Chapter One
Ashley
“All I wanted was youuuuuuuu…”
I grip the steering wheel with one hand and move the other to crank up the volume as my favorite part of the song comes on. I belt the chorus a little too loudly and a lot off-key, but no one is around to judge me. Well…no one but Penny, and she stopped judging me about three songs ago.
A wet nose presses into the nape of my neck from the back seat, and I laugh, reaching up to scratch under her chin. “I know, girl. I know. Last song before we get there, promise.”
Penny huffs the long-suffering sigh of a retired greyhound who has heard this promise before. I keep scratching.
On a road that seems to stretch endlessly ahead of me, there’s only Paramore and an impatient Greyhound to fill up the silence.
The engine hums low beneath the rising crescendo of the song as I drive along scenery I’ve seen a hundred times over.
I’m used to the long stretch of road, a ribbon of asphalt that cuts through the vast expanse of Utah’s landscape.
Most people who visit come for the scenery—the vibrant red formations, the canyons, and the arches.
It fascinates them as it does me, despite spending my entire life surrounded by it.
As the GPS directs me to take a narrow road that branches from the main one, I question whether I should leave my little town and explore the bigger cities.
I’ve only ever known the small town of Whitmore, and the furthest I’ve gone is Las Vegas for a cousin’s bachelorette party three years ago.
I didn’t care for the noise and the bright lights.
Maybe I should take a break from work, save up a little more, and become a tourist for once. Definitely not in Vegas, though.
“All I wanted was youuuuu,” I belt as the chorus comes on again, a little distracted as the road takes a gentle curve, and I watch as the landscape shifts. The towering red rocks give way to a more intimate setting, and I realize that the road is getting narrower. “All I wanted was you.”
My fingers tap on the steering wheel as I round the final bend, and a house comes into view.
The music fades into the background as I take it in.
A solid, wide-shouldered ranch house, single-story with a covered porch wrapping the front, set back from the road on a flat patch of cleared desert.
The siding is warm rust-red—sun-faded in places, the way every house in this area eventually goes—and the metal roof catches the morning light.
It isn’t a small place, but it isn’t fancy either.
It’s the kind of house a family with a couple of kids could live comfortable, the kind that gets handed down and shared for generations.
I turn off the engine and turn to Penny, who has her front paws on the center console and her tail thumping against the seat.
“You ready to meet our new patient, girl?” Her tail thumps harder.
“Yeah, I figured. Best behavior for the first visit—and please, for the love of all things holy, don’t pee on his shoes. ”
Penny gives me the look greyhounds give you when you have just insulted their dignity.
I clip her leash on, grab my bag, and step out.
Meeting a new client is always the hardest part of my job, but I’ve done this before. A dozen times before—I have no reason to be nervous.
Okay, so maybe I have a ton of reasons to sweat. I’ve never worked with someone like the man I’m about to meet, but there’s always a first time for everything, as my granny is always saying.
Penny pads next to me as I walk up to the porch, calm and unhurried. The presence of her warm shoulder against my leg steadies me more than the deep breaths I’ve been forcing all morning.
This patient is different.
I’d read his file twice the night before.
Matthew Galloway, thirty-seven. SEAL, medically discharged.
LPO and MPC handler, eight years. Left shoulder reconstruction at four months out, left knee at three.
Both surgeries clean, both healing on schedule per the Landstuhl notes—and a patient-preference line, buried at the bottom, that read like a wall: “No clinic, no rotation, no in-network options, declines all VA-affiliated providers.”
The other line that stayed with me was buried in the personal history paragraph.
“MPC handler, working dog still actively deployed, five unit members killed in the same bombing that caused his injuries, declines grief counseling.” No name for the dog.
No date. Just one clinical sentence and the kind of refusal that reveals so much about a person.
That was the line that confirmed I would bring Penny.
I run my damp hands over my scrubs and force in deep breaths. Once I’m calm and the trembling in my knees has died to a slight tremor, I raise my hand to knock. Except I don’t get to touch the door before it is flung open.
I stagger back, and my breath hitches as a man appears where the door was. Large as an oak tree with muscles that seem to bulge out of the gray T-shirt he’s wearing. His face is a mask of rage but does little to hide his attractiveness.
And lord, he’s attractive.
