Falling For The Rancher. Tanya Michaels
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mother, who insisted she couldn’t sleep in sheets with less than an eight hundred thread count. “I like the funky vibe. And the wardrobe reminds me of one of my favorite books when I was a kid.” Stifling the urge to climb inside and look for magical portals, she turned and ran her hand over the lacy vintage comforter. As long as the mattress was comfortable, even Muriel would have to call this bed luxurious. It was freaking huge. Sierra sat on the edge, bouncing slightly to test it. “This bed’s almost too big for one person.”
There was a sudden heat in his gaze that made her skin prickle. He looked away, but not before she realized his mind was in a different place than hers. Great start to the first day—telling your boss you don’t want to sleep alone. Now he was staring fixedly at the wall, as if embarrassed by his wayward thoughts.
She stood, brazening through the moment by making a joke of it. “You don’t mind if I host wild orgies on my nights off, do you?”
For a split second, he didn’t react. But then his lips quirked in a slow smile. “Orgies, huh? Call me old-fashioned, but I think if one guy can’t make you happy, he’s not doing it right.”
Her heart clutched—not at the outrageous teasing, which she’d started, but at how that grin transformed his face. In town, Kate Sullivan had called Jarrett a charmer. The word didn’t fully capture the wicked glint in his eyes or the thrill Sierra got from having coaxed a playful moment. She’d already been drawn to Jarrett more than was appropriate, given their circumstances, but now that she knew about that dangerously tempting smile and his sense of humor?
For the first time since they’d met, she was the one who lowered her gaze. “I should get settled in,” she said, striving for an efficient, professional tone. “The sooner I unpack, the faster I can start helping Vicki.”
He flinched. “Vicki. Of course. I’ll...see you at dinner.”
With that, he was out the door. She honestly didn’t know if she was sorry to see him go or relieved.
* * *
AT THE RISK of being overly optimistic, Sierra thought that her first hour of PT with Vicki had gone quite well. The young woman hadn’t made a single bitchy comment. Granted, she was glaring as if she wanted to kick Sierra’s ass, but the good news was, if she ever managed to achieve that, Sierra would know she’d done her job even better than anticipated.
They’d wrapped up a set of exercises, and Vicki was glowering over the top of the water Sierra had handed her.
Sierra slid one of the chairs away from the kitchen table and spun it around, straddling it. “Did your post-surgery therapist talk to you about imagery?”
“No, but my Freshman Lit teacher did. Want to discuss symbolism in ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’?”
“I’m talking about positive thinking and having a mental picture of exactly what you want to accomplish, something specific and concrete.” At Vicki’s disdainful look, Sierra added, “There have been actual medical studies concluding that imagery can help accelerate the healing process.”
“So your clinical approach is for me to close my eyes and chant ‘I think I can, I think I can’?”
Well, it had been too much to hope that Vicki’s sarcasm was cured forever. “Yeah,” Sierra drawled, matching the young woman’s scathing tone, “that’s exactly what I said. To hell with the carefully researched exercises and the grueling muscle stretches. Let’s just hold hands and hope for the best.”
The corner of Vicki’s lips twitched. “I’m not holding your hand.”
“You will if I tell you to,” Sierra said mildly. “You’re missing the big picture—everything I do is for your benefit. My only goal here is to help you make progress.” Her only primary goal, anyway. She had secondary objectives of figuring out her future after Cupid’s Bow and repressing her attraction to Jarrett. “Look, Vicki, try to keep an open mind and trust that I have the experience to do my job well.”
When she didn’t respond, Sierra decided to take the silence as acquiescence.
“All right,” she continued, “we want to come up with a specific image that you can focus on during sessions, something that will help keep you motivated when you want to quit.”
Anger flashed in Vicki’s brown eyes. “I’m not a quitter.”
“Good. Me neither. So let’s harness our collective stubbornness and work together. What is it that you want?”
“To walk again. Without a walker or crutches or anything that makes me feel—” She shook her head fiercely, unwilling to voice her frustration and fear.
“You’ll get there,” Sierra promised. “Not all the way there in the three weeks we have, but eventually. But if you could walk right now, no limitations, what would you most want to be doing? Think in terms of sensory details. Build a clear goal in your mind. Hiking outside and feeling the warmth of the sun on your face? Strolling through your favorite store and looking for great sales items?”
“Dancing with Aaron.” A smile lit her face. “Aaron Dunn is my boyfriend. There’s a dance hall near campus that we love to visit. Aaron’s a great dancer. He was teaching me how to jitterbug before last semester ended.”
“Perfect. So close your eyes and imagine everything—the song you’re listening to, the clothes you’re wearing, the smell of beer—er, Aaron’s cologne,” she amended for her underage client. “Got it?”
Vicki nodded.
“Then let’s get to work.”
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