At the Edge of a Dark Forest Page 4

“Yes, yes.” Cole hated to admit defeat. “I’d like to ride again.”

  Joe’s chair scooched across the slate as he stood. “Great. I’ll tell my son.”

  Cole sighed. “The occupational therapist?” The idea of relearning riding from some young punk weighed on him.

  “Yes. And we’ll get Carly to be a side-walker.”

  This was sounding slower and slower every minute. He just wanted to mount his steed and blow like the wind, climb old hills and jump wide hedges. The idea of a side walker made it sound more like a mosey and less like a ride. “I don’t need a side walker.”

  “You need to start slow and have someone at each side until you regain a proper sense of balance.”

  Cole harrumphed.

  “But if it makes you feel any better,” the spark in Joe’s eyes was devilish, “she’s deathly afraid of horses.” Joe turned and strode toward the stable with what appeared to be a new sense of purpose.

  Carly? Afraid of horses?

  Cole leaned back in the patio chair, a smile tugging at one side of his lips. He couldn’t imagine her afraid of anything, but the thought of dangling her kryptonite in front of her made the idea of riding—even at an excruciatingly slow pace—all the more interesting. And Joe seemed to know that. Did Joe have lessons in mind for her as well? What was he up to? Cole almost wanted to find out.

  The French doors opened behind him. Mrs. Rivera peaked through. “Carly is here, Mr. Cole. She is moving the last of her things in this morning and expects to have a fitting appointment with you in one hour.” She waved a kitchen towel. “Something about a check socket.”

  Cole knew what that meant. He’d traveled this road at the VA. “Tell her I’ll meet her in the gym.”

  Mrs. Rivera closed the door.

  “And I’ll wear my shorts,” he called out, not really caring if anyone heard. He was just glad he’d remembered himself.

  THE GYM TEETERED a little as Cole hobbled in. He held onto the new weight machine he’d ordered at Carly’s suggestion. The place was beginning to look like a real rehab center, even if it did buck and sway in his inebriated state.

  She had two chairs set up next to the parallel bars, a small fitting stand between them and a couple of clear plastic frames on the floor. Those must be the check sockets. Very different from the plastic buckets he’d remembered from his past prosthetics. This was the appointment where she’d stick those on his residual limbs, check the fit—he’d stand, sit, stand, sit, roll over, beg. He shook his head at the image.

  Interminable and boring.

  He hadn’t brought his thermos, or his flask, to this appointment—he didn’t want to raise the lady’s ire—so he made sure to fill up on the drink before he got there.

  His eyelids weighed heavy as though his lashes were made of lead.

  Carly stood and turned. The movement in his field of vision made him dizzy. He wavered, the crutch not seeming to do its job keeping him up.

  “You’re drunk.” Oh well, it seems her ire was there anyway.

  He said nothing. Couldn’t really think of what to say. He plopped into one of the chairs and stuck out the left residual stump. “Go ahead, put it on.”

  She just stared.

  “The socket thing.” Didn’t she know what he meant?

  Her nostrils flared. Cole imagined steam rising from them. He couldn’t help but laugh at the idea she reminded him of a dragon.

  Her eyebrows crunched. Uh-oh, he’d never seen that look before.

  “I will not work with you while you’re drinking.” She stood.

  He rose and reached after her. “Hey. Come on.”

  She yanked out of his grasp. He stumbled, but the metal crutch couldn’t brace his fall. His face hit the padded floor.

  Beauty turned back. “Sober up, Cole, or I walk.”

  He rolled over and rubbed the knot on his forehead. “Can you at least help me up, please?”

  “No.” She stared ice-daggers.

  He released a deep sigh and lifted himself off the floor. “Fine.” He plopped into the chair. “I’ll be sober by this evening. We can do your little fitting then.”

  “No.”

  His gaze met her dark burning eyes.

  “You will be sober for one full week before I work with you.”

  Cole’s breathing labored. His heart thumped. Did that scare him? “Why a week?”

