His Girl From Nowhere

Then again, he was running out of options, other than saying that Clara’s current condition was the best they could hope for: limited mobility and function. The swelling in her brain had subsided thanks to surgery and time, but the damage caused by the horrific car accident a year ago had not. She had burn scars on various parts of her body—the skin stretched tightly over the joints, making bending them difficult. Her mother seemed to think that riding would help stretch that skin and make it more supple. She was probably right about that. He’d watched how Bethany Williams’s body had moved with the horse and though it had been subtle, her limbs and joints had followed the animal’s strides, her narrow shoulders stretching out and back as she’d gripped the straps on the saddle.

Muscle did have memory, so it was possible the same rhythmic movements could help Clara improve her balance and build some core strength. But improve cognitive function? That he wasn’t sure of. He promised himself he’d take some time this week to do some deeper research.

It would have all been so simple if Trisha had landed in someone else’s pond. But she hadn’t. She’d wound up in Dusty Hill’s tiny pool, and, as much as he didn’t want to, he was going to have to make a decision on how to deal with her. Because even though he practiced neurology in the next town over, he had a feeling Clara’s mom wasn’t the only one who was going to discover Trisha’s little outfit. More people were going to ask about her and her horses.

He knew exactly how much a referral from him could help her. He could be the best thing that ever happened to her, financially speaking. But that wasn’t his main concern. He knew that sooner or later some of his other patients—whether they were past, present or future—were going to come into his office, eyes shining with excitement about the possibilities of hippotherapy, asking if it could help their relative. Could he prescribe it? He needed to have a ready answer—an objective one—one backed by research and unclouded by his personal issues.

He moved his attention back to the girl in the wheelchair. “Let’s see how you’re doing, Clara, is that okay?”

The lolling of her head was the only answer he got, as she struggled to focus on his face. Clara was seeing a variety of specialists today, her graft team, her occupational therapist, along with her physical therapist and orthopedist. They would come together later in the day and discuss their individual findings and try to figure out where to go from here. As he lifted Clara and laid her on the exam table, he wondered how Trisha expected to keep children like this upright on that horse. Crow—was that the animal’s name?—was pretty large. He hadn’t paid close attention to the sizes of the other horses. And that saddle had seemed soft and flimsy, with fabric grips rather than a traditional saddle horn. How would Clara even hold on?

He hadn’t thought to ask, because something had distracted him. Namely the sight and scent of a certain equine therapist. One who’d stroked his hand down a horse’s neck and made him wonder what it would be like to stroke his fingers down the silky skin of her throat instead.

“Okay, Clara.” He reached over to grab his reflex hammer, putting Trisha out of his mind. “You know the drill.”

She still couldn’t sit completely under her own power, although he thought she’d grown a little more stable over the past few months. He smoothed a couple of strands of blonde hair back from her forehead with a smile that was a little more forced than normal. “Are you ready?”

He carefully went through Clara’s reflex reactions and strength, looking for any increase in weakness or spasticity on her left side. Things looked much the same as they had a month ago, something her mother found frustrating, and Mike couldn’t blame her. It had to be agonizing to work so hard and see so little improvement. It was another reason she was so eager to try something new. Anything new.

He couldn’t let himself be swayed by that.

Helping the five-year-old back into a sitting position and calling her mother over to help keep her stable, he studied Clara’s eyes, smiling at her and watching her reaction. Her lips curled as she tried to smile back, but the left side still lagged behind the right, not lifting as high. He did a few more tests and then they bundled her back into her chair and Mike gently strapped her in. Those blue angelic eyes followed his movements and he could almost see the plea inside of her, although he knew it was probably his imagination.

Shifting his attention back to Doris, he sighed. “Give me another week to get some more background information on hippotherapy. I’ll give you a call as soon as I feel I can recommend something one way or the other.”

Doris smiled, then, as if unable to resist, hugged him. “Thank you. I know you’ll do the right thing.” As soon as the words were out she released him and brushed her fingertips beneath her eyes. Mike’s gut clenched. Again.

Doing what was right wasn’t always a black-and-white decision.

He accompanied the pair out to the waiting room just as his receptionist swiveled in her chair. “A Ms. Bolton called to set up your next appointment. She said she’s a hippotherapist?” Her puckered brow said she had no idea what that was.

Join the crowd.

Unfortunately, Clara knew exactly who that was. “H-h-h-horsy l-lady!” The stuttered words—the first thing she’d said since arriving—came out of the five-year-old’s mouth as a loud squeal, causing every head in the waiting room to swivel toward them. So much for keeping Trisha’s existence quiet for now.

Rather than feeling irritated, Mike squatted down in front of the child and waited patiently until she looked at him. “Do you like the horsy lady, Clara?”

