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person: a young man who had cerebral palsy and had been taking lessons for a couple of months.
    Hell, he’d try anything that might rid him of the flashbacks that could hit out of the blue, like when a car backfired or when he smelled smoke.
    Eric pulled into the parking lot at Ryland Riding, at a distance from the two other vehicles, a blue Toyota Sienna minivan and a well-worn white Ford truck. From the driver’s seat, he surveyed the layout of the place. When he found himself assessing potential threats, he whacked himself upside the head and muttered, “Christ, man, let it go. It’s not Afghanistan. It’s Caribou Crossing.”
    The sight that greeted his eyes was pretty benign, if he could convince himself to accept it at face value. He saw a large wooden barn; a young woman in jeans and a cowboy hat tying the reins of a small gray horse and a big dark brown one to a hitching rail; two wooden-railed riding rings, one larger and one smaller. The woman in the hat glanced up, waved, and then walked toward the barn door. A brown braid hung down her back, over a gray sweatshirt.
    He climbed out of the Jeep, moving easily and confidently with his real left leg and prosthetic right one. That damned fire had been a setback since he’d had to work with a substitute prosthesis until a new high-tech one had been fabricated for him, but now he was fully fit again.
    He’d had his share of setbacks from the beginning. It seemed each time he’d started to heal, some other bit of crap inside one of his legs would cause an infection to flare up, and he’d have to go under the knife again. Two steps forward, one step back—that was how it had gone—but he’d forged ahead with determination.
    If only that same determination could get him past the PTSD, but despite everything he’d tried, he’d seen little improvement in the flashbacks for the past year.
    He had to fix the problem, and he would. His mettle was up to the task.
    As he crossed the parking lot, he heard a woman’s voice. When he rounded the back of the minivan, he saw the speaker. She was tall, maybe six foot, just a couple of inches shorter than he was. Square shoulders; a soldier’s build; strong and fit. Short black hair. Jeans; a long-sleeved tan shirt; sturdy shoes. She was talking to a boy perhaps nine or ten years old, who sat in a wheelchair. Clad in jeans and a tee, he had a riding helmet on his lap. The pair were in profile to Eric. They were so focused on each other that they didn’t notice him.
    Not wanting to interrupt, he was about to continue on and walk past them when he caught the woman’s words. “I know you’re excited about having this man share the lesson, but you need to focus on your own riding and give the guy some space. And remember, don’t ask him about his leg. It’s rude.”
    What the hell? Was this kid his classmate? Monique had referred to, “a young man with cerebral palsy,” and Eric had imagined someone in his early twenties. Had Monique misled him deliberately, figuring—perhaps rightly—that he wouldn’t agree to take lessons with a child?
    A kid in a wheelchair. Even though Eric had never ridden before, how hard could it be? He’d be riding circles around the boy before the first hour was out.
    This was crazy. And yet hadn’t he resolved to try anything?
    Being polite and pretending he hadn’t overheard the woman, he resumed his course toward the barn.
    She glanced up and turned to face him. “Hello. You’re Jayden’s new classmate.”
    He stopped walking. “I guess I am. Hello.”
    Her short hair was cut in an attractive style that accentuated a face with walnut-colored skin, strong cheekbones, a straight nose, and a firm jaw. Long, black lashes fringed lovely dark brown eyes. He’d bet she had Native Canadian blood. She wore no makeup that he could see, and she was beautiful without it—if