Bad Boy Rancher. Karen Rock
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marble-tiled floor as she strode down the hall ahead of the motorcycle driver’s DUI hearing. In her pressed navy suit, her hair scraped into a tight, painful bun, she hoped her respectable, steady image belied her jittering nerves.
Where was room 8A? The hearing started in fifteen minutes and she wanted to arrive early. When the district attorney had contacted her with the date and time, she’d promised to attend. It was her civic duty after all...but deep down she sensed her eagerness stemmed from the rugged man whose tormented face had haunted her these past two weeks. His expression had reminded her of soldiers returning from battle—bleak and raw.
He could have been killed, yet he’d appeared calm and strangely disappointed when he realized he’d lived. He’d only managed to break a rib, tear a two-inch gash in his face and suffer a concussion, but that’d been nothing to him.
Did he have a death wish?
Why had he taken his hands off his handlebars?
Often, soldiers about to leave on patrol had stopped by her office on the pretext of asking for candy. They’d really sought reassurance, hope and faith that they’d return the way they left: alive. Whole. Physically and, with any luck, mentally. They valued their lives and saw each day they breathed as a reprieve until their next tour, and the one after that, the countdown to their deployment’s end feeling like borrowed time. Yet the biker seemed cavalier about this precious gift.
Safety. Many didn’t appreciate it until they’d lost it. Once gone, that faith never fully returned. You couldn’t unknow things...couldn’t unsee them...couldn’t unlive them.
Brielle sidestepped a chattering attorney and client and strolled closer to the window. Outside, fall seemed to be gradually overtaking summer. Yellow now mixed with green aspen leaves. One cluster of red covered the side of an ancient maple. A child and parent stopped beside a spruce, snipped off some needles and dropped them into a baggie.
A student project, she surmised, recalling a happy memory from her elementary school days for a change.
Was her own darkness causing her to read too much into the biker? A traumatic past twisted the present, distorting the new to match the old. She needed a fresh start, something she’d never get if she kept picking the scab over her wound.
Sleep had eluded her since the crash, and she thought of the accident often. When she’d followed the ambulance to the hospital, she’d learned his name was Justin Cade, the youngest son of a ranching family and the town hellion, per an oversharing nurse who staffed an empty waiting room. The bored woman went on to divulge Justin had had a drug-addict twin brother, Jesse, who’d been shot dead by drug dealers on a back road right here in Carbondale. The community’s only murder in over two decades.
When the nurse said “drug addict,” she’d dropped her voice and whispered it, as if she’d uttered a filthy word. She’d pursed her mouth then said characters like that had no place in a sweet, sleepy town like Carbondale.
When she’d asked what brought Brielle to Carbondale and learned she would be running the new rehab and mental health treatment facility, the chatty nurse clammed up and busied herself sharpening pencils. Looked like Brielle might be one of those undesirables the nurse mistrusted.
Brielle paused at a water fountain and bent over to press the tab. She drank the icy stream, recalling the nurse’s dismissal. While she hadn’t expected the town to roll out the red carpet, it surprised her how few had dropped by the new facility. She’d written a letter to the local newspaper’s editor inviting Carbondale residents to tour the facility and ask questions about the provided services before the first patients arrived next week.
She straightened, wiped her mouth, then continued down the hall. Other than a couple rubberneckers who’d looked plenty and said little, the townsfolk steered clear of Fresh Start. Worse, a couple of nasty letters to the newspaper’s editor blasted the facility, calling it a threat to the community because it would attract the “wrong elements” and drop real estate values.
She blew out a frustrated breath. She needed Carbondale’s support to succeed. While she’d stayed busy, reading through case files for incoming patients, hiring staff and inventorying supplies, her mind kept drifting back to how she could improve community relations...and to a rough-and-tumble cowboy who’d looked like he’d walked right out of a biker fantasy...
Speaking of which.
She pulled up short at the sight of the tall, lean, bearded man tightening his tie knot. His light hazel eyes bored into hers then narrowed in recognition.
“You,” he said, the single word sounding like an accusation. His hands fell to his sides, and he stalked toward her, smooth and graceful, a predatory animal. There was no other way to describe how he zeroed in on her. Like a wolf with hackles raised, Justin Cade seemed to flex every muscle in his possession.
Brielle swallowed hard and stuck her hand out. “Brielle Thompson.” After a moment of hesitation, he clasped it with his callused palm. Warmth exploded up her arm at the brief contact. “I’m sorry about the accident.”
He crossed his arms and his biceps bulged beneath the tailored suit material, curving it. “Wasn’t your fault.”
“I braked, but it all happened so fast.”
“There wasn’t anything you could have done.”
She tilted her head so her eyes caught his. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged and his gaze flitted outdoors, landing on the parent and child she’d spotted earlier.
“Are you doing okay?”
“Suppose,” he said without looking at her, which gave her plenty of license to indulge her curiosity and study him.
Beneath his bearded scruff, he had a perfectly proportioned face: a strong jaw, high cheekbones and a straight, narrow nose. Normally she didn’t like the mountain man look, especially after a lifetime spent around clean-shaven, tightly shorn military men. Yet something about his wild, untamed looks appealed to her. Challenged and drew her in.
“I tried visiting you in the hospital, but they wouldn’t let me back.”
“You’re not family.” He inserted a toothpick in his mouth. “Or a friend.” His eyes slashed across her face then back to the outdoor scene.
Heat crept up her neck and into her cheeks. “True.”
It wasn’t like she wanted to be his friend. Getting close to Justin Cade, she sensed, would be as futile as trying to throw a hug on a cactus.
“I heard you broke your ribs. A concussion, too,” she persisted.
His piercing eyes swung back to her, and the impact of his ferocious gaze was like a hand on her chest, shoving her.
“It’s a fracture.” He yanked at a green tie that brought out the yellow flecks in his eyes. In fact, looking closer, she realized his eyes were lighter than she thought.
“That’s a relief.”
A line appeared between his thick brows. “You think I’m relieved about this?” he mumbled around the toothpick.
“How about grateful?” she snapped, losing her patience with the mulish man.
“Nope. Not that, either.” His broad shoulders rose then dropped in a careless shrug.
Didn’t anything matter to this guy? His face was a slipping mask, and beneath it Brielle saw pain. “I’ve seen a lot of good men and women who cherished life lose it too soon. You’re lucky.”
He scrutinized her for a moment then laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “Lucky? Good one.” He tipped his hat, pulled open a door labeled 8A, and disappeared inside.
Her eyes wandered over the entrance’s fake wood grain.
Justin Cade might have deliberately taken his hands from the handlebars after all. Maybe he’d wanted to die two weeks ago, and she’d prevented