  Her voice was strained but firm. “I need your full attention, and every nerve working in order to fit the sockets to your limbs correctly. You will need to be able to confirm to me every discomfort, pinch or slight gap. Otherwise the socket will rub and burn. You need to be able to feel it.”

  He shrugged. “But why a week?”

  Her expression told Cole she knew more than she should. “Because I don’t want to begin the work, and especially not the therapy, before the DTs have come and gone.”

  The DTs. Delerium Tremens. The words shook through his body as though he were experiencing them now. He closed his eyes trying to block the thought. It didn’t work.

  He couldn’t go through that again. When Joe had challenged him years ago after he’d landed in the hospital from the effects of a virulent frat party he thought he’d die. The shaking, the vomiting, the feeling of bugs crawling all over his body, the crazy hallucinations. He’d stayed sober for two months before his parents were killed. They’d never even known he’d had a drinking problem.

  He’d even remained sober through years of Marine officer training. But then he’d gone to war—war with guns, bombs and body counts. Drinking seemed his only cure.

  Now this Rose woman wanted to take that away and subject him to that hell again.

  He looked at her to find her eyes taking in every detail of his expression. Her gaze seemed to search deep into his mind, her features softening to … what?

  Pity. He didn’t need her pity!

  “Fine.” He bit into the words. “I’ll be sober for a week.”

  CARLY TROMPED DOWN the hall, passed the office, the library, the theatre room and all the rooms in between.

  He’ll be sober for a week. What did that mean? Did he think he could start drinking again at the clanging of the clock?

  Carly entered the kitchen. “Mrs. Rivera?”

  The woman pivoted, a plastic bag of bread in her hands, questions in her eyes.

  “We need to rid this house of all the possible alcohol that your employer has, including anything he may have hidden.”

  Her mouth dropped open, the bag of bread now dangling.

  “Cole has agreed to be sober.”

  Mrs. Rivera’s eyes did not register anything resembling belief.

  Carly opened cabinets above the counters, grabbed some Jim Beam, opened and dumped its contents into the sink. She searched the cabinets below. “We need to remove any temptation, otherwise—”

  “Whoa! What are you doing?”

  Mrs. Rivera gasped at her employer’s voice.

  Cole hobbled in. “This is my house and you do not order my staff to remove my possessions without my say.”

  Carly sucked in a deep breath. “You cannot resist alcohol if it’s staring you in the face.”

  He glanced around, and shrugged. “I don’t see its beady eyes anywhere.”

  She stepped within two feet of him and looked up into his face. She hadn’t realized how tall he was until that moment. “But you know exactly where it is.”

  His jaw jerked.

  “Where is it?”

  He didn’t budge.

  She pivoted toward Mrs. Rivera, still by the counter as though she’d eyed Medusa. “Do you know?”

  Mrs. Rivera turned toward Cole.

  “Don’t bring her into this.” Cole’s deep voice rained down on Carly.

  She stifled a shudder, stepped back, and gestured around. “Every one of your staff is part of this if they know where you keep your bottles or can be convinced to buy you more.”

  Cole’s brow bunched and his crutch hit the floor with force as h
e moved closer. “Have you forgotten your father’s business needs me,” he thumped his chest with his right-arm stump, “as an investor?”

  Carly shifted her weight. She knew this fire could scorch if she didn’t play carefully.

  “I did not ask for this. I did not want this.” The scar at his lip jumped with the force of his words.

  “Then why did you agree to it?”

  His lips pressed into a thin line.

  Carly closed her eyes. None of this made sense. She’d felt from the beginning he didn’t really want to try the prosthetics, yet here he was, virtually supporting her as he did.

  Why?

  It was for that reason her father owed Cole his life, but— “How can you endorse a product that does not work for you because you were too drunk to feel your limbs enough to get a proper fit?”

  “I told you I’ll be completely sober by this evening?”

  “And what do you think would happen, Cole,” his name came out through gritted teeth, “if the press got wind of a tragic accident involving my new prosthetics? One which could have been prevented if the recipient had been sober?”

  Cole’s gaze fell to his one shoe.

  “No, Cole. I’d rather not have an investor who’s more likely to sabotage the product.”

