Tina Beckett - His Girl From Nowhere

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.

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