As if she trusted him not to hurt her.

Which he wouldn't, because his rational mind categorized her as Not a Threat in the next instant. An instant or so too late to keep from looking like an antisocial monster, unfortunately.

Marcus stepped back abruptly, dropping his hand and releasing her. He should apologize. He wasn't an idiot. He knew it was weird, at best, to react like that to someone bringing-what was in the box? c.r.a.p, it was from the bakery.

"They're cupcakes," she offered, her bright voice a little thready and faint now.

Of course they were cupcakes. Marcus pressed his eyes closed for a brief moment. "Thanks..."

"Quinn," she prompted, that smile peeking out again. Was she crazy? Or was she just trying not to rile up the nutjob by mentioning the way he'd come within a hairsbreadth of taking her down like an armed a.s.sailant?

"I don't eat cupcakes," he said bluntly, thrusting the package back toward her. He wasn't embarra.s.sed. He just didn't have time to fool around with whatever this visit was.

"Oh." Face downcast, Quinn took the box back. "I knew I should have gone with the cream cheese brownies."

Unwilling amus.e.m.e.nt caught at Marcus's breath, but he didn't let it show. "I don't eat brownies, either. You take the cupcakes home. Enjoy. I appreciate the thought."

Her nose wrinkled in a way Marcus did not find adorable at all. "I never liked that phrase, about it being the thought that counts. I mean, thoughts are nice, but not as nice as chocolate! At least, if you like chocolate, which I guess you don't. You're probably one of those people who always orders the lemon dessert at a restaurant. Oh! Miss Patty has lemon bars, sometimes!"

Something like desperation was simmering under Marcus's skin. He needed to get rid of this girl before she did something awful. Like making him smile. "I don't have much of a sweet tooth. And I've got a lot of work to do here, so..."

"Sure, of course." The sunny smile didn't seem to have been dimmed by Marcus's bad att.i.tude. "Actually, that's what I'm here about. Work."

He frowned. "I don't need any help."

Especially not from a slim wisp of a redheaded girl. Although his keen observational skills informed by his up-close glimpse of her had showed her to be older than he'd thought at first. Not a girl, but a young woman, emphasis on the young. Mid-twenties, he'd estimate.

She would've only been, what, ten years old when he left home that last time? The thought teased at his memory. A little girl, red braids tied with pink ribbons to match the bright pink of the bicycle that was always lying on its side in the front yard of the house next door ...

"Harper," Marcus rasped, putting it together. "Quinn Harper. I remember you. You've changed."

Pleased, Quinn clutched the box of cupcakes to her chest. Marcus's eyes dropped to it automatically, then lingered for an uncomfortably warm second. That definitely had changed.

"I grew up," she said cheerfully. "Well, sort of. Depends who you talk to."

He was willing to bet it did. There was something almost unbearably young about Quinn. Not a sense of immaturity, exactly, although he'd bet good money that she was pretty inexperienced when it came to some of the harsher realities of life.

"Oops," she was saying, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. "Probably not the smartest thing to say to a prospective employer, huh? But it's not like it's a secret and you'd be bound to find out eventually."

Wait. Prospective employer. What? Marcus shook his head, feeling like he'd gone a few too many rounds in the sparring ring. "Find out what?"

"Let's just say my work history is a little ... eclectic," Quinn said, as if she were confiding in him. "Like, we're talking patchwork quilt, not solid down comforter. Personally, I think it's a strength. I know a little about a lot of subjects, and I'm a quick learner! Plus, this time I have actual experience. I went to college-to be honest, a lot of college, because it took me a while to settle on a major-and I paid my own way after the first four years."

Marcus was starting to feel as if he'd been asleep through the first half of this conversation. He'd obviously missed some key information. "Look, I've got things covered here. So why don't you run along home to your mommy and daddy like a good girl."

"I don't live with my parents!" Quinn propped her hands on her hips, indignant. "Well. Okay, technically that's because they're out of town or I guess I would be living with them since I'm living in their house, but I'm hoping to be able to afford a place of my own by the time they come home! Which is where you come in."

She was relentless. "I'm not hiring you. Get out."

"How do you know you don't want to hire me unless you give me a tryout?"

