Cowboy with a Cause by Carla Cassidy Page A

horrible suppositions.
    “No.”
    She stared at the broken glass, her heart beating a frantic rhythm. Was it possible she’d gotten up in the middle of the night, slid into her wheelchair and come in here to destroy the pictures?
    Was it possible she herself had placed the teakettle in the upper cabinet? That she’d hung her robe in the closet and thrown her nightgown on the chair? She certainly didn’t remember doing any of those things, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t done them.
    The idea that anyone else had somehow come into the house to break the pictures or hide her teakettle was ludicrous and she knew by the perplexed expression on Adam’s face that he wasn’t responsible for the mess.
    That left only her. Had the pain pills addled her mind so much that she had attempted to destroy the physical evidence of who, of what she’d once been? Of who she would never be again?
    Or maybe it hadn’t been the pain pills at all. Maybe it really was true. Maybe the trauma that had taken away her ability to walk had also affected her brain. Maybe her self-hatred was more intense than she’d thought.
    She wrapped her arms around her shoulders to stanch the chill that threatened to suffuse her. She’d written it all off to the fact that she’d been distracted, but now she had to face a new possibility.
    Maybe she was going insane.
    * * *
    It was almost two hours later that Adam sat across from Melanie at the kitchen table. He’d cleaned up the glass mess in the living room while she’d fixed a pot of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner.
    They had spoken very little while they’d each gone about their separate tasks. He’d been concerned when he’d left that morning after seeing the glass all broken, but afraid of stepping over the line, especially since the kiss, he’d left without checking in on her. He’d reminded himself that what she did in her own home was really none of his business, but he’d definitely been unsettled by what he’d seen.
    He had spent most of the morning helping out Nick and then had gone to the sheriff’s office and talked to Cameron about what he needed to do to become a deputy for the town. He was surprised to learn that all he needed was to be over the age of twenty-one, have no criminal past and a valid driver’s license.
    He’d filled out an application, and Cameron had told him he’d put it on file as at the moment Cameron had a full force and no funds to hire any more deputies.
    In the meantime he’d suggested that Adam take a few courses in criminal justice at the community college and spend as much time as possible at the firing range on the outskirts of town.
    But as he now sat across from Melanie, the events of his own day were the last things on his mind. He wished he knew her well enough to read her mind, to know what words would take the darkness away from her eyes.
    They ate in an awkward silence, the only sound the scrape of their spoons against their bowls as they ate the warm soup. He had so many questions about what had happened the night before. He finally couldn’t stand it any longer. He set his spoon down and gazed at her.
    “Talk to me, Melanie. You don’t remember anything about breaking the pictures?”
    She raised her eyes to look at him and in the simmering depths of them he saw fear. “The only thing I remember about last night was nightmares, horrible dreams about dying dancers.” Her spoon clattered to the table as if her fingers didn’t have the strength to hold it another moment.
    She went on. “How could I have done that and not remembered? But it had to be me. I mean, that’s the only thing that makes sense and yet it doesn’t make any sense. Did you hear anything? Breaking glass?”
    He shook his head. “No, but I’m sleeping in the bedroom farthest from the living room. I hear street noises more than I hear anything from down here.”
    She rubbed the center of her forehead, as if a headache threatened to blossom there.