His eyes narrowed. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"I spent two months coaching disabled children. Wheelchair basketball. Therapeutic horseback riding. Marathon racing. The kids love it. They love it! I've seen their faces light up. Their confidence bounce back. Their outlook on life improve dramatically." Shaken by her own words and the emotion barreling through her, Erin broke off. She'd said too much, she knew, but once the words had started flowing, she hadn't been able to stop.
Nick stared at her. "Stephanie is still adjusting. She's… fragile. Not only physically, but emotionally. I won't risk her getting hurt again."
"At what cost to her?"
His face darkened. "You're crossing a line you don't want to cross, McNeal."
"I'm good at crossing lines, Chief. That's what I do best. For future reference, you should keep that in mind."
"You're reckless not only with your physical safety but with that smart mouth of yours."
"You asked, Chief. I'm telling you what I think. You're smothering that child-"
"She needs to be protected."
"She needs to live her life to the fullest extent, risks be damned."
"Recklessness is what put her in that chair to begin with!" Nick moved toward her, his jaw set. "I won't let it happen again, so back off!"
His words and the anger behind them stopped her cold. Erin stood there trembling, breathing hard, wondering what Pandora's box of pain she'd opened inside him.
As if realizing he was clinging to control by little more than a thread, Nick turned away abruptly. Walking to the front of the car, he put his hands on the hood and lowered his head.
For several long minutes the only sound came from the chirping of crickets. Erin leaned against the car door, shaken, aware that her heart was beating too fast. She wanted to tell him about the weeks she'd spent doing volunteer work at the Quest Foundation, an agency that specialized in helping disabled children adjust. But he was so angry she wasn't sure it would make any difference.
Shoving away from the car, he straightened. Erin heard him sigh, then he approached her. "I'm sorry," he said.
"It's all right. This is none of my business-"
"I lost my temper. It's not the first time, and it's definitely not all right." He bit out an oath, then gave her a canny look. "Stephanie is everything to me, McNeal. Everything. I love her more than life. She's been through hell in the last three years. I don't want her hurt again. I'll do whatever it takes to keep that from happening."
His eyes were the color of midnight, and so tortured Erin wanted to reach out and touch him, just to let him know he wasn't alone, even if she knew he wouldn't believe it.
"I know you only want what's best for her," she said.
"That includes keeping her safe."
"Nick, I didn't mean to overstep. I'm just…"
"Impulsive?" One side of his mouth hiked into a half smile.
"It's not the first time I've been accused of that." Erin let out the breath she'd been holding, relieved that he'd purposefully quelled the tension between them. "How did she end up in the wheelchair?"
Nick waited so long before answering that for a moment Erin thought he wouldn't answer at all. When he did, his voice was so low she had to lean forward to hear him.
"A car accident three years ago. My wife was killed. Stephanie received a spinal injury. She spent two weeks in intensive care."
He looked out across the lawn, into the darkness. Even in profile, Erin saw the tight clench of his jaw and the raw emotion in the depths of his eyes. Her heart went out to him as she watched him struggle for words.
"Two weeks later, I had to look into those innocent eyes of hers and tell her she might not ever walk again. That was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do." His laugh held no humor. "All she was worried about was whether or not she'd be able to take care of Bandito. That from a little girl who lived for basketball and horse shows, and who'd just lost her mother. Her courage humbles me."
"I'm sorry, Nick. I know that must have been tough." The words didn't seem adequate.
"Yeah, McNeal, me, too. She's a terrific kid."
"I know." Erin longed to reach out to him. To touch that strong jaw. Run her fingers over his shoulders until they were no longer rigid. To relax the clenching of his fists by taking his hands in hers. But she didn't do any of those things because she knew that wasn't what he needed.
His eyes met hers. Even under the cover of darkness, she felt exposed beneath that heady gaze. She wanted to tell him that disabled children could ride horses with the help of special equipment and adult spotters, but something told her now wasn't the time. His emotions were too close to the surface, and she knew he didn't want them prodded.
Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Erin gave him that time, knowing he needed it, not sure how she would react if the strong man she'd come to respect broke down. She wasn't sure she could trust herself to do the right thing if he did. The urge to touch him was too powerful, and at the moment she was feeling downright weak.
"Is there a possibility she could walk at some point in the future?" she asked.
"She's had two operations already. Her neurosurgeon seems optimistic."
"What about pain?"
"Thank God it's minor and can be controlled with anti-inflammatory drugs, for the most part," he said. "She has some feeling and a little strength in her left leg. But in the last six months, she's developed a rare post-traumatic condition called syringomyelia."
"One of the kids I worked with up in Chicago had the same condition. It's where a tumor forms at an injury site or surgical site, right?"
His gaze sharpened, and Erin knew he hadn't expected her to be familiar with the condition. "Most people haven't even heard of it."
"There's an operation-"
"Laminectomy and duraplasty." Nick grimaced. "The procedure's untested. Risky."
"What kind of risks?"
His mouth curved into that half smile again. "Ah, McNeal, you're getting really predictable."
"Best case scenario," she pressed.
"Best case, Stephanie would regain feeling in her legs and be able to start physical therapy immediately. Worst-case scenario is that the formation of scar tissue or further spinal cord damage could cause further paralysis. It could significantly lower her quality of life, possibly even her life expectancy. If we leave it be, she might eventually regain enough feeling to use a walker one day."
Erin absorbed the words, wondering what she would do if faced with the same devastating dilemma. "You're willing to settle for that?"
"I nearly lost her once." Nick looked across the driveway to where Bandito grazed next to the fence. "I won't risk losing her again."
Nick wasn't sure why he'd opened up to Erin. Maybe because he sensed she somehow understood, when most people couldn't. Maybe it was the fact that she, too, was no stranger to tragedy. Maybe that kinship was what kept bringing them together.
It had been a long time since he'd spoken to anyone about the accident that had turned his life-and his daughter's life-upside down. He didn't like to talk about the dark months that followed, preferring to keep that era of his life buried. He'd spent months grieving. The kind of black grief that came with the loss of a soul mate. Grief he'd kept bottled because he couldn't stand the thought of the poison inside him leaching out and affecting Stephanie.
Shoving thoughts of the past aside, Nick gazed at Erin. She leaned against the car, staring out across the lawn toward the pasture, where he could hear Bandito nipping the grass.
"I'm sorry I came down on you so hard," he said. "That was uncalled for."
"You know, Chief, I'm starting to get used to you yelling at me."
She elbowed him lightly, and he knew she was trying to dispel the high emotion of just a few minutes earlier. For that, he found himself unduly grateful.