Chapter One
Erin
“This is the farm,” Trent Boyd says. “I don’t expect you to help with the work. God knows my son will be enough of a handful. Just make sure he gets better.”
I smile at the town sheriff, trying not to gawk at the sprawling estate stretching in front of us. This is no farm I’ve ever seen, and I’ve sure seen plenty of those where I grew up. The palazzo-style mansion with its carved, marble stairs leading up to the entry looks a bit out of place surrounded by trees and greenery.
I ignore the warning bells in my head at the sight of the sprawling estate, and focus back on the conversation.
“He’s disgruntled by what happened. Understandably so, but deep down, if you look past his frustration, he’s a good man,” Trent goes on to explain. “He’s just lost his faith, that’s all. So, if he tells you that he doesn’t need your help, please, don’t listen to him, Erin. Please, don’t quit.”
“I won’t. It can be a long and painful path to gaining full mobility. As you said it’s understandable that a patient loses their faith. I’m used to that.” I grant him a self-assured smile—the kind I know will infuse confidence into him, even though I know next to nothing about my new patient.
“If you need anything—” Trent hesitates as he kills the engine of his pickup truck and gets out to help me with my luggage.
“I have your number, Mr. Boyd. Don’t worry. I’ve dealt with patients with various kinds of injuries for the last five years. I’m sure your son and I will get along just fine.”
His brows draw in response. Standing in front of him, I get the chance to scrutinize him for the first time since he picked me up from the airport and drove the hundred-mile distance to Madison Creek, Montana. Judging from his lined face, he must be in his fifties, tall, with salt and pepper hair that suits his tanned face and gives him a youthful appearance. He looks good for his age, but there’s a glint of worry in his eyes.
“Please, call me Trent,” he says. “You can take my son’s car to drive to town. The keys are inside. Here’s your expense account.” He hands me a credit card, which I take with reluctance. Even after five years on the job, staying in the same house with a patient still feels strange. “The money’s not just for groceries. Please, buy whatever you need. If there’s anything else, whatever it is, call me and I’ll be over within the hour. As much as I’d like to pretend otherwise, Cash can be insufferable. But he has a good heart. It’s just this damn injury got to him, that’s all. He doesn’t like to feel—”
“Helpless.” I nod knowingly. “Young men often don’t like that feeling. Don’t worry, Mr. Boyd—Trent,” I add as I catch his expression. “I—”
“He’s fired so many before you. We had to fly you in all the way from Chicago.” He carries my luggage like it weighs nothing as we walk up the path that winds up the front lawn and drops it with a thud in front of the door. “Thousands of miles.” He shakes his head grimly.
I want to know how many exactly he’s fired, but refrain from asking. “I’ll need your son’s medical files.”
“They’re in your room. The equipment you requested has been set up in one of the spare rooms,” Trent says and points to the door. “Well, that’s as far as I’ll go.”
That’s a strange statement. I can’t help but wonder whether his son has imposed a ban on his own father who seems like such a nice man.
Then again, I’ve never seen a bull-riding injury before. But from what I’ve gathered from Trent, Cash can’t move around a lot. Men in his age group, particularly the successful ones, don’t take any kind of injuries too well and they tend to lash out because of it.
“I’ll take it from here, thank you,” I say.
“Thanks for coming,” Trent says for the umpteenth time, his warm tone brimming with gratitude.
I reward him with my most reassuring smile and wave at him as I watch him drive off to the sound of screeching tires and the smell of whirled-up dust.
Dragging my suitcase behind me, I try the door and to my surprise, find it unlocked. Living in Chicago, unlocked doors, vast pastures, and a country house the size of a mansion isn’t what I’m used to. Even the weather seems to smile down on me. I’ve never been to Montana but I can already tell it’s going to be a beautiful few months. So what if the house owner’s said to be a bit cranky?
I drag my suitcase through the open door and slam it behind me.
The house is eerily silent. I’m standing in a generously sized hall, which stretches into a vast living area with wood beams and a fresco-painted, coffered ceiling. The furnishing is modern—plush white sofas that lack the female touch of cushions and comfy throws.
I instantly feel at home, and I’m already seeing myself filling vases with the wildflowers growing all around the black iron wrought-iron fence.
Flowers are good for the soul and a great aid in speeding up a client’s recovery.
I leave my suitcase in the hall and breeze from room to room to familiarize myself with my surroundings. A smaller, more casual living room opens into a generous and perfectly trimmed backyard. The massive kitchen is outfitted with marble countertops and dark wood cabinetry, and offers a stunning view of the mountains stretching in the distance. Right next to the library stuffed with bookcases and books are two doors, one ajar and one closed. I peek through the open door and find a bedroom dominated by a large, four-poster bed. On top of the spread are fresh towels, a thin folder containing medical files, and an envelope addressed to “the new girl.”
Leaving my suitcase in the doorway, I sit down on the bed and pull a note out of the envelope.
Hey,
As you can see, I’m not addressing you by your name because I haven’t bothered asking about it. The thing is, I didn’t employ you, and I most certainly don’t need your help. You probably want to be in Montana just as much as I want you here. So, let’s cut this charade short and say goodbye before we’ve even met. I’m enclosing a parting gift in the sum of five hundred bucks, which should cover your plane ticket back home.
Best wishes,
Cash Boyd
P.S.: In case you’re thinking of sticking around, get out of my way. Make me breakfast, if you must. But never knock on my bedroom door, don’t talk to me if you see me, and get the hell out of my way. And never talk about God, because I won’t join your cult.
Is this a fucking joke?
Frowning, I fold the note and slowly push it back inside the envelope.
I’ve just unofficially met Cash Boyd. It might only be on paper, but I think my first impression of him is a pretty solid one.
Injured or not, depressed or not, the guy’s a jerk with a capital J. His dad’s description of him probably did him justice.
But there’s also a glimmer of hope…he has a sense of humor.
I have a reputation of being good at what I do, which is probably why Trent Boyd offered me good money to accompany his son on his way to recovery. As a professional, I pride myself in my ability to keep my cool at all times, which is why the note doesn’t deter me from my mission one bit.
I take my time unpacking, stacking my clothes and few belongings neatly in the walk-in closet. I keep my shower short, mostly because I can’t wait to explore the place that will be my home for the next few months. I pile my hair up before I shrug into my work attire—black slacks and a white shirt—all comfortable to work in but not that I look like I’m about to spend a quiet evening on the couch, watching whatever’s on cable.
It’s late afternoon when I head out of my bedroom in search of Cash Boyd.