Healing Trace (11 page)

She
opened the bottle of lotion she brought with her, and squirted a dollop onto
the palm of her hand. He swiveled to the side, away from her.

"I
don't think so." He shook his head, keeping his leg out of her reach.

"What?"
She held her hands up, afraid she'd done something wrong.

"You're
not putting that stuff on me." He moved his crutches, preparing to stand.

She
rolled her eyes. "It's lotion. It doesn't hurt."

"It
smells like something a woman would wear, and I don't need soft skin. I don't
need battling blisters added to the long list of things I need to do when I go
back to training horses."

She
laughed. "Suck it up, buttercup. I'm not putting this on your hands. It's
going on your leg. I need it to massage the deep tissue along the top of your
thigh and hamstring."

He
still didn't move back.

"God,
you talk about me being stubborn. You make me look like a wuss. For once, just
trust me. You'll like it. If you don't, you can make me go to bed without
dinner."

He
frowned, and moved his leg back in front of her. "I wouldn't do
that."

She
nodded, not looking at his face. "I know."

Rubbing
her hands together to warm the lotion, she assessed his leg. Faint bruises
lined the outside of his thigh, from knee to underneath his shorts. She'd have
to be careful and not go too deep in her manipulations today, until he had time
to heal more. The good news was his bruises were now a pretty shade of green
and yellow, instead of the deep, dark purple when she first started working
with him.

She
placed her hands above his knee and gently spread the lotion over the exposed
skin. His leg quivered underneath her fingers, and she lifted her chin.

"Tell
me if anything hurts, and I'll stop." She studied him. "Try to relax.
This really will work if you let it."

***

Relax?

Hell,
he was on the verge of a heart attack. He clamped his teeth together. Joan's
curls hid her face when she went back to messaging his leg. He dug his fingers
into the edge of the bench to keep from reaching out and stroking her hair. In
any other circumstances, he'd swear she was begging for some attention,
touching him that way.

He
stared hypnotized by the paleness of her slim, soft hands as they glided across
the surface of his darker skin. Too comfortable with the way she touched him,
he found himself becoming aroused. Glad that his shorts were baggy, he placed
his forearm across his lap to hide how she was affecting him.

"I'm
going to use my thumbs—"

"What
for?" He swallowed.

"To
loosen your muscles. You're awfully hard."

You
ain't kidding.
He groaned, willing himself not to make
a fool of himself. He hadn't felt this way since he'd gone through puberty.

Spanning
his thigh with both hands, she used her thumbs to press a trail up his leg. He
moaned before he could check himself. Surprised at how good the pressure felt,
he let his chin fall to his chest. The aching muscles screaming for movement
from their confinement that he'd battled with every night, sighed in relief.
His toes, below the cast, flexed and unflexed with the movements of her hands.

Joan
switched positions, and ran her fist underneath his leg. He blew out his
breath.
Damn, that feels good.

A
mix of pleasure, pain, and tantalizing teasing, the massage turned out better
than Trace expected. He closed his eyes, and focused on her hands and the way
she'd turned him into a pile of mush.

The
itching on his leg, inside of his cast, eased. Warmth seemed to come from his
leg bone and spread outward to the surface of his skin. He sighed deeply,
hoping she didn't plan to stop soon.

"How's
your leg doing? No pain?"

He
shook his head, unable to open his eyes. "It's good."

On
and on, she worked. Trace found himself caught between confessing she was a
witch with magical powers, and admitting how wrong he was. He could see how
this would be good for his leg.

He
opened his eyes and cleared his throat. "How often do we have to do
this…massage?"

She
shrugged. "At least once a day from here on out, although if you believe
it helps your leg feel better, all you have to do is ask me and I'd be glad to
do it more often. There's no harm in doing therapy more than once a day if it
makes you feel good."

"Okay."

Joan
continued ten more minutes, and finally sat back on her heels. He slowly came
out of the euphoria she created for him. He rubbed the back of his neck and sat
up straighter.

"Is
your neck and back hurting you?" She pushed to her feet and stood.

"Huh?"
He realized where his hand was, and lowered his arm. His thoughts came fast,
and he was no more able to control his mouth, as he was his body around her.
"Yeah, a little bit. Must have been when Thunderbolt slammed me against
the fence."

"Here,
let me look. Take off your shirt." She moved around the bench and grabbed
the bottom of his T-shirt.

He
didn't have time to protest before she'd worked his shirt up to his armpits. His
body stiffened as he let her strip him of covering. He held his breath while
she repeated the same technique she'd used on his leg. He flinched as she moved
along his spinal cord.

"You're
muscles are one big knot across your upper back. It's hard to work with you
sitting up, but the bench isn't long enough to stretch out and support your
leg. I'll just work out the tension, and tomorrow we'll have to plan another
place in the house for you to get your therapy. That way I can do your back
too." She dug into the thick cords going from his neck to his shoulder.

He
remained silent. She'd stolen all thoughts. All he could process were the hands
on his back, and they weren't hurting him. He was in heaven.

"Have
you been injured by a horse before?" She spanned his lower back with her
hands.

"Hm…"
He roused himself enough to concentrate on her question. "Yeah, lots.
Kinda goes with the territory of training horses. Not every animal is going to
accept my teachings."

She
ran her finger along his lower spine, toward the left and stopped at the side
of his back. "I'd hate to meet the horse who left you this scar. It looks
like it was painful, and deep."

He
panicked and lunged for his shirt, slipping the material over his. He'd been so
relaxed and appreciative of Joan's help making him feel better; hiding his
scars from her fled his mind.

