Barefoot Season. Сьюзен Мэллери

“I’m not Brenda.”

       “I’m not a lot of things but that doesn’t stop you from not trusting me.”

       Michelle surprised her by smiling. “Point taken. I’ll put it in writing.” The smile faded. “You’re going to bite my head off, but I have to ask. Why don’t you have your dad’s house? Shouldn’t you be living there rather than here?”

       “I sold the house. It was Allen’s idea.” Her shiny new husband had convinced her they needed something bigger for their growing family. She’d foolishly agreed, accepting his plan for them to sell it first and then go looking for something else.

       “He took off with all the money two days after we closed escrow. Every penny. It was in a joint account, making it community property. The cops patted me on the head and told me I was pretty enough to find another husband, but to be a little smarter next time.”

       She raised her chin slightly, waiting for the blow.

       “I’m sorry.”

       “That’s it? No emotional punch? No low blows?”

       “I’m having an off day.” Michelle pushed off the wall and limped toward her. The grayness was back, along with an air of weariness. “We have to talk about the inn. Who’s going to work where. I’d like to do that tomorrow.”

       “Sure. Oh, I spoke with some people a couple of days ago. Psychologists. They have some kind of seminar in the area. A marriage retreat. They want to rent three rooms a week, Tuesday to Thursday, through the summer. I’ve checked the reservations and we have openings. I wanted to talk to you before I agreed.”

       “Tell them no problem. We need the money.”

       “I’ll call this afternoon.” She hesitated. “Do you need to take a pill or something?”

       “I look that bad, huh? I’ll be fine. Everything hurts. It’s going to hurt for a long time.”

       “Do you want to talk about it?”

       “Talk about what?”

       “Anything.”

       “With you?” She laughed. “No.”

       “If you change your mind…”

       “I won’t. Even if you mean it, you couldn’t handle it.” The laughter faded. “I’m not a project, Carly. I’m your boss. If you remember that, we’ll get along fine.”

       She turned and limped out.

       Carly watched her go, torn between bitter anger and really annoying empathy. While she resented Michelle and the inherent unfairness of the situation, she could see her point. Michelle was her boss. The fact that they’d once been friends didn’t seem to matter.

       As for what Michelle had been through—she had a feeling it was worse than anything Carly could imagine. Maybe understanding wasn’t possible, but a little compassion couldn’t hurt.

       She sighed. Who was she kidding—it would hurt a lot. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to try.

      Eight

      “Why’d your mother name you Mango?” Michelle asked in a gasp, her breath coming in pants. “Was it a fruit thing? Do you have a sister named Nectarine?”

       Jolts of agony ripped through her hip, up her side and down her leg. Mango, a tall, dangerous-looking, dark-haired guy with the heart and soul of the devil, grinned.

       “It’s a family name,” he said easily, adding tension to the machine. “Five more.”

       Her sweat-slicked hands slipped on the grips.

       “I can’t,” she said, knowing she’d reached the end—that place where she was close to begging for mercy.

       “You can. You don’t want to. There’s a difference.”

       “I’m going to kill you.”

       Mango patted her shoulder. “If I had a nickel for every time someone threatened me, I’d be a rich man. Five more, Michelle. Don’t make me use my physical-therapist voice. You won’t like it.”

       If she could muster the strength, she would hit him. She knew how to punch in a way that left a bruise. One of the advantages of her military training. Not the official kind, but still helpful. Of course, Mango was big enough to snap her like a twig in return.

       She wondered why a guy like him was working as a physical therapist instead of—what was it Carly had said?—working for some spy agency and killing people with a matchbook cover.

       “Quit stalling.”

       She swore at him, then moved her leg three more times before her head went fuzzy and the edges began to darken.

       Faster than she would have thought possible, he had her out of the machine, bent over, his hand forcing her head down.

       “Breathe,” he instructed, his massive fingers gripping her in such a way that she knew she wasn’t going to be allowed to sit upright until he released her. “I don’t care if you vomit, but you’re not passing out.”

       “Is that information or are you giving me an order?” she asked between breaths.

       “Both.”

       She breathed deep and the room cleared. “I’m good.”

       He released her. “I’m better.”

       She leaned back against the equipment and tried to smile. “I’m sure you are. Right now I don’t give a rat.”

       “You will.”

       “Maybe.”

       “Cheerful. Guys like that in a woman. You’re not doing your exercises at home.”

       “Does anyone?”

       “The ones who want to get better manage to find the time. Who do I have to threaten to call to get you to cooperate?”

       “No one.” She stood and turned her back, mostly to avoid any pity he might accidentally show.

       “There has to be someone. A friend. An enemy. I’m not picky.”

       “Okay, yeah. A friend.” Damaris counted. If she included her nightly dance with the vodka bottle, she could say two friends. Practically a posse.

       “Do the stretching, do the exercises. The more you listen to me, the faster you get to stop coming here.”

       “There’s motivation.”

       She reached for her cane. Normally she ignored it but there was no way to walk out of here without help after a therapy session.

       Mango patted her on the arm. “You’re doing good. It’ll get easier.”

       “You say that to all the girls.”

       He grinned. “You’re a patient, not a girl. You don’t get to hear what I say to them. Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

       She trailed after him, stepping around equipment and other vets, mostly guys, working the program. Compared with a lot of the patients, she was lucky—barely injured. She still had her arms and legs, and any lingering trauma was carefully hidden on the inside where only she could see it.

       Not wanting to go there, she allowed her gaze to drift to Mango’s butt. It was impressive—high and tight. An athlete’s butt. She would bet he looked good naked. Not that she could imagine caring about naked guys ever again.

       “Next week,” Mango told her. “Don’t be late.”

       “Was I late today?”

       “No, but I don’t want to get my hopes up.”

       His easy grin was