Jane's Long March Home (3 page)

“Nightmares?”

The strength of his frowning stare gave her courage. She allowed one shaky jerk of her chin.

The hands on her shoulders dropped. A sigh escaped his chest. “I had a very successful practice in Seattle, treating soldiers with problems-”

“Like mine.”

Russell nodded. “One of them was Nate.”

“Your brother?”

All emotion stripped away, he stiffly recited as if reading from a case file, “One night, I was hosting a party to celebrate the success of my recently published book.”

His lip curled derisively. “There I was, having a grand old time. Local booksellers came, and a book reviewer from the Seattle Tribune. My agent and editor had flown in to discuss an interview request from a national television station.”

He paused. Jane leaned against the cold fireplace. So far, she couldn’t see a down side, or what had made Russell drop everything and start over so far away from his family. In fact, if what he was saying was true, he should be proud of what he’d accomplished.

“I turned off my cell that night - ignored, missed, whatever you want to call it, it doesn’t matter - the call from my brother. After the party was over, Mom finally got through. She and Dad had taken Nate to the hospital for a drug overdose.”

Jane’s shoulders stiffened as she watched her hopes for Russell’s help go down the drain.

“After that, I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t be responsible for saving fractured lives. So, I bought this ranch and walked away. I can’t trust myself, and you sure as hell shouldn’t either.”

The stubbornness that had gotten her this far straightened her spine. “You just told me not to give up. Are you only good at giving advice?”

His burning gaze narrowed on her. “you shouldn’t have to settle for a therapist who’s made such a mess of his own life.”

Silence stretched between them as Russell waited for her judgment, but Jane didn’t have any to give him. How could she condemn his actions, when hers had almost resulted in the death of a whole compound of people? She was at least responsible for the death of the homeless boy she’d taken under her wing.

Linus shouldn’t have died. If she’d only been quicker, talked faster, she could have extracted him from the bomb that had been meant to take out the embassy.

So, she had failure in common with Russell. She could see it in the self-condemnation etched into the sharp planes of his face. But it wasn't enough, was it?

Still she fought for the life she wanted back. “I’m sorry about your brother. I have a feeling, if it were me telling you that story, you’d say, something like,
life happens. There’s nothing you can do but move on.
”

Russell’s lips twitched. She couldn’t keep the corners of her own lips from shifting in response.

“You’re pretty good at this. Are you sure you’re the one who needs counseling?”

“So they tell me.” Dispirited, Jane backed into the hall. “I’ll pack my gear and be out of your hair first thing in the morning.”

Later, flipping to his back in an futile effort to find the sleep eluding him, Chase attempted to erase from his overactive mind the look of defeat on Jane's face when she’d finally accepted he couldn’t help her.

When he heard the creak of her bed, followed by the sound of channel surfing, he stared at the ceiling lit by the moon from the window. Jane Donovan had more spunk and courage than any woman he’d ever met. It would not be smart to change his decision.

He turned onto his side, finally drifting off to sleep with the image of the Marine front and center in his mind - all starch and vinegar on the outside, vulnerable pride on the inside.

His dreams morphed as he slipped into a cold hospital room, where he used every argument he could to talk his little brother into putting the bottle of pills down.

It wasn’t until later, when he was startled awake, drenched in a chilling sweat, that he realized Nate’s face had morphed into Jane’s wounded blue eyes, and it was she who called out to him, a desperation in her trembling voice he could no longer ignore.

CHAPTER

IV

T
he next morning, Chase had to see for himself that Jane was okay. Hearing the low sound of the television, he knocked softly on her bedroom door. When there was no response, and with his nightmare still fresh in his mind, he inched into the room.

The sight that met his eyes had his pulse taking off like a rocket. The sheet, barely covering her essentials, slipped even more as the Marine shifted restlessly in her sleep. Her blonde hair stuck out in long spikes on the pillow. His stomach flip over in a sudden hunger that had nothing to do with a desire for breakfast.

As quietly as he’d opened the door, he closed it. The last thing he needed was to think of Jane Donovan as anything other than a client. He sighed, resigned, because sometime in the night, he’d decided to work with her.

He'd have to keep a professional distance, something he’d been unable to do that with Nate, but he didn’t kid himself. It wouldn’t be easy.

Everything he’d been taught said he shouldn’t have been treating a family member, but his brother had refused to see anyone else. Caught between his professionalism and his love for Nate, Chase hadn’t been able to turn his back on a soldier’s suffering then, either.

This time, he couldn’t assume he had all the answers. He couldn’t look on Jane as anything other than a patient. Someone who needed his expertise. Even if the vulnerability she covered with that tough-as-nails Marine armor made him want to scoop her up and do more than simply console her.

When she wasn't down for breakfast by the time he was finished, he left a short stack of pancakes in the microwave, and a note instructing her to come to the bunkhouse when she’d eaten.