  Cole continued to view the floor for several heart beats. Carly could barely control the thrumming in her chest. Her eyes stung. She didn’t know why this bothered her so much. Yes, she wanted to rebuild her father’s dream, but something told her there was more.

  She stared at the shell of a man who’d given limbs for her country and swallowed the lump in her throat.

  His gaze rose to hers. “You’re right.” His voice was barely audible. “Mrs. Rivera, remove all the liquor from the cabinets.”

  The housekeeper put the bread on the counter and opened several cabinets filled with bottles.

  “I’ll get my personal stash.” He pivoted toward the hall.

  “Personal stash?”

  “In my suite.” He thumped a few more steps toward his bedroom. “See you at dinner.”

  Chapter Five

  AT THE EDGE OF A DARK FOREST

  by Connie Almony

  Carly flattened the last box used to move her stuff into her new apartment and blew the mousey blonde strays from her ponytail out of her face. She’d worked up a good sweat getting things in order before meeting Cole in the manor dining room.

  Shocked he still expected her appearance at dinner after their clash this morning, her nerves buzzed through her like a chainsaw. She wondered why he expected it. Yes, she had agreed to talk with him each night about the product, but he hadn’t used her prosthetics yet, so there was nothing to discuss. Would he quiz her on her business acumen to see if she could run a company? She hoped not. Her strength was in working with the amputees directly, and listening to their needs. The idea of taking her father’s role only added to the weight she carried.

  The glass-domed, gold clock on the mantle over the suite’s fireplace chimed six times. Looks like she’d be late, given the ten minute walk from here to the other end of the manor. Carly checked her reflection, smoothed the stray hairs behind her ear, straightened her t-shirt over her “moving” jeans and headed down the hall.

  She halted at the dining room. Not because of the extravagance of the crystal-dripping chandelier or the elegance of the linen-draped table surrounded by eight upholstered chairs.

  What caught Carly’s attention was the sight of Cole in a crisply ironed royal-blue dress shirt and tailored slacks pinned up on one knee. His attention rose from the book in front of him, long lashes lifting to reveal eyes that matched the color of his shirt. She could almost see the five o’clock shadow beginning to grow on his scalp. It gave a new shape to the solid lines of his face.

  He scowled as she entered, bending the scar across his cheek, and deepening the dark circles under his eyes. “Your yellow ball gown at the cleaners?”

  She rolled her eyes and flopped into the chair across from him. Was she supposed to feel self-conscious in her working clothes? Too bad. It wasn’t her fault she hadn’t gotten the dress-code memo.

  Mrs. Rivera peeked in from the kitchen doorway. “You’re here, Carly. I will serve you, ahora.”

  Cole thumped his book closed and pushed it aside. Mrs. Rivera entered bearing two plates. She placed one in front of each, between the ordered flatware and linen napkins. But there was no knife.

  Steak. Already cut into little pieces. In fact, all the food had been cut as if she were a toddler needing her parent’s permission to use a sharp object. She glanced at Cole, who heartily filled his mouth using his only hand. Mrs. Rivera must have cut Carly’s so Cole wouldn’t feel inferior.

  Just as her eyes began to fill from the tenderness of Mrs. Rivera’s care, Cole looked up at her. “Eat.”

  She picked up a fork and stacked a few green beans on the tines. “So what did you want to talk about?”

  He shoveled food into his mouth. “Who says I wanted to talk.”

  “Isn’t that why I’m to dine with you every night? To talk about the products?”

  “I haven’t tried them yet. What’s there to say?”

  “Then why … ?” She shook her head and took a bite of mashed potatoes.

  The walls echoed the swooshing of the grandfather clock’s pendulum and the dishes clanging in the kitchen next door. Carly shifted in her seat. Then shifted again. Why was she here?

  “The house is clear,” he said to his plate.

  “Clear?”

  “Of alcohol.” His jaw grew ridged with the word.

  “Good.” Was that sweat on his brow? With the cranked up air conditioning she couldn’t imagine how. He swiped his entire face with the linen napkin then scratched his residual arm like he couldn’t make the itch go away.

