Alison pretended not to notice Benjamin Lamar striding toward her.

Ignoring him was a challenge, considering he was tall, tanned and very easy on the eyes.

“Excuse me! Dr. Stone!” he called out, trotting to her side.

“What do you want, Mr. Lamar?”

“I wanted to thank you for bringing my son Ethan safely home to me. You righted my world when you hoisted him out of that canyon, and I’ll never forget your bravery.”

At first, Alison didn’t know what to say. Then her brain kicked in.

“Your son’s condition is not my area of expertise, but it took me less than sixty seconds to realize how terrifed Ethan is of being left alone or sent away. Any idiot who feels sending him to a wilderness camp was a good idea should be used for a punching bag.”

Ben folded his arms, stretching his black T-shirt across a broad chest. Then he raised his chin and stared down at her. His eyes were dangerous slits of blue ice.

“I’m the idiot who thought sending Ethan to camp was a good idea.”

MAE NUNN

grew up in Houston and graduated from the University of Texas with a degree in communications. When she fell for a transplanted Englishman living in Atlanta, she moved to Georgia and made an effort to behave like a Southern Belle. But when she found that her husband was quite agreeable to life as a Born-Again Texan, Mae happily returned to her cowgirl roots and cowboy boots! In 2008 Mae retired from thirty years of corporate life to focus on her career as a Christian author. When asked how she felt about writing fulltime for Steeple Hill Books, Mae summed up her response with one word: “Yeeeee-ha!”

Her Forever Family
Mae Nunn

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The King will reply, “I tell you the truth:

whatever you did for one of the least of these

brothers of mine, you did for me.”

—Matthew 25:40

This story is dedicated to my big sister, Pam Hruza. From my very earliest memories she’s been like a second mother. She has prayed for me, defended me, given me medical advice, taken me shopping, taken me trick-or-treating (again) the day after Halloween, and moved me more times than I can count. She’s hauled a chaise lounge for me from Houston to Atlanta on top of her minivan, told me when to hide my eyes during scary movies, loaned me money, loaned me clothes, loaned me her car, and she would loan me her Harley if I was brave enough to get on it. She’s cooked holiday meals for my family, cared for my baby daughter (now twenty-four) so I could sleep on the weekends, loved me without question or judgment when I didn’t deserve it and never once expected anything in return. She is a faithful Christian, a gifted caregiver and a selfless friend, sister, mother and wife. Gail and I love you, Pamela Kay! The three of us share a boundless bond only sisters can understand.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to Grand Canyon Rescue volunteer Candace Hesson for her invaluable guidance during the writing of this story. If there are any technical errors in the opening scene they are mine alone.

Thanks to author Jill Nutter for her honest input on living with mental illness in the family.

Thanks to Coldwell Banker Realtor Mary Butler for answering all my questions and for providing me with photos of San Angelo.

Thanks to Steeple Hill senior editor Melissa Endlich for making me a better writer.

And, as always, thanks to my husband for loving me enough to waltz me across Texas, over and over again. Together we discover the settings and the characters that come to life in my stories. You make it all worthwhile, Michael!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

Doctor Alison Stone dangled five hundred feet above the limestone canyons of Big Bend National Park, her harness secured to the bottom of a Bell Ranger helicopter. The roar from the engines was deafening, but with countless long line exercises to her credit Ali’s concern was not for the din from the ship overhead but instead for the boy who’d been discovered in the small clearing below. As they approached she kept her eyes on the motionless figure, praying this mission would end in a patient rescue and not a victim recovery. Her heartbeat was normal; her hands steady where they clutched the basket litter to secure it in the sixty-mile-per-hour wind wash from the props. She had complete faith in her crew, certain Harry and Sid would deposit her gently on the rocky ledge and then return when she called for pick up.

The search for fifteen-year-old Ethan Lamar had gone on for three days. Three days. Seventy-two hours with the diamondbacks, bobcats and coyotes was a minor survival exercise for a normal hiker. For a boy with Asperger’s syndrome, being without supervision in the wild could be a death sentence. A tragic outcome she knew only too well.

Congressional hopeful Benjamin Lamar had managed to keep his son’s diagnosis a private matter for over two years. But when the former Dallas Cowboys linebacker turned positive-thinking guru went to the media to plead for search volunteers, his personal drama became public fodder.

Ali’s life’s mission was to rescue young people, but this situation had her struggling with how to respond. Fortunately, prayer left her with no room for doubt or recourse. She cancelled her clients for the coming week, loaded her dog, a Rhodesian Ridgeback, into the Land Rover and the two best friends rushed from their home in San Angelo to the search site. As a woman who’d grown up alone in foster care and knew the firsthand, bottomless pain of losing her family, Ali’s soul ached for the boy. As a psychotherapist who’d written her graduate thesis on the little-known disorder of Asperger’s, she was drawn by the case and the cleverness of the missing kid.

She’d learned that although he was easily startled by the noise of kitchen appliances, he’d been brave enough to leave undetected from a camp for special needs boys, and throughout the weekend Ethan Lamar had eluded the party of rescue workers. But Monday’s first search plane had spotted and confirmed a body wedged in the steep canyon.

Ali blessed Harry’s experience as a pilot when he positioned her directly above the ledge and lowered her as planned. With her boots secure on a slab of rock she detached her harness and the litter from the cable. Two pats to the top of her helmet where her braid was tightly tucked signaled all clear and the ship pulled away, leaving her in the breathtaking silence of the national park.

Sixty vertical feet separated her from the young man curled on his side facing the cliff. His chin was pulled to his chest, his hands cupped over his ears.

“Lord, please don’t let me lose another boy,” she begged for Ethan’s life while she secured webbing to a boulder to form an anchor. She lowered her equipment and then rappelled down the steep incline, dropping less than three feet from her patient.

“Ethan?” She forced herself to remain calm.

No response.

“Ethan!” Ali called his name louder as she pressed her fingers to his neck. A weak pulse throbbed beneath the scraped skin.

“Thank you, Father.” Gratitude thumped in her chest as she put on a thin pair of latex gloves.

She cautiously rolled the slender but solidly built teen to his back. One leg twisted unnaturally and he cried out.

Her gaze ran the length of his filthy jeans as she noted dried blood caked at his right ankle. His canvas high top was wedged in a crevice, shackling him to the spot.

“My goodness, kiddo. How long have you been stuck like this?” With a careful twist and a sharp tug she dislodged the sneaker, then one pass of her EMT knife blade revealed his bare leg. She made note of an orderly row of thin pink scars, then leaned closer to examine fresh purple contusions and a jagged gash that needed a couple of stitches.

“Possible head trauma, lacerations but no obvious breaks.” She prepared to make a report. She reached for her cell and shifted her weight to stand.

“Stop!” Ethan grasped her wrist, then immediately let go as if the touch had burned his hand. His eyes had sprung wide. “Don’t leave me!” he pleaded, his voice raspy.

“Hey, Ethan,” she kept her words soft and her manner calm as she moved closer to soothe the boy. “My name is Ali. I’m a volunteer with West Texas Rescue and I’m here to take you home. But first I have to call base. Your dad needs to know you’re okay.”

“He doesn’t care,” Ethan insisted, shielding his face at the mention of his only parent.

