horses and clients in the midst of everything else. Thankfully, one of her close friends had helped out, going as far as buying the horse that had turned his world upside down. He’d tried to warn her off, but Gloria had insisted it was what Marcy would have wanted, that what had happened had been a tragic accident and not the horse’s fault. She was probably right.

Still, he didn’t want to be trapped in a confined space with one. Anything could happen. “Okay, but could we do this outside the barn?”

She blinked, but nodded. “Sure. Let me just saddle him up.”

Making short work of it, she talked him through the process of swapping the animal’s halter for a bridle, and then she explained the parts of the therapy saddle and showed him how to put it and the blanket on and how to tighten the strap beneath the horse’s belly. Why she thought he needed to know any of this, he had no idea. Marcy had taken him at his word when he’d said he wasn’t interested in riding. She’d never tried to force the issue. Maybe partly to cover up what she’d really been doing at the barn.

If he’d been with her that last day, would she still be alive?

That was something he really didn’t want to think about too closely.

She gave the saddle one last check then said, “Okay, let’s lead him outside.”

His lips quirked. “No wheelbarrow today?”

“Nope.” She grinned back at him. “You lucked out.”

He wasn’t sure he’d consider this lucking out, but he’d do whatever it took to get through this and head back to his own job. Where he felt secure and confident.

Like the last time he’d been here, he remained at Trisha’s side as she told him that a horse should always be led from the left. “Have you ever been around horses at all?”

How to explain without...explaining? “I have, but I haven’t worked with them closely.”

There. Not bad.

Then she arrived at a rectangular fenced-in area that was covered with sandy-looking material. It appeared to have been freshly raked, a system of grooves running through the grains—for his benefit? She stopped and tied the reins to the middle fence post and glanced at her watch. “We still have about five minutes before Bethany arrives so why don’t you introduce yourself to him? Come stand next to me.”

Mike stiffened when she patted the animal on the neck. It was either explain why he had an aversion to horses or do as she asked. He moved closer as she continued stroking the animal.

“This is how I’d approach a patient who’s here for the first time.” She took Mike by the hand, her fingers firm against his as she lifted it and pressed his palm to the animal’s coat, slowly guiding it down the length of the neck. “Isn’t he smooth?”

Was he supposed to answer her? Because, no, it didn’t feel smooth. All he could think about was how anything could happen. In the time it took for him to blink. And that familiar horsy smell that had clung to Marcy whenever she’d come home from the barn... It was right here, with all its terrible reminders of secret meetings and half-truths.

None of it was comforting.

And yet as Trisha continued to guide his hand in slow sweeping strokes over Crow’s coat, the horse stood extremely still, as if he somehow sensed the turmoil lurking just below the surface. And slowly the textures and temperature of the animal’s body began to make themselves known.

“Relax,” she murmured, her voice like the softest silk. “He won’t hurt you.”

He couldn’t bring himself to let his muscles go loose, but he did try to concentrate on things other than how huge and powerful the animal was. Like the warm grip of Trisha’s hand as she held his. Like the scent of her hair and the tickle of her ponytail as it brushed his neck when she twisted her head. He concentrated on her instead of the horse. She bent a little lower, her hand guiding his down the upper portion of the horse’s leg. “Crow could stand here all day and let you do this. He loves it.”

He gulped. Crow wasn’t the only one who could stand there all day. He was suddenly enjoying Trisha’s touch a little too much, allowing his hand to rest in hers a little too heavily.

He didn’t understand why his thoughts were even heading in this direction. He’d been with a couple of other woman since his wife’s death, but those had been quick clinical sessions born out of physical need more than anything.

When Trisha’s thumb curled into his palm as she lifted his arm to place it high on the horse’s back, the friction caused a chain reaction in his body.

She wasn’t purposely trying to switch on his motor, but it was cranking to life anyway. He tried to close his eyes to blot out her face, but it just heightened all of his other senses. The heat of her body next to his. The soothing little sounds she made as she murmured to the horse...to him.

“Isn’t this nice?” she whispered.

Definitely not soothing.

“Trisha...” He turned his head to find her looking right at him, eyes soft and inviting.

He swallowed again.

Hell. He couldn’t believe what he was thinking of doing. Or, worse, that he might actually be getting ready to...

His free hand came up to cup the back of her head, just as a shrill childish voice sounded from behind them.

“Cwow! Cwow! I come see you!”

Crow’s head went up, and Trisha’s eyes jerked away from Mike’s, breaking the spell. She let go of him, and he took a couple of quick steps back, though she seemed to recover her composure with ease.

“Bethany,” she said. “Hello! We’ve gotten Crow all ready for you.”

