"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.

"I didn't know you had worked with disabled kids," he said after a moment. "That's commendable."

"The Quest Foundation works with all types of disabled children. Head injuries. Spinal injuries. Down's syndrome. Muscular dystrophy. A few months after the shooting, I volunteered and spent a couple of months coaching wheelchair basketball. Teenagers mostly. A couple of times I went out to the equestrian center and spotted young riders. To say the experience was eye-opening would be an understatement."

"I'll bet."

"Nick, those kids loved the horses! I guess it's the same concept as bringing dogs into cancer wards and retirement homes. Like dogs, horses have an incredibly positive effect on kids."

"You coached wheelchair basketball and yet the sight of Steph's wheelchair still affected you when you first saw her."

"It wasn't the wheelchair."

"What was it, then?"

Her teeth scraped over her lower lip. "Seeing the wheelchair made me… remember. The shooting. And Danny."

"Flashbacks?"

Blowing out a sigh, she nodded.

"Ah, McNeal." Lowering his head, he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Post-traumatic stress?" he asked after a moment.

"Survivor's guilt is what the department psychiatrist called it. I had nightmares, sleeplessness. A lot of guilt that just wouldn't leave me alone."

"That's why you volunteered."

She smiled, but there was no humor in it. "After living through something like that, I needed to give something back. The psychiatrist recommended this agency."

"Did it help?"

"It got me through some tough months. For a while, I even made a difference. I made some of those kids smile. You know, Chief, I can be quite a clown when I put my mind to it."

The thought elicited a smile from him. "I'll bet."

"But it didn't take long for me to realize I couldn't hack it. It just sucked too much energy out of me, and brought on too many flashbacks of the shooting. I know that sounds selfish, but after a while I just couldn't do it anymore. Those beautiful children who'd been hurt so terribly, facing so much difficulty…"

"You weren't selfish. Human, maybe. But the bottom line is you did it. You made a difference. That's what's important."

Hearing a sigh shudder out of her, Nick studied her silhouette. His throat constricted when he saw the glimmer of tears on her cheeks. Had he caused that?

Ignoring the swirl of panic in his gut, he stepped away from the car and turned to her. Putting his finger under her chin, he forced her gaze to his. "What's with the tears, McNeal?"

"I'm sure you'll have a hard time believing this, but I never cry."

"I'm sorry I seem to be so good at making you." The urge to comfort was surprisingly strong, his resistance damnably weak. He was standing so close he could smell the familiar scent of her hair mingling with the sweetness of her breath. The light from a three-quarter moon illuminated her features just enough to let him see the caution in her eyes and the shape of her mouth. Sweet mercy, he wanted to kiss her.

Nick brushed his thumb over her cheek, catching a tear. He knew touching her was a mistake. Just as he knew holding her now would be a mistake that would lead to certain disaster. Everything inside him screamed for him to turn around and walk away. If he got involved with her in any way, she would wreak havoc on his life. But there was no way he could stand back and watch her cry while he did nothing.

Something powerful and fundamental stirred low in his gut. He didn't even bother to fight it. He didn't dare name it. He was tired of fighting when it came to this woman, tired of resisting what was quickly getting the best of him. She'd stripped him bare tonight, and he'd allowed it. What was one comforting embrace? One kiss between friends?