“Of course he does. He’s been worried sick. Lots of people have been looking for you,” she explained.

“He’ll try to talk me into going back to that camp.”

“Is that why you’ve been hiding from us?”

“Sorta.” Ethan hitched one shoulder.

“I won’t let him send you back there,” she assured the youth, hoping she could keep her promise. But thirty-seven years of life had taught Ali a bizarre lesson: parents could be unpredictable and downright cruel at times. Standing in the gap for kids when the worst happened had been her life’s work since the day she was licensed to practice.

She reached for Ethan’s hand, noting how he pulled it to himself to prevent the touch. “We need to get you some medical attention, so you’re gonna have to take a ride in a noisy helicopter. Will that be okay with you?”

“If you’ll stay with me.” His pupils were tiny in the bright daylight, the blue of his eyes as intense as the sky above them. He squinted hard waiting for her answer, looking so much like his handsome celebrity father.

“Girl Scout’s honor.” She gave the three-finger salute, then used her cell to call base camp. “I’ve got the patient. He’s scraped up pretty good, but he’s talking. Send the ship and drop Sid for me. I’m gonna need some help with the litter.” Her message was confirmed and before snapping the phone shut she added, “And tell Mr. Lamar I’d like a few minutes with him at the E.R.”

“I’m thirsty,” Ethan’s pleading turned to complaining.

“We’ll get you some water soon.” There was a bottle in her backpack, but she didn’t dare offer it for fear of air sickness during the lift.

“I hear you’re quite the amateur geologist.” Knowing it was Ethan’s compulsive area of interest, she asked the question certain it would distract him. While he croaked about the instability of igneous rock she made the best overall assessment possible considering his reluctance to being touched. She checked his blood pressure and heart rate, splinted his ankle to prevent further injury and covered open cuts with butterfly bandages.

“The good Lord was watching over you, Ethan,” she assured her patient, wondering how on earth he’d managed to stay free of swarming bugs and deadly cactus. “You know legend says that after God created the rest of the world, he dumped the leftovers in Big Bend. Just about everything out here either bites, jabs or stings.”

“I only wanted to see the hoodoos.” Ethan referred to the majestic volcanic columns whittled by thousands of years of wind and water.

In his fifteen-year-old mind the reason for leaving the safety of the compound was probably that simple—he wanted a closer look. But to Ali’s way of thinking Ethan’s inability to judge rationally was precisely why he had no business in a wilderness area, no matter the reputation of the staff who supervised the campers. The fool who recommended this therapy should be tarred and feathered. She had every intention of sharing her opinion with the boy’s father as soon as they met face-to-face.

In the distance four blades thumped hard, bringing the ship closer with each turn of the rotor. Ethan shivered and covered his ears. Alison prayed for the means to comfort him during the flight and the words to address his father. She wouldn’t have to wait long for her conversation with the Texas football legend who was known to claim anything could be overcome as long as you maintain the right attitude.

The doors of the E.R. whooshed open at the touch of Ben’s foot on the sensor pad. He’d hoped never to return to this medical center again, but as the Proverb says, “A man plans his course but the Lord determines his steps.”

On the night of his wife’s fatal accident Ben had entered through the same doors, soaked through by the pouring rain, refusing to accept anything but positive news. But the next morning when the sky cleared and the sun came up over San Angelo, he was a widower and the single parent of a son recently diagnosed with a misunderstood form of autism.

Two years later and he was back again. After signaling for the police escort to wait outside, Ben strode past the information desk trying to ignore the looks of recognition that turned his way. His gaze scanned the hallway for familiar uniforms that would identify the air rescue personnel. The one-of-a-kind orange chopper on the medical center’s helipad confirmed they were still present. As soon as Ben saw for himself that his son was okay, the next order of business was to thank the man who’d secured Ethan in that basket and then dangled with him from the end of a thin cable during their lift out of Big Bend.

“Mr. Lamar?” A female called from the triage area.

“Yes, I’m Ben Lamar,” he answered the nurse.

“Your son’s in number eight, sir.” She held the door wide and motioned for him to enter. “Right this way.”

“How bad are his injuries?”

“The doctor will answer all your questions.”

Ben followed her a dozen steps down the hall. She stopped beside a treatment cubicle identified with a black number eight plaque overhead. Once more he was cast back to the night God had stolen Theresa away—the blood, the machines, the effort of the medical staff, the ultimate hopelessness.

Father, why have you brought me this moment again?

Before Ben was fully prepared for whatever sight might assault him, the nurse grasped the curtain and swept it aside. A physician in green scrubs bent from the waist applying the final stitches to close a gashed shin. When he stood to reach for a pair of scissors the patient became visible. Seeing Ethan propped in a sitting position next to a lovely redheaded EMT subdued the avalanche of fear Ben had been fighting back with a snow shovel.

His first instinct was to rush to his son’s side and smother the boy with a bear hug. But for the last three years instinct hadn’t been worth the spit it took to lick an envelope. At least not when it came to dealing with Ethan. It was as if the onset of puberty had drained his son of all common sense. The once popular kid’s eccentric behavior couldn’t be explained away. He seemed to have lost all ability to interpret facial expressions and tone of voice. No matter what the words conveyed, the translation in Ethan’s mind was literal. While his peers socially matured Ethan didn’t seem to.

His hearing had become even more acute. The sudden noise from a can opener or electric mixer could send him hiding in his room for hours. Ben could only imagine Ethan’s terror while swinging from a cable beneath a roaring helicopter.

“Hey, buddy,” Ben kept his voice low and nonchalant as he’d been taught by the most recent in a long string of therapists. “It looks like you’re almost patched up and ready to go home.”

“That’s a fact,” the E.R. doctor answered. “This young man needs a few days of rest and he’s got stitches in a couple of places, but he’s otherwise in good shape and quite a brave patient.” The doctor moved aside to give Ben clear access. But two steps closer earned him a threatening growl from a menacing-looking brown dog that stood on long legs in the corner of the room.

“What is that mongrel doing in here?” Ben demanded, backing away. He and dogs were incompatible, like the Cowboys and the 49ers.

The redhead seated beside Ethan’s gurney rose to her feet and gave a brief command. “Simba, down.”

The animal complied. The growling stopped.

“For your edification, Mr. Lamar, Simba’s a full-blooded Rhodesian Ridgeback and since she’s a licensed rescue animal she’s clear to accompany me everywhere I go.”

Color shot through her lovely cheeks, her eyes flashed amber sparks. Ben knew the look of a lioness defending her cub.

“I see. Well, thank you Miss—” he waited.

“Stone. West Texas Rescue.”

“Miss Stone.” He took the hand she extended, and her grip was firm. “Thanks for waiting with Ethan until I got here. Would you mind taking your dog out of the room and rounding up your partner for me? As soon as my son’s released we’ll be going. The sheriff was kind enough to give me a VIP escort and I don’t want to keep them waiting. But I have to thank the guy who performed that incredible air rescue.”

“10-4,” she answered, then whispered something to Ethan that caused him to snicker. “Simba, heel.” The dog obeyed, falling into step beside her mistress with the bedraggled braid.

When the curtain jerked closed behind them the E.R. physician and Ethan both chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” Ben asked. It had been a mentally exhausting few days and he was the odd man out in the joke.

