Chapter 9: Now What?

Chapter 9: Now What?

Alone, Cole made his way on foot to the barn. When he'd left Jenny upstairs in her room, Blue had circled once, then curled up beside the bed. Cole figured that was just as well. Jenny seemed to have taken to the dog, and Cole knew his dog well enough to know he'd sensed the girl's brokenness.

The sun had long ago set, but his way was lit by the nearly full moon and the glow of the industrial fixture on the front of the barn. Of the twelve stalls, eight were currently occupied, now that Dahlia was here. Four of the horses were Cole's, with another three belonging to clients who'd entrusted them to him for training. Four clients, now, including Dahlia. Meredith popped into his mind and he grimaced, wondering again if the money was worth the trouble.

He paused outside the barn to do a little deep breathing, trying to get into the proper headspace for working with the horses. They seemed to be as in tune with his mood as Blue was, and in truth, his afternoon and evening with Jenny had left him rattled.

Her haunted expression dogged him. He couldn't fathom ever treating a woman the way she'd obviously been abused, and he was afraid to imagine the extent of her horror.

The brand. His stomach churned as he shook his head. What the fuck? Who does that?

In her stall, Dahlia seemed to have settled a bit, but she still shied away from him. He stood watching her for a moment, not failing to see the parallel between the horse and Jenny. Slow and easy. That's how he'd make headway.

He thought of his sister Beth. She'd just been promoted to Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge, working in the FBI's San Francisco main office. Beth's wife Alicia worked as a clinical psychologist from an office in their downtown apartment.

He knew what Beth would say. He chewed his lip thoughtfully. She'd tell him to call the local authorities. No doubt about it.

But Jenny was terrified. He couldn't put her through that. She trusted him.

He shrugged. It could wait, he supposed.

He wouldn't mind running things by Alicia, truth be told. Jenny had clearly survived some kind of trauma. As much as he saw her and Dahlia in the same boat, Jenny was a human being. Alicia would know what to do.

He shook his head again. No. He'd assured Jenny he wouldn't call anyone. Maybe later, she'd change her mind.

Satisfied that the horses were settled for the night, Cole returned to the house. Just inside the door, he tugged off his boots. Normally, he'd go clumping through the house without thinking about it. But he hoped Jenny was asleep upstairs, getting some much-needed rest.

Sock-footed, he tiptoed to her door. In the silver moonlight streaming through the window, he saw she was fast asleep, curled tightly on one side, the covers pulled up to her battered lips, her red hair splayed across the pillow. Blue looked up at Cole and his tail thumped lightly against the floor before he rested his head again on his front paws.

Cole winked at the dog. "Good boy. Watch over her," he whispered, before heading to his own room.

In the quiet of the night, Cole lay staring up at the ceiling, his interlaced fingers cradling his head on the pillow. He wondered about who might be out there looking for Jenny. She'd indicated that it wasn't a spouse or boyfriend, but she did know the guy.

A new thought struck him. How old is she? It was hard to tell, with her face all swelled the way it was, but she looked young. Surely too young to be married.

He frowned. Her father, maybe? Was this the result of abuse disguised as discipline? The idea churned his stomach. He saw things on the news all the time about kids kept bound and rarely fed.

Shaking his head, he sighed deeply. The mutism, though. That struck him as more likely the result of a traumatic event, like some kind of PTSD. The brand burned into her shoulder? He scrubbed his face with his hands, as though to wash the image out of his mind. That, to his way of thinking, put it all over the top.

Gradually, he drifted off to sleep, determined to see that no harm came to Jenny ever again.