Chapter Four
Thunderous pounding on Carly’s office door Monday rattled the walls, and before she maneuvered around her desk, the door flew open, revealing Owen.
Behind him she noticed clouds had rolled in, covering the blue sky and morning sun she’d seen earlier.
The fluorescent office lights silhouetted Owen’s resilient, lean frame against the storm clouds.
Today he wore Levi’s, a gray T-shirt with the state of Texas in blue and the word home scrawled across it, well-worn cowboy boots, and an old Stetson.
Nothing made a man’s body look better than a good fitting pair of Levi’s, and Owen was no exception despite his clothes hanging loose on his slimmer frame.
Standing in the doorway, his booted feet apart, he appeared every bit the cowboy hero in a classic western movie.
Oh, brother. Here she sat, her pulse racing and her palms sweaty, thinking Owen was the living, breathing image of a cowboy hero. If this was the first image that popped into her head with a new client maybe she did need to go on more than an occasional date.
Regular new client? Right. She bet a dime to a dollar if another handsome cowboy strolled in, her hormones wouldn’t do the happy dance the way they had seeing Owen.
She glanced over his shoulder at the sky, and vowed to prove her little voice wrong. “Looks like a storm might be blowing in.”
As if to punctuate her thought, thunder rumbled in the distance and rain started falling.
Owen stiffened, his hands fisted at his sides, his back ramrod straight as he stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him.
The movement caused his balance to waver.
His jaw clenched, his hand clutched the doorjamb so tight his knuckles whitened, as he fought to regain his equilibrium.
“The first thing we need to do is get you a cane,” Carly said, as she strode to the metal cabinet by her desk to retrieve the item.
“Don’t bother,” Owen said. “The one the hospital gave me is at home in the closet.”
She leaned against desk. “That’s a great place for it when you have balance issues.”
“Sure is, because I don’t need the damn thing.”
She considered pushing the issue but decided their start was awkward enough without arguing over him using a cane. Best to pick her battles and concentrate on ones she had a prayer of winning; from his thinned lips and the tilt of his strong chin, this wasn’t one of them.
“That’s your choice.” Carly settled into her faux leather desk chair and resisted the urge to fumble with the papers in front of her.
One thing living in a male dominated household had taught her, was most times men, heck even boys, would rather fall on their faces than admit weakness, and forget about asking for help.
Working with veterans had taught her military men placed an even greater emphasis on strength and self-sufficiency.
In fact, they often disguised, if not outright ignored their weakness, making initial therapy sessions a struggle to cut through the male bravado.
Fingering the duct tape covering the small tear in her chair arm, she watched Owen push away from the door. Sometimes a woman had to allow natural consequences teach a bullheaded man a lesson.
Determination and pride chiseled on his handsome face and his gait awkward and slower than she recalled, he half shuffled, half strode across the trailer toward her.
The entire time his gaze remained pinned on her.
A minute later he sank into the small wooden chair.
With him seated across from her, the entire office shrank.
Admiration swept through her. No one could accuse him of lacking determination, and hopefully the characteristic would serve him well in his recovery.
“I told you I didn’t need the cane.” His smug grin amped up her irritation. “Turtles may leave me in their dust, but I get where I’m going.”
Good one. She bit her lip to keep from smiling.
She reached for his file and withdrew the top paper. The muscles in her upper back and neck tight, she forced herself to quit hunching her shoulders.
The wind kicked up outside. The shed walls creaked and moaned in protest, and rain battered the tin roof. “We’ll get started on the paperwork, and hopefully the weather will blow over before your hippotherapy time. If not, instead of having a session outside, we’ll work in the indoor arena.”
He nodded. His chiseled features drawn, his lips pinched into a thin line, his eyes held the look of a coyote locked on his prey. What was he still upset about?
Hold on. Could she use his irritation to her advantage?
Yes, she’d promised Addie she’d work with Owen, but if he said he preferred another therapist, she’d be off the hook without breaking her word.
“I sense you’re uncomfortable. If you’re still upset over me talking to your folks, or if it’s made you question my professionalism, you can work with Joni. ”
He flashed her a small, tight smile, looking every bit the strong, silent type. Her heart fluttered. “We’ve cleared the air. I’m good.”