“Sir, I think you’re going to owe Doctor Stone an apology.”

“Doctor Stone?”

“Doctor Alison Stone. She’s not only the best child psychotherapist on staff at the medical center, she was the guy hanging from that chopper with Ethan today. It was Alison Stone who rescued your son.”

Chapter Two

Ben hadn’t chased after a woman in a lot of years. A lifetime ago the female football groupies had been plentiful. And certain women had become regulars at his speaking events. Now that a reasonable period of mourning had passed, ladies were overtly showing interest he was still not prepared to return.

But this chasing he was doing today was in the physical sense. The moment Ben realized he’d mistaken Doctor Stone for a general EMT, he’d promised Ethan he would return right away and had taken off down the corridor. A power walk turned to a trot as Ben left the air-conditioned building to be enveloped by the warm Texas afternoon. He darted for the south side of the complex in the direction of the helipad and closed the last fifty yards in an easy sprint, thankful he hadn’t given up running when he’d given up the game.

Two volunteers in familiar jumpsuits stood sentry by the expensive chopper, but there wasn’t a redhead with a big dog in sight.

“Excuse me,” Ben called. “Do either of you know where I can find Doctor Stone?”

One of the men turned to respond, his eyes widened with the recognition Ben had come to expect but never took for granted. “Oh, Mr. Lamar, it’s you. Listen, we’re so grateful things worked out with your son.”

“Thank you.” Ben shook hands with both rescue workers. “I can’t tell you fellas how much I appreciate the incredible job you did getting my boy out of danger.”

“All in a day’s work, sir.” The man whose name tag identified him as Harry shrugged off Ben’s praise. “If you’re lookin’ for the Rock, she and Simba are probably huntin’ down a grassy spot.”

“The Rock?” A play on her last name, maybe? What’s the deal with private jokes today?

“Sorry,” Harry apologized for the confusion that must have shown on Ben’s face. “That’s our nickname for Doc Stone because she’s so solid under pressure, especially if a kid’s involved. She wouldn’t hear of anybody else making that pick up.”

Ben shrunk another few inches. Not only had he insulted the lady’s ability and the pedigree of her animal, he seemed to have insulted her integrity as well.

“Please, guys,” he pleaded. “Don’t take off with Doctor Stone on board until you know we’ve spoken. I might have offended her and I need to apologize.”

“You got it. But whatever it is, don’t sweat it too much. It takes an awful lot to rile up the Rock.” Harry was reassuring.

Ben wanted to be comforted by the comment, but evidence so far was to the contrary. Something in his gut told him there was a doghouse in his future. With a natural aversion to the entire canine breed, that was the last place he wanted to be relegated. He prepared to head for the front lawn of the expansive medical plaza.

“And Mr. Lamar,” Harry continued, “I want you to know you’ll get my vote if you decide to throw your helmet into the ring for that Congressional seat.”

“I’m counting on that,” Ben answered as he began to stretch his legs, once again back in the chase.

“Did you get my joke, Sid?” Ben heard Harry question his co-worker. “Helmet instead of hat? It’s a football thing. You’re a golfer. You wouldn’t understand.”

Ali pretended not to notice Benjamin Lamar striding toward her in fancy cowboy boots that must have cost him a pretty penny. Ignoring him was a challenge considering he was tall, tanned and very easy on the eye. The man already got more attention than the law allowed, and with good reason. He was capital H-O-T!

The last thing he needed was another drooling female.

“Excuse me! Doctor Stone!” he called out. Twenty-five yards still separated them.

The ridge of thick hair on Simba’s back stiffened. She grumbled, a threatening sound deep in her chest.

“You don’t care for him, do you, girl?” It was amusing but puzzling. Simba was such a lovable and easygoing hound. Her reaction signaled that she sensed the presence of danger. Or fear. Was it possible the big, bad football star could be afraid of a dog? Just in case, Ali quieted Simba with a hand signal.

“Doctor Stone.” He trotted to her side, then eyeing Simba he backed up two steps. “Thanks for waiting on me.”

“Actually, Mr. Lamar, I was waiting on my mongrel to do her business.”

“I apologize for that comment.” He lowered captivating blue eyes and ducked his head in a manner that had publicly charmed Texans for two decades. If rumor of his political aspiration was true, he’d soon be using that humble gesture to convert interested females into registered voters.

“It was a dumb thing to say, but what I know about dogs wouldn’t fill a Dixie cup. There was zero chance I’d recognize a working animal.”

“Hmm, and I always thought the ‘Service Dog, Do Not Pet’ emblem was a pretty good clue.”

Probably for the first time, he took a long look at Simba and noticed her embroidered orange vest. Most people asked to pet a service animal as soon as they realized they weren’t allowed to. This guy didn’t. In fact, he shifted his weight away another step.

He was close to a strikeout, or whatever football players do when they blow a big chance. Ali wasn’t impressed with his sports celebrity, she thought his positive living mantra was simplistic, she didn’t approve of his politics and she had reason to question his parenting skills.

“You don’t like dogs, do you?” she asked.

“They don’t care much for me either, so it’s mutual. I don’t take it personally.”

“That’s probably a good thing. Political campaigning requires thick skin.” Something he’d need to soothe his ego when he lost if her vote counted for anything.

“Well said.” He nodded. “But that’s not the subject I tracked you down to discuss.”

She checked her watch, knowing the crew was waiting. “If you were a paying client I’d start the meter, but the first one’s always a freebie. What do you want, Mr. Lamar?”

His handsome head snapped back at the tone in her voice. Good! After what he’d put his son through, she wanted to shake the confident man till his teeth rattled!

“Since time appears to be money to you, Doctor Stone, I’ll be brief. First, and most important, I want to thank you for bringing Ethan safely home to me.” Lamar pointed toward the E.R. “That boy is the center of my life and I’ve been sick with worry these past few days. You righted my world when you hoisted him out of that canyon and I’ll never forget your bravery.”

Now, as she bothered to look beneath the very appealing exterior, it did appear he hadn’t slept in a while. Okay, it was Ali’s turn to stare humbly at her steel-toed boots. Before she could ask for forgiveness for being a jerk, he hurried on.

“Second, I believe you called this meeting.” He fished a scrap of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. “This says you wanted to have a word with me.” He looked at his heavy, gold wristwatch. “I need to be with my son, so please make it quick.”

The small amount of guilt she’d been feeling toward the famous linebacker crumbled like a vanilla wafer between Simba’s molars.

“I’m a psychotherapist and I deal primarily with kids who’ve suffered traumatic loss or abuse—”

He held his palm outward to silence her. “Ethan already has a therapist, several in fact. If you were going to pitch your services—”

“Your son’s condition is not in my area of expertise,” Ali blocked his interruption with one of her own. “But it took me less than sixty seconds to realize how terrified Ethan is of being left alone or, worse, being sent away. I think it’s unconscionable that your therapist suggested you allow your son to attend that wilderness camp. Any idiot who feels that was the proper way to treat Ethan should be strung up and used for a punching bag.”

“Uuf!” He bent at the waist and grabbed his gut.

She had no idea how to interpret his action. “Are you in pain?” she asked the obvious.

