“Did he tell you that all the monies regarding this ranch were in your hands?”
“Yes.” Shay sighed and gave him a frustrated look. “When I couldn’t find the savings ledger, I asked my father if he knew where it was. He blew up at me. He insisted the savings account was his and his alone. That it didn’t belong to me or the ranch. He told me he would always keep it in his possession.” She pressed her fingers against her brow. “I let it go, to tell you the truth. I just didn’t want him screaming at me anymore. I couldn’t take it . . . I was too raw from my own PTSD symptoms. It hurt too much to take him on and press for more information.”
Reaching over, Reese didn’t give a damn anymore. He needed to touch her, soothe her. “I’m sorry, Shay. Is there any way I can help you with this situation?” He slid his fingers gently across the back of her hand. Her flesh was warm and firm. His body reacted. Reese couldn’t be around her and not become aroused. It wasn’t Shay’s fault. It was his. His fault for lack of control over his own emotions, but then, PTSD had a way of dismantling his feelings in ways that always took him off guard. Reese wouldn’t use that as an excuse, however. It was up to him to control himself around Shay. Period. Lifting his hand away, he saw her eyes widen slightly, shift to a hazy blue. Reese fought what he thought he saw. There was no way in hell that she was attracted to him! He was half the man, or less, that he used to be.
Shay managed a strangled laugh. “Yes, be my shield, Reese. When I have to see my father three times a week, come and stand between me and him.”
“I’d be more than willing to do that, Shay.” He tried to bite back all he wanted to say and ended up growling, “No woman deserves to be verbally abused by a man. And especially not by her father.”
“I’m used to it,” Shay muttered, shaking her head. “I don’t like it. I find myself dreading seeing him. If I’m late, he screams at me. I can’t do anything right.”
The kitchen hung thick with tension.
Reese struggled not to ask obvious questions such as: Did Shay ever stand up for herself? Tell her father to stop how he was treating her? Sadly, Reese knew those answers because over the years he’d counseled so many young Marines who had come from dysfunctional families. Some had been mentally and emotionally abused. Others, physically abused by their father or a boyfriend. Sometimes, a few had been abused in all three ways.
Reese had learned the hard way not to ask questions like that. It only served to make the Marine defensive and even more ashamed because they hadn’t fought back and stood up for themselves. Abuse survivors were branded with low self-esteem as young children. Fortunately it could be cured with the right help and support. Reese had worked to help rebuild that broken confidence and give it back to the Marine in question.
“That’s why I left the Bar C at eighteen,” Shay said, running her finger slowly down the outside of the glass in her hand. “I couldn’t stand what he did to me. I knew it was wrong. I didn’t know where to turn, where to go for help.”
“Most children growing up in a home like yours don’t realize there is help out there. But it means going to law enforcement, or telling a teacher or a trusted peer, about what’s going on at home.”
“Right,” Shay agreed, her voice low. She glanced over at him. “I figured it out when I was in the Corps. I never thought I’d be coming back here. I was in for twenty. I loved what I did as a truck driver in the motor pool, and I was good at it. Until the PTSD caught up with me . . .”
“And then your father had that stroke and you came home again?”
“Yeah,” she muttered. She shook her head and pushed back on the chair, standing up. “It caught me off guard. I was given an honorable hardship discharge to return and take over the running of the Bar C. I knew what I was walking back into and I felt like a lamb going to slaughter. I was just too overwhelmed with anxiety, paranoia, and terror to think clearly.”
She gave him a sad smile. “My father’s behavior just ratcheted up my symptoms. When he had the stroke—I hate to say this—I felt nothing but relief because it was going to get him out of this house and away from me.” Her mouth turned in at the corners. “I know that was wrong of me. He’s my father.” She pushed her fingers through her hair. “I’m not proud of what I thought.”
Reese held her guilt-laden gaze. “When you’re in a survival reflex, Shay, you can’t judge yourself like that. You came from an abusive home. Your father continued to injure you verbally and probably emotionally. And if I’d been in your shoes, I think I’d have felt nothing but relief after he had that stroke.”