Oh my, yes you are. Her lips parted. Her mouth grew dry and her palms sweaty. He might be fine, but she wasn’t. She needed to pull herself together.
What had one professor said about interacting with clients? Provide empathetic and compassionate care without becoming emotionally involved. But above all, remember this is your profession. That was the key.
Yeah, right, and for her next trick, she’d walk on water while juggling chain saws.
Ignoring the sarcastic voice in her head and summoning all her professionalism, she said, “We’ll start with going over our policies and procedures.”
“Before we take care of that, I want to set ground rules.”
Ground rules? That blasted away any lingering happy hormones. Saying they needed to lay down rules should’ve been her line. How had this meeting gone all topsy-turvy, and how could she set it right?
“No more talking to my parents or anyone else about brain injuries, even in generalities,” Owen said before she could regain control of the conversation. “I want my problems to stay private, especially from my folks. My mom’s worried enough already.”
“While I understand wanting to control what your parents know, they can learn about brain injuries from the internet.”
He shrugged. “They can research all they want, but when they ask questions, I don’t have to answer them.”
“You’re going to lie to them?”
A vein throbbed in Owen’s neck, and his hands pressed against his knees. “Withholding information and avoiding their questions isn’t lying.”
Lightning cracked so close she swore it hit only a foot away. The resulting thunderclap shook the shed so hard the water in the bottle on her desk swayed.
“I encourage you to be more forthcoming with your parents. They’re your major support team, and since you’re living with them, they need to be aware of possible pitfalls around the house.
For example, are managing the stairs difficult?
Could be you need to set up a bed downstairs to reduce the risks of falling. ”
“You sound like a damn medical pamphlet. Are you saying they should set up a hospital bed for me in the dining room the way they did for Grandma Crawford after her stroke?” Tendons bulged in his hands gripping the chair arms, and his face paled. Sweat dotted his upper lip.
She winced, wondering if she’d been too honest. “I was just mentioning an issue you could be struggling with.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard the safety talk, but you forgot the rugs.
We had to remove anything Grandma Crawford might trip on.
If Mom thinks there’s a chance I’ll fall, she’ll safety check the entire house.
Not only will she do what you’ve talked about, she’ll install handrails by the toilets like in the handicapped stalls. ”
“I know you think your mom’s overprotective, but not all those things are bad ideas. For traumatic brain injury patients, any fall could cause further trauma.”
The rain hammered a staccato beat on the tin roof as thunder continued to rattle the walls.
“How could I forget about my brain injury when most days I struggle to remember what I did five minutes ago? Then there’s how hard it is to follow a conversation.
Do you know some days it’s so difficult to organize my thoughts I’m worn out before I finish my morning coffee? ”
“I can’t begin to understand how hard this is for you, but there are some realities you need to face—”
“Moving in with my parents is tough enough, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let people treat me like an invalid.”
“You don’t have to tell me how hard it is living at home.” When the words leapt out, Carly longed to snatch them back.
“Last I heard you were renting a place in town. What happened?”
The automatic question, the type people asked out of common courtesy and curiosity without thinking, sliced through Carly.
Considering the efficiency of the Service gossip network, how had Owen failed to hear about her messy breakup, especially when for months folks referred to her as Carly, the poor broken-hearted dear?
Ignoring Owen’s question, she returned the conversation to his concerns regarding being treated like an invalid. “I believe people treat us the way we allow them to. If you don’t act like an invalid, they won’t treat you like one.”
“From the quick step you did, I’m guessing you don’t want to talk about moving home.”
“I don’t discuss my personal life with clients.
” Not that she’d been tempted before but that was better than the truth: that she’d forgotten Owen was a client.
Comfortable and sharing in association with Owen, not a bright idea.
“I wouldn’t have mentioned the fact, but I wanted you to know I understand how difficult it is moving back home once you’ve been on your own. ”
Hoping her comment paired with her I’m-in-charge-director-tone would end the discussion, she moved on. “Are there any particular physical issues you’re struggling with and want to assess in hippotherapy?”