Conflict of Interest (The Walker Five Book 1) Read online

  Part of her would be relieved. Not that he cancelled his appointment, but that he was done with her as a client. Her heart fluttered, her stomach had butterflies. Her female personality threatened to override her professional one.

  Chewing on her lip, she walked to her desk. Not a good way to start off a new job. Her probation period was nearly over and she’d get a raise. She needed a raise. What if Dillon didn’t cancel? What if she’d developed an—ugh, she hated even thinking of the possibility—infatuation that could affect his care? Could she discretely transfer his care to another counselor?

  She snorted. No. A twenty-something single woman transferring her twenty-something single—was he?—client. What else would it look like? She could use the excuse he was adamant he wasn’t battling an addiction. But that might demean her abilities in front of her boss. She was still on probation and transferring Dillon might affect the raise she’d earn after her probationary period.

  If he wasn’t now, he surely would be. Evasive and proud, yet much like an iceberg. She’d caught glimpses of his inner turmoil and had no doubt that he handled whatever was stressing him poorly.

  Those baby blues of his. And that smile.

  Yes. Oh God, should she transfer his care? She didn’t want him to be discouraged. No, no. Four sessions. She could handle four sessions.

  A knock on her door brought her upright. “Yes?”

  Betsy, the short, round children’s counselor scurried in. “Did I just see Dillon Walker leave?”

  Elle opened her mouth to answer, but Betsy held up her hand, silencing her. “No, wait.” Betsy sniffed. “I can smell him. He was here. Do you think that’s aftershave, or cologne, or just a natural fragrance all the Walker boys put off to make the ladies want to throw their bras at them?”

  Elle burst out laughing. “Betsy!” Ever since she started months ago, Betsy had welcomed her with her vibrant personality and toeing-the-line comments. Around her, Elle felt more like the one in her forties instead of Betsy.

  “I’m happily married, but I’m not dead and I like to look at anyone under forty with the last name Walker.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t met the others.”

  Betsy plopped in the seat Dillon had vacated. “Too bad we have the conflict of interest issue. I would’ve recommended him for you. He’s a solid guy, good morals, works hard. They all do—work hard. The good morals doesn’t apply to his cousin Cash.”

  “Oh?”

  “Mmm-hmm. Yeah. Tom cat. Not Dillon, though. He’s the oldest of all of them. Surprised to see him here, actually.”

  I think he was weirded out seeing himself here. Elle wanted so badly to comment on Dillon, ask questions, but unlike Betsy, she feared for her job. But she did note that he was the oldest on his chart. If they were that close, then perhaps he’d taken on the Type A personality of an oldest child.

  “I have someone coming in five minutes.” She tipped her head back, eyes closed. “Your office smells so damn good. Where do you get those candles?”

  “When I went back to Minneapolis last month, I stocked up. Seems to relax the clients.”

  “Working on me,” she mumbled. Her lids flipped open. “Want to go to lunch later?”

  Lunch would be awesome. Someday she’d like to be free to dedicate her lunches to eating. “I can’t. I have to run home.”

  Betsy’s expression softened. “I forgot your dad lives with you. At least in Moore, you’re five minutes from anywhere. Why don’t you stop by after you check on him?”

  “I usually eat with Dad and leave instructions for heating up dinner. Dad’s been so frail since his chemo, I don’t want him toddling around the kitchen when I’m not there. Thanks for the offer. Please don’t stop asking.” With a sinking feeling in her gut, she knew they’d give up on her eventually. She’d been turning down invitations since before high school in order to take care of her dad.

  “The offer’s always open.” Betsy sashayed back to her own office.

  Elle drew a deep breath. Betsy was right. Dillon had left his own masculine scent in her office.

  Gotta get him out of my mind.

  Regardless of the conflict of interest, she wasn’t going to start something with an alcoholic. Not when she’d been going home to one her whole life.

