Page 4 of Branded Mountain Man
"Quiet can be good." Her voice was gentler now, less professional. "It can also be isolating."
"That's the point."
"Is it?"
Colt turned to look at her, ready with a sharp response, but something in her expression stopped him. She wasn't judging him. She wasn't taking notes for her report. She was just... watching him. Waiting.
"I don't need fixing," he said instead.
"I didn't say you did."
"That's why you're here, isn't it? To fix the broken mountain man?"
Sloan was quiet for a moment, considering. "I'm here to make sure you're okay. There's a difference."
"I'm fine."
"Are you?"
The simple question hit harder than it should have. Colt felt something twist in his chest, a familiar ache he'd gotten good at ignoring. He was fine. He'd been fine for three years. He'd keep being fine as long as people left him alone.
"I'm fine," he repeated, more firmly this time.
"Okay." Sloan nodded, but her eyes stayed on his face. "Then we'll just wait out the storm."
She pulled a paperback book from her pack and settled back in the chair, apparently content to read while the weather raged outside. Colt watched her for a moment, nonplussed. He'd expected more questions, more probing, more of the therapeutic bulldozing he'd been dreading.
Instead, she was giving him space.
He didn't know what to do with that.
The storm intensified, shaking the tower and sending sheets of rain against the windows. It was going to be a long night, trapped in this small space with a woman who made himhyperaware of things he'd forgotten about. The way she moved. The sound of her breathing. The fact that he hadn't been this close to another person in months.
Colt settled onto his cot and tried to focus on anything other than the curve of her hip or the way she bit her lower lip when she was concentrating on her book.
This was going to be a very long night.
2
MAN OF FEW WORDS
COLT
Colt woke to the sound of someone moving around his space, and for a split second, muscle memory kicked in. His hand was halfway to the knife under his pillow before his brain caught up.
Sloan. The therapist. The storm.
Right.
He lay still on the narrow cot, watching through half-closed eyes as she quietly rearranged items on his makeshift counter. She'd been up for a while, judging by the fresh cup of coffee steaming next to his untouched first aid kit—which she was now examining with obvious disapproval.
"Expired aspirin and butterfly bandages," she murmured to herself, checking dates on pill bottles. "Jesus Christ, when did you last restock this thing?"
"It's fine," Colt said, his voice rougher than he'd intended.
Sloan jumped, nearly dropping the bottle in her hand. "You're awake."
"Hard to sleep when someone's ransacking my stuff."