Marcus blinked, blinded by her smile and the cheery pragmatism in her expectant gaze. "What are you planning to do for a tryout? Rewire my lighting?"

Actually, if she could do that, he might have to reconsider. But no, she was shaking her head and laughing, a gurgling hoot of a laugh that should have been irritating. It was irritating. Marcus was nothing but irritated, d.a.m.n it.

"No! Although I know how to stretch a canvas over an easel, identify poisonous mushrooms, and count to a thousand in French if any of that's relevant. But for my tryout for the bartending gig, I thought I'd, you know, mix you a c.o.c.ktail."

"It ain't that kind of bar, little girl."

"I know how to pull a Guinness, too," she wheedled. "And I pour a perfect ounce-and-a-half shot without looking, every time."

Against his will, Marcus felt his interest piqued. "Bull. Prove it."

He knew it was a tactical blunder the instant Quinn's face lit up. "I will! And if I can do it, you'll hire me?"

Marcus snorted. "If you can do it ten times in a row, without looking, I'll think about hiring you. On a probationary basis."

Without waiting for further invitation, Quinn ducked around behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of Jack.

Five minutes later, she leaned her elbows on the polished zinc bar and waggled the bottle sympathetically. "That makes fifteen. I can keep going if you want, but we're going to need a new bottle."

Marcus stared down at the fifteen gla.s.ses of bourbon. Some were shot gla.s.ses, some were tall, slim double shots. There was bourbon-a perfect ounce and a half, to be exact-in winegla.s.ses and beer steins, pilsner gla.s.ses and highb.a.l.l.s. He shook his head, still having a hard time believing it, even though he'd measured each pour himself.

He might be a monster, he might be terse, bad tempered, and antisocial, with a past so ugly even he didn't like looking at it ... but he was a man of his word.

Putting out his hand with a sense of impending doom, he looked Quinn straight in the eye. "I guess this means you're hired."

Chapter 9.

"I've never been out here before. Funny how you can live on an island so small, and still find new things to discover."

Johnny put the rental car in park and undid his seat belt. Play it cool, he told himself.

It was tough, though, because those were the first words Tessa had spoken since she wandered out of Patty Cakes with a dazed look on her face.

"I can see why you love this island," Johnny said, studying her face as she got out of the car. "It's beautiful."

She laughed softly, tipping her head back and wrapping her arms around her torso. "It's like a miracle. People think small towns are boring, but honestly, I never know what to expect from day to day."

"I would have thought, after the way you grew up, you'd hate small towns."

Johnny spoke without thinking, caught up in the sudden realization that he was going to have to contend with how much Tessa liked Sanctuary Island while he tried to get her to come home to D.C. But the minute he mentioned her childhood, he froze. It was something they never discussed, and only partly because Johnny didn't want to remind Tessa of the h.e.l.l she'd gone through.

"I'm sorry," he said immediately. "Ignore me, I'm still not caught up on my sleep."

But to his surprise, instead of tearing up or ducking her head in remembered fear, Tessa reached for his hand. Her eyes were clear and direct, her voice gentle, as she said, "No, I won't ignore you. That would be a terrible beginning to our couples therapy!"

A keen sense of admiration pierced Johnny's chest. She had truly grown into an amazing woman, this girl he married so long ago. "I know I've never been a big fan of the idea of therapy, but I want you know I plan to take this seriously. I could hardly do less, when this is practically the first thing you've ever asked of me, since the day we got married."

"How could I ask for more than you were already providing? A home, a life, a future-my health! I owed you everything. I'll never stop being grateful for what you gave me."

This grat.i.tude, again. He hated that she felt like she owed him anything. "Don't make me out to be some kind of hero," he snapped.

Tessa's brows arched in surprise. "But you've always been my hero," she offered tentatively.

"Trust me, honey, I'm no hero." Johnny pulled away from her to lock the car and pocket the keys, taking advantage of the distraction to get his expression under control. "We're going to be late."

"Johnny, wait-"

But he strode off toward the big wooden barn, grimly determined to get this over with. A hand-lettered sign out front proclaimed the place to be the WINDY CORNER THERAPEUTIC RIDING CENTER, so at least they were in the right place.