  Chapter Three

  The bright sun of an early spring sky shone down on the dirt road Dillon ambled down in his signature red Case IH tractor. Eight black wheels, all taller than he was, carried him away from the field he’d been plowing after a long, harsh winter. Glancing in the rearview mirror revealed half a field with rich soil where foliage from last year’s harvest had been churned under by chisel plow.

  He should be back there plowing the other half. Dried and withered corn stalks from last year’s yield could be left until planting. No-till they called it, better for cost and the environment by increasing water and organic material retention, but Dillon wanted a light plow before April showers washed tons of corn debris into the lake nearby.

  He took a swig from his water bottle. If only it held something stronger than H2O. The giant rumbling beast may not be decked out with all the high-tech gadgets installed in the new tractors, but at least he could sit in a cozy cab, out of the cool spring wind that blew fierce across the prairie-turned-farmland of western Minnesota.

  He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket to dial the farm’s mechanic, his cousin Brock.

  “Hey, tractor whisperer, engine’s running hot,” Dillon snapped, releasing pent-up irritation that he had to abandon plowing on a—finally—nice day. “It’s running low on coolant.”

  “Can you limp her back to your shop?” Brock asked in his signature calm manner.

  “I emptied most of my water bottle in the coolant tank, after I waited forever for it to cool enough so I could touch it.” Could’ve been worse. Waiting an hour in the dirt in Moore was better than the blistering, sandy desert of Iraq. More pleasant and he didn’t get sand caked on his balls. “I’ll take it slow. If it’s not pulling the plow, it should last.”

  “I’m on my way back from town. My tools are in the back of my truck. Get it to the shop and I’ll take a look at it.” Brock disconnected.

  His first time getting out to work after a rough winter. He’d rushed it, gambling on the weather, wanting to prove…something.

  If only the tractor were fine, he’d be done and showing his family he was just fine, too.

  Three miles to go. He rolled along, bumping gently over the washboard gouges left in the gravel. Dillon didn’t push it. Shut everything down that didn’t need to be running. A beautiful day for the time of year, it’d still be a chilly walk if the engine overheated and he had to leave the cab of the tractor. He didn’t have the time—he had an appointment to get to.

  With Elle.

  He calculated it’d take another ten minutes to finish the remaining distance back to his place. The roads were still a little muddy in areas from the spring thaw. Instead of swerving to miss the major wet spots and ride the ditches, he kept the metal beast lumbering straight and forward, unwilling to chance anything giving it the hiccup that would stop the engine altogether.

  After he crested one of the gently rolling hills in the long stretch of road, the copse of trees surrounding his home came into view. The only break in them allowed the long driveway off the main gravel road to run through into his yard. He liked the privacy.

  Brock leaned against the tailgate of his grimy Ford F350 parked by the garage attached to the house. From the way the vehicle looked, Brock’s ass was likely brown and dirty from touching it and he wouldn’t care. He rarely wore good clothes—if he had any.

  Brock trotted across the yard to the shop and pushed the big door open. Dillon idled inside. He’d made it. He killed the engine and rolled his neck to release the tension.

  He could really use a drink.

  Not that he’d mention that to anyone. The worried looks his family exchanged behind his back weren’t as concealed as they’d intend
ed. They didn’t understand. Dillon had left for the Army at eighteen. They weren’t used to him being legally old enough to drink.

  A shitty day before noon warranted a cool drink to relax.

  Dillon climbed down the narrow ladder from the cab, ignoring stiffened muscles from the stressful drive. Brock scaled the side of the tractor and lifted the hood.

  Dillon checked his watch. “Hey, man. I’ve gotta go.”

  Brock popped his head out, black baseball hat turned backward. “There has to be a leak. I’ll find it, but I doubt I’ll get it fixed today.”

  “Damn. I wanted to get the northeast section done before the rain they’re forecasting shows up.”

  “It’s early spring, we’ve got time.” Brock continued his engine inspection.