“Only if you consider a low blow painful.”

Lamar stood tall. He folded arms any man would envy, stretching his black T-shirt tight across a broad chest. Then he raised his chin and stared her down from a height that forced her to look up. His eyes were dangerous slits of blue ice.

“I guess I deserved it since I’m the unconscionable idiot who thought sending Ethan to camp was a good idea.”

Ali’s belly quaked in a way that never happened when she was suspended a couple thousand feet above the earth from the bottom of a rescue line. This person looming over her was both manly and menacing, celebrated in a sport where intimidation was a minimum daily requirement. It was his right to call the shots on treatment. Ethan was his son.

She should back down, apologize for overstepping her bounds. Still, Ali completely disagreed with the man’s approach and wouldn’t sleep a wink tonight if she thought the boy could be sent back into a dangerous situation.

“Sir, I respect you as Ethan’s father and support your right to make decisions about his future. That said, since I was engaged in his rescue I have every intention of following up on the welfare of my patient. I’ll be keeping my ear to the ground for any news on this case.”

“Take a number.” Lamar walked away from any further discussion.

“Simba, heel,” Ali called. She hurried to catch the aggravating man. “Wait up, Lamar!”

“Going my way, Stone?” He didn’t as much as glance over his shoulder.

“As a matter of fact, I am. I told Ethan I’d be right back.”

“I don’t know what he found so funny about that.”

She smiled to think she’d coaxed an appropriate response from Ethan. “He was amused?”

“Laughed out loud. And with his weird sense of humor that’s something he doesn’t do often. What did you whisper to him, anyway?”

“I told him Simba and I needed to go for a walk before one of us marked our territory right across the toes of your handmade boots.”

Chapter Three

Ten days had passed and Ethan was stubbornly nursing a grudge.

“Son, you’ve got to leave that room sooner or later. Please come down and join me for dinner,” Ben called from the top of the stairwell. Since Ethan could detect a pin dropping, there was little doubt he’d heard his father’s request.

That Big Bend business with the camp and the helicopter rescue was over and done with, behind them forever. The publicity had died down, most of Ethan’s scrapes were healed and the swelling in his ankle was gone. But the boy hadn’t been outside the threshold of his bedroom since the E.R. experience.

Ben knew there was no bribe he could offer or threat he could make that would get his son to budge. Short of starving Ethan into cooperation there was little to do but give it time, the one thing Ben had in short supply.

As much as it irked him to admit it, that know-it-all doctor had been right when she’d called him an unconscionable idiot! Coaxing Ethan into the camping experience seemed to have set them back months of progress. Ben was not only running out of time, he was running out of places to turn for help.

His visits to online forums revealed patient coping methods he never dreamed anybody would attempt. Reading the posts by self-proclaimed “Aspies” was heartbreaking. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to save his son from sinking further into the depths of the bizarre disorder.

“Ethan? We may have company later.” Ben was winging it, determined to get a reaction.

There was no reply, nor could he detect volume from the television. Self-injury was a concern since Ethan had done his share of experimental cutting. So, complete quiet in the rooms upstairs was never a good sign.

“Ethan!” Ben called loudly, as he traveled the hallway toward the rooms where privacy was no longer his son’s right. The last shred of patience snapped as Ben’s shoulders filled the open doorway. “Answer me this instant!”

Ethan jumped at the sudden intrusion, brushed away his earphones and flung himself against the headboard of the bed where he’d been sitting.

“What is it?” he demanded. “Why are you always scaring me like that?”

The boy’s abrupt tone and disrespectful comments were almost intolerable for Ben. He’d been reared with strict rules of etiquette and sportsmanship, had embraced them all his life. In his head he knew Ethan’s rudeness was a symptom of anxiety—the boy probably wasn’t even aware of the effect of his tone and choice of vocabulary—but the words penetrated Ben’s sense of decency like darts pierced a bull’s-eye. Every medical professional he’d spoken with had warned him to choose his battles. On the worry scale, disrespect was fairly low compared to what seemed like a budding case of agoraphobia. Ethan’s refusal to leave his rooms had to be brought under control, but Ben was at his wit’s end.

How could he consider moving into the political arena when his son was digging his heels in deeper every day, refusing any help? Being the single parent of a boy whose future had gone from promising to unpredictable had meant putting all personal dreams on hold. Possibly forever. How did a motivational speaker put a positive spin on that?

“I asked you a question,” Ethan snapped.

“I beg your pardon.” Ben attempted to contain his aggravation. A sarcastic tone would only confuse Ethan’s warped decoding process. “I’ve been trying to get your attention.”

“Well, now you have it.” Ethan tightly folded his arms across his chest, unaware of his own body language, much less anyone else’s. The lack of ability to send or interpret a nonverbal cue had been one of the earliest signs of trouble.

“Mrs. Alvarez made your favorite before she left for Mexico. Chicken pot pie,” Ben tempted. “How about coming down to eat while it’s hot? I thought we might invite company over later, maybe watch that History Channel documentary again.”

Ethan leaned toward his night table, opened the top drawer and pulled out a cellophane package of peanut butter crackers. He raised the snack for his father to see, then tossed it back into the drawer where he obviously hoarded treats. “No, thanks,” he muttered.

“Okay, that covers dinner. How about visitors?”

Ethan sighed, unfolding long legs that would have made him a great athlete once upon a time. He stood and turned his back, giving Ben a look at dirty hair flattened to his head. After a few steps toward his bathroom, Ethan glanced over his shoulder.

“Listen, Dad. You don’t have to keep making all this effort, pretending you’re not mad at me for what happened.”

“You mean with the camp?” They’d covered this territory a number of times. Ben hoped the topic was closed, but nothing was ever completely finished with Ethan.

The boy’s chin dropped to his chest. After several long moments he looked up, his face flushed with unspoken pain.

“I mean with Mom.”

Ben shut his eyes against the comment. He shook his head, exhausted from the ever-present subject. “Please, don’t go there again. Not with me anyway.”

“Then with who?” Ethan demanded.

“You name it! There are any number of excellent therapists willing to come see you if you won’t go to them. I’ve had calls from Doctor Ackerson, Doctor Cooke and Doctor Hunter. They’re all anxious to hear from you.”

“What about Doctor Stone?” Ethan squinted, watching for a reaction.

Ben couldn’t help admiring his son’s sense of timing.

“You’re kidding, of course,” Ben answered.

Ethan shook his head. “I liked her,” he said simply, then moved toward his dressing room, through another threshold without a door. Physically beyond his father’s sight and emotionally beyond his comprehension.

Ali parked in the circular driveway of the three-story mansion that showcased Texas limestone and Mexican stucco. The foundation for the home had been blasted from a hillside and then positioned to appear as if it sprung up naturally out of the rock. In no hurry to go inside, she moved to the edge of the front terrace designed with an overhang facing west where a brilliant sunset was in progress.

“Check it out, Simba.”

Alert eyes followed the direction her mistress pointed, as if understanding perfectly.

Ali had always been fascinated by the setting of the sun, a dazzling kaleidoscope unique for each day. Nothing was more breathtaking than a long line flight during the last twenty minutes of daylight. And she’d prefer the dangers of an air drop mission any day over the one Benjamin Lamar had implored her to consider.