  The look of terror on his face this morning when she mentioned the DTs replayed in her mind. Carly thought she’d exaggerated the possibilities, not imagining he’d had enough of a drinking history to get them. But his expression told her he’d likely been-there done-that.

  When she’d asked Joe about it, he’d turned white. “We’ll need to be ready.”

  Carly asked what for, but he only replied, “Because he won’t go into the hospital again unless he’s unconscious and we take him.”

  The thought shook her. Was he really that stubborn? Or did he have a death wish?

  What was she in for this week? She didn’t want to know, but was certain she needed to see it through. She fingered the cross at her neck. Carly didn’t just want her prosthetics to succeed. She was beginning to believe she also wanted this man to succeed.

  The scratching stopped. Cole’s gaze met hers. “What are you staring at?”

  She dropped her attention to her plate. “Nothing.”

  “Then stop doing it.” He glared at his milk as though willing it to be rum. “Eat your dinner. Mrs. Rivera has cake for dessert.”

  The woman appeared through the swinging doors. “Here we are.”

  Uncanny. Either his voice always conjured her or she listened at the doorway. Carly guessed the latter.

  Mrs. Rivera set the plates loaded with chocolate cake and raspberry sauce in front of each. Cole’s lips stretched into a boyish grin. It was almost … sweet. “Thanks, Mrs. Rivera.”

  The lady nodded, a deep warmth in her large brown eyes. “De nada, Mr. Cole.” She straightened. “Oh, did Manny thank you for helping him with his statistics homework? He got an A.” She shook her head. “My nephew sometimes forgets his manners.”

  Cole’s smile slid up on one side. “Yes he did, Auntie Rivera.”

  She headed toward the kitchen, then pivoted. “And thank you for taking care of—”

  Cole waved her away. “You already thanked me for that, too.” Cole’s gaze traveled from the retreating housekeeper to Carly. “What?”

  Who was this man? “What-what?”

  His eyebrow lurched. “You’re smirking.”

  “N
o, I’m not.” She dug into the cake.

  “Then what was that funny smile about?”

  Had she been smiling? “I can’t smile when someone brings me cake?”

  “You weren’t just smiling,” Was he angry or amused? “You were smiling at me.”

  “That was your imagination.”

  The spark fled his eyes suddenly, and he scratched at his chest through his shirt.

  Was the itch the beginning of the DTs—already? Her heart plunged at the reminder of the coming storm.

  THE MANOR HAD become unbearable for Carly. Cole’s mood grew darker with each passing hour, and it seemed to permeate every nook and cranny—certainly all the staff. Joe’s admonition to be ready echoed in her mind. Carly had eaten dinner the second evening only to meet with growls and unadulterated insults as he tore at his skin with his fingernails. On occasion, he seemed to reach for the arm that wasn’t there. A phantom itch?

  At least he had the sense not to expect her the third night. He’d eaten in his suite.

  After he’d made even Mrs. Rivera cry with his harsh treatment, Carly retreated out of doors. She walked the property. The long tree-lined drive, the extensive, meandering gardens, the trails through the woods. She took a book and found places to read for long stretches of time.

  She’d spent hours avoiding the house, but finally headed back, passing the stables—the harbinger of her future doom. That is, if she survived the current one.

  She followed the worn path from the stable.

  “Carly. Quick.” Joe ran past her and continued as he called over his shoulder, “Mrs. Rivera just called me. Cole’s having seizures.”

  Carly ran behind him, following to the house. Mrs. Rivera knelt in the living room by Cole’s jerking and arching form, trying to control his flailing limbs.

  A guilty weight fell over Carly. This was her doing. She’d challenged him as though it were the simplest thing in the world, not realizing the havoc she would cause all involved.

  Cole growled foul verbiage as though possessed by demons. Mrs. Rivera prayed in shrieks of hysterics calling on saints Carly didn’t know existed. Joe fell to his knees and held Cole’s body to keep it from banging furniture, or inadvertently swatting poor Mrs. Rivera.