Mandy drew a ragged breath as she watched Rocco walk away. She closed her eyes, picturing him as he’d just been, seeing his dark, brown hair, dark brows-one that arched a little higher than the other, lips bracketed by creases, hollows in his cheeks, his eyes consuming her.
She’d thought he was going to kiss her when he’d leaned forward. Her body still thrummed with anticipation. She forced more air into her lungs, then headed to the house, where she phoned Kit.
“Hi, Em,” he answered. He’d called her by the first initial of her first name since their schooldays. There was something comforting in that old moniker. “How’s it going?”
“You could have warned me.”
The phone was silent awhile. “I didn’t want to scare you. He needs to be there, you know. He needs what you’re doing.”
“He’s so angry.”
“Well, you would be too if you went through what he went through.”
“What happened to him?”
“War, baby, in all its ugly, scarring wretchedness. Just work your magic on him, ok?”
“I don’t think he’s eating. He looks so lean.”
Kit sighed. “This is what I was afraid of. He’s as stubborn as an ass, Mandy, but he has to eat. How’s he sleeping?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think he is. He works late into the night.”
“Probably still having nightmares. All you can do is work on one thing at a time. Get him to eat first, then we’ll tackle the rest.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“How’s the construction? Anything new?”
Mandy told him about the cigarette butts and Rocco’s concern over the paths in the back acreage.
“That’s it. I’m coming out there,” Kit said with some finality.
“There’s no need for that. What would you do that Rocco won’t? If there is something happening, he’ll figure it out.”
“I don’t like it, Emmy. I want you to be safe.”
“I am safe. Everything’s fine, or at least, it will be soon.”
That evening, Rocco took another tour of the property, looking for anything that jumped out at him, wondering if his instincts were misfiring or if something odd was really happening. Nothing seemed changed. No new cigarette butts had appeared.
As he came out of the hills behind the ranch buildings, he saw Mandy step into Kitano’s pen. He watched from a distance, not wanting to distract her or alarm the horse. He had the advantage of being downwind from the corral, giving him the luxury of observing them unnoticed.
She started to walk slowly in a clockwise direction, moving with the confidence of a seasoned trainer, her posture neither one of aggression nor timidity. The Paint was facing her. He stomped the ground in warning. She kept moving forward as if she were merely enjoying an evening stroll. Kitano tossed his head, then moved a few steps away from her. She continued forward. Kitano moved as she moved, walking in a circle, staying ahead of her. His pace quickened.
Rocco’s nerves tightened. What the hell was she doing in there alone with a mad horse?
Mandy stepped into the center of the corral. As Kitano moved in front of her, she raised her hand and made a few low, clicking sounds with her tongue, encouraging him to keep moving. She turned as he moved around the perimeter of the corral, clicking her tongue at him when he slowed. And when he grew a little winded, she dropped her hand and stood still. He eased down to a walk and then a full stop. She started walking toward him, this time in a counter-clockwise direction. Again, he moved away from her. When he sped up, she moved to the middle and repeated the exercise until he was fully winded. Then, and only then, did he let her approach him.
She took a rag out of her back pocket and touched it gently to his neck, behind his ears. Rocco could hear the low rumble of her voice as she spoke to Kitano but not the words themselves. Kitano tolerated her strokes until she reached his withers with the rough cloth. He tossed his head and whinnied, then rushed away. He stopped at the opposite side of the corral, watching her with a white-eyed glare, his sides heaving.
Mandy left the corral and waved at Rocco. “Thank you for waiting.”
“I didn’t want to distract him.”
She nodded. “He spooks easily. He doesn’t like men very much.”
“Doesn’t seem to like anyone very much.” Rocco shoved his hands in his pockets as he looked down at her. The sun was low in the horizon, inching toward the jagged ridges of the Snowy Range, washing the land, the ranch, and Mandy in the warm orange hues of the long spring sunset.
“True. But he’s letting me get near him, letting me touch him. That’s big progress.” She stepped up on a board of the corral and dumped a bucket of feed into his trough. She reached for the big bucket of water from the wagon she’d used to haul the feed and water out to the corral, but Rocco lifted it for her, pouring it into Kitano’s deep water bucket.
“Speaking of progress, you did great with the fields. Think you can get the baler to work?”
“Sure. I’ll do it when the hay dries. Where do you want me to stack the bales?”
“I’d like them protected from the weather, but there’s nowhere to put them right now. The barn isn’t safe, and the pole barn isn’t ready yet. How about stacking them up next to the toolshed?”
Rocco nodded. “Will do. I’ll start on the old fencing tomorrow. What do you want to do with the wire?”
Mandy made a face. “Hadn’t thought of that. Maybe we can find a recycler to take it.”
“There’s an artist in Cheyenne who uses scrap metal for her sculptures. She’ll take it.”
Mandy cocked her head, giving him a curious look. “How do you know her?”
The sculptor had come to the shelter looking for day laborers. He’d helped her out for a couple of days. No way was he going to tell Mandy that. He shrugged. “I just ran into her.”