"I'm
sorry. Did I hurt you?" Joan gazed in the mirror at him.

Not
wanting to answer her, he stood and struggled with his crutches. "I
forgot. I need to make a phone call." He hobbled toward the door.

"Trace?"

He
didn't look back. When she was around, she made him forget who he was. He never
let anyone see his scars from his childhood in the light of day. No one. Ever.

Chapter Twelve

Fifteen
miles away from the ranch, Joan turned off the main two-lane road onto the
Lakota reservation. The crew cab traveled the gravel road smoother than butter
on hot toast, and with the air conditioning blasting Joan in the face, she
thought it was the nicest vehicle she'd ever driven. She glanced at Trace. He'd
kept his eyes shut most of the way, but he wasn't asleep.

She
pulled to a stop. "Is your leg hurting?"

He
ignored her question and pointed. "Go down the road about two hundred
feet. You'll see the stables and a large delivery truck. That's where I need to
go."

She'd
tried to talk him out of making the trip and when that failed, she'd convinced
him to let her drive him. Afraid if one of the guys took him and he had trouble
getting around or he ended up handling the horses himself, he'd reinjure his
leg. She also used the trip as an excuse to talk to him but so far, that wasn't
working too well with Trace's choice not to communicate with her.

Dust
swirled behind the truck as she pulled up to the front of the stables.
"I'll let you out here, and go park the truck. When you're ready to go
home, wave to me from the door and I'll drive the truck closer, so you don't
have to walk so far."

"Fine."
He gathered his crutches, a file, and hobbled by himself to the door and
disappeared inside.

"Fine,"
she muttered, and pulled away to park. "Fine. Okay. No. Oh, he makes me so
mad."

Sitting
in the parked truck, she gazed around at the activities going on around the
reservation. There were families working in their yards, children running
around, and an occasional car roared to life. Lakota wasn't much different from
her neighborhood, except the houses all appeared the same.

Same
shape, same color, same condition.

If
she understood correctly from the guys on how the community ran, every family
was given a home to call their own and then handed a percentage of whatever
income they earned as rent to the Lakota council. Those who were unemployed
were still offered a house and had a roof over their heads. Homelessness was
not a problem inside the reservation, because everyone benefited by a
government funded program.

The
sun beat down on the top of the truck, warming the inside and making her
sleepy. She turned the ignition switch far enough to work the electric windows.
The smell of horse manure wafted in with the slight breeze.

She
tried to imagine Trace, Brody, and Devon running wild along the dirt road as
children. The happy scene never came. Instead, she imagined Trace crying and
nobody stopping to ask him what was making him sad. She laid her head back.
She'd tried to talk to him a couple of times about his days on the reservation,
hoping he'd confide in her about his past but he'd cleverly changed the
subject.

An
hour later, her bladder threatened to explode inside the truck. Unable to wait
any longer, she locked the doors and ran inside the rundown building. She
didn't know much about stables, and hoped they had a bathroom somewhere nearby.

Not
finding Trace, she asked for directions from a shirtless man who was shoveling
out one of the stalls. He pointed down the aisle without saying a word. She
hurried forward and found the bathroom. It wasn't the cleanest she'd ever seen,
but she was at the point of having a real emergency on her hands.

Upon
leaving, she went in the opposite direction, down a corroder away from the
animal part of the barn, and hoped to make it outside before Trace finished his
meeting. He was doing so well lately, but even with his leg not causing him
problems, going out and keeping his leg off the ground still added stress to his
body. It'd give him one more thing to grumble about, even though he'd never
admit how much moving around on crutches with a heavy cast put strain on him.

Loud,
masculine voices came from further ahead, and she slowed to a normal walk. As
she ambled past the open room, she spotted Trace's back. He was standing on his
crutches near the door, and she decided to wait for him.

"I'll
come out to your place next week, and drop off the roster for the next
shipment. Are you sure you don't want me to bring back that damn horse that
wants to kill you? I talked with Brody the other day, and he agreed there was
no hope to make a stud out of him. He'd kill any mare he tried to mount, not to
mention anyone who tried to handle him."

"No.
He stays." Trace's low voice told Joan he was not changing his mind.

"Okay.
It's your life."

Trace
turned, saw her, and frowned. "You shouldn't be in here."

"I
had to use the restroom. Then I heard your voice. I thought I'd walk you
out." She shrugged. "I can see you don't need my help, so I'll go get
the truck."

She
walked ahead of him at a normal pace. If he overdid it, he could pay the price
of aching muscles tomorrow. Maybe then, he'd listen to her more often.

A
young girl around seven or eight years old ran through the door, her dark hair
flying behind her, and a giant smile on her face. Joan couldn't help turning to
watch her run…right at Trace. Before she could catch the child and save him
from getting hurt, Trace dropped his crutches and pulled the child into his
arms.

"
Toniktuka
hwo.
" Trace held the child to him, his hand stroking the child's head.

Joan
couldn't hear the girl's reply, or understand what Trace was saying. She stayed
back, shocked at the delighted smile on Trace's face. It was obvious to Joan
that he knew the girl and was genuinely happy to talk with her.

"
Ah-ghwah-wea-lah
"
Trace pointed at the ground and shrugged.

The
child gathered his crutches, helped him situate them under his arms, and gently
hugged him around the waist again. Trace murmured in his own language to the
girl, who nodded before running off. Captivated by the peace she viewed in
Trace's lax jaw and warm gaze, Joan stared.