Page 11 of Come to Me

“Tate has had a loss and we’re all doing our best to help him through it,” Mick informed him.

“Perhaps he needs counseling.”

Micki narrowed her eyes. “We may not have a degree, but we’re his family and know what’s best.”

Patrick’s gaze scanned the table. He wiped his mouth and put his napkin down. “I’m sorry.” He rose from the chair. “I’ll take my leave now. Thank you for the lovely breakfast.”

“Can I still teach you to skip rocks?” Tate’s voice wobbled like he was worried he was losing a friend.

“I would enjoy that.” He smiled at Tate and then left the table.

“What about your window?” Micki called after him.

“I’ll call the rental company and make plans to bring it back.” He was out the door before Micki could say anymore.

“The nerve of him.” Lori glared after Patrick’s wake.

Micki poked at her eggs. “He’s right, you know.”

“About what?” her father asked.

She looked at Tate. “The anxiety and anger. Maybe he should talk to someone.”

Tate’s brows furrowed. “Like who?”

Her father shook his head. “We shouldn’t talk about it in front of him. Besides, that’s Logan’s call, not ours or Dr. Andres’.”

CHAPTER 4

Patrick couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. What had started as a surprisingly good morning had devolved into him alienating his hosts.

The night before, he’d fallen asleep the moment his head hit the pillow and he’d slept without haunting dreams of his sister hurting people or fears about the career that was falling through his fingers.

The sun creeping through the window woke him in the morning. He rose, made a cup of coffee from the little pot in the room, and took it out on the dock to watch as the rays of the sun lit up the lake where fish jumped to eat the bugs hovering over the water. He sighed and felt the tension slide away. So, this was what relaxing felt like.

When he drank the last drop of coffee, he went back to the little cabin, showered, dressed, and made his way up to the main lodge for breakfast. As he walked the path, watching for snakes, his mind drifted to Michaela. Patrick wasn’t a monk, but it had been a long time since he’d found himself intrigued by a woman. He couldn’t pinpoint what it was about her that had thoughts of her running in an endless loop. But like the calm sunrise over the water that morning, thoughts of her were pleasant.

He made his way up the steps, through the sliding door, and into the common area. A table was set for breakfast, but no one was there. He heard movement in the kitchen, but he didn’t want to disturb Mrs. Kincaid, so he went out the front door, wondering if Michaela was on the roof again.

When he stepped out, he saw a child running up the dirt drive toward an SUV pulling out into the road.

The child whirled around and seethed. “I hate you.”

Only then did Patrick realize that Michaela was on the porch. She wore shorts and a tank top that to him looked more like pajamas. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but lose curls framed her face. She wore no makeup. She was as radiant as the sunrise he’d watched that morning.

“Let’s go make breakfast.” She held out her hand toward the boy.

“No!” He picked up a rock and threw it.

“Tate! No throwing rocks.”

The boy ignored her, picking up a sizable rock and throwing it through the window of Patrick’s rental.

The boy’s pain was palatable. It radiated off him, and clearly, he was unable to cope. Patrick understood that sort of pain. How many times had he wanted to throw or break something in the last few years?

“Anger is a scary thing when it gets away from us, isn’t it?” Patrick took the steps down the porch to check on the boy and the damage to the vehicle.

For the first time since he’d arrived, Patrick felt more in his element. While he’d spent the last decade as a forensic psychiatrist, he’d gotten his start working with children and families. For a time, he thought he’d follow his mother’s footsteps becoming a child psychiatrist. But his interest in what pushed people into deviant behavior led him down another path. That and recognizing that while his mother was a prominent child and family therapist, she was a cold and sometimes cruel mother.

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