by Cathy Bryant
“I can’t take the chance of you backing out of his life.”
He looked her square in the eye, a nerve rippling in his jaw. “I wouldn’t do that to him.”
Her scouring gaze softened. “No. I don’t believe you would.” The softly-spoken words carried a wellspring of sadness. She sipped from her glass, then returned it to the wooden coaster. “In all fairness to you, I should tell you our days in Miller’s Creek are most likely numbered.”
Andy’s heart plunged, and he lolled his head back against the couch to stare at the rough-hewn cedar beams. Why worry about things beyond his control? He’d sought God’s guidance on this move and had to trust that things would work out according to His plan. “You mentioned earlier that Bo’s has problems sleeping. Anything else?” He turned to look at her.
She closed her eyes momentarily, her face awash with pain. “Nightmares, sucking his thumb, barely letting me out of his sight, trouble at school . . .” Her voice ebbed away.
Andy’s chest tightened. “Does he ever talk about the accident?”
“No.” Her head drooped, her thick brown hair curtaining her expression like a waterfall over a dark cave.
He resisted the urge to shove the curtain away. “Is he seeing a counselor?”
Trish nodded, hugged herself, and rocked back and forth. She continued to slump, her shoulder blades protruding from her back in bony angles. “He’s been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder.”
Post-traumatic stress, the same stuff soldiers endured after a battle. Shell-shocked—the perfect description for the hurting little boy. “How is he around horses?”
Trish visibly stiffened and raised her head, a frown hovering above muddy-watered eyes. “I don’t allow him around the horses anymore.” Her words were liquid steel.
He shifted in his seat, propped his right ankle on the opposite knee, and laid an arm along the back of the couch. “Did he enjoy horse riding before?”
At first she didn’t answer. Instead she peered down at her hands. “He loved it. In fact, he’d just gotten his first horse earlier in the year.” She blinked slowly, her expression blank, an icy mask frozen by haunting memories.
How far could he push without sending her over the edge? It didn’t matter. He needed to know. More importantly, she needed to know. “Has he expressed an interest in riding again?”
Her shoulders rose and then shimmied down with her ragged exhale. “I’ve seen him looking at the horses, but he hasn’t said anything. Why all the questions?”
“Because I think it would be good for him to ride again. He feels disconnected right now, like nothing will ever be the same.”
“His father died. Nothing will be the same.”
“So you want him to go on being like this?” His words sounded harsh, but she had to face the facts. He pressed his lips together and sent an unvoiced prayer to heaven. “Look, Trish, I know this is hard, but you basically have two choices. You can either find a way to help him back from the dark place he runs away to, or you can encourage it in a roundabout way by pretending everything’s okay. If we don’t help him, he might run away and never come back.”
Her mouth opened, then clamped shut, her eyes afloat with angry tears. “We? What ‘we?’ I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but he’s my responsibility. Not yours.” The pain-filled words were strangled with emotion. “You can’t just fix people and situations like you fix a broken faucet.”
Andy started to answer, but then shook his head. “I don’t want to fight, Trish. I only want to help.” He brought a hand up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. At the same exact time she leaned toward him, and they were suddenly nose to nose. His gaze lowered to her lips, his heart pounding like a jackhammer.
Suddenly the air was pierced by a terror-filled scream.
Trish’s head whipped around. She bounded to her feet and raced to Little Bo’s room.
Andy followed and flipped on the light. The room reeked of urine.
Bo’s hair clung to his forehead in damp, sweaty tendrils, and the sheets tentacled his feet. He writhed about, as if pursued and captured by submerged monsters.
Trish’s face paled, and tears rivered down her cheeks as the ocean-blue sheets beneath her son’s body darkened. “He wet the bed. He hasn’t done that since he was two.” Her voice was an agonized whisper, and her knees buckled.
Andy positioned an arm around her shoulder to steady her. “It’s okay, Trish. Let me help.”
She shrugged off his arm. “I don’t need your help!” Trish sank to her knees at the side of the bed, her attention centered on her son, her long fingers stroking his arms and face. “Hey, sweetie, it’s okay. You just had a bad dream.”
Little Bo jerked awake and bolted upright, his mouth hinging open as he sucked in great gulps of air. With eyes like deep, dark pools, he satisfied his cavernous mouth with his thumb.
Trish gathered her son to her chest, the fear and despair on her face slicing through Andy. If only she’d let him in.
He bent down close. “Hey, buddy, I have bad dreams sometimes, too. Wanna talk about it?”
Bo shook his head and stared blankly at the soaked sheets, streams sliding silently down his chubby cheeks.
All Andy could do was place a hand on each of their shoulders, on his heart a prayer, and on his lips salt-water tears.
* * * * *
Later that week, Trish swung open the heavy wooden door to City Hall and clopped across the well-worn oak floors to where Wanda Cates, the city secretary, typed away at an old Remington. Her half-lens reading glasses, complete with a dangling beaded chain, perched on the end of her long nose.
Wanda continued pecking away, her mouth set in an unyielding line, until she reached the end of whatever-it-was she was doing and glanced up. “Why, Trish, I didn’t know it was you. Why didn’t you say something?” The words were spoken in her typical nasal twang. “How ya’ doin’, girl?” She scampered from behind the metal desk and engulfed Trish in a hug.