Clara’s head gave that funny little roll that was meant as a nod. “N-nice. Want...h-horse.”

“We’ll have to see what we can do.”

He glanced up at his receptionist. “Find a spot on my schedule that works for Ms. Bolton as well and pencil me in. Oh, and find my next scheduled tumor resection and ask Ms. Bolton if she can free up that time.” If she was going to put his feet to the fire, then he intended to do the same. It was time for her to live up to her end of the bargain. And soon. He ignored the sharp twist inside him that said he wasn’t being fair.

Of course he was. This was what they’d agreed on. Although, if he was honest with himself, he’d suggested the trade because of the way she’d shuddered at the word blood when she’d joked about her horses. He’d felt so sure she’d decide it wasn’t worth it. That hadn’t happened, making him wonder just how badly she needed new clients.

As he waved goodbye to Doris and Clara, a hard, cold lump formed in his throat. This was worst bargain he’d ever made. One that would require more delicate maneuvering than his most difficult surgery. And like most of those surgeries, the outcome was anything but sure. But first of all he wanted to see exactly who he was dealing with. There was something odd about Ms. Bolton...about the way she’d balked about giving him references from her previous location. He’d been lied to before. And unfortunately he’d found that some lies weren’t harmless. Some of them destroyed lives.

Asking his receptionist for five minutes before sending in his next appointment, he made his way back into his office and dialed up an old friend. Swiveling away from the door, he waited through three rings then a familiar voice came on the line. “Mike. How are you?”

“Fine, Ray, and you?”

“Can’t complain. Although things have been a little too quiet lately.”

Mike took a deep breath before forcing himself to continue. “Well, maybe I can help you out with that. Can you do me a favor?”

The sheriff’s gruff voice came back over the line. “Depends on what it is. Although I do owe you a pretty big favor.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Ray.” His friend’s mother had had an aortic aneurism, and Mike had steered them to the finest specialist in the area. The sheriff wouldn’t let it go, saying he’d pay him back somehow.

“Sounds pretty serious.”

It was. If only he could tell Ray why. It was a little hard as he wasn’t sure of the answer to that question himself. “We have a new physical therapist in town who uses horses in her work.”

“Oh, hell, Mike. Sorry, man.”

His old friend knew all about Marcy. They’d all been friends once upon a time—had all grown up together in Dusty Hills. Ray even knew about the affair his wife had had with one of her fellow trainers. “It’s not about her horses. I asked her for references, and she got a little squirrelly on me with her answers. Is there any way you can do a check on her?”

“I don’t know, Mike. I’m assuming we’re not talking about a credit check.”

“No.” He pushed ahead. He still had several patients to see so he needed to make this quick. “I have a patient’s mother who wants to use her services, but I don’t want to recommend something unless it’s on the up and up.”

“You think she has a record?”

Did he? No, not really, and he wasn’t sure how ethical it was to ask his friend to do a background check.

“I’m not sure.”

A chuckle came over the phone. “There is such a thing as the internet, you know.”

Hmm...he hadn’t thought of that. He typed the name Patricia Bolton into the computer on his desk and lots of suggestions came up. Too many. He wouldn’t even know where to begin. “I guess I could try that.”

“What’s her name? I’ll poke around some, but I can only dig so deep without having an iron-clad reason.”

He swallowed, wondering if he was doing the right thing. This seemed a little too close to invasion of privacy for his taste. And just because Marcy had told some whoppers it didn’t mean that every woman he ran across was stretching the truth. Except Trisha had definitely been evasive about giving him names of clients outside Dusty Hills.

We’re talking about the welfare of a patient here.

Yes, they were. “I understand, Ray. Her name’s Patricia Bolton.”

“I remember her. Pretty little thing. She blew into town six months ago with a couple of men and an enormous horse trailer. The men didn’t stick around more than a few hours. She, however, did.”

A couple of men. That was strange. Ray or his deputy normally parked out on the main entrance to town, so it made sense that they’d see folks they didn’t recognize every once in a while. Dusty Hills was a pretty close-knit community, most people lived and died in the same houses they’d grown up in, which was why his practice was in Mariston, a city many times larger than his hometown. “Maybe her husband travels or something,” he mused.

The thought made a sick sensation worm its way through his gut. Especially after what had nearly happened between them—or maybe it had all been one-sided. He’d never thought to ask if she was married, although he hadn’t noticed a wedding ring. Next time he saw her, he’d look a little closer.

“Maybe he does,” Ray said. “I’ll look in public records and see what comes up. If she has any outstanding warrants I’ll let you know.”

Mike scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck. He had no idea exactly what he was looking for. “Thanks. I have an appointment with her this Thursday.”