  Ugh, that’s what they’d all been saying. Dillon’s opinion of the weather was: Wouldn’t it be really handy to have the blasted fields plowed before Mother Nature sprung a late season blizzard on them? Ultimately, the weather had the final say in everything they did. Instead of coasting, Dillon wanted to get shit done.

  He trotted to his truck. Nothing more was going to be accomplished today. After his appointment, he’d grab some oil for his pickup. He’d gotten the reminder text from Brock that his pickup was due. If Dillon didn’t open a window of time, Brock would continue texting and calling, repeat.

  All the way to town, he thought about Elle. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he turned his face back and forth. No grease or dirt. Checking out his clothing, he groaned. Not so with his jeans and plaid button-up.

  For the last appointment, he’d showered before, unwilling to show up looking like a drunk fuck in ratty, wrinkled clothing. Well…he checked himself one more time. He looked like he’d been working, not holed up in a bottle.

  One more look in the mirror. Good. His eyes were no longer bloodshot.

  ***

  Elle arranged the pamphlet and business card on her desk. Rearranged them, straightened them so they were side by side.

  Her pager buzzed. Oh, thank goodness. The wait was killing her. She’d had a full morning, but the hour before Dillon’s slot had been empty. Longest sixty minutes ever.

  Voices drifted through her door.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Elle closed her eyes. His baritone hadn’t changed. By the time the door opened, she donned her competent counselor mask.

  His smile of greeting and the way his eyes locked onto her kept her plastered in her chair. He was lethal. Owned his own business, attractive and charming, and a—former—military guy. She felt bad for the woman he set his sights on.

  Betsy popped her head in. “I delivered him safely. He almost talked Miss Debra into letting him come back himself. I said I still get lost in this place.”

  Dillon chuckled. “I tried to run for it, but she’s a tenacious one.”

  “Carving those words on my gravestone,” Betsy sang as she left and shut the door behind her.

  Still laughing, he swaggered to the chair her clients usually sat in. Not as…clean…as his previous session, but the look fit him. Too well.

  No jacket today, instead the long-sleeved gray and green flannel covered his muscular frame, and not that she cared, but she might have to wipe off the seat before her next client.

  She could use his appearance and open with a neutral topic. “How was work?”

  “Unfinished.” He whipped his hat off and hung it on his knee as he riffled through his hair with his other hand. Hat head shouldn’t be a worry for him with his hair trimmed so short.

  “Because you had to stop for the appointment?”

  His brows raised. “No, it’s not you. My tractor broke down. I can’t get back into the fields. Maybe not even this weekend if Brock needs a part. And look at that sky.”

  “Pretty frustrating.”

  “Yeah,” he snorted.

  “What do you do when a tractor breaks down?”

  The break in his schedule obviously bothered him.

  “Fix in place or lug it back home if it can move. I keep a tool kit in the cab, but that’s not always enough. Then Brock’ll come out with the truck. If he can’t fix it, then we have to get someone out.” His hands rubbed up and down his thighs and he randomly tapped his heels.

  Elle tilted her head. Good thing she’d asked about work. “What if the mechanic can’t fix it?”

  He clenched and unclenched his fists. “Then we’ll have to upgrade and Brock won’t be able to touch it if we have problems. Part of the contract.” He gave the last words air quotes.

  “You can’t repair your own equipment?”

  “Nope. So many electronics, not that my cousin couldn’t figure out much of it, but the tractor dealers got us by the balls.”

  She scribbled a few notes.

  “Doc, are you writing down that the tractor guy has got me by the balls?”

  A laugh sputtered out and her last word was illegible. “Not word for word, no. A new tractor would be expensive, correct?”

  He waved it off. “Yeah, but the farm can cover it. Our uncles followed Gramps’s motto: A farm that spends all its money can’t be profitable. Me and the boys follow the same guidelines. I even have it as the header under Walker Five on all our paperwork.”

  “How much would a new tractor cost?”

  He shifted in his seat and his fingers tapped along the arm rest. “I don’t know, two or two-fifty.”

  Comprehending the numbers was difficult until she added zeros. “Two hundred thousand?”

