Page 22 of Sweet Courage

Kat absorbed the clipped explanation. “And the height?”

“Part of the job sometimes. Bridges. Towers. Rigging. Air Assault training. Rappelling.” He gave a small shrug. “You learn to trust your gear, your hands, and the man on belay.”

“Okay, I have no idea what man on belay means, but most of those words sound scary as hell.”

“The man with the rope ready to provide support.”

She noted that he didn’t say anything about the scary as hell part of her statement and then, he blew out a deep sigh and shifted to face her.

“Not as scary as forgetting whether I’m coming or going, what comes next after taking that first step, and worrying what am I going to screw up now… or over and over again forevermore.” His voice was so low and laced with pain, not physical pain, but the pain of loss.

“Have you started any formal therapy yet?”

He shook his head. “Next week. Via zoom.” For some reason, that made him chuckle softly.

“That should help.”

“That’s the plan.”

“You’re not convinced.”

“Honestly,” he turned his whole body, fully facing her, “I’m not sure about much of anything anymore, but since arriving here, I’m more hopeful than I have been since that stupid truck blew up and started a chain reaction that put too many good men in the hospital for too long.”

What the heck was she supposed to say to that?

“Often, I just can’t remember the simplest of things. I certainly can’t go back to the only work I’ve ever known if things don’t…change.”

“Therapy will help.” At least she hoped so, but somehow, she was pretty sure managing his brain injuries wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted a cure. Didn’t everyone?

“Sorry, just wallowing in the unknown.” Pushing away from the counter, Hanson glanced over his shoulder.

Following his gaze to the folks laughing and twirling in the other room, she still didn’t know how to respond to his last words. He was right. His future was unknown, but then again, wasn’t everyone’s? “We should probably rejoin the group.”

His shoulders tensed again. “I don’t dance.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Kat didn’t move out of his path.

“I’m from California.” A defensive edge creeping back into his voice. “People in California don’t dance like that.”

“You mean the two-step?”

“If you say so.”

“Well, I say so.” Kat held out a hand. “And you’re in Texas now. Not dancing is practically a misdemeanor offense.”

Hanson let out a dry, humorless breath. “Miss Sutton, my brain currently drops the sequence of tying my own shoes if someone asks me a question. You really want to put me on a dance floor and ask me to remember footwork?”

“Slow, slow, quick.” Kat flashed what she hoped was an easy smile. “That’s the entire equation. Just four beats. I’ll lead.” She positioned his right hand at her waist, took his left in her right, and stepped back to give them both room.

His posture shifted immediately—weight balanced, stance widened slightly, the automatic adjustment of a man whose body knew how to be ready even when his mind was negotiating the terms.

“It’s four beats. Slow, slow, quick, quick. Left foot leads. Don’t think about it, just count.”

“Slow, slow, quick, quick,” he repeated in a monotone, looking at his feet.

“Don’t look down.”

His head snapped up. Their eyes were closer than either of them had accounted for.