“If this is the view Ethan has from his bedroom, it’s no wonder he won’t come out.” She turned away from the stunning vista and moved to stand before the home’s front entry with Simba close by. The dog was truly a gift from God, a family member who could never be taken away and perfect in her inability to judge the failures of her mistress.

Three sharp raps of a brass knocker brought footsteps and a large blurry figure to the inside of the frosted glass. One of the double doors swung wide and then immediately closed to a four-inch opening.

“Was it really necessary for you to bring that animal?” Benjamin Lamar spoke though the gap.

“It’s wonderful to see you again, too. Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice.” Ali hoped a snappy response would mask her self-doubt from the man so full of self-assurance.

“I asked a simple question.” And evidently had no intention of inviting her inside until she responded.

“The answer is yes. Simba goes everywhere with me because she’s part of the team. And since rescues can’t be scheduled like football games, we’re always together and prepared, even during office hours at the clinic.”

“Can you put her back in your car or tie her up outside?”

Simba growled. A hand signal silenced her, then Ali offered what she knew would be a condescending smile and shook her head.

“Listen, Mr. Lamar, you all but begged me to give this a shot, so you’re going to have to be flexible on this one point. Simba won’t make a move without my command, she doesn’t shed and she hasn’t had an accident on the floor since she was six weeks old. If you’re going to trust me with your son, then you ought to trust me with my own dog.”

A look of resignation crossed his tanned face. He stepped back and opened the door, his hand sweeping toward the foyer, an invitation to enter. Ali inhaled slowly and moved across the welcome mat. She was greeted by a room with soaring ceilings, hand-dyed rugs over a mesquite parquet floor and cozy French country furnishings. She recalled reading his late wife had been into interior design.

“You have a beautiful place.” She admired the wall of windows opposite the entry hall. “What a sensational view.”

“Thank you,” he answered humbly. “It’s way too big for just two of us, but it’s the only home Ethan’s ever known. Getting him to change his socks is a chore most days, so changing our residence is out of the question for now.”

Alison nodded, understanding. An Asperger kid was a creature of rigidity and order. Keeping life calm meant holding change to a minimum. His mother’s death must have sent Ethan into a nosedive. He seemed to feel somehow responsible, so it was no wonder he wouldn’t drop the subject that had rocked his world. Having lost her own mother to family violence when Ali was only nine years old, Ethan’s irrational sense of accountability was a belief she could relate to on so many levels.

“I’m sorry I was rude at the door,” Lamar apologized, keeping one eye on Simba’s whereabouts. “I really do appreciate you driving out here this evening. Have you had your dinner yet? Our housekeeper makes a tasty chicken pie from scratch, but Ethan turned his nose up to it. What a shocker.”

Ali heard the frustration in his words. A father wanted answers, but very often there were none. Just as there were few alternatives when living with the chaos of mental illness. And the patient always seemed to hold the trump card, the threat of self-destruction.

“Thanks for the offer, but I had a power shake on the way over.” She curled her arm in a body builder’s pose, pointed to her biceps and enjoyed his nod of approval. “So, where do I find that son of yours?”

“His suite is upstairs.”

“Suite?” She felt her eyebrows rise.

“It’s a big house, remember?” Lamar explained. “The area was originally intended for out-of-town guests. When Ethan was old enough to need more space, we thought it was a good idea for him to have a game room where his buddies could hang out. Unfortunately, my son’s friends can’t tolerate his OCD, and instead of games his shelves are lined with specimen samples.”

“Specimens?” Her lips twisted like she’d just sucked a slice of lemon. Even in med school dead things floating in formaldehyde had creeped her out.

“You’ll see” was Lamar’s ominous explanation, but the sparkle in his blue, blue eyes indicated humor.

He pointed toward the steps that wound upward two flights. “Ethan’s expecting you. He’s on the second floor.”

“How will I recognize his suite?”

“Just look for the rooms with no doors on the hinges. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

“This may take a while,” Ali warned as she shifted the weight of her oversize bag and started up the steps.

“It usually does when the meter’s running, Doctor Stone.”

She rolled her eyes as she trudged up the stairs with Simba close behind. Of course, Benjamin Lamar would make sure he had the last word.

Just like a politician.

Chapter Four

Ben watched as the lady and her dog climbed the carpeted steps. The only other time he’d seen Alison Stone she’d been in a rescue worker’s one-piece jumpsuit. The zippered pockets from chest to ankle had been stuffed lumpy with recovery gear that hid her womanly curves. With her lustrous hair caught up beneath a safety helmet, it was no wonder he’d mistaken her for one of the guys.

But today in jangly silver jewelry, a bright turquoise sleeveless blouse and perfectly fitted jeans there was no doubt about her gender. She was one hundred percent female and very easy on the eye.

He cleared his throat to whisk away the direction his mind was wandering. The slight sound drew the attention of the dog. It stopped at the landing to turn a dark, searching gaze downward. Ben pointed toward Simba’s attractive mistress, narrowed his eyes and mouthed the word “Shoo!” The animal complied but Ben felt certain she’d made the decision on her own and it had nothing to do with his command.

“Father, am I ever going to have a say in the direction of my life again?” He prayed aloud as he’d done a million times since the day he’d returned from Theresa’s memorial and come back to the house to face Ethan’s problems. Alone.

With time, the aloneness had turned to solitude and eventually the home so filled with his late wife’s touch had become comforting. Where Ben found refuge in their tasteful surroundings, Ethan continually used reminders of his mother as reason to resurrect the past. Certain he bore guilt for distracting her during a rainy drive, Ethan felt he deserved the blame for her death. The assumption was as wrong as wrong could be, but it had become part of Ethan’s obsessive thinking, a behavior that had Ben clutching the tail end of his frayed rope.

“Father, for forty-two years You’ve blessed me with the ability to face any challenge.” Ben continued his one-sided conversation as he headed across the foyer and into the fragrant kitchen. “By now I thought we’d be operating on a Texas-size scale. But instead of wrestling legislative issues I’m struggling to get my kid to sit at the dinner table with me. What’s up with that? And if the folks who used to pay their hard-earned money to hear me speak could see me now, they wouldn’t be lining up to vote, they’d be lining up for refunds.”

Ben shook his head at his inadequacy, slipped quilted mitts on his hands and scooped a cookie sheet from the hot oven. He flipped one of the single-serving pies upside-down on a stoneware plate, removed the baking tin and pierced the flaky bottom crust with a fork. Steam drifted upward, lasting only a few seconds before dissipating into air stirred by the fan blades slowly rotating overhead.

You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Ben recalled the words from the book of James.

“Okay, Lord, I get it,” he admitted. “This is temporary and there’s a bigger picture that I can’t see. But gaining a first down would be helpful now and again.”

Too impatient to take his plate to the table, Ben shoveled a mouthful of chicken and vegetables through parted lips. He was immediately reminded with scalding consequences that a cool-down moment and a proper grace are helpful now and again, too.

Ali walked through Ethan’s rooms, amazed at the affluence that was basically lost on the boy who really only cared, that is to say obsessed, about one thing.

Rocks.