“Fine.”
“Well, my goodness, don’t you look all business-like?” Wanda stepped back to take in her attire, her gaze halting at Trish’s hair. Her lips twitched. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear your hair up like that.”
Obviously not intended as a compliment.
The older woman moved back to her chair and plopped down. “Steve’s not in right now. He’s at Granny’s having coffee with the old geezers.”
“That’s okay. I’m actually here to see Andy Tyler.”
Wanda’s dark eyebrows waggled up her forehead. “Oh, I see.” Her tone matched her facial expression, both of which screamed busybody. “You know, when I first met Andy, I didn’t much care for him, but he’s a really nice guy. Not that you’re looking, but if you ask me, he’d make great husband material.”
Alrighty, then. “Well, I’d better go. Don’t want to be late. For my business meeting.” She over-emphasized the last words, then waved and headed up the stairs.
Trish hesitated outside Andy’s office, tugged on the front of her gabardine jacket, and checked her pulled-back hair with trembling fingers. A bobby pin had loosened its grip in the May wind, so she secured it, then with a cleansing breath, assumed her business persona and opened the 50’s-movie-detective-style door to Andy’s temporary office. Just here to do her job and then leave.
The room still smelled of fresh paint, and gorgeous natural light spilled in from the tall windows lining the outer wall of the room. What an awesome place to paint. The thought took her by surprise, and she pushed it away. No. Painting was something the old Trish enjoyed. The new Trish didn’t have time. Instead, she’d become father, mother, and sole bread-winner for a very troubled little boy. That was all that mattered.
Andy swiveled in his chair, the phone to his ear. He grinned and held up one finger. “Yes, Mr. Thacker, I can meet with you later this afternoon. Will three work for you?”
Otis Thacker? Why would he need Andy’s services? She glanced aro
und the office that overlooked the city square and chomped down on her bottom lip. The focal wall, a bullet gray, contrasted nicely against the exposed brick of the outer wall.
“My retainer fee is five hundred dol—” Andy’s eyebrows shot up suddenly. “Yes sir, I know that sounds like a lot, but if you compare it to the amount other attorneys charge, it’s quite reasonable.”
A loud, irate voice exploded through the phone, and Andy yanked it away from his ear, grimacing. When the blast ended, he scowled and brought the receiver back to his face. “Yes, sir. Thank you for your . . . er . . . insightful comments. We’ll discuss it this afternoon. I look forward to our meeting.” The distaste on his face contradicted his calm voice.
Andy hung up the phone, released a puff of air, and gave his head a rapid shake as if trying to dislodge the burning words. “Sorry about that.” He checked his wrist, then grinned up at her, a devilish glint in his eyes and dimples. “Right on time. I like that.”
An unauthorized smile sprang to her lips, but she squelched it immediately. “I’ve managed to find several house plans that match what we discussed.” Her business voice held a tremor, but maintained the icy coolness she’d hoped for. Come on, Trish, you can do this. She reached into her briefcase and secured the only file folder that actually contained anything.
Both his smile and the light in his eyes faded, and he motioned toward the conference table next to the bank of windows. “Okay. Let’s have a look.”
Trish stepped to the table, her business heels tapping against the wooden floors. She lowered herself to the padded, metal-frame chair and opened the folder of house plans she’d found online, avoiding eye contact and holding herself ramrod straight. “I believe we discussed a reception room, conference room, and office space, with living quarters in the back?”
“And a basement.” His eyes bored through her with unyielding scrutiny.
She angled her head away. “I found plans that offer a few different options. In this one, the parking would be located on the side—”
“What’s going on?”
Trish looked at him. Big mistake. She lowered her gaze. “I-I don’t know what you mean. I’m here to discuss the plans for your new office. In this one, you could—”
He pounded his palm over the papers in front of her, blocking them from view. “Is this the way it’s going to be between us now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Little chilly in here, don’t you think?”
She hoisted her chin and looked him square in the eye. “I think it’s for the best for us to keep a certain professional distance.”
“Why?” His sea-green eyes and thrust-out jaw challenged her. “Is this about what happened the other night?”
Trish glanced down at her twisting hands. Would he have kissed her had it not been for the incident with Bo? “Yes.”
“Look at me.”
She repositioned her business mask, swallowed, and faced him.
His gaze searched every square inch of her face, then came to a standstill at her eyes, holding them until she was forced to look away.
“I see.” Andy bolted to his feet, muttering something about impossible women, while he raked a hand through his wheat-colored curls. Then he strode to a window and stared out, one hand on his hip, the opposite elbow propped against the rusty brick wall. After a moment, he released a heavy sigh and lowered his head. “I don’t understand.” His voice softened, and he trudged back to his chair and sat, elbows on knees, facing her. “We never got to finish our conversation the other night. I’m not trying to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong. I only want to help.”
“We’ve been through this before.”
“Yes, but it’s a little more serious this time, don’t you think?”
“My point exactly.” She took a deep breath, her stomach churning. Best to just lay it out in the open. “I appreciate all you’ve done for Bo. He adores you.”
