His Girl From Nowhere. Tina Beckett
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.
“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