It was disconcerting to discover he wanted to make sure the Marine got three square meals a day; that all he could think about was how to make the challenge of facing her fears easier; that he was hoping to draw another one of those tiny smiles out of her.

At the bunkhouse, while he waited for Jane to surface, Chase considered her treatment plan as he swept debris into a pile in the middle of the floor.

When he'd had his practice, he’d earned a reputation for being ruthless when it came to getting results from the not always compliant walking wounded. His uncle knew that, which was why he'd sent his Marine all the way across the country and placed her in his care.

Well, Matt had gotten his wish. When they were done, he’d send her back to active duty with the skills she needed to see her through the hard times. Living, moving beyond the tragedy still wouldn't be easy, but she'd have a running start.

At the thought there would come a time when he wouldn’t be around to help her though those new challenges, a surprising, uncomfortable clink sounded against the wall he'd erected so he could be her counselor.

“I’m ready to leave.”

Chase glanced up at the woman so completely taking over his thoughts. She stood in the doorway he’d left open.

Birds chirped in the yard behind her. Dust particles settled between them. The clean scent of her recent shower assailed him. Back-lit by morning sunlight, she looked like an angel.

Stick to the plan, Russell.

Clearing his throat, he leaned on the broom. “I’ve decided to help you.”

“Why?” A furrow formed between her exquisite brows.

She should be happy with his decision, but Chase couldn’t see what emotions, or lack of them, might have sprung into shrewd blue eyes hidden by the aviator glasses favored by military personnel.

“You were right. I could use an extra pair of hands to help get things squared away here.”

“Begging your pardon, Dr. Russell-”

Chase held up one hand. Should he tell her the truth? She certainly deserved it after everything she’d been through.

That night at his brother’s hospital bedside, it'd been humbling to discover he wasn’t such a big shot after all. What if Matt was right, and this Marine was his one chance to right his grievous mistake?

He released his breath on a harsh hiss and admitted, “If I work with you, it will help me, too.”

Jane stared, clearly confused by his change of heart.

“What do you say? Will you stay?”

Removing her sunglasses, she hung them on the neck of her tank. Pulling gum from her jeans pocket, she didn't do a good job of hiding her belligerence. “I have nowhere else to be.”

Chase had a hard time hiding his smile. “How long can you stay?”

“I’ve got thirty days leave coming.”

He considered how much they had to do. Thirty days wasn't much time, but accepting the constraint, he sought her gaze beneath the tinted glasses. “There will be ground rules.”

For the briefest moment, he thought he saw relief flit across the face that had him thinking she was a woman used to taking care of herself. “Yes, Sir.”

Forbidding his gaze to flick down her thin, athletic frame, he laid them out. “First, you’ve got to stop calling me Sir. Second, you’ll eat three meals a day.”

“I eat enough.”

He ignored her. “I’ll organize daily therapy sessions.”

“Talking.” She sounded dubious. Chase opted to tell her later it would be more than that.

“What do you do for exercise?”

Her brows shot up.

She was a Marine in his uncle’s command. Chase knew what that meant. He hadn’t forgotten the summers he and Nate had spent with Matt backpacking into the rugged Central Oregon countryside, rock climbing at nearby Smith Rock, and white water rafting on the Deschutes River.

Matt had expected them to stay in top physical condition. He wouldn’t demand anything less from his Marines.

Those adolescent memories were primarily what had drawn Chase to the area. When he’d come across the For Sale sign out on the road fronting the ranch on his last vacation, he’d bought the place thinking it would be a great vacation home. Little did he know it would become his sanctuary.

“Okay, we’ll work out an exercise program later.” For the first time since taking up residence, Chase relaxed. Jane Donovan was not going to make the next month easy. The only surprise was, he kind of liked that about her. “You’ll need to learn some relaxation techniques.”

“I’m relaxed.”

“Uh huh. I can see that.” His comment brought out a sexy scowl that had his gut stirring in appreciation. “There are enough chores to do around here to keep you from brooding.”

Her scowl deepened. “I don’t brood.”

“In between all that we’ll go over your coping mechanisms.”

“I won’t take pills.”

“All right, can you tell me why?”

She blushed prettily, then squared her shoulders. “They take my will away. You should also know, alcohol doesn’t help.”

“Glad to hear that.” There had been a note about excessive alcohol use in her file.

“I hope you have some new tricks up your sleeve, because
talking
about
how I’m feeling
doesn’t help either.”

The woman was as dangerous as dynamite. One more time he warned himself to keep his mind on the game, and not on how interesting she was fast becoming.

Before he could forget he was a professional, he pointed over her shoulder. “Change into workout clothes and meet me out back at the punching bag.”