“If she wants it, then that would be great.” Again, she gave him a questioning look. “Have you eaten today?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Rocco leveled a hard look at her. “Giving Kit daily updates?”
She gave him a half smile. “If I don’t call him, he calls me. He’s like a mother hen. Worse, really.” She met his gaze, her eyes searching his. “You must mean a lot to him.”
Rocco sighed and shifted his gaze to the mountains behind her. “Tell him I had a good day. That’s all that really matters, isn’t?” He looked at her. “Day by day?” He nodded toward the garden wagon. “Need a hand with that?”
“No. Good night, Rocco.”
“Night, Mandy.” He started toward the toolshed, but looked over at her. “Hey-next time you talk to him, ask him when Blade’s coming home.”
She frowned. “I will. Is Ty okay?”
He shook his head. “Took a bullet in his leg.”
Rocco got to work first thing in the morning instead of starting out with a run. It was best to vary his routine, especially if someone was watching the ranch. The sun was already burning off the morning’s chilly air. Truthfully, he was looking forward to another day’s hard work. After tinkering with the baler for a few hours last night, he’d actually gotten a few good hours of sleep before the nightmares came.
He fetched Kitano’s feed from the bag Mandy stored in the toolshed, then refilled his water bucket. The Paint was hard to look at, thin as he was. Rocco didn’t linger at the corral-Kitano wouldn’t come near his food while he was there.
He was gathering the tools he’d need to work on the fence when Mandy came into the shed. “Oh! You’re up early,” she greeted him.
“So are you.” He strapped on an old tool belt. Mandy’s gaze dropped to the worn leather around his hips. Whoever had owned the belt previously was quite a bit heavier. Rocco had to tighten it several inches from the worn hole on the strap. “Hope you don’t mind my using the belt-”
“It was my grandfather’s.”
Rocco went still, part of the strap in his hand as he looked at Mandy from under the brim of his hat. “I can use something else.”
“No. It’s fine. If you need it, use it.” She went to fill Kitano’s feed bucket.
“I already fed him.”
She flashed a surprised look at him. “You did?”
He shoved a pair of pliers, a hammer, and pair of wire cutters into the tool belt. “Just doin’ my job, boss.” He grabbed a pair of heavy gloves, then touched a finger to his hat brim. Sunlight spilled over him as he stepped from the shade of the toolshed, heating his back and arms as he pushed the wheelbarrow over to the pasture.
Moving from post to post, he rolled the old rusted wire up, leaving the pieces as long as possible. The artist preferred it that way. When it became almost too heavy to carry, he cut the wire and bound the end, leaving the coil at the fence post. The work was simple and repetitive, yet he had to stay focused on it to keep from letting the barbs nick his skin.
At the end of the day, he’d barely made a dent in the amount of wire that needed to be removed. Even so, it felt like another good day. He was tired and sore, but he’d stayed present, stayed on task. He took the day’s last wheelbarrow load to the back of the toolshed where he was gathering the coils and unloaded it, then put his tools away and wearily made his way to the bunkhouse.
He planned to take a shower, then open a can of tuna or something for dinner. He had no appetite, but he knew he needed to eat-and not only to appease Kit. He had to keep his strength up. If he ate small amounts, it wouldn’t nauseate him. And it wouldn’t remove him very far from the hunger he needed near at hand.
Mandy carried a tray with Rocco’s dinner down to his cabin that evening with the same resolute determination she used in handling Kitano. She knew getting Rocco to eat would be a fight, but she was nothing if not stubborn. He never joined her for meals and very little had been consumed from the bunkhouse kitchen in the few days he’d been there. She crossed the porch and knocked on his door, the tray balanced on one hip. The door opened.
Rocco stood there in his white T-shirt and jeans. He’d taken his shirt and boots off. She’d probably caught him right before a shower. Embarrassment froze her tongue but didn’t keep her eyes from wandering across his chest to the lean, well-defined muscles of his shoulders and arms. He was bigger than he looked fully clothed.
“Boss,” he greeted her, no welcome in his voice.
“I brought your dinner.” She pushed past him and set it on the table. When he reached out to lift the lid covering the plate, she saw the livid cut on his knuckles. “Good heavens! What did you do?” she gasped, lifting his hand for a closer look.
He pulled quickly away. “I cut it. No big deal.”
“Did you cut it on the barbed wire?” The hostile look he gave her was her only answer. “Rocco! You might need stitches. And a Tetanus shot.”
“I’m just out of the Army. All my shots are current.” His cut was trivial. He’d been careless, letting a barb nick him. The damned thing had snagged in his glove and cut a trench across a couple of knuckles. He wasn’t worried about it-he’d had worse.
She took hold of his arm and marched him toward the bathroom, which she’d stocked with a first-aid kit. She flipped on the faucet, then washed and rinsed her hands. She lathered up again, then drew his hand under the water and gently spread the foam over his skin.
