Barefoot Season

“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, Michelle. 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 massive 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 passing 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 butt. It was impressive—high and tight. An athlete’s butt. 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 assortment 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 space 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. Michelle 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.”