The man has a striking face—weathered in a way that has nothing to do with age, with sharp angles and the kind of stillness that says he’s used to noticing everything in a room before anyone notices him.
His hair is dark brown, just a little longer on top than military regulation would allow, like he’s been letting it grow since he came home.
His beard is thick and well-kempt, dense enough that I can only guess at the line of his jaw underneath.
His eyes are the color of rich dark chocolate, with a depth that keeps me in a trance.
His file said he was thirty-seven, and I don’t know what I was expecting but not…this.
Not a solid wall of muscles and the most rugged face I have ever seen in my life.
I should say something and not stand here staring at the man, drooling…
Oh God, please don’t let there be drool on my chin.
Still, I reach out just to be sure, brushing my fingertips over the corners of my lips, and when those brown eyes follow my movements, I lose my breath for a second.
Then he looks down. His eyes catch on Penny, who is sitting at perfect attention at my left heel like she’s been trained for this moment, her copper coat shining in the morning light and her tail giving one careful, polite wag.
Something flickers in his face. Just for a second. Then it’s gone, and the storm rolls back in.
“Who are you?”
His voice is deep and rough; it makes me jump a little, and however tempting it is to turn around and sprint back to my car, I hold my ground, stretching my lips into a polite smile.
“Mr. Galloway,” I start, my voice trembling slightly despite my best effort to keep it firm.
I fight the urge to squirm as his eyes stay focused on mine, studying me like I’m some alien species.
“My name is Ashley Cork, your physical therapist. We have an appointment scheduled for eight. I’m a few minutes early. ”
Silence.
“I didn’t hire a physical therapist. You have the wrong house.”
My brows furrow in confusion, and I look around, but this is the only house for at least a couple of miles.
His property is private and well secluded.
There is no way I got the wrong address.
“You’re not Mr. Galloway?” Is that disappointment in my voice?
“You spoke to my boss, Gary Wilder. I was told that you were expecting me.”
“I don’t need a goddamned physical therapist,” he growls, moving closer and forcing me to step back.
But the caretaker in me notices something for the first time—the way he favors his right side over his left, angling his right to face me.
It’s not obvious, but I have a trained eye, and after taking care of people nearly half my life—even before I got my PT license—I always know when someone is in pain. Even when they’re hiding it.
No, I am not at the wrong house.
“Mr. Galloway—”
“Leave,” he demands, anchoring his left side to the door frame.
His face darkens with rage when he notices what I’m staring at.
I’m almost certain he’s going to walk back in and slam the door in my face when the sound of an approaching car pulls his focus from me.
If possible, the rage seems to double as a vein pops on his forehead.
I turn around and follow his gaze to a red pickup coming up the road. It stops next to my old SUV, and a man steps out—a slightly older version of the man standing behind me, except this one is tall and lanky, wearing a panicked look as he walks toward us.
“You’re early,” he tells me, extending his hand. I take it. “Ashley Cork?”
My brows furrow, shifting my gaze between the two men. “Mr. Galloway?”
“We’re both Galloways. I’m Michael Galloway, and this grump is my younger brother, Matthew Galloway. I was hoping to get here before you and mentally prepare him for your arrival.”
“Oh,” I mutter.
“It seems you got here before I could.”
“Great, the two of you can get acquainted and show yourselves out!” the grump hisses, venom dripping from his voice as he walks back inside. I flinch when the door slams closed, locking us out. Michael responds with a sigh that tells me it’s not the first time this has happened.
“I’m sorry about that,” he says, running his hand through his hair that is longer than his brother’s, and lighter too. “Matt has been through a lot, you understand, right?”
I nod slowly, unsure what it is I’m supposed to understand.
“I’ll go in and talk to my brother. Will you wait?”
I should say no. Cut my losses and run back to my boss, then ask him to assign someone else to this case.
I’ve worked with patients who didn’t think they needed help, but most of them were old and frail.
Their resistance came from fear and they were easily coaxed to cooperate with patience and kindness.
I doubt that will be the case with a man like Matthew Galloway.
This will not end well. I can tell. Yet, I find myself nodding because, despite my reservations, it’s not in me to abandon a person who needs help.
Penny sits down on the porch beside me and lets out a soft sigh, like she’s settling in to wait for as long as it takes, and I settle down beside her, prepared to do the same.