“But?”
“But I don’t think it’s wise to have any more episodes like the other night.”
“Episodes? What does that mean?” His face hardened. “I thought we had a lovely evening in spite of how it ended. I enjoyed spending time with both of you.”
Trish pushed her chair away from the table with a scraping sound and stood, crossing her arms. From this vantage point she could see the pecan and oak trees encircling the town square gazebo.
Andy eased over to her, and rested a shoulder against the brick wall. “You’re afraid. I understand that. It’s scary for me, too.”
She faced him, her anger on the rise. “So what if I’m afraid? I have a right to be. I have a little boy to protect.”
His eyes registered shock. And then hurt. “You actually believe I’d do anything to harm him?”
“Not intentionally.” Trish forced herself to calm down. Getting emotional wouldn’t solve anything. “You saw how he was with you the other night, before . . .” She couldn’t make her mouth form the words. “He hasn’t been like that with anyone, not even Steve, since Doc died. Somehow you’re replacing his daddy.”
Andy pursed his lips, his eyes soft with concern. “Trish, I’m not trying to take your husband’s place. I’m trying to help Bo cope with his loss.”
“Why?”
He looked down quickly. A little too quickly. “Because someone made a big difference in my life when I was his age.” The words hinted at past pain.
“Is that why you were asking all those questions about Bo and horses?”
“I grew up around horses. There’s a connection with them that’s hard to explain or duplicate. It’s like they can sense what humans are going through.”
The trees across the street billowed in the stiff spring wind. She understood exactly what he meant. “I know. I grew up with them, too.” She inhaled slowly, then released the breath. “But since the accident, I can’t . . .” Memories of the day attacked with fresh intensity.
Andy put a hand on her arm. “You okay?”
She nodded. Another lie. Would there ever come a time when the horrific scenes from the accident didn’t haunt her? When she no longer saw the horse’s hooves connect with Doc’s skull, or her husband crumple to the ground, his face covered with blood? Her bottom lip quivered.
With one hand on her back, Andy guided her to the table and pulled out a chair for her. He continued to stand and leaned against the conference table with his legs and arms crossed. “When I lived in Dallas, I volunteered at a horse farm that specialized in equine therapy for troubled kids. I saw firsthand what it did for them, and I believe it might be just the thing to help Bo. I’d like your permission to take him horseback riding.”
Had he not heard a word she’d said? She folded her arms across her waist and watched a lone gray cloud float across an otherwise blue sky.
“I’ll take things slow at first, just having him around me while I look at the horses. Then I’ll have him help me groom a horse, and—”
Enough. She’d heard enough. Her palms hit the table, and she pushed her chair away. “It still comes down to the same thing, Andy. He’s going to get more and more attached to you.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I’m his mother.”
“I know. I’m not trying to take him away from you.” He yanked out a chair and sat, his eyes scouring her face, as if he’d stumbled across new information or had a sudden flash of clarity. “This isn’t about him, is it? It’s about us.”
Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. He couldn’t be right. Was she afraid of letting him get too close? Oh.
The left side of his mouth curved upward and created a one-sided, winking dimple. “I’m right, aren’t I?” His tone held wonder.
Trish swallowed the cotton in her mouth. No more beating about the bush. It was time to set the matter straight once and for all. “You’ve been wonderful to us, Andy, and I appreciate it more than you’ll ever know. But I love my husband. Still. With all that I am.” She paused to allow her brain
to catch up with her mouth. “You heard Carla’s comment about us the other night. I’m sure other people in town are thinking the same thing. It’s way too soon for me to even think about life with a different man, especially with my son to consider.”
Andy hung his head, his fingers laced in front of him.
She sensed his hurt. “Please say something.”
“What am I supposed to say? I understand where you’re coming from. I really do. But I want to get to know you better and to spend time with you.”
Trish turned toward the table, straightened the mussed papers, and closed the folder of building plans. “I work for you, Andy. You’re my son’s T-ball coach. That’s it.” She hated that her words sounded so cold and uncaring, but she didn’t know how to put it any other way.
“So you’re saying no to the horse therapy idea?”
“Yes.” She handed him the folder, grabbed her briefcase, and stood. “You can look through these on your own. If none of them work, let me know, and I’ll keep searching.” She strode to the door.
Just as she reached it, he spoke. “Let me ask you something before you go.”
She pivoted, the look on his face causing her stomach to cinch. “What?”
“Have you prayed about this? Or is this a move you’re making on your own?”
Fair question, but one she had no intention of answering.
Chapter 13
Andy gulped down the rest of his Dr. Pepper, then crumpled the aluminum can one-handed, his gaze trained on Trish’s receding back. From the baseball field behind him rang out the laughter and chatter of happy-go-lucky boys anticipating the advent of summer.
But not Bo.
Alone in the dugout, thumb in his mouth, he hunched over, a little old man in a five-year-old’s body.
Pain knifed Andy’s heart. How much longer was Trish going to avoid him? Couldn’t she see Bo was worse? He let out an exasperated breath and strode to the dugout. The last thing he wanted to do was pressure her, but they were losing precious time.
