“Willow?” Carson’s voice echoed down the aisle, the footsteps growing closer.
Reality crashed in as Willow stepped back, and the air between them collapsed into something awkward and charged.
“I didn’t forget about that schedule you need,” she called over her shoulder, her voice slightly breathless. “I’ll get it for you.”
Carson stopped to take in the scene. His gaze darted from Decker’s bare chest to Willow, hovering so close.
Decker watched questions flicker across the other man’s face.
Then one brow lifted in unmistakable amusement. “Uh…is this some kind of casual Friday thing?”
Heat prickled Decker’s neck like a rash. He grabbed for his shirt, fumbling with the sleeve in his haste to cover up.
This was exactly why he avoided situations like this—too easy to misread, too easy for people to get the wrong idea.
Willow rolled her eyes, completely unbothered by the implications. “Relax. I was checking his wound. I stapled it last night.” She glanced at Carson, amusement tugging her lips. “Want to see my handiwork?”
Carson smirked. “You stapled it? One more thing to add to your resumé.”
Before he could take a look at the wound, Decker yanked the shirt over his head, the hollow ache settling in his chest like an old friend.
Of course she’d treat him like any other patient. He couldn’t allow himself to think she cared abouthimin particular—it was just Willow being Willow.
He was another wounded animal in her care, nothing more.
Carson leaned against the stall door, clearly enjoying himself. “I actually came to ask about Layne’s baby shower.”
“Oh.” Willow wiped her hands against her jeans, her attention already shifting away from Decker. “Right. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“I’d like a timeline of the event as soon as you can get one to me.”
“Really, Carson? This is your wife and child, and you’re talking about timelines like it’s a business transaction or a military op.”
Carson chuckled. “Point taken. But I’d still like a schedule.”
“Okay, I’ll email you.”
Carson’s stare skimmed over Decker.
Decker waited for questions about how he sustained the injury—and how Willow came to be the person who patched him up.
A long moment passed. Finally, Carson gave him a single nod. “Catch you later, Decker.” With that, he strode off, boots stomping down the aisle, leaving behind the faint scent of the coffee he drank by the pot.
Silence settled again, heavier than before. Decker straightened his sleeves, needing something to do with his hands. The moment between him and Willow was over, whatever it had been, and he felt like an idiot for thinking it had been anything at all.
“I’ve got art therapy,” he muttered, angling toward the door. Better to retreat now before he made things worse.
Willow’s stare stayed on him. “You don’t sound excited.”
“Because I’m not.” The admission slipped out before he could stop it.
“Why not?”
He shrugged, concentrating on the dust motes spinning in the dim light that streamed through the barn doors. How could he explain that sitting at tables with other broken military men, trying to express feelings through watercolors and clay, felt like another kind of torture?
“Painting isn’t gonna fix what’s broken.”
She tilted her head, studying him the way she studied the horses, as if she could read his pain like a map written in a language only she understood. “Then what does feel like therapy to you?”
