A Family For The Rancher. Allison B. Collins
steam billowed out of his ears.
“Too soon?”
“Yeah. Let’s just get this over with. I need a drink.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, then through his militarily short brown hair.
“Sorry.” She steeled herself, strapping the cuff to his upper arm. His muscular upper arm. No doubt he’d be a difficult patient, and she’d have to call on all her patience in order to deal with this cowboy. This tall, strong, tough, knock-her-down gorgeous cowboy.
“Hey, ease up, okay?”
Crap. “As red as your face is, I figured your BP would be high.” She turned the knob and air started escaping as she listened for the beats. “It’s somewhat high, but that could be the alcohol.”
“Doubt it. And I’d rather drink than get hooked on painkillers.”
“You won’t get hooked on booze?”
“Nah.”
“So why did you get upset when Kade walked in?”
He looked away. “I never get any privacy now. Someone’s always checking on me. I just want them to leave me alone.”
“They love you, Nash. They’re your family.”
“They’re nosy. I don’t want them around all the time. I spent ten years in the Army, from regular tour of duty on base, then deployed to Afghanistan and stationed in the desert, practically living nose to ass with people.”
“And they might walk in and discover your secret.”
“Maybe.”
“I see. May I ask why?”
“My business. And don’t you say anything. They just think I was wounded, not that I lost the whole bottom half of my damned leg. In fact, I don’t need you to come out anymore. Thanks for stopping by.”
“So you’re ready to resume your life here on the ranch. Ride horses, pitch hay, rope poor baby cows, or whatever you do on a ranch.”
The glare returned to his face, his eyebrows lowering in a scowl over steely gray-blue eyes. He muttered under his breath.
“Sure you weren’t in the Navy?”
“What?” he asked, confusion on his face.
“You swear like a sailor.”
His mouth twitched, and a laugh rumbled out of his chest. “Okay, sorry.” He blew out a breath. “Maybe I do need help, but I don’t know if you’re the right person for it.”
“Why? I’m licensed as both phys—”
“I couldn’t get on my damned horse earlier today. I need someone who can help me do that.”
“Actually, I can. I grew up around horses, so in school I studied equine therapy. It’ll take some time, but we can probably get you back in the saddle. Anything else you want my help with?”
“I haven’t gotten la—”
“Uh-uh, mister. Your dad will have to hire someone else for that.”
He cracked a half grin, and darned if her heart didn’t go pitter-patter. Nash Sullivan was a handful, and she’d have to stay on her toes around him. She’d had love once, and lost it. No use looking for it again.
Not when her husband’s death nearly broke her.
The next morning, Kelsey knocked on the heavy oak door to Nash’s cabin. She waited, then knocked again. A loud crash reverberated through the door, and she pounded louder. Still no answer. She tried the handle, and to her surprise, it opened. Rushing inside, she scanned the rustic living room and kitchen.
“Mr. Sullivan? Where are you? Are you okay?”
Loud groans echoed down the hallway, and she hurried in that direction. “Mr. Sullivan?” She knocked on the bedroom door. Another loud grunt. “Nash, I’m coming in.” The door opened into a cozy bedroom, and she searched for her new patient in the dim light.
Stepping farther into the room, she finally saw him lying on the floor near the dresser. She hurried over and knelt beside him. “Are you injured? Where does it hurt?”
He shoved her back. “No! I have to go back. I have to get them out.”
It finally dawned on her that he must be caught up in a nightmare. Gently, she shook his shoulder. “Wake up, Nash.” He still wasn’t waking, and the terrified expression on his face scared her.
He flailed an arm and hit her shoulder. She caught his hand and tried to hold it still, wondering how to wake him up.
“Commander, wake up now,” she all but shouted, hoping her voice would penetrate his dream.
Nash’s eyes slowly opened, and he squinted at her. “Where are my men? Who are you?”
She leaned over him and switched on the lamp, bathing the room in light. “Come on, let’s get you up. I’m Kelsey, remember? Your therapist.”
He sat up and scooted back to lean against the dresser, scrubbed a hand over his sweaty face.
Wanting to give him a moment of privacy, she stood and headed into the bathroom. Flipping the light on, she noted a big Jacuzzi tub in the corner and a large glassed-in shower. For being a ranch in Montana, this place sure was luxurious. Dark towels hung on the rack by the shower, and she grabbed a washcloth, ran it under cold water in the sink. She wrung it out and hurried back to him.
He still sat on the floor, his good leg drawn up, arms resting on his knee, hands covering his face. The gray cotton gym shorts he’d put on yesterday were all he wore, and she couldn’t help drinking in his broad shoulders, muscled chest and arms, even the scars crisscrossed on his stomach.
“Here, Mr. Sullivan, let’s get you off the floor.” She bent over to help him up, but he shoved her hand away.
“Leave me alone. Please,” he rasped, his voice strangled.
Her heart broke for him. He had a lot more scars on the inside than out. She sank down on the floor beside him and nudged him with the cool washcloth. “Want to talk about it?”
He took the cloth from her and rubbed it over his face. “Not really.”
“Were you dreaming about the war?”
He finally lowered both arms and looked at her. “What part of ‘not really’ did you miss?”
“I just thought it might help if you talk—get it out of your head.” She stood up. “Come on, we need to get your therapy going.” She reached to help him up, but he ignored her.
Moving slow, he turned on the floor and braced himself against the dresser as he rose. Wood crutches stood in the corner, and he stretched farther to grab them.
She kept still, knowing from the hard lines of determination bracketing his lips he wouldn’t want her help. “I’ll be out in the living room,” she said, and walked out. Other patients had been stubborn about rehab and therapy. She’d just have to keep after him until she won him over.
* * *
NASH FINISHED BRUSHING his teeth and stuck the toothbrush in the holder on the counter. Without thinking, he glanced at himself in the mirror. Anger and despair bubbled to the surface once again as he caught sight of the scars. He’d practically named them—one for each of the men he’d lost.
A knock echoed through his bedroom. “Mr. Sullivan? You okay in there?”
He rolled his eyes but sucked it up and grabbed the crutches, swung out of the bathroom. He strapped on his prosthetic leg and threw on a T-shirt, loose sweats and sneakers, then hauled the door open.