Bad Boy Rancher. Karen Rock

drew her eye, and she dumped the rest of her water into its dark soil. Mud flowed out the bottom and seeped onto her desk blotter. A yellow frond caught her eye. Was it dying? She scrutinized the rest of the greenery as she pinched it off, dropped it in her wastebasket then sopped up the wet with a tissue clump. Her fumbling hands knocked over her tea, and the scalding liquid shot onto her lap.

      “Mary, mother of Jesus!” She hopped in a circle, dabbing at the material. It burned a hole in her flesh—well, her skirt at least. What’d Doreen put in there?

      “Is this a bad time?” a man’s low bass voice rumbled.

      Her head snapped up, and the heat radiating down her leg paled in comparison to the firestorm of her cheeks. She pressed her hands to them and nodded, her eyes drinking in Justin Cade.

      In worn Wranglers, scuffed boots and a black hat that contrasted with his light hazel eyes, he pulled a sigh right out of her. Ragtag as all get-out, he still commanded attention. Hers, at least. He sauntered into her office, lanky, wiry as an apostrophe, his square-shouldered, loose-limbed gait oddly graceful, his dark beard a little menacing. Her heartbeat tripped into double time.

      “What gave you that impression?” She swept a hand toward a chair across from her desk, inviting him to sit.

      “Thought I interrupted some religious ritual.” He slouched into the chair and crossed his legs at the ankles. With his lids half lowered and the corners of his mouth hidden by his beard and mustache, she couldn’t tell if he was serious or teasing. “Any more saints you plan on summoning? Should I be worried about fire and brimstone, preacher?”

      “We’ll see how things go,” she replied wryly. “I’ve got ten thousand more to call on if need be.”

      “Jesus,” he muttered, slipping a toothpick into his mouth.

      “Technically, that’s the Lord’s son, but always a good go-to.”

      That drew a sputtering chuckle out of Justin, a rusty sound like an old engine starting up for the first time in years. It did something strange to her chest, expanding it so her lungs drew in more air, thin and heady.

      Or was the response Justin’s effect on her?

      “If you’ll tell me where I’m bunking, I’ll go on up.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Leave you to your tribal dance.”

      She smiled. Beneath Justin’s glower lurked a bit of a comedian. “Once I complete your intake, we’ll get you settled.”

      “Intake?” His lids lifted. “Thought I filled out all the paperwork.”

      “Some, but we need more information before we can admit you.”

      Justin tugged at the collar of his black T-shirt then pulled off his leather jacket. “How much more?”

      “Not much.” She crossed her fingers beneath the desk and tried not to admire the way his shirt stretched across the wide V of his chest. Tried being the operative word. “I’ll be asking you a series of questions. Your answers will be confidential.”

      “No, they won’t.” He dropped his leather jacket on the floor beside his duffel.

      “Yes, they will.”

      His broad shoulders lifted and fell in a shrug. “You’ll know them.”

      “I don’t count.”

      His eyes lasered into hers. “Says who?”

      She blinked at him. As a counselor, she served as a conduit for patients, channeling their fears, their rage, their despair. Justin’s comment solidified her somehow. He made her feel present and alive in a way she hadn’t in a long time. “The counselor you’re assigned can’t help you without this information.”

      “I don’t want help.”

      She counted backward from ten then said, “We can’t admit you without a completed intake, and you accepted the dare.”

      “To volunteer teaching your patients to tend cattle. Ride. Rope...” Justin folded his arms over his chest, mutinous.

      “You had the option, here or jail, and you chose Fresh Start. Whether you go to group sessions or not, you’re still a patient.”

      “Not so’s I see it,” he grumbled. Behind him, Doreen strolled past the doorway, rubbernecking.

      “Would you please close the door, Doreen?” Brielle called.

      “Can I get you two anything?” she asked, her eyes sticking to Justin like he was made of flypaper.

      “A beer?” Justin drawled.

      “That’ll be all, Doreen, thanks.”

      Once the door closed, Justin lifted his eyes and studied her. The slanting sun glinted on the gold flecks in his jewel-tone depths. “What kinds of questions?”

      She clicked on her keyboard and brought up his Addiction Severity Index sheet. “Medical, employment/support status, alcohol, drug, legal, family/social and psychiatric.”

      One thick eyebrow rose. “You said this’d be quick.”

      “We’ll be as fast as possible. All clients partake in this interview. The information helps us provide you with the right care for your needs.”

      “I don’t—”

      “Need anything,” she finished for him, an edge entering her voice despite her effort to stay neutral. He wasn’t used to the tough, blunt talk she’d adopted with her soldiers. Sometimes it was the only way she’d gotten through. “Got it.”

      Justin waved a hand. “Let’s get this over with,” he mumbled around the toothpick.

      She squared her shoulders.

      Lord, give me strength.

      “You also have the right to refuse to answer any question.”

      “Now we’re talking.” He tipped his hat down so low it covered his eyes. His chin dropped to his chest. Her hands clasped each other, and it took all her self-discipline not to flick that blasted hat right off his head. She knew avoidance when she saw it. Knew how to handle it, too...so why was he getting under her skin?