Page 18 of Deathtoll

“The honeymoon suite is finally finished,” the Broslin Bed-and-Breakfast’s proprietor said. “Wendy is going to bring by a friend to take photos next week. I was hoping you could do a website update for me after that? I need to get the suite up for bookings. The contractors took forever. I lost six months’ worth of income on that room. I need to catch up.”

Kate ran a website for kids in foster care, so she’d learned the skills for that and helped out friends with their internet needs now and then.

She glanced at her calendar. “How about after the Mushroom Festival? My sister is here from LA, and I already spend all day at work. I want to spend some time with her, at least in the evenings.”

“After the festival would be perfect. Say hi to your sister for me.”

“I will.” Kate made a note about the website.

Then Scott called out, “Ready!”

Kate ended the call with Shannon and went to treat her patient. She didn’t light a candle. She’d learned—the hard way—that smoke and fire were triggers for him.

“Sorry about last time,” he mumbled.

“We’ll start slow. Any time you want to stop, Scott, you say the word, and I step back. I can even step out of the room for a few minutes if you need me to do that.”

He nodded.

She smiled. “I’m going to fold the sheet back from your legs.”

When he didn’t protest, she gently uncovered his right leg. Scars covered him everywhere. No matter what body part she’d start with, she couldn’t avoid his injuries.

Scott Young had been captured by the Taliban, tortured daily for a month, then left behind for dead when they moved camp. Kate hoped she could help him. The last time, they hadn’t made it to five minutes before he bolted.

“How is your stay here so far?” She kept her tone light and professional. Patients picked up on her moods, if she was worried or uncertain.

“I like swimming and walks in the woods,” he said after a couple of seconds.

Activities that he could do alone,she noted.

“I’m going to put some warm massage oil in my hands now.”No sudden movements.She reached for the warmer next to him and lifted the bottle, poured, then spread the oil by rubbing her palms together. “I’m going to touch your right calf. I’ll just lay my hand on your skin for starters. See how that feels.”

His rough raised scars were uneven, as if he’d been cut by a serrated blade, the marks wide and gnarly, as if someone had rubbed irritant into his raw wounds. She couldn’t even imagine. Nor would she ever ask.

She rested her hand as lightly on his skin as possible, felt his body vibrate with tension regardless. “Try to relax.”

He let out a strangled laugh. But then, after a moment, he did force himself to go still. He was making an effort, giving treatment a chance. And that was all Kate asked.

“I’ll start working now, okay? While I see what’s going on with these muscles, can you tell me where it hurts the most?”

He laughed again—a bitter, bitter sound. “In my head.”

She moved her fingers gently—no digging deep for this patient. Her primary goal was just to have him allow her to touch him. For now. Once she achieved that, they would progress from there.

As the minutes ticked by, Scott relaxed. He had to work damn hard for it. She could see him regulate his breathing.

“You’re doing great.”

She worked over the muscles under her hands. “I’m going to move up to your thigh. Same thing. It’s not going to hurt. I promise.”

God bless his immense self-control, he let her.

She worked his other leg, then covered that up too, to keep the muscles warm. “I’m going to uncover your shoulders next.”

He didn’t say anything, but he had his eyes closed, for the first time. They hadn’t worked together long enough yet for her to learn his signs. Were closed eyes good or bad?

Definitely bad.