Free His Heart for the Trusting by Lisa Mondello

rampant
heartbeat slowed to a semi-normal pace, she saw Mitch was staring at her, his
blue eyes concerned and full of questions.  His gaze swept from her face, to
her trembling hands.    
    It was all too
much.  Humiliation washed over her like a tidal wave, and coupled with a need
to explain that her reaction had absolutely nothing to do with him.  It was
her.  All her.  What she wouldn't do to turn back the clock and be in Mitch's
arms again, surrounded by his strength.  But it was just too much.
    His handsome
face pinched into a questioning frown.  “It was only a box of tools,” he said
quietly.
    “I know,” she
said in some faraway voice.  It was only a box of tools.
    She ran from
the workshop without another word.
    * * *
    What the hell
had just happened?  Mitch couldn't figure it out.  One minute he was holding
Sara in his arms, feeling on top of the world with happiness as they danced,
the next she was running from him as if she were afraid he'd...
    His gut coiled
tight like a snake squeezing the life out of him, making it hard for him to
breathe.  Closing his eyes hard, he tried to even his breathing to keep from
unleashing the sudden burst of anger consuming him.  He took the time to cool
down by gathering the disheveled tools, now scattered all over the workshop
floor.
    As he picked up
each bit and tossed it into the cardboard box, Mitch ached to go to Sara and
pull her into his arms.  He wanted to stop her trembling and erase that
horribly frightened look from her eyes.  He knew that look.  He'd seen in on
his own mother often enough to know what it meant.
    But if what he
was thinking were true, Sara wouldn't welcome him coming anywhere near her to
ask for answers for why she’d run away.  Still, he needed to know she was all
right.
    A short time
later, Mitch found her in the kitchen, standing at the sink, clutching a
dishtowel and drying dishes that already looked air-dried.
    “Sara?”
    She stilled,
but didn't turn to look at him.  He walked over to the cabinet next to where
she stood, and reached up for a glass, placing it on the counter.  She
stiffened.  And his gut clenched.
    He wanted to
comfort her, to touch her and tell her everything was all right.  Whatever she
feared wasn’t here in his home.  She didn’t have to fear him.  He brought his
hand mere inches from her back and held it there, afraid of the reaction she
might have to his touch.  Then he pulled it away and held it stiffly by his
side.
    “I’d cut off my
hand before I’d ever raise it to you, Sara,” he whispered.  “I don't want you
to ever fear me like that.”
    “I don't,” she
replied, her voice so very small it reminded Mitch of himself when he was a
child.
    “Okay.”  He
sighed as he walked to the door, abandoning the glass of water he'd intended to
have.  “I'm going to go down to work the horses for a while before it gets too
dark.”
    Sara simply
nodded.  He waited by the door until she turned to look at him.  Her rich brown
eyes were wide and glassy, and she nodded again.
    As Mitch
lumbered to the paddock, he called her ex-husband every despicable name he
could think of.  And himself the same for making Sara feel that vulnerable
again.
    * * *
    From the
kitchen window, Sara watched Mitch stroll out to the paddock in a stride that
was much more carefree than he must have felt.  
    They were
tools!  Lousy tools fell to the floor.  That was all.
    But as soon as
Mitch came at her, it was as if she were in Los Angeles again, feeling all the
fear and humiliation she'd felt whenever Dave came at her.
    Her ex-husband
had never struck her physically.  He considered himself much too refined for
that.  Instead, he would charge at her and use intimidation to keep her where
he wanted her.  He spat words at her that both stung and ate at the very marrow
of her soul, depleting any confidence she had in herself.
    In the
beginning, it was easy to go along with him.  Dave was ten years older