After a brief reunion they’d struck a deal, or at least she thought so. Ethan would brush his teeth and comb his hair within ten minutes and in exchange Ali would allow him to show off some of his specimens, which turned out to be an impressive collection of core samples. Putting a time constraint on Ethan’s activities would give her a starting point toward measuring his OCD rituals and then she’d begin to strategize on how to hold them to a dull roar. She glanced at the large-faced, loudly ticking alarm clock she’d brought with her and noted his first deadline was approaching.

“Ethan, time’s about up,” she called without turning in the direction of his dressing area. Maybe if he was cooperative she’d suggest his father reconsider the sanctity of the bathroom and agree to re-hang the door.

“The water hasn’t been running long enough,” Ethan answered, referring to one of his requirements that had to be fulfilled before he could begin to brush his teeth.

“You can let it run all night for all I care, but if you’re not finished and back in here minus the stinky breath in three more minutes, Simba and I are going downstairs to visit with your dad and we’re not coming back up tonight.”

He poked his face around the door frame and held up five fingers. “I need a little longer.”

“Nope.” Ali shook her head. She had to take a hard line right out of the gate or she wouldn’t have any wiggle room when it came time to ease up. “Ethan, it’s been a long workday for me and right now Simba needs a walk more than you need to purge the plumbing. When time’s up we’ll be downstairs for a few more minutes. Otherwise, we’ll give this a try again tomorrow. If you don’t want the same results, I suggest you take care of personal hygiene before we arrive.”

“There’s no need to be difficult,” he complained. “I don’t remember you being this way before.”

As she had during their first encounter, Alison noted Ethan’s speech seemed normal, even above average for teens. She’d learned early in her research that language is one of the most diverse areas of autism, ranging from nonverbal to highly skilled. And while Ethan communicated well, he processed information and reacted with the behaviors of a boy half his age.

“I’m not the one being difficult, kiddo. Like I told your dad, if I’m going to spend my time driving out here, then I expect some flexibility from the two of you in return.”

“If I’d known you were so bossy, I wouldn’t have asked to see you.”

“Is that a fact?” When her young patients wanted to spar, Ali was happy to oblige them, keeping it on their level. “Well, welcome to reality where most of the world learns to adjust. I’m here to work with you, not cater to you.”

“You sound just like him.” Ethan jerked his head in the direction of the hallway. “You’re not going to start quoting his positivisms at me, are you?”

A swarm of barbed responses tumbled inside her brain, but she held them in check. While she hoped Benjamin Lamar would share her position on the treatment of his son, any further like-mindedness would probably be a fluke. Ali couldn’t imagine finding much more in common with a man so well known for his conservative affiliations and views. Ethan’s comparison was definitely not complimentary.

He stared, waiting for her response.

“Your insult is duly noted,” she quipped. “And if I think of something you need to hear, I’ll quote Mickey Mouse if it appeals to me.”

The final few seconds ticked away and the old-fashioned bell began to clang on the top of the red enameled clock.

“So, will you wait a little longer on me?”

Knowing Ethan would likely interpret the expression incorrectly, Ali controlled the urge to pfffft at the comment.

“No, sir.” She gestured for Simba to follow and both headed for the door. “Tomorrow is another day,” Ali called over her shoulder. “And if you’re interested, the source of that quote is Scarlett O’Hara.”

Ben tipped the bottom of his glass toward the ceiling and waited for the last, stubborn chunk of ice to drop into his waiting mouth. His pallet was roasted from the molten chicken pie, but two frosty glasses of tea had eased the burn. The echo of footsteps against the wood floor caused him to turn his face toward the hallway that connected the grand entry to the spacious kitchen.

“Mr. Lamar?” The doctor called out and stepped into his field of vision.

Clunk! A frozen, pointy projectile thumped Ben’s right eye followed by a cold dribble and then the smack of a mushy wet blob.

He squinted hard against the blow of the ice and then the sting of the fat lemon wedge. Though his eyes were tightly closed, his ears clearly detected snickering.

He groped for the napkin he’d tossed beside his empty plate.

“I’m sorry if I startled you.” More snickering. “Do you need help, a bib maybe?”

He pressed one corner of the linen square to his eyeball and used another corner to soak up the moisture trickling down the side of his face. Ugh. Cold.

“Thank you for your generous offer,” his voice was muffled by the thin layer of fabric. “I think I can manage this.”

Toenails tap-danced on the kitchen tile nearby.

That dog!

Ben dropped the napkin, swiveled his head to the left and unconsciously pulled his knees upward in one smooth motion.

Thankfully, the animal had come to an obedient halt, not appearing aggressive at all. Still, its mere presence in Ben’s personal space made his flesh shrivel. Alison Stone’s smile said she was really enjoying his discomfort, as well she should. He knew his reaction was just one step below a woman jumping on a chair while she screamed bloody murder over a cockroach in her kitchen.

“You’re a psychotherapist. Surely I’m not the first person you’ve run across with cynophobia.” Ben’s tongue began to feel fat and dry in his mouth and his pulse thumped in his ears thanks to the nearness of the animal.

“Actually, the fear of dogs is not uncommon in kids. But by your age most guys have worked through it.”

“Well, until now I’ve been able to stay away from it so I’ve never felt the need to ‘work through it’ as you say.”

With sympathy for his anxiety, she reached for the dog’s collar and slid her index finger into one end of the choker chain.

“Why don’t you count to ten and then follow us outside? I’ll put Simba in the Rover with the windows down for a few minutes while we talk.”

Without waiting for his response the pair quietly left the room and moments later the front door closed behind them. Ben did as instructed—waited for a ten count, threw in an extra five for good measure and then moved into the front hall. His natural inclination was to throw the deadbolt and lock the infernal woman and her evil-looking hound outside. But then Ben would be no better off than Ethan, who was holed up in his bedroom, paralyzed by his fears.

Lord, Lord, Lord. Ben wondered, as he often did, if he’d passed a defective gene to his son. Theresa had been a fearless dynamo, and she’d never expressed any feelings of personal responsibility for Ethan’s mental illness. Maybe that’s why she’d had so much more patience with his problems.

Ben exhaled, hoping to blow away the worry, twisted the knob and pulled the door halfway open. Good to her word, Doctor Stone had secured her lion-hunting dog in the vehicle. Yes, Ben had looked Rhodesian Ridgeback up on Wikipedia. Forewarned was always forearmed, whether the opponent was a six-foot-three guard or another candidate running against you. Or, worse, a dog running at you. The little ones could turn from yap boxes to ankle-biting machines with no provocation. Ben didn’t even want to consider what that hundred pounds of sleek muscle called Simba could do to an un-suspecting target.

“Maybe while we work on Ethan’s problems we can address this little issue of yours as well.” The doctor moved toward him, her jingling silver jewelry as complimentary and distracting as the womanly sway of her body.

“If you’d just come here alone, that’d be one less phobia on the to-do list.”

She shook her head, earrings dancing. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, especially at this time of year. Unfortunately, Ethan won’t be the last person to need a rescue crew. Simba’s not just my partner—she’s part of the team.”

Ben learned early in life about spittin’ in the wind. Ethan needed this lady and if the truth be told, Ben did, too. If he wanted to get on with his life and into the Congressional race before it was too late, then he and his son both required a miracle worker.

