Her brain skittered back toward panic, the blood draining from her head. “Is it Roger?” she whispered.
His gaze sharpened, and he lowered his hand, taking a step forward, only to stop when she jerked backwards. He shook his head, his eyes still focused on her face. “No, not Roger. Clara. Clara Trimble. Her mother said you were hoping to work with her. I’m Mike Dunning, the neurosurgeon who performed her operation.”
* * *
Mike had seen all kinds of expressions on a woman’s face as she lay beneath him—lust, need, affection, love. But never in his life had he inspired abject terror. He should have realized the hands sweeping over his body had had a quick furtive quality to them, not the slow, languorous touches he was used to. She’d been looking for something specific.
“I’m sorry I scared you.” He’d been a little panicked himself when that animal had given that high-pitched shriek. His nerves had already been stretched to breaking point the second he’d set foot in the barn, and each step had made the feeling that much worse. He hadn’t dared call out to her, had barely been able to push one foot in front of the other.
Mike and horses could no longer be considered friends. Not that they’d ever been particularly close. But four years and a whole lot of distance had changed nothing, it seemed. He still couldn’t stand to be near them.
The woman in question gave a rough exhalation of breath, drawing the back of her hand over her brow and leaving a smudge of some dark substance that made his lips curve.
He’d tackled her to the ground, what did he expect?
“Clara,” she said. “Of course. Doris said she was going to ask you to contact me. I expected a phone call, not a visit.”
His brows went up, more convinced than ever that putting his patient on the back of a thousand-pound animal was a bad idea. Both the horse—and its owner—seemed strong-headed, unpredictable. He’d seen first-hand what kind of devastation that combination could cause. He curled his left hand into a loose fist, the emptiness he found there mirroring the void within his chest. “I’m not about to prescribe something for a patient I can’t fully endorse.”
“Oh.” She bit her lip and backed up another pace or two before dropping onto a white plastic bucket against a nearby stall door. “If you had just called first...”
“I did try. I left a message on your machine a few hours ago. I had a break and decided to stop over in person, instead of waiting for you to return my call.” He turned to look at the animal behind him, expecting it to break free of its ties and grab hold of his shirt at any second. He gestured at it. “And if this is your idea of safe, then I’m afraid—”
She stood in a rush. “Brutus isn’t one of my therapy horses. I can assure you the horses I use with my patients are extremely gentle and love their job. Brutus is a...special case.”
Special. Yes, he could see that. About as special as its name.
He glanced around the rest of the barn, but it was empty. “So where are the other horses?”
“Out in the pasture. It’s their day off. Brutus was just about to join them.” She crossed over to her horse, murmuring something in a low voice before wrapping an arm under the creature’s neck and leaning her temple against it.
He swallowed back a ball of fear when the big animal shifted closer to her. “Could you come away from there, please?”
Instead of doing as he asked, she leaned sideways and grabbed a loop of leather off a peg on the wall and unclipped one of the ties holding the horse in place. She replaced it with a hook from the loop in her hand. Then she unsnapped the tie on the other side.
The creature was free, except for that thin cord she held.
As if knowing exactly what he was thinking, the horse snorted and bobbed its head.
“What are you doing?”
She eyed him, a slight pucker between her brows. “I told you. Brutus needs to be turned out.”
To his shock, she held the length of leather out to him. “Do you mind leading him while I take the wheelbarrow out to the compost heap?”
“I’d prefer it if you just put him in a stall.” He gestured to the row of empty boxes.
She bent over to pick up the curved metal instrument she’d been using when he’d arrived. For a second or two he’d wondered if she’d planned on gutting him with it, before dismissing the idea as ridiculous. She tossed the item into a wooden chest then shrugged. “Okay. I’ll lead him and you can take the wheelbarrow. The compost heap is on the way out to the pasture. We can talk on the way and you can see the other horses.” She gave a quick laugh, seeming to have recovered her composure. “You might want to watch your shoes, though. Wouldn’t want to ruin them.”
He glanced to the side and saw a wheelbarrow filled with a substance he recognized, and which looked suspiciously like the smudge on Ms. Bolton’s forehead. Despite the situation, he couldn’t stop a smile from forming. She thought he was afraid of a little horse manure? He would have set her straight, but she was already on the move, the horse swinging out of the stall and passing within two feet of where he stood. Its hooves made a familiar clop-clop as the pair moved toward the far doors.
He rolled his eyes. The things he did for his patients.
Okay, Mike. You’re a brain surgeon. You’ve seen a whole lot worse than this.
Yes, he had.
He curled his hands around the handles of the wheelbarrow and lifted, finding the thing surprisingly heavy. Marcy had boarded her horses at another location, heading out there in the mornings and coming home in the evenings. He’d never had much to do with her profession. Until the night she hadn’t come home at all. And he’d been left to live with the aftermath.
An aftermath that still rose up to choke him at times.
Like now?
Hell. The sooner he got off Patricia Bolton’s property, the better.
He caught up to her within a minute, making sure to stay on her far side, away from the horse, which trudged forward like it hadn’t a care in the world. You’d never know it was the same animal who’d minutes ago caused him to charge into the pen, his only thought to drag Ms. Bolton out of harm’s way.
Apparently, she hadn’t needed his help after all.
“So, what set him off?” He wasn’t sure why he asked. Maybe to try to understand what had happened four years ago.
She glanced at him. “The way you motioned me out of the cross ties. He’s leery of arms that move in quick jerky motions. Especially if they’re flicked back and then brought down in a rush.”
That made him pause. “Why didn’t you say something the first time I did it?” She’d just stood there and let him repeat the gesture a second time without saying a word.
“I thought you were...” She shook her head. “It’s complicated. Just don’t do it again.”
Not much chance of that, since he’d probably never see Ms. Bolton—or Brutus—again after today. That included those deep green eyes fringed with thick dark lashes. And her cute blonde ponytail that was currently swishing back and forth with every step she took. And her extremely inviting derrière, which seemed custom made for gripping.
Tightening his fingers on the handles of the wheelbarrow and glad the metal object hid a certain wayward body part, he tried to shift his thoughts back to his patient. “So Doris Trimble thinks you can help Clara.”
“I think I can too.” She glanced sideways at him and then back ahead.
There was no hint of conceit