5. Billie
Billie
T he sound of my Honda's engine turning over on the third try was as familiar as my own heartbeat.
I'd been meaning to get it looked at, but there was something comforting about the ritual of coaxing life out of something that probably should have given up years ago.
Maybe we understood each other, my car and I.
Both of us stubbornly functional despite having seen better days.
The drive to Booker's ranch gave me twenty minutes to practice my professional voice, to remind myself that this was just another therapy session with just another patient.
Never mind that my hands had been shaking when I'd packed my equipment this morning.
Never mind that I'd changed clothes three times before settling on scrubs that were professional enough to maintain boundaries but fitted enough to make me feel confident.
Never mind that I'd been thinking about Gage Farrington far more than any medical professional should be thinking about a patient.
His progress over the past week had been remarkable. Range of motion in his shoulder improving ahead of schedule, his pain levels dropping consistently, his mobility increasing daily. Everything about his recovery was textbook perfect.
So why did I feel like I was watching him prepare to run again?
Maybe it was the way he deflected every compliment about his improvement. The way he talked about his recovery timeline like he was counting down to something. The careful distance he maintained even when accepting help from his family.
Or maybe it was the way he looked at me during our sessions. Like he was memorizing my face for when he disappeared again.
I pulled into the ranch driveway, noting that Booker's truck was gone along with Trace's and Xander's vehicles.
The investor meeting. Booker had mentioned it in passing yesterday, something about licensing requirements for the Second Chance Ranch expansion.
Important enough that all three brothers needed to be there.
Which meant Gage would be alone. That wasn't something I'd considered up until now.
I told myself the slight acceleration of my pulse was professional concern.
Patients recovering from traumatic injuries shouldn't be left unsupervised for extended periods.
It had nothing to do with the fear that being alone would give him too much time to think, too much space to plan whatever escape route he was undoubtedly considering.
Val appeared as I climbed out of my car, her brown and white coat gleaming in the afternoon sun. The Australian Shepherd bounded over with her characteristic enthusiasm, tail wagging as she nudged my hand with her nose.
"Hey, beautiful girl," I said, scratching behind her ears. "How's our patient today? Still being difficult?"
Val's response was to lead me toward the front door, glancing back as if to make sure I was following. Smart dog. She'd probably been keeping an eye on Gage, making sure he didn't try anything too ambitious while his brothers were away.
I knocked once before letting myself in, calling out as I entered the familiar warmth of the ranch house.
"Gage? It's Billie. Time for torture... I mean, physical therapy."
"In here," came his voice from the living room, and I was relieved to hear he sounded stronger than he had during our last session.
I found him exactly where I'd expected, elevated leg propped on the coffee table, using his good hand to navigate what looked like websites on his laptop. He closed it quickly when I entered, but not before I caught a glimpse of the screen.
Job search sites. Multiple tabs open.
The knowledge hit me like a physical blow, but I kept my expression neutral as I set down my equipment bag. Professional. Clinical. Even though my heart was suddenly racing for all the wrong reasons.
"How are you feeling today?" I asked, pulling out my tablet and settling into the chair across from him.
"Better," he said, and for once it sounded like the truth. "Stronger. The pain's down to maybe a four on most days."
I made notes, trying to ignore the laptop sitting between us like evidence of his eventual betrayal. "That's excellent progress. Have you been taking your medication as prescribed?"
"Yes, ma'am. Every dose, on schedule."
"And the exercises?"
"Three times a day, just like you ordered."
The slight smile that touched his lips reminded me so much of the boy I'd once known that it made my chest tight. He'd always had that particular smile when he was being good for my benefit, when he was following rules he didn't particularly like because he wanted to please me.
Stop it, I told myself firmly. That boy is gone. This is just professional compliance.
But even as I tried to maintain emotional distance, I couldn't help noticing the changes in him over the past week.
His color was better, the tight lines of pain around his eyes had eased, and there was something different in his posture.