Fifteen minutes later, Jane had her gear stowed in the room where she’d slept the night through for the first time since the bombing. A heavy dose of ibuprofen and the heating pad Russell had left on the bed had given her the reprieve she’d all but given up finding.

When she got down to the punching bag, she wasn't as relieved as she thought she would be to find her new counselor waiting.

She could do this. She’d had too many therapists over the last six months not to know what Russell wanted to hear. Like he said, there wasn’t much time. All she had to do was give him the right answers. He would work his magic. She’d be on her way home.

He handed her a pair of fat, padded boxing gloves. “Do you know how to box?”

“I’ve had some practice.” In Madrid, besides Friday night poker, it had been one of their favorite pastimes.

Russell pulled on matching gloves. He moved to the opposite side of the bag and threw a punch that landed with a hard thud. “So, you were raised in an orphanage? Did you know your family?”

The man didn’t waste any time. Jane danced in to throw her own punch, not answering for a long string of heartbeats. She didn’t like talking about her mother, and if it was family Russell wanted to discuss, it was going to be a very short conversation. “My mother died of an overdose a few years after she left me with the nuns at St. Mary’s.”

She retreated on the balls of her feet, feeling a pinch in her right leg that matched the one in her heart. She swore under her breath, then came back, delivering a swift one-two to the bag.

“I’m sorry.” He was silent, his look thoughtful, making her edgier than she already felt. “What was it like, growing up there?”

Breathing hard, she took a sideways step, inching around the perimeter of the bag. Russell kept pace with her.

She glanced at him and smirked. “I had a particular talent with a Slim Jim.”

“Sounds like a tough life.”

“Sister Mary Margaret did the best she could with what she had to work with.” She gave the bag several more punishing blows, making it rotate back and forth. “Should I be lying on a couch or something, Dr. Russell?”

He made her pay for the sarcasm she wouldn’t keep in check by taking the conversation to a place she didn't want to go. “How’s your hip holding up?”

“Fine.”

Constant discomfort was a reminder of how she’d failed to do her duty. She attached the bag with a ferocious sequence of hits that rocked it toward Russell. He bared his teeth in a smile that harbored devastating understanding.

Not wanting his pity, she clenched her jaw tight enough to ache along with her hip. All she wanted from the Doc was for him to hand her life back in one piece.

“Tell me about Sister Mary Margaret.”

Her growl was surly, even to her own ears. “What does she have to do with anything?”

“If you want to go back to work-” His implication was clear.

Jane chomped on her gum. She’d gnawed every bit of nicotine out of it, and wished she’d brought more down with her. Dancing another step around the bag, the force of her next strike reverberated up her arm, settling her as nothing else had so far.

“There’s not much to tell.”

“Tell me about the orphanage then. Do you ever go back?”

“There’s nothing to go back for.”
Except Sister Mary Margaret.
The one person who’d believed in her.

It’d been too long since Jane had last seen the nun, but she hadn’t wanted the lady who’d had such a huge impact on her life to see how far down the rabbit hole she’d fallen.

She stepped back and taking several deep breaths, planted her gloved hands on her hips.

Russell’s hits were getting too close. She
would
cooperate with him - tell him what he wanted to know. But for now, she needed a little breathing room. “Look, I’ve heard it all before. What happened in Madrid wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t have prevented the bombing. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Each time she’d heard the words, and she’d heard them often enough, a bile of grief pushed into her throat making it almost impossible to breathe. All those therapists had wanted her to believe that bull, but no matter how hard she tried-

A shrewdness she hadn't expected from the man sparing with her muted the sting from his next words. “You don’t believe it. If you did, you wouldn’t be here needing my help.”

She stared at her feet, holding herself perfectly still while silently counting to ten. Stiffly, she conceded. Anything to give him the ammunition he needed to route her demons.

“Of course, you’re right.”

But, Russell wanted more. “Talk to me, Gunny.” An order, not a request.

Goaded, she spat, “Madrid had nothing to do with my Marine training!” The truth of that startled her.

“What do you mean?”

Drowning in the sudden realization that it was growing up an orphan that had betrayed her, she scowled fiercely, and willing her feet to stay put, shouted, “I don’t know.”

“Okay. Let’s try another tack.

Suspicion erupted like shot from a scatter gun. Keeping up with the Doc was turning into a full-time job. But she’d asked for his help, and just because he’d touched a sore spot, it sure as hell didn’t mean she would let him push her into retreat this early in the game.

“Has any of your therapists tried Play Therapy with you?”

“Play therapy.” She pulled off her gloves.

“Originally it was developed to help children recover from psychological trauma.” He eyed her with a good dose of speculation. Jane squirmed. What was the hunky therapist was up to now? “I’ve had some success using this modality on adults. I like it because it's a safe, non-threatening way to explore feelings we might not be able to untangle, in a reasonable amount of time, using a more conventional method.”