Barefoot Season Part 8

"You don't sound convinced."

"I've heard it before."

"I'm not Brenda."

"I'm not a lot of things but that doesn't stop you from not trusting me."

Mich.e.l.le 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." Mich.e.l.le 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 Mich.e.l.le and the inherent unfairness of the situation, she could see her point. Mich.e.l.le was her boss. The fact that they'd once been friends didn't seem to matter.

As for what Mich.e.l.le had been through-she had a feeling it was worse than anything Carly could imagine. Maybe understanding wasn't possible, but a little compa.s.sion 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?" Mich.e.l.le 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, Mich.e.l.le. 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 ma.s.sive 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 pa.s.sing 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 b.u.t.t. It was impressive-high and tight. An athlete's b.u.t.t. 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 infectious. She found herself smiling right back, despite the steady throbbing in her hip.

She hobbled toward the exit, pausing to check out the bulletin board by the door. There were all kinds of postings. The usual a.s.sortment of items for sales, requests for car pooling and free kittens. She scanned them all, looking for a room to rent.

With the inn's financial trouble, she couldn't stay there and use one of the rooms they could be renting out every night. Plus, she didn't want to be that close to Carly. An apartment was more than she needed right now. She planned on working long hours for the next few months. A room was plenty. The trick would be getting one that wasn't too far away. She was willing to drive, but anything farther than forty minutes would be too much.

She'd nearly given up when she saw a small index card listing a room for rent on Blackberry Island. The address was only a couple of miles from the inn. The dirt-cheap price made her wonder if she would be sharing the s.p.a.ce with anything that crawled, but she made the call, anyway, punching in the number on her cell phone.

"Tenly."

"Hi. I'm calling about the room for rent. I saw the card at the VA hospital."

The man on the other end paused. "Is the room for you?"

"Yes."

"It's a mother-in-law suite. No private entrance, but it's off the kitchen, at the other end of the house. You familiar with the island?"

"I grew up there. Mich.e.l.le Sanderson."

"From the inn."

She wasn't surprised he knew. The island was small enough that most people knew one another. There was only one school-a K through 8-where all the kids went. After that, they were bused off island to the nearest high school.

"Jared Tenly."

She recognized the name but couldn't put a face to it. If she had to guess, she would say he was a few years older than her.

"When'd you get back?" he asked.

"A few months ago. I got to the island last week."

"You're at the VA hospital, so you were injured." He paused. "Okay, you can see the room when you want."

"How about now?"

"Now works."

"Give me half an hour to get there."

"I'll be waiting."

Mich.e.l.le slung her backpack over her shoulder, then slid down from her truck, doing her best to take the brunt of her weight with her good leg. Even so, the jolt made her gasp and gag. Thinking about throwing up reminded her of Mango, which made her want to laugh. The combination had her choking and coughing, as if she'd swallowed wrong.

When she got control of herself, she eyed the walkway to the house. It was only about fifteen or twenty feet. She shook her head and reached for her cane. Dancing wasn't in her future anytime soon, she thought. At this point she would be thrilled to walk around without causing people to point and stare. At least the house was a single story. She couldn't imagine having to deal with stairs at the end of the day. Bad enough she would have to go up and down them at the inn.

Leaning heavily on the cane, she walked around the truck and went up the driveway rather than stepping on the curb. The house looked to have been built in the late forties, with a wide porch and decorative dormers. The paint-a soft blue-had faded with time to something closer to gray. The windows were clean enough not to be scary but not so bright that she had to worry that Jared Tenly was one of those weird men obsessed with washing everything in sight.

She'd made it halfway up the walk when the front door opened and a man stepped out. The sight of him brought her to a stop.

He was big-at least six-four, with s.h.a.ggy blond hair and broad shoulders. She was five-eight, but he towered above her. Under regular circ.u.mstances, she probably wouldn't have cared, but with her hip and her current state of exhaustion, vulnerability threatened.

His face leaned toward interesting rather than pretty, although his blue eyes were nice. If she had to pick a single word to describe them, she would say kind. He wore the local guys' uniform of a faded plaid shirt tucked into worn jeans.

"Mich.e.l.le?"

She nodded.

He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on the cane. "We'll go around back."

He stepped off the porch easily, his stride long, chewing up ground. "The room's on the rear side of the house."