Still careful, still guarded, but not quite as brittle as he'd been.
"Let's start with range of motion," I said, standing and moving to his injured side. "I want to see how your shoulder is responding to the exercises."
I helped him remove his shirt, pleased to see that he'd swapped to a soft flannel like I'd suggested.
This clinical routine was becoming easier with each session, though no less charged with unspoken tension.
The road rash on his chest and arms was healing well, the angry red marks fading to pink, and the open wounds fully scabbed over now.
His shoulder moved more freely as I guided it through its range of motion, and I couldn't help but feel a surge of professional pride at his improvement.
"Fifteen degrees better than Monday," I noted, making careful measurements. "This is really good progress, Gage."
"Good enough to get back to work?" he asked, and something in his tone made me look at him more closely.
"What kind of work?" I asked carefully.
He gestured vaguely toward the laptop. "There's a bridge project in Montana. Dangerous work, good pay. They're not picky about hiring people with... complicated histories."
The casual way he said it made my blood run cold. He was already planning his next escape. Already researching where he could go when his family stopped being interested in maintaining the fiction that they wanted him here.
"Montana," I repeated, keeping my voice level despite the storm building in my chest.
"Or there's offshore rig work in the Gulf. Storm season's coming, but the pay is incredible if you're willing to take the risk."
If you're willing to take the risk. Of course he was. Gage Farrington had been taking risks for eleven years, choosing jobs that offered the highest chance of not coming home. Choosing everything except the people who loved him.
"How's your pain tolerance these days?" I asked, moving to check the circulation in his fingers where they emerged from his cast.
"Pretty high. You learn to work through discomfort when it's your job."
Work through discomfort. The phrase felt like a description of his entire approach to life. Work through the discomfort of guilt, of loneliness, of loving people he thought he didn't deserve to love.
"Physical therapy isn't about working through discomfort," I said, applying gentle pressure to test his reflexes. "It's about respecting your body's limitations while gradually expanding them. There's a difference between pushing yourself and punishing yourself."
He was quiet for a moment, and when I looked up, he was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Is that your professional opinion, or personal advice?"
The question hung in the air between us, loaded with implications I wasn't ready to examine. Because the truth was, I couldn't tell anymore where my professional concern ended and my personal investment began.
"My professional opinion," I said carefully, "is that you're ahead of schedule in your recovery, but you're nowhere near ready for the kind of physical demands you're researching.
My personal advice would be to stop looking for ways to run away from the best thing that's happened to you in eleven years. "
The words were out before I could stop them, cutting through the professional facade I'd been maintaining for two weeks. Gage's eyes widened slightly, and I could see that I'd surprised him as much as I'd surprised myself.
"Billie..."
"Forget I said that," I said quickly, standing and moving away from him. "That was unprofessional."
"Was it wrong?"
I busied myself with cleaning up my equipment, not trusting myself to meet his eyes. "Let's focus on your therapy plan for next week."
"Was it wrong?" he asked again, his voice gentler now.
I stopped moving, my hands stilling on the resistance bands I'd been pretending to organize.
The question hung between us, simple and impossible.
Because no, it wasn't wrong. He was looking for ways to run, just like I'd feared.
But admitting that meant admitting how much I'd been watching him, how much I cared about what happened to him.
"Your range of motion has improved enough that we can start some weight-bearing exercises," I said instead, avoiding his question entirely. "I want you to try standing with the crutches for short periods. Five minutes, three times a day."
"Billie."
"And we need to work on strengthening your core muscles to support your spine as you become more mobile."
"Billie, look at me."
I closed my eyes for a moment, gathering my composure before turning to face him. He was leaning forward as much as his injuries would allow, his expression intense and searching.
"Were you right?" he asked quietly. "Am I looking for ways to run?"
The honesty in his voice nearly undid me. This wasn't the smooth deflection I'd expected. This was genuine confusion, genuine questioning. Like he wasn't even sure of his own motivations.
"I don't know," I said finally. "Are you?"