Rocco watched her hands move against his. They were so much smaller than his, long-fingered, tipped with slim crescent moons for nails. He was touching her. Finally. He tried to savor the moment, tried to ignore the growing waves of nausea his fear of being touched caused.
Mandy turned off the water. She grabbed a towel and pressed lightly around his hand. When she pulled the towel away, fresh blood welled into the cut. Rocco watched the blood rise, red pooling in the gouged skin. His hand seemed far away, as if he looked at it through a tunnel.
He could smell the smoke. Motorcycles and a truck were burning. As were the ancient homes of the village. Women were screaming. God, the wailing. Someone pulled at him, shouting something. The stench underlying the smoke curled into his nostrils, a sweet poison.
He yanked free of the hands gripping him. He shouted in Pashto for them to leave him alone. He tried to take a deep breath, but he couldn’t get any clear air. He gulped for a breath again. He kept his eyes closed, refused to look around. Didn’t want to see what he knew he would see. He covered his ears, blocking the screams, the roaring flames. His own sobs. Nausea hit him like a fist, blasting the air from his lungs. He doubled over. He couldn’t breathe.
“Rocco?” A voice called to him. “Rocco? Are you okay?”
It didn’t fit, that voice, that question. No one knew his real name. He looked up, letting his eyes focus briefly. An angel stood before him. A fucking angel. Shit. Was he dead? Bile rose violently. He made it to the toilet and retched dry heaves. He’d eaten some, but not much since he got here. There was nothing but spit to come up.
“Rocco? What’s happening?”
He looked at the angel. She knew him. Had he fallen back to English? Had he blown his cover? Christ, where was he?
“Get out,” he ordered, but the angel ignored him. She picked up a washcloth, ran it under the tap, then wrung out the extra moisture. She touched the cold fabric to his forehead, his cheek, his mouth.
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.
Why? He was warning her, and she wanted a discussion about it? “Because it’s a trigger. I thought Kit explained things to you.” She shook her head, her eyes huge. “I don’t like being touched.” He pulled free from her hold.
“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.”
She gritted her teeth. “It’s important work. And I’m proud to be doing it.”
Rocco gave a harsh laugh. “I guess there’s cosmic justice in that. I’ve spent a lifetime tearing the world apart. You’ll spend a lifetime putting it back together.”
Mandy watched Rocco, assessing him. Having a conversation with him was like licking a cactus. No matter what she said, she got a mouthful of thorns in return. She refused to sink to his level of fury.
Her gaze shifted to the floor, but his long legs filled her vision. His thighs were nicely formed. She dragged her eyes off his legs and absently wondered if Kit would come back as broken as Rocco. She tried not to think about Ty Bladen, the third member of their unholy trio. He’d always scared her. If he came home any angrier than he was when he left, he’d probably have to be locked up.
“How’s your milkshake?” she asked Rocco, forcing her mind to different thoughts.
He looked at his nearly empty glass. “Cold.” He swallowed the last of the thick drink and set it on the counter, then straightened. “Thank you.”
“Sure. Listen, Rocco, I need you to take your meals with me from now on.”
“That a condition of employment?” he asked, arching a dark brow at her.
“It is.”
“I don’t eat breakfast. And likely it won’t be convenient for me to stop work when you’ve got lunch ready.”
Mandy drew herself to her full height, which was less than strategic given that he had more than six inches on her. And even though he was lean, he was all muscle. “What part of a condition of employment didn’t you understand?”
“I don’t need a goddamned mother. I can feed myself.”
“And yet you don’t.” They stood almost chest-to-chest. This was so not good. She liked the way he smelled. Dark stubble shadowed his chin and jaw. His black eyes were utterly devoid of warmth. If he didn’t yield, there was only one way she could force his compliance. “Don’t make me call Kit.”
His brows lowered. “That’s a dirty trick.”
She smiled. “But useful. We’ll settle on suppers. Do you have any food allergies?”
“No.”
“Any dishes you’ve been craving? Any requests you’d like to put in?”
His gaze moved over her face, lingering on her lips. It took him the length of a breath to answer. “No.”
And of course, lacking any sense of self-preservation, Mandy asked one last question. “Are you a vegetarian?”
His lips parted on an inhaled hiss. He leaned close, bracing his hands on either side of the counter behind her, so close that she had to arch her neck.
“I. Eat. Meat.”
Mandy closed her eyes, feeling the rumble of his voice as it left his body and entered hers. Oh. God. And then the air cooled around her. When she opened her eyes, the kitchen door was closing behind him. She stared at it, wishing she didn’t feel what she felt.
Rocco was not the type of guy a rational woman would start mooning over. It was his eyes. They were so intense, so eloquent, that she couldn’t help but imagine how he would look at her if they were ever to be intimate. It would be as if she were the only woman in the world, the only woman for him.
She crossed her arms, yanking herself from such foolish thoughts. Rocco was a long way from being ready for a relationship. He couldn’t even touch anyone-how could the two of them be intimate? No, they weren’t meant to be. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t be here for him. She owed it to her brother.