He prayed the beauty before him had more than a buff arm up her sleeve.

Chapter Five

From what Ben could tell things hadn’t gone well upstairs today. His wood-paneled study was on the main floor, directly below Ethan’s rooms. On this third daily encounter with a new therapist there seemed to be a lot of cajoling, threatening, alarm clock jangling and disagreement between the muffled voices overhead. It was impossible to discern whether the subject matter was anything of importance or if it was just the two establishing ground rules.

Ben was a big believer in rules. They defined a fair game for the players, kept a race equal between opponents and prevented society from running amuck. Through the gift of the Bible, mankind had been given the ultimate rule book and Ben reasoned that if people would simply keep a positive attitude and follow God’s guidelines, their lives would be so much easier.

It was a perfect plan in theory that humans messed up in practice.

Ben folded the national politics section of the paper he’d been reading and considered his own situation. He tried faithfully to let The Word be the light unto his path. Even so, his road had been far from easy with its share of hidden trip wires. Landmines exploded when he seemed least prepared to deal with a crisis.

But he’d always survived.

“I hear Ya, Lord.” Ben tossed the newspaper into the recycle bin beside his favorite leather recliner. “You never said it would be easy, but You told us we wouldn’t be alone. I’m counting on You to keep that promise.”

Ben wasn’t prone to self-pity because overall his life had been amazing. But the past few years had tested his mettle well beyond anything the world of professional sports had thrown his way through injuries, contract negotiations and unexpected trades. Personal tragedy had shown him how quickly life and priorities can shift, turning from a skyrocket ride toward success to a struggle for emotional survival. Entering politics would not only be the fulfillment of personal dreams and family expectations, it also would be a welcome relief to focus on the needs of others for a change.

Yesterday’s call from his old college roommate had brought undeniable attention to the fact that a fuse was burning, and with or without Ben’s cooperation, matters would soon be decided.

“Buddy, the deadline to put your name on the ballot is three weeks away,” Randy had reminded Ben. “You will never get an opportunity like this again. With Matthews stepping down at the end of his term, it’s a perfect segue for the party from one strong conservative to another. Not to mention, having your last name on the ticket will guarantee a record voter turnout.”

The Lamar family had been active in Texas politics since Mirabeau Lamar served as President of the Republic in 1838. With Ben retired from football, his uncles were adamant—carrying on the tradition wasn’t just an option, it was a calling. While family money and support was a given, over the years Ben had forged his own personal relationships that he’d learned could be counted on through good times and bad.

Randy Mason topped the list as more than a best friend who shared Ben’s values. Randy was willing to put his successful law practice on hold to coordinate the campaign ahead.

They’d been planning this move and testing the political waters for months, but Ben had blown it.

“Man, you know we’d already be drafting phone bank volunteers if I hadn’t messed things up with Ethan by sending him to that camp. Still, I’m optimistic.”

“How so?” Randy asked.

“He just started working with a new therapist and I think they’re getting somewhere. We might have him outside the house again soon.” Ben wanted to believe his statement was positive thinking and not an outright fabrication.

“Look, Ben, you know I love your kid. But the truth is Ethan’s in his own world these days. Forgive my bluntness, but as long as his physical needs are met and he’s free to study his rocks, he doesn’t really care whether you’re on the campaign trail or downstairs in your office. You haven’t had much of a life since Theresa died and it’s time you thought of yourself.”

Hearing his friend say the words Ben hadn’t dared to speak out loud was an emotional body check. To Randy’s point, strangers would surely appreciate their efforts more than his son appeared to most of the time.

Well, what about me, Father? Do my dreams count for anything, especially when I want to be of service to others?

“You still there? I hope you’re not being quiet because you’re mad at me for speaking my mind.”

Ben had to chuckle. “No, my friend, I’m not mad. I was just enjoying a moment of agreement and then doing a little silent whining to God.”

“Whining? Ben Lamar, whining?” Randy snorted laughter. “I’ve known you a lotta years and I’ve never heard you to so much as grumble under your breath, not even after the late hit that broke your collarbone in the ’93 Super Bowl.”

“Don’t remind me.” Ben pressed his palm to the old injury. “That busted bone can predict a thunderstorm more accurately than The Weather Channel.”

“Don’t miss my point.” Randy wouldn’t give up. “You’ve never been one to complain, so if you feel the need to let loose, just go ahead. You’ve earned it.”

“I’ll remind you of this conversation when we get to Washington and I have a complaint du jour.”

“Does that mean you’ll commit?” The hope in Randy’s voice made Ben regret the quip.

“That means I’m still praying for a positive sign that Ethan can handle change. Let’s give this new doctor some time and then I’ll feel better about making decisions for our future.”

“Just promise me you’ll keep an eye on the—”

“Calendar.” Ben finished Randy’s sentence. “Yes, I’m well aware the game clock is running.”

A loud whump resounded overhead. Ben abandoned his rehash of yesterday’s conversation and jumped to both feet. By the time he reached the bottom of the staircase, frantic barking echoed from the rooms above. He dashed upward while a dozen scenarios flooded his mind, all of them disturbing.

“Give up!” Ethan shouted.

“No! You give up!” Doctor Stone demanded over the ruckus of her blasted dog.

Nothing Ben imagined even came close to the sight that assaulted him as he stood in the doorway. Ethan’s bed had been stripped of the covers. The mattress was bare, the blankets were heaped in a pile and the pillows had been flung across the room. He lay facedown on the floor clutching one corner of the sheet, holding on with all his might.

The opposite corner was in the unyielding grip of Doctor Stone, aka the Rock. Her worn, leather boots were planted wide, both heels dug into the carpet. Her cheeks were flushed from physical exertion. Strands of red-orange hair the color of a Texas wildfire had wrestled free of her braid and sprung like confused lightning bolts about her enchanting face.

“I’m not letting go,” Ethan insisted.

“Fine with me, hot shot. But while you’ve been sprawled on your bed all day I’ve been lifting weights, so I’m pretty sure I can keep this up longer than you.”

“What in blue blazes is going on in here?” Ben demanded loud enough to be heard over the dog’s carrying on. His son’s lazy body hitting the floor accounted for the loud noise, but the full explanation would be interesting. Actually, other than the manic hound, the scene was quite funny and the closest thing to roughhousing that he’d seen Ethan experience in years. Ben squashed down a grin and kept his distance from the action.

Ali gave a mighty yank, sufficient to pull Ethan a foot closer to the goal line she’d drawn on the rug with the toe of her favorite old ropers. The boy’s long arms and legs were stretched end to end, looking like he was making a dive for the end zone. He’d aggravated her since she’d arrived, so this turnabout was not only fair play, it was fun.

Simba danced around his body, barking her pleasure.

“That’s enough, girl,” Ali quieted her beloved pet, then turned attention to the new arrival. “Sorry if we bothered you, Congressman. But I needed to score a point on this stubborn son of yours.”

She tightened her grip and sucked in a breath. “Ethan seems to think nobody’s the boss of him. Now, as his dad it’s your call how to handle business between the two of you. But as his therapist, I’m the one callin’ all the shots, no ifs, ands or buts.”

“Real mature way to handle a kid, Ali.” Trapped facedown during the struggle, Ethan’s voice was muffled by the thick pile.