  His good-natured smile kept her from feeling naïve. “Depends if we go new or used. I’ve seen used Magnums go for less than two hundred, but the newer ones with the tracks are probably way more.”

  Spending that kind of money would stress a person out. “Did you think on what we talked about at our last session?”

  His expression drained to neutral. Suddenly, she missed his easy grin.

  “I’m telling you, the only thing I’m thinking about is that I want to relax.”

  “Are there any things that can help you relax other than a drink?”

  He cocked an arrogant eyebrow. Her cheeks warmed as a flush flooded her skin.

  She cleared her throat and crossed her leg to prop her clipboard on it, like a shield from his intensity. “Do you drink at the end of the day, or throughout?”

  “I’m not an alcoholic. I don’t nurse a beer all day, just have a couple before bed.”

  “At night, we’re looking for soothing, but not stimulating, activities for you.” Damn her blush. This never felt awkward with other clients. “A long shower, reading…do you know of any others?”

  “Sorry, to disappoint you, Elle. I get in late, heat up supper, and hit the hay.”

  “Do you have nightmares?”

  His slight recoil and clenched jaw spoke volumes. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Tell me about the Army.”

  He shrugged as if brushing off the entirety of his military experience. “Eight years in, then we got out.”

  Wait… “We?”

  His eyes flared. Busted. “My cousin Cash joined when I did, got out when I did.”

  “You two were close then?”

  He nodded, his features strained. “We were.”

  She waited. Nothing. “Why’d you get out, Dillon?”

  “I came home to farm. End of story.”

  Or was it the beginning? They were interrupted by a phone vibrating. She frowned. It wasn’t hers.

  He ignored it. “Sorry, I gotta cut this short again. Need to take advantage of being in town when the businesses are open.”

  His phone fell silent and she swallowed the lump in her throat. “Okay, for next time,” she snagged the two items from her desk, “I’d like to refer you to a colleague of mine. I think he’ll be a good fit for you, and, if you’d like, I can fill him in—”

  “No way.” He sat forward, his expression startled. “No, no one else.”

  “Dillon, I don’t think I’m the couns
elor you need.”

  He shook his head, adamant. “Elle,” his gaze captured hers, “I only came back because I wanted to see you again.”

  She sighed. “Because you wanted to see me again as a counselor, or as a woman?” If he’d come back for personal reasons, she be flattered. Totally, unprofessionally, pleased. She willed him to give the right answer. That he viewed her as his counselor.

  He cocked his head at her. “I’m not an alcoholic. I see you as a woman.”

  Her heart sank. “And that’s why I can no longer help you. I’m sorry, Dillon. Ethically, it isn’t right.”

  His phone vibrated again, and again he ignored it. “I’m not seeing anyone else. Last time I was here, I planned to cancel. I only came back because of you.”

  For the first time, she cursed that he’d booked an appointment with her. A handsome man with an admirable job was interested and he was as far off limits as could be.

  “Phil is an excellent addiction counselor and I really think you need to explore any issues that cause you to drink.”

  He spoke in a low tone. “I’m not coming back if I can’t see you again. I mean it, Elle. Phil Fresnick graduated with my mom. I’m not sitting in his office knowing he took her to prom.”

  Ah yes. A common issue in small town mental health. Overlapping relationships beyond counselor/client. Yet, Phil had made it work. He had to be nearing retirement.

  “What about—”

  “I know them all, maybe not personally but we’re all connected. Why do you think I ended up in your office?” His phone vibrated again. “You know what, I’m sorry, Elle.” His tone wasn’t hostile, but startled her with its tenderness. “I’ve put you in a bad position. I’ve said over and over that I don’t need to be here. I’m going to cancel my remaining appointments, don’t worry about it. I feel crappy taking up a slot when someone who’s really sick can use it.”

  Her heart sank at not being able to see him again, but transferring his care was the right thing to do on her end. She couldn’t give up on him, though. He was hurting and he wouldn’t admit it.