The right place for Johnny to make a last-ditch effort to save a marriage based on mutual affection, respect ... and grat.i.tude. He didn't know why the thought soured his stomach, but it did.

A tall, angular woman in jeans and a dark green flannel shirt greeted him at the open bay doors leading into the barn, just as Tessa caught up to him.

"Hi! Y'all must be the Alexanders. I'm Dr. Adrienne Voss. Very pleased to meet you."

Johnny shook hands with the psychologist who'd be telling them all about how their marriage sucked. She was younger than he'd expected, but there was a serenity about her that made her seem older than her years. She wasn't beautiful, exactly, with her scrubbed-clean face, plain brown hair, and wide-set eyes ... but when she smiled gently at Tessa, Johnny felt a part of himself relax into acceptance.

"It's nice to meet you," Tessa was saying, a little nervously now that they were actually face-to-face with the doc. She'd never been big on doctors, Johnny remembered now. Probably because she a.s.sociated them with the terrifying seizures from her teenage years, and the break with her parents.

He'd wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders before he knew he meant to do it, and to his relief, Tessa leaned into him instead of retreating. It felt good, safe and familiar, to have her there tucked against his side.

"We appreciate you being willing to change the focus of the therapy I'd signed up for," Johnny told the doc. "I know it's not what the bureau originally contacted you about, but-"

"No worries at all. Adaptability is one of the strengths of equine-a.s.sisted therapy." Dr. Voss tucked her clipboard under one arm and lifted her chin amiably toward the interior of the barn. "Come on, we've got a lot to do and only an hour carved out today. We'll start with the two-penny tour, but I'm going to want to get into our first exercise before y'all leave today."

"What sorts of exercises will we be doing?" Tessa asked, nerves fraying her voice a little.

"For today, we'll really just be getting to know the horses and each other." Dr. Voss led them into the warm barn, their footsteps m.u.f.fled by sawdust strewn across the floor. A wide corridor flanked by stalls on both sides opened out to a view of the pine copse behind the barn, and a sloping green hill down to another structure in the distance. Sunlight streamed in the open doors, catching on dancing dust motes and making the hay bristling from the feed troughs glow.

The smell of the barn, sweet bran mash and horse, dug memories out of Johnny's brain and threw him back to the past. He inhaled deeply, feeling the muscles of his shoulders unbunch. "I haven't smelled that since my mom sold the farm," he murmured, gazing into one of the stalls.

A gray-dappled white horse poked his head out over the low half-door to eye him with the curious optimism of an animal that gets a lot of treats from strangers.

"This is Clover," Dr. Voss said, pausing to hook an affectionate arm over the horse's neck. "He's one of our best therapy horses."

Clover tossed his head as if he were nodding along, and beside him, Tessa laughed. Johnny wished he'd thought to bring an apple with him. "Sorry, fella, I've got nothing for you."

"Um, I brought something," Tessa said shyly. "I know horses like sugar cubes, so I thought maybe this would work. It's okay if not, though..."

She dipped into the pocket of her denim jacket and pulled out a plastic baggie full of little brown candies. They were irregularly shaped, as if they'd been pressed into ovals by human fingers.

"Did you make those?" Johnny demanded, delighted.

Tessa flushed. "They're just maple sugar candies. Easy as pie. Well, easier than pie, actually. All you need is maple sugar and a candy thermometer. So if the horses can't eat them, it's totally okay!"

"Maple sugar is fine," Dr. Voss a.s.sured her. "Clover will love it, he's got a real sweet tooth. Just give him one, though, or he'll get addicted! He's already likely to follow you around like a duckling, begging for more. You're shameless, aren't you, Clover? Here, hold your hand flat with the treat on your palm. Don't curl your thumb up! He's liable to think it's another treat and chomp down on it! That's perfect. You're a natural."

Tessa glowed a bit under the praise, or maybe it was the satisfaction of watching the eager way the horse lapped up the candy she offered and then snuffled across her palm, hoping for seconds. "That tickles!"

"There's nothing quite like a horse's nose," Johnny agreed, stepping forward to rub his hand down the long, silken-furred face. Clover nudged him hard enough to knock him back a pace, his breath whuffling loudly as he searched Johnny's torso for pockets that might hold more treats.