A dark-haired child in a wheelchair rolled toward them, accompanied by two women, one about Trisha’s age and the other about twenty years older. The younger one came over and stood next to the horse, draping an arm over his neck as Trisha walked over to the other two. She embraced the woman and murmured something to her, then knelt in front of the child. “Are you ready for your ride? We’re going to work really hard on our balance today, aren’t we?”

The child nodded, her hands gripping the armrest of her chair as if she was preparing to rise. When she didn’t actually leave the seat, Mike started to move forward to help, only to have Trisha meet his glance with a subtle shake of her head. He stopped in his tracks.

“Dr. Dunning, this is Bethany Williams and her mom, Gretchen. And this is my assistant, Penny.”

He somehow managed to mutter out the appropriate greetings, although he was still feeling shakier than he cared to admit by what had happened a moment ago. He’d been about to kiss the woman.

Struggling to make sense of this crazy day, he watched while Trisha strapped a shiny black helmet onto the girl’s head before helping her from her chair and leading her step by step to the horse. He was surprised by the headgear, but maybe things were different with kids. Marcy had certainly never used a helmet. If she had...

Mike turned his attention back to the girl to distract himself. She had a lisp, but her eyes were bright with intelligence. Her gait, though, was uneven and periodic shudders rippled through her muscles. Cerebral palsy? Possibly. She had enough control over her body that she could lift her foot toward the low stirrup with help and then between the three of them—helper on one side, Trisha and the mother on the other—they boosted her thin frame into the saddle. She immediately reached for and gripped the nylon straps on either side of the saddle for all she was worth.

She wasn’t totally steady, but she wasn’t afraid. Of that Mike was certain. Giddy was the term that came to mind. Once Bethany was in position, she grinned and scrubbed at the horse’s shoulder with the tips of her fingers, still holding onto the straps. Her obvious joy at being there made Mike feel a little bit ridiculous about how cautious he’d been when even petting Crow. Then again, no one else had seen Brutus flip out a few days ago. And no one else had driven out to a barn four years ago to see why their wife wasn’t answering his calls, only to discover her sprawled unconscious on the ground, a black horse that looked very much like this one standing over her.

But that’s not what he was here for. Neither was he here to hit on the woman in charge of this horse and pony show. He was here to observe, and that’s exactly what he should be doing.

* * *

“R-references?” Trisha somehow got the word past her paralyzed vocal cords, although she wasn’t sure how. He’d watched her like a hawk the entire time she’d worked with Bethany. And out of the corner of her eyes she’d noticed him speak to the girl’s mother. Gretchen loved bringing Bethany here. She figured of all her patients, Gretchen—a fellow horse owner—would be the most vocal about the benefits of hippotherapy. Which was why it shocked her so much to have him ask for references as soon as Bethany and her mom had left in their gray SUV.

“Yes. Mrs. Williams certainly seems to like what you do here, but I’d like to hear from a few people you no longer work with. Maybe a few clients from your last location.”

So he knew she was fairly new to Dusty Hills but no way could she give him any names of people from her past. She stood next to his vehicle and thought through her possible responses. Why hadn’t she realized someone could ask her this? Because everyone else had been happy to see her credentials—which were real enough. The FBI had somehow gotten them altered to show her current name, but all the classes and certifications were valid. They’d just cautioned her about using her university diplomas as actual references, or hanging any documents on the wall of her home or office, saying they wouldn’t hold up if someone dug too deeply.

“I’d rather just stick with my current clients, if you don’t mind.”

His fingers paused on the door handle to his car. “Do you have something to hide, Ms. Bolton?”

Great, they were back to last names, evidently. She couldn’t blame him but, dammit, she was good at her job—had worked hard to get her HPCS certification. Doing what she loved was the one thing that had been non-negotiable with her relocation deal, especially after everything that had happened. The only concession she’d made had been that she’d promised not to advertise or be listed on any specific hippotherapy database. Which meant word of mouth was all she had to go by—and it was proving much tougher than she’d thought in a small town like Dusty Hills.

She tried her rehearsed explanation. “I just think there are enough clients in the area, some of whom you probably know, who would be able to answer any questions you might have. I teach straight riding lessons as well. I can give you some of those names too.”

He seemed to consider that for a moment or two before he relented. “I guess that will have to do, provided some of those names are from people who are no longer with you. I don’t want there to be any question of conflict of interest.”

Conflict of interest? She wasn’t sure what he meant by that.

Did she have any patients she no longer treated? She didn’t think so. Her client list wasn’t that long, and those who were on it seemed to stick around. “Let me see what I can come up with, and I’ll get back to you.”

“I’m not a very patient man, Ms. Bolton. Don’t make me wait too long.” Mike opened the door to his car and propped one foot on the floorboard.

