It affected people differently. Some became wounded and tortured, lashing out at themselves.

And some became impulsive and angry. Hitting out at others.

Clint wasn’t sure which was worse, although as a teenager with a newly broken pinkie finger, he could have told you right off which he preferred.

Only he’d never told anyone about his finger. Or about his father.

And when he’d found Jessi crying outside the school building because of something her own father had done … he’d thought the worst. Only to have relief sweep through his system when it had been something completely different.

He drew a careful breath. “Hi, Chelsea. Do you remember me from earlier today?”

No reaction. The waif by the window continued to stare. He glanced at her chart again to remind himself of the medications Dr. Cordoba had prescribed.

He made a note to lower the dosage to see if it had any effect. He wanted to help Chelsea cope, not turn her into a zombie.

Jessi went over to her daughter and dropped to her knees, taking the young woman’s hands in hers and looking up at her. “Hi, sweetheart. How are you?”

“I want to go home.” The words were soft. So soft, Clint almost missed them.

Jessi hadn’t, though. Her chin wobbled for a second, before she drew her spine up. “I want that, too, baby. More than anything. But you’re not ready. You know you’re not.”

“I know.” The response was just as soft. She turned to look back out the window, as if tuning out anything that didn’t get her what she wanted.

Clint knew Chelsea’s reaction was a defense mechanism, but having her own daughter shut her out had to shred Jessi’s insides even though she was absolutely doing what was right for Chelsea.

He pulled up a chair and sat in front of the pair, forcing himself to keep his attention focused on his patient and not her mother. “I’m going to adjust some of your medications, Chelsea. Would that be okay?”

The girl sighed, but she did turn her head slightly to acknowledge she’d heard him. “Whatever you think is best.”

He spent fifteen minutes watching the pair interact, making notes and comparing his observations with what he’d read of her past behavior.

She’d slashed her wrists. Jessi had found her bleeding in the bathtub and had fashioned tourniquets out of two scarves—quick thinking that had saved her daughter’s life.

A couple of pints of blood later, they’d avoided permanent brain and organ damage.

Unfortunately, the infusion hadn’t erased the emotional damage that had come about as a result of what her chart said was months spent in captivity.

Trauma—any trauma—had to be processed mentally and emotionally. Some people seemed to escape unscathed, letting the memory of the event roll off their backs. Others were crushed beneath it.

And others pretended they didn’t give a damn.

Even when they did.

Like him?

Jessi had coaxed Chelsea over to the bed and sat next to her, arm draped around her shoulders, still talking to her softly. He got up and laid a hand on her shoulder.

“I’ll give you a few minutes. Stop in and talk to me before you leave the hospital.” He didn’t add the word okay or allow his voice to change tone at the end of the phrase, because he didn’t want to make it seem like a request. Not because he wasn’t sure she’d honor it, but part of him wondered if she’d head back to the front desk and demand to have another doctor assigned to the case.

Clint had to somehow break the tough news to Jessi that she was stuck with him for the next couple of months or for however long Chelsea was here. There just wasn’t anyone else.

So it was up to him to convince her that he could help her daughter, if she gave him a chance. Not hard, since he believed it himself. Clint had dealt with all types of soldiers in crisis, both male and female, something Dr. Cordoba had not. It was part of the reason Clint had agreed to this assignment. His rotations didn’t keep him anywhere for more than six months at a time. Surely that would be long enough to treat Chelsea or at least come up with a plan for how to proceed.

If he’d known one of Dr. Cordoba’s toughest cases was Jessi Spencer’s daughter, though, he wouldn’t have been quite so quick to agree to return to his hometown.

Being here was dangerous on a number of levels.

Jessi’s not the girl you once knew.

He sensed it. She was stronger than she’d been in school. She’d had to be after being widowed at a young age and raising a daughter on her own. And according to the listing on Chelsea’s chart, Jessi was now an ER physician. You didn’t deal with trauma cases all day long without having a cast-iron stomach and a tough emotional outlook.

He’d seen a touch of that toughness in his office. Her eyes had studied him, but had given nothing away, unlike the Jessi of his past, who’d worn her heart on her sleeve.

Just as well. He was here to treat the daughter, not take up where he’d left off with the mother. Not that he’d “left off” with her. He’d had a one-night stand and had then made sure her beau had known that to win her heart he had to be willing to give up his dreams for her.

Evidently he had.

That was one thing Clint wouldn’t do. For anyone.

If he could just keep that in mind for the next couple of months, he’d be home free. And if he was able to help Chelsea get the help she needed while he was at it, that was icing on the cake.

He corrected himself. No, not just the icing. It was the whole damn cake. And that was what he needed to focus on.

Anything else would be a big mistake.

“And how long will that be?” Jessi’s mouth opened, then snapped back shut, before trying again. “I don’t want Chelsea’s next doctor to give up on her like …”

Her voice faded away as the reality of what she’d been about to say swept through her: Like Dr. Cordoba did. Like Chelsea’s father did when he took off into the night.

“Are you talking about Dr. Cordoba?”

She blinked. Had he read her mind? “Yes.”

“He didn’t give up on her.” His voice softened. “His wife is very ill. He had to take a job that allows him to be home with her as much as possible. He couldn’t do that and continue working long hours here. He knew his patients deserved more than that.”

Oh, God. Her ire at the other doctor dissolved in a heartbeat. She’d been so caught up in her own problems that she hadn’t even stopped to think that maybe he had been dealing with things that were every bit as bad as hers were. Maybe even worse. “I …” She swallowed. “I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.”

The events of the past months were suddenly too much for her, and her heart pounded, her stomach churned.

Please, no. Not now.

She’d had two panic attacks since Chelsea’s hospitalization, so she recognized the signs.

Pressing a hand to her middle, she tried to force back the nausea and took a few careful breaths.

“I thought you should know.” Clint leaned forward. “If you’re worried about me suddenly taking off, don’t be. I’ll give you plenty of notice.”

This time.

The words hung in the air between them, and for a horrible, soul-stealing second she thought he was hinting for her not to get her hopes up.

“I’m not expecting you to stay forever.” The sensation in her chest and stomach grew, heat crawling up her neck and making her ears ring. Her vision narrowed to a pinpoint. And then it was too late to stop it. “I think I’m going …”

She lurched to her feet and somehow made it through the door and to the first stall in the restroom before her gut revolted in a violent spasm, and she threw up. She’d been running on coffee and pure adrenaline for the past several weeks, and she hadn’t eaten breakfast that morning. The perfect set-up for an attack.

That had to be the reason. Not finding Clint sitting behind that desk.