Laughing, Dr. Voss said, "I think you two are going to be very popular around here. Come on, I'll introduce you to the rest of the crew, but I think we'll work with Clover later. You made a good connection with him."

Johnny was careful not to lift a skeptical eyebrow. Growing up on a farm, he'd learned early on not to take a romantic view of the livestock. The horses at his parents' farm had been older, ornery, and not terribly interested in a kid who wanted to ride like John Wayne and Clint Eastwood, and Johnny had grown out of the cowboy phase pretty young. Angie was the horse-crazy one ...

Cutting that thought off at the root before it could dig in and reach down to places he didn't want to go, Johnny tuned back in to Dr. Voss's explanations about the way the therapy center worked.

"They brought me in about six months ago when they started getting requests for more types of therapy than physical therapy. The Hero Project helped to underwrite the cost of expanding the center's mission."

At Tessa's questioning glance, Johnny filled in. "The Hero Project is what brought us here, too. They're partnered with the ATF, among lots of other organizations, to get help for people who need it."

"For heroes," Dr. Voss said, as if she sensed Johnny's discomfort with that word. "Our heroes of all shapes, sizes, backgrounds, and experiences. The Hero Project has sent me firefighters, cops, army veterans, FBI agents-you name it, we've dealt with it."

Tessa's eyes were bright. "What an awesome initiative. I've thought a lot about how to help the people who dedicate their lives to serving others, often at great personal cost. I'm so glad to know the Hero Project exists, and proud to be part of it, even in a small way."

"That's exactly how I feel, too. So when Ella Wilkes offered me the job here, how could I refuse?"

"Ella, that's Jo Ellen's daughter, right? So you know the owners of the barn." Tessa nodded as if that made sense. "But still, to leave your practice in New York and come all the way to Sanctuary Island-it must have been a big adjustment."

Dr. Voss shrugged one shoulder. "It could have been, I suppose. But Ella is one of my dearest friends, so I already had the start of a wonderful support network here. She needed me. And the work is very worth doing. Equine-a.s.sisted therapy is a thriving, growing field with a lot to learn. The bonds between people and horses are ancient and undeniable. For centuries, we needed each other to survive. Even now, here on Sanctuary Island, the wild horses depend on the laws we pa.s.s to protect their habitat and to keep them safe. And we, for our part, turn to them for help with all sorts of troubles."

She paused beside a stall holding a small chestnut mare. "I don't mean to go on and on, but it occurs to me that the circ.u.mstances that brought you to us are somewhat unusual. Most clients I work with have chosen us, out of a range of similar options-or they live on the island and are fully aware of what we're doing here, and why. You two are different. John, your boss mandated this work, as I understand it. And Theresa, you're living on the island currently?"

"I am," she said, lifting her chin slightly. "And call me Tessa, please."

"And I'm Johnny," he added. He gave the doc a high-beam smile. She'd reminded him that he wouldn't be heading back to his job without getting a green light from her, and he had no intention of being a.s.signed extra talk therapy with the departmental shrink. "We're not living together at the moment, but I'm hoping to change that."

"Oh?" Tessa crossed her arms, drumming her fingertips anxiously. "You're thinking about relocating to Sanctuary Island, are you?"

"I wish I could, but I can't. You know I can't. My job-"

"You're not the only one with a job, Johnny. I mean, I know it's not as important as your job, but it's important to me."

"Tessa. Have I said once that your job matters less than mine?"

Deflating like a p.r.i.c.ked balloon, Tessa sighed. "No. You haven't. And I realize how much your job matters, to you and to the world. It's literally life and death, keeping illegal guns off the streets and out of the hands of criminals. Not quite the same as putting cinnamon buns in the hands of eight-year-olds."

There was no way to argue with that, and Johnny didn't exactly want to argue it-but he hated to see the defeated hunch of Tessa's shoulders. All the spit and vinegar and fire and life he'd seen in her through the bakery window had drained away, as if Johnny had pulled the plug.

"I hope I've done some good in the world. The ATF gave me a way to help stop gun violence, and I'm good at what I do. But you're good at what you do, too, Tessa. I've seen the smiles on the faces of customers leaving Patty Cakes. You make people happy. That's an amazing gift." He tried for a smile. "G.o.d knows I've never been particularly good at it."