Don’t make me wait too long.

A shiver went over 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.


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_60b95ab7-fb1a-532f-bcad-b93dfec81977)

“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 and then they bundled her back into her chair and Mike gently strapped her in. Those blue angelic eyes followed his movements and he could almost see the plea inside of her, although he knew it was probably his imagination.

Shifting his attention back to Doris, he sighed. “Give me another week to get some more background information on hippotherapy. I’ll give you a call as soon as I feel I can recommend something one way or the other.”

Doris smiled, then, as if unable to resist, hugged him. “Thank you. I know you’ll do the right thing.” As soon as the words were out she released him and brushed her fingertips beneath her eyes. Mike’s gut clenched. Again.

Doing what was right wasn’t always a black-and-white decision.

He accompanied the pair out to the waiting room just as his receptionist swiveled in her chair. “A Ms. Bolton called to set up your next appointment. She said she’s a hippotherapist?” Her puckered brow said she had no idea what that was.

Join the crowd.

Unfortunately, Clara knew exactly who that was. “H-h-h-horsy l-lady!” The stuttered words—the first thing she’d said since arriving—came out of the five-year-old’s mouth as a loud squeal, causing every head in the waiting room to swivel toward them. So much for keeping Trisha’s existence quiet for now.

Rather than feeling irritated, Mike squatted down in front of the child and waited patiently until she looked at him. “Do you like the horsy lady, Clara?”

Clara’s head gave that funny little roll that was meant as a nod. “N-nice. Want...h-horse.”

“We’ll have to see what we can do.”

He glanced up at his receptionist. “Find a spot on my schedule that works for Ms. Bolton as well and pencil me in. Oh, and find my next scheduled tumor resection and ask Ms. Bolton if she can free up that time.” If she was going to put his feet to the fire, then he intended to do the same. It was time for her to live up to her end of the bargain. And soon. He ignored the sharp twist inside him that said he wasn’t being fair.

Of course he was. This was what they’d agreed on. Although, if he was honest with himself, he’d suggested the trade because of the way she’d shuddered at the word blood when she’d joked about her horses. He’d felt so sure she’d decide it wasn’t worth it. That hadn’t happened, making him wonder just how badly she needed new clients.

As he waved goodbye to Doris and Clara, a hard, cold lump formed in his throat. This was worst bargain he’d ever made. One that would require more delicate maneuvering than his most difficult surgery. And like most of those surgeries, the outcome was anything but sure. But first of all he wanted to see exactly who he was dealing with. There was something odd about Ms. Bolton...about the way she’d balked about giving him references from her previous location. He’d been lied to before. And unfortunately he’d found that some lies weren’t harmless. Some of them destroyed lives.

Asking his receptionist for five minutes before sending in his next appointment, he made his way back into his office and dialed up an old friend. Swiveling away from the door, he waited through three rings then a familiar voice came on the line. “Mike. How are you?”

“Fine, Ray, and you?”

“Can’t complain. Although things have been a little too quiet lately.”

Mike took a deep breath before forcing himself to continue. “Well, maybe I can help you out with that. Can you do me a favor?”

The sheriff’s gruff voice came back over the line. “Depends on what it is. Although I do owe you a pretty big favor.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Ray.” His friend’s mother had had an aortic aneurism, and Mike had steered them to the finest specialist in the area. The sheriff wouldn’t let it go, saying he’d pay him back somehow.

“Sounds pretty serious.”

It was. If only he could tell Ray why. It was a little hard as he wasn’t sure of the answer to that question himself. “We have a new physical therapist in town who uses horses in her work.”

“Oh, hell, Mike. Sorry, man.”

His old friend knew all about Marcy. They’d all been friends once upon a time—had all grown up together in Dusty Hills. Ray even knew about the affair his wife had had with one of her fellow trainers. “It’s not about her horses. I asked her for references, and she got a little squirrelly on me with her answers. Is there any way you can do a check on her?”

“I don’t know, Mike. I’m assuming we’re not talking about a credit check.”

“No.” He pushed ahead. He still had several patients to see so he needed to make this quick. “I have a patient’s mother who wants to use her services, but I don’t want to recommend something unless it’s on the up and up.”

“You think she has a record?”

Did he? No, not really, and he wasn’t sure how ethical it was to ask his friend to do a background check.

“I’m not sure.”

A chuckle came over the phone. “There is such a thing as the internet, you know.”

Hmm...he hadn’t thought of that. He typed the name Patricia Bolton into the computer on his desk and lots of suggestions came up. Too many. He wouldn’t even know where to begin. “I guess I could try that.”

“What’s her name? I’ll poke around some, but I can only dig so deep without having an iron-clad reason.”

