Bad Boy Rancher. Karen Rock

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      How could Justin keep an eye on the situation from behind bars?

      “Ms. Thompson!” his mother shouted, waving. “A moment?”

      The lithe young woman halted then turned, her movements efficient and crisp. She wore a navy suit jacket with a matching skirt ending just below her knees, a white shirt buttoned tight around her throat. Despite the covered-up look, attraction spiked through Justin, taking him by surprise. Something about Brielle Thompson’s good-girl image challenged the hell-raiser in him. A red cape before the bull. A sudden urge to unpin her hair, remove that straitjacket and kiss off her immaculately applied lipstick seized him.

      He shook away the wild thought.

      “I’m afraid I’m running late for a meeting. Another time?”

      “Justin just wanted to thank you and apologize.”

      “The heck I do,” he muttered, unable to pull his gaze from Brielle’s arresting face. She wasn’t beautiful, exactly, but only because that was the wrong word. Lots of people were beautiful. They blended with the scenery. Brielle’s direct gaze and firm stance demanded attention. Out in the hall, she’d been aggressive, combative and lovely.

      One by one, he admired her features. They weren’t remarkable. An upward tip spoiled the straight line of her nose. A heaviness lent her square jaw a stubborn look. Her generous lower lip dominated her mouth, making it uneven. And her eyes, a distinct green color resembling new leaves, oddly contrasted with her darker lashes and brow.

      Yet it added up to something unique, compelling—something that made him look twice.

      “Not necessary, but thanks.” She waved and turned to leave, the dismissive gesture getting under his skin.

      “Wait!”

      His call jerked her to a stop again. When her piercing eyes swung to his, his throat closed around whatever he’d been about to say.

      Idiot.

      Let her go.

      “Yes?” She arched a brow, the provocative move sending a current of awareness sliding over his skin.

      “I should have said it earlier. I’m sorry for hitting your truck.”

      To his surprise, she strode forward and paused only a foot away. No one ever got this close to him anymore. Not even his ma, yet tough Army Chaplain Brielle Thompson had no problem getting right up in his face.

      “Are you?” she asked, skeptical.

      Jewel’s gasp turned into a surprised chuckle his brothers echoed.

      “She’s got you figured out,” Jared guffawed.

      “Shut it,” Justin growled without taking his eyes off Brielle.

      “Let’s give these two some privacy,” he heard his ma murmur, then the group tromped away.

      “You were saying?” Brielle prompted, her prim tone and serene nature revving him up. She didn’t fool him. He’d glimpsed the shadows in her eyes, witnessed her swift burst of anger, and knew she ran deeper, darker, wilder than she appeared.

      “I’m sorry I hit your van.”

      “I don’t believe you.”

      He shifted in his boots, uneasy at her direct, unrelenting gaze. She sure didn’t tiptoe around delicate subjects. “I don’t care if you believe me.”

      Her jaw jutted. “Yes, you do.”

      His mouth dropped open. She’d just called him out. No one dared do that, other than his family, and even they trod lightly.

      A breeze rustled the dry leaves of a nearby maple, sending a few spiraling to the ground. “Why would I care?” he asked, forcing a nonchalant tone.

      Her mouth ticked up in the corners. “You’re still here talking to me.”

      He pressed his lips together to stop an unbidden smile, amused despite himself. She wasn’t scared to give offense, and he liked that. “I’m doing it for my ma.”

      “Not yourself then?”

      He stared at her, mute. What was she driving at? A trio of crows alighted on the telephone line running to the courthouse, bobbing their sleek black heads.

      “Did you let go of the handlebars before you hit me?”

      His head jerked back as if she’d slapped it.

      “You saw me in time to avoid me,” she pressed. “Why didn’t you slow down or turn?”

      He shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders, defensive. Her questions pummeled him, pinning him on the ropes. “I was drinking. You heard...”

      “Point oh nine?” Her eyes narrowed, a hard street stare, the pain he’d glimpsed the other night now settling into their corners. “That’s just barely over the limit. No. Alcohol didn’t have much to do with it.”

      His eyes dropped to his boots. He scuffed a line in the graveled parking lot, alternately wishing himself away and enjoying this dustup with her. “Then what did?”

      One of the crows cawed, a rough, harsh, nasty sound voicing the writhing blackness rising from the base of his skull.

      “Why don’t you come to my clinic and find out?” she challenged, then turned neatly on her heel and marched away.

      He watched her hop into a Jeep with temporary plates and peel out of the parking lot.

      No shrinking violet there.

      His mouth curved. He liked having a sparring partner.

      She made him feel alive, a stinging rush like the return of blood to a limb that’d fallen asleep.

      Except he liked—no, needed—to stay numb.

      He didn’t want to wake and face reality.

      Did he?

       CHAPTER THREE

      “MY FAVORITE PIZZA toppings are pineapple and jalapeño peppers,” pronounced one of Fresh Start’s patients during their first group therapy session later that week. Brielle jotted down the unusual pairing on a stand-alone whiteboard then turned back to the speaker. He’d introduced himself earlier as Paul, a former artilleryman who’d served in Mosul. Per his intake, he suffered from PTSD and depression.

      Paul took up most of one of the chairs circling the center of the converted ranch house’s living room. In his midthirties, he had wide ears, a round, expressive face and a stooped posture that seemed to be apologizing for the sheer size of him. Six inked names scrolled across his forearm.

      Lost brothers in arms?

      Names of fallen СКАЧАТЬ