Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 72616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Chapter 11
Quinn
I stand in front of the nurses' station with my hands by my sides, trying to make the burning in my stomach go away. I made a note that she is going to have blueberry fucking pie every single day that I’m here. Every fucking day that I’m around her.
“Good morning,” Shirley says, coming out from another room. “Is she up?”
“She is,” I say. “She is going to have two bites of pie.”
“I’ll see if we have something for her for breakfast,” she says, “and she is expected to go for tests this morning.” I look at her, and the worry must show all over my face. “Routine tests. We need to see if the swelling in her head has gone down.”
“Okay,” I say quietly and turn to walk back into the room. I see her with her eyes closed as one tear rolls down her cheek. “Are you okay?”
“Who are you, Quinn?” She opens her eyes, and I see they are filled with tears. “I can’t pinpoint who you are.” My heart speeds up as I walk over to the chair and sit down next to her bed. I want to get closer to the bed and hold her hand in mine. “My head keeps going around and around in circles as I think about who you really are.”
“Who do you think I am?” I ask, trying to get her to talk to me and open up a bit more. My hands get clammy as I ask her the loaded question.
“That is the problem,” she says, and I notice that her index finger taps the bed. Something she does when she’s nervous. “It’s a toss-up.” We stare at each other, both of us unwilling to look away. “Between a cop or a therapist.”
My laughter fills the room. “Why do you think I’m a cop?” I lean back in the chair, putting my hands on my stomach as I watch her.
“For one, the way you ask me questions indirectly,” she says right away. “You dance around a lot, trying to get me to say something without you saying it.”
“Is that because you have been arrested or questioned in the past that you know that?” I watch her eyes get just a touch darker.
“Not that it’s on the record,” she admits and waits for me to answer her.
“Okay,” I tell her. “I’m not a cop. But,” I say, putting up my index finger, “my uncle Jacob is a sheriff, and well, he’s been my role model since I can remember. I spent a lot of summers trailing him. Much to my mother’s begging.”
“She didn’t want you to be a sheriff?” she asks, and I chuckle.
“She didn’t want her child to be hurt,” I say, and her next words slice me through the heart.
“Be happy. Not all mothers are like that.” She swallows. “Trust me, I know.” I want to ask her what she means, but I know for her to open up to me, she has to trust me, and talking to her will help. “So you’re a therapist, then?” she asks, and I shake my head.
“Not exactly,” I say, not sure I should be happy she guessed it. “But close.”
“What does that mean?” she asks me, confused.
“I run Barnes Therapy Program,” I say, smiling.
“What is that?” she asks, her eyes waiting for my answer.
“It’s an equine therapy farm,” I say and see her eyebrows pinch together. “It’s horse therapy.” She opens her mouth. “I started it when I turned twenty,” I say, describing my baby to her. “With two horses. Initially, it started with soldiers who would come home with PTSD symptoms. They would come by every day and do a couple of hours with the horse. Then we expanded it to women who come from abusive homes.” I see the flicker in her eyes. “It’s a different approach to healing.”
“So they ride the horses?” she asks.
“Oh, there are a lot of things to do before you ride the horse.” She tilts her head. “You have to gain the horse’s trust. But yes, eventually, you work your way up to that,” I say. “I started with two horses, and I’m up to twenty, and I have a waiting list a mile long.” I don’t tell her that I have three centers, and one is about to become a rehab for soldiers who come back home.
“It helps?” she asks, and I can see she wants to ask me more questions.
“It helps because you have to be calm and relaxed with the horse. Most of my horses are also rescue horses.”
“So you just like to save everything and anyone that is broken?” She laughs.
“Not everything,” I say. “But I definitely relate more to horses than I do to people.”
“I mean, your bedside manner,” she says, “could use some help.” She laughs, and it’s the best sound I’ve heard in my whole life.