He swallowed, wondering if he was doing the right thing. This seemed a little too close to invasion of privacy for his taste. And just because Marcy had told some whoppers it didn’t mean that every woman he ran across was stretching the truth. Except Trisha had definitely been evasive about giving him names of clients outside Dusty Hills.

We’re talking about the welfare of a patient here.

Yes, they were. “I understand, Ray. Her name’s Patricia Bolton.”

“I remember her. Pretty little thing. She blew into town six months ago with a couple of men and an enormous horse trailer. The men didn’t stick around more than a few hours. She, however, did.”

A couple of men. That was strange. Ray or his deputy normally parked out on the main entrance to town, so it made sense that they’d see folks they didn’t recognize every once in a while. Dusty Hills was a pretty close-knit community, most people lived and died in the same houses they’d grown up in, which was why his practice was in Mariston, a city many times larger than his hometown. “Maybe her husband travels or something,” he mused.

The thought made a sick sensation worm its way through his gut. Especially after what had nearly happened between them—or maybe it had all been one-sided. He’d never thought to ask if she was married, although he hadn’t noticed a wedding ring. Next time he saw her, he’d look a little closer.

“Maybe he does,” Ray said. “I’ll look in public records and see what comes up. If she has any outstanding warrants I’ll let you know.”

Mike scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck. He had no idea exactly what he was looking for. “Thanks. I have an appointment with her this Thursday.”

“I’ll give you a call on Wednesday, then. How’s that?”

“Perfect.”

“Oh, and, Mike?”

“Yeah?”

“You might not want to get too involved with her, just in case.”

He could have set his old buddy’s mind at ease about that possibility. Because he didn’t plan to get involved with the woman at all.

* * *

What was he doing here?

Trisha’s heart lurched as she glanced back and saw a familiar figure standing at the rail of her outdoor arena. Did he enjoy sneaking up on her?

It wasn’t his fault that she was still jumpy this far after the trial. Or that being out of contact with her mother and brother had been weighing on her mind recently. She knew it was for their own protection, and she’d die if anything happened to either of them, but it didn’t make it any easier. Watching her ex-husband gun down the man he’d accused her of sleeping with had driven home the dangers of getting too close to anyone. Roger might be in jail, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have friends on the outside.

Her eyes went back to the fence. She hadn’t expected Mike to come to the barn until Thursday. But Monday morning found him with his forearms resting on the top rung, watching her as she coached her student over the first of the low jumps. Sweat trickled down her back—not just from the ninety-degree temperatures but in reaction to his unexpected presence. She tipped her wide-brimmed straw hat further back on her head, trying to slow her racing heart.

She’d had to supplement her hippotherapy income by giving riding lessons two days a week. This was one of those days. Mike hadn’t called before coming, so she wasn’t sure if he just wanted to talk to her or if he’d hoped to catch her with a patient. A kind of surprise inspection. Well, he’d surprised her all right.

She pulled her mind back to her student, calling out to her, “Don’t forget to keep the reins loose as he goes over the cross rails. You need to support him but not restrict his head.” She swiped at moisture on her temple with the back of her hand. “Go ahead and continue through the course.”

The girl nodded her understanding and loped around the outside as she made her way toward the next jump.

Trisha glanced back at Mike, who now had a foot propped on the lowest rail of the arena. Still the same shiny uptight shoes he’d worn on his other visit. Very impractical for doing anything at her place. But maybe he’d come straight from work. If so, he was going to have to wait. She owed it to her student not to let her attention wander.

The next jump went without a hitch. Sarah sailed over the two-foot bar, letting her reins out and leaning low over the horse’s neck as she went.

“Perfect! Good job. Head for the next one.”

Keeping her eyes on her student, she edged toward the fence where Mike stood. At least Groucho, her gray lesson horse, was behaving perfectly. That had to be a mark in her favor.

She didn’t turn her head, but once she reached him she murmured in a low voice, “Can I help you?”

He didn’t say anything for a minute as if he was struggling with something. “Do you have those references I asked for?”

She blinked. He couldn’t have called for that information?

“Sarah’s—my student’s—mom should be here in another ten minutes or so. Feel free to talk to her, if you’d like, although she’s not one of my patients. The list of other references is in the house.”

“You give lessons as well?” There was a harder edge to his voice that made her glance at him for a second.

There was that pulsing muscle again.

She focused back on Sarah’s progress as she made it over another jump in the course and turned Groucho to head back to the starting position. “I’m fairly sure I mentioned that already. Until I have enough patients I’ll need to keep the horses in shape and exercised.” She shrugged. “Besides, I enjoy it. I’ll probably continue even once my caseload expands.”




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