Mandy. Not an angel. He heaved again, then swiped the back of his wrist against his mouth. “Get the fuck out. Get out now!” He grabbed her arm and shoved her through the bathroom door, then kicked it closed. He stumbled to the tub and turned the shower on, then climbed in, still clothed. The water’s steady hiss filled his ears, cleared the smoke from his nose-along with the sweet stench of rotting flesh. He stared at the cracked white tiles. White. White was all that he saw. White was all there was. Whitewhitewhitewhite.
Mandy ran from the bathroom and out the small bunkhouse. She closed the door behind her, her heart slamming against her ribs as she stared at the raw wood. What the heck had just happened? What was wrong with Rocco? Tears welled in her eyes as she remembered the look of sheer terror on his face. What had he been seeing? Had he flashed back to the war?
She stared at the house a long moment, then decided she needed to wait for him. She sat in the old metal porch chair. Folding her legs in front of her, she realized she still held the first-aid kit. She dropped it onto the side table and wrapped her arms around her legs. The shower ran for a long time. Fifteen minutes. Thirty. Forty-five. The small water heater had to have run out of hot water long ago. At last, the faucet shut off. She heard footsteps.
The door opened. Rocco came out, peeling his wet T-shirt over his head. He mopped his face with it, then leaned his forehead against a wooden support beam. His jeans and socks were soaking. He hadn’t even removed his belt. Mandy didn’t say a word. She held perfectly still, wishing she’d run home every bit as much as she knew she needed to stay.
Something must have alerted him to her presence. He turned abruptly. His nipples were puckered in the cold evening air. His skin had a bluish tint to it. Her gaze slowly lifted to his face and the rage rapidly gathering there.
“I told you to leave.”
She showed him the first-aid kit. “I ran out with the kit. I still haven’t fixed your hand.”
“Fuck. You’re not going to leave it alone, are you?”
Mandy unfolded her legs and crossed to where he stood. She didn’t acknowledge his temper. She knew she had to work fast. She opened the kit, fished out two butterfly bandages, then stuck them on his ripped skin. “Now, go inside and put dry clothes on. When did you last eat?”
He shrugged, glaring at her.
“Go get dressed. You’re freezing out here.”
He entered the cabin, not bothering to close the door. Mandy stood with her back to the door, fighting the temptation to let her gaze follow him into the shadows of the bunkhouse. If he didn’t dress and present himself in short order, he’d be in for a battle the likes of which he wouldn’t be expecting. She folded her arms in front of her.
The porch creaked behind her. She saw Rocco standing there. He’d pulled a fresh T-shirt on, a dry pair of jeans and his combat boots. He propped a shoulder against the doorjamb. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his body. His face was lean, his cheeks unshaved, his expression edgy. He looked like a wolf after a long, harsh winter.
“What now, boss lady?”
“Now you’re coming up to the house. I’m going to get some food in you.”
“I’m not feeling much like company right now. And I ain’t hungry.”
“Neither am I. But you’re going to eat, so help me God. If I have to grind up that supper and spoon feed you, I will.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’d like to see you try.”
“Don’t put it past me.” She waved him toward the stairs. “Get the tray and let’s go.”
He stepped inside the bunkhouse and came back with the tray, which he handed to her. “Run on home, little girl, and leave me alone.”
Mandy held the tray in one hand and set the other hand on her hip. “Listen, soldier boy, I hired you to do a job, one you can’t very well do if you’re starving yourself. Now get out here and come up to the house with me.”
He arched an eyebrow. “’Soldier boy?’”
“You heard me.”
“No one ever teach you to cuss?”
“I don’t think bad language improves a tense situation.” She pressed her lips together.
“You’re wrong there, honey. Nothing expresses rage like a string of foul words.”
“Rage?” She looked at him. “Or fear?
“Or that.” He shoved his hands into his front pockets. She took his wrist and began leading him toward the main house.
He took one step, watching his arm where her hand touched his skin. Two steps. He didn’t want her to see the blood and flesh stuck to him. The grisly debris would appear. It always did when someone touched him. She would see it. It would take her over, too. And once it did, she would never be free of it.
Three steps. He couldn’t breathe.
He dug his feet in and stopped, pulling her around to face him. She had to get one thing real damn clear right now. “It ain’t a good idea to touch me,” he growled between clenched teeth. He bent over her, close enough to feel her breath on his face. Hot and sweet.
She was startled at the abrupt change in direction and almost dropped the tray.
“Why?” she whispered.
“You’re sick, Rocco. You’re not well.”
“Now there’s a newsflash.”
She resumed her march toward the main house. “Maybe you should talk to a counselor?”
He followed her. A muscle worked at the corner of his jaw. Clearly, he couldn’t pass for normal yet. He decided to lay the truth on the line. “I had three fucking months in the psych ward at Walter Reed. They determined I couldn’t be rehabilitated and shoved me out the door with lifetime prescriptions of mind-bending meds.” He looked at her. “I’m goddamned done with shrinks.”
“You didn’t have the right doctors, then. They should never have given up on you.”
A slow breath hissed from his mouth. “I came back to Wyoming, looking for the pieces of my life that were here before the war. But they’re gone. Just gone. There’s nothing fucking left.”
They had reached the house. Mandy walked up the porch to a side entrance that led to the eat-in kitchen area. Inside, she set the tray down on the counter and stared blankly at it a long moment, contemplating her next step. She looked at Rocco, considering him. He needed food-something, anything that would tempt him to eat. How long had he been starving himself?
She grabbed a block of chocolate ice cream, a carton of milk, a bottle of Hersey’s syrup, and a banana, then filled a blender with the ingredients and ground it to a smooth, thick liquid. Pouring the milkshake into two glasses, she gave him most of the mixture.
He made a face, tension filling the lines of his face. “What’s in it?”
“You saw me make it. Ice cream, milk, chocolate syrup, and a banana. Nothing gross. Drink it.” She sipped hers, watching him. He took a tentative sip. He held the cold liquid in his mouth as he stared at the glass. It was a decision point. She could see the battle in his face. The determination. He swallowed. He took another sip. He leaned against his side of the counter in the narrow galley kitchen and looked at her. She kept her face blank as she sipped at her glass, but she felt victorious.
“So what exactly is a therapeutic riding center?” he asked.
“It’s a place of healing. We’ll use interactions with the horses as a means of helping children and adults in lots of different ways. Some have disabilities from injuries or diseases. They need physical therapy to strengthen their core muscles to improve their balance and mobility. We’ll work with children who have attention problems and adolescents who have anger problems. And it’s not only our patients whose lives improve through their sessions here. The volunteers in this program from other centers report a significant improvement in the quality of their lives, too.”
He studied her. “You’re a regular Mother Theresa.”