“That’s Doctor Stone, to you.” His father corrected.

“It’s okay. We’re on a first-name basis, aren’t we, kiddo?” Ali gave another sharp tug and the boy’s hands crossed the goal into her territory. “Sir, will you please verify the outcome of our tug-of-war?”

“Happy to accommodate.” Long strides carried the former athlete across the floor, where he made note of Ethan’s position compared to the faint line and nodded agreement. “By my calculations you are the winner.”

One final yank for good measure and she flung her corner of the sheet over Ethan’s head, hiding him from her view. She was fed up with the kid.

He flailed beneath the cover for a moment, then climbed to his feet, leaving the king-size square of fabric on the floor. He tossed his head like the ornery mule that he was and then stomped into his dressing room.

“Well, he got off the bed so I suppose today wasn’t a total waste of time.” She stooped to gather the sheet, then dropped it into the laundry hamper in the corner.

“So, what was that all about, Doctor Stone?”

“As I said, we’re on a first-name basis and I’d appreciate it if you’d call me Ali.”

“Then please, call me Ben.”

“But you’d prefer Congressman Lamar, correct?”

Mixed emotions crossed his face, as if he wasn’t sure how to answer. Or maybe he was deciding which of his responses a potential voter would rather hear.

“As appealing as it sounds to me, I don’t know if that title will ever be mine.” He ducked his head, suddenly shy.

The guy was a natural for politics. As handsome as West Texas is hot and with a humble act that would charm Attila the Hun. But Ali’s strong suit was finding the kernel of truth among the lies her patients told, even to themselves, in order to cover their pain. Only Ali and God knew how many years she’d personally spent in denial, blocking out the horror of her childhood, choosing memories of abandonment over nightmares of abuse.

“Well, if you don’t mind I’ll use the powder room in the hall to freshen up and then meet you downstairs to explain the progress you just observed.”

With the door closed behind her, Ali did a double take before the bathroom mirror.

“Good gravy, I look like I’ve just run a half-marathon.”

She unthreaded the braid that had come loose in the struggle with Ethan, groped in her purse for a brush and made quick work of restoring her hair. A splash of water on hot cheeks and a good hand soaping completed her effort to regain some dignity but did little to improve her mood.

This ridiculous effort to get Ethan to groom himself had gone on for three days! The hours consumed by rituals, arguments and rationalizing on both sides were probably no sweat for a therapist who willingly lived on Planet Asperger. But Ali had made a private commitment to limit her counseling skills to abuse victims where she had a ton of personal knowledge.

But here she was anyway, dealing with this bizarre disorder again. It was giving her anxiety the likes of which she hadn’t experienced since her earliest days in foster care. Ali’s candle was melted at both ends from searching for wisdom. Between office sessions with her patients she pored over old research materials hoping for a long-forgotten clue. Then late into the night she surfed psychotherapy sites, reading updated studies on Asperger’s hoping for a discovery.

And as she’d waited for Ethan to finish today’s diatribe on the chemical properties of sedimentary rock so he would finally get off the bed and change his sheets, only one thing was certain in her mind: she was ready to admit defeat.

“Ethan, I need to tell you something.” Ali tried again to distract him. When he yammered on about salt and gypsum she used the time to gather what little was left of her paper-thin patience. If the attention he’d paid her over the past few days was any indicator, the boy probably wouldn’t hear a word she said. So, why bother?

And that’s when the fight broke out. Pillows flew, blankets were tossed and a battle for the linens became a life and death issue. But the bed would get stripped.

“After I drag you over this line, we’re gone for good!”

“But you just got here,” Ethan insisted between grunts of exertion. “Why are you leaving already?”

“For your information, bituminous breath,” she jerked her head toward the clock placed prominently above his flat-screen television, “It’s been two hours since I arrived and we haven’t accomplished diddly squat.”

“How can you say that?” Indignation filled his wide, incredulous eyes. “If you’d pay attention to me when I speak instead of constantly looking at your notes, you might learn something.”

She ground her teeth, holding back the defensiveness that always accompanied being busted. She’d learned it was a waste of breath. The first time Ethan had called her out she’d been impressed with his intuitive nature. By the tenth time he’d taken her to task she realized he simply had no sense of tact. To an Aspie, diplomacy was tantamount to a lie. When something was straightforward, a candy coating made no sense. It was just that simple to Ethan, who had a remarkable ability to hit a nail on the head even if he could only hit one nail over and over and over again.

Enough already. Ali tossed her brush into her purse, resigned to what was about to happen. After the display of foolishness Benjamin Lamar had just witnessed, she didn’t figure he’d want her coming back again anyway. She slung her bag over her shoulder, opened the door and headed down the stairs with Simba in tow.

Chapter Six

As Ali softly descended the staircase, her gaze came to rest on the wallmounted fountain above the massive fireplace. A cross, crafted from rusty and twisted barbed wire, was embedded in the burnished copper and gray slate sculpture. A sheet of living water tumbled down the slick surface of the stone, then bubbled across the barbs of the cross, whispering forgiveness.

There was movement near the windows, where she caught sight of Ethan’s father. He was as lean as a Grecian statue and stood facing the twenty-foot wall of glass, with arms folded across his chest.

Probably searching for a positive way to say, “You’re fired.”

When her boots and Simba’s feet tapped against the hardwood floor he turned his head. The broad smile on his face sent an unexpected sizzle through Ali’s nervous system.

“Something funny?” Maybe he secretly enjoyed playing the bad guy once in a while.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he responded. “That whole scene upstairs was very funny. But I’m more pleased than amused.”

“Pleased?” She dropped her purse on the sofa table, then pointed to a nearby throw rug where Simba settled comfortably with her head on her front paws. “How can you be pleased about wasting your money?”

“Excuse me?” He blinked, looking unsure of himself for the first time since they’d met.

He was in good company because Ali’s self-confidence was shrinking by the minute. Ending this association sooner than later was probably for the best.

“My approach isn’t working with Ethan so it’s a waste of money to keep me involved in his treatment.”

The heart-melting smile was back. “Let me be the judge of whether or not the return is worth the investment. Right now, I happen to think it is.”

She slumped down on a plush floral sofa. He took the chair positioned at a right angle to the couch and propped his heels on the expensive-looking coffee table.

“Suppose you tell me what happened up there.”

“Nothing happened, that’s just it. I don’t seem to be having any impact at all.”

He shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong. Give yourself time to get to know Ethan and you’ll start to recognize what we call progress in this house. You got him to engage with you and it’s only been a few days. That’s more than I’ve accomplished in the past few weeks.”

“I wouldn’t normally call an argument that degenerated into a wrestling match an accomplishment,” Ali countered.

“Tell me how your sessions usually play out.” He slid lower in his oversized Queen Anne chair and folded large hands across his flat abdomen. Ali’s head was splitting and she was ready to leave for the day, but he seemed to be settling in for a lengthy chat. She pressed fingertips to her temples and rubbed in small circles for a few moments before answering.

“Well, you have to remember that my patients are all suffering from the effects of abuse. Their experience may have triggered some mental illness but nothing as profound as autism. So, with one of my usual clients, I lead them into discussions that will eventually allow us to deal with the root of their problem.”

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