Read A Special Man for Free Online

route before Danny slowed the pace then pulled his horse to a stop beside a wooded area. When he dismounted, Amanda, for a moment, simply sat in the saddle. Then feeling slightly foolish, she slung her leg over the saddle and slid down, tethering her horse beside his.
    "I like it here," Danny said quietly as he moved a little way into the woods. "The gardeners never work here."
    "It's nice," she said shortly, bending down to remove a piece of grass from the strap of her boot.
    Suddenly Danny dropped to his knees beside a tree. Startled, Amanda glanced around. They were miles from Greenleigh. Please, she thought in panic, please don't let him have a fit. How did she get herself into these situations? She was simply not equipped to handle the mentally handicapped. Why didn't they make his keeper stay with him?
    Danny turned around, cupping something in his hands. "Look," he said softly, a strange quality in his voice.
    She glanced quickly, nervously at his hands, then away. Th slowly she looked back again. In his large nan is he held a tiny blue flower. The contrast—delicacy cradled by strength—took her breath away. When she stepped closer, he handed it to her as though it were a great treasure.
    "Look at its petals," he said softly. "It's like a... a..." He tensed as he seemed to struggle to find a word. "A miracle," he finished triumphantly.
    Suddenly, unexplainably, she wanted to cry.
    For a moment, he studied her face in silence. "Why don't you like me?" he asked quietly. "Is it because I'm one of the loonies?"
    "Don't say that!" she snapped, her voice harsh. "Don't ever say that word again."
    Rocking back on his heels, he examined her face in curiosity. "Miss Carey says it all the time."
    "I don't care," she whispered tightly. "It's a cruel word."
    "I've made you sad." The words were soft and slow, and there was deep regret in his voice, as though he were sad for her.
    Amanda inhaled deeply, feeling again the unreasonable tears spring to her eyes. Then, awkwardly, she sank to sit beside him, staring at the flower in her hand.
    After a moment, he said quietly. "Can I help?"
    She gave a harsh laugh. "I don't think so. I don't like myself very much right now, Danny." She glanced away. "You see, I've just discovered I'm not a nice person—not nice at all." She met his eyes and her voice was husky when she spoke again. "I don't know how to deal with you. You're different, and that difference makes me uncomfortable." She leaned her head against the rough bark and said, her voice cutting, "And above all, Amanda must have her comfort."
    He picked up her hand gently. "You're wrong, you know," he said quietly.
    She glanced at him from the corners of her eyes. "How do you figure that?"
    He stared at the sky, his strong face troubled. "I make you uncomfortable...but—" He broke off and squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. "But it matters to you." He snapped a stick between powerful fingers. "I wish I could say it right."
    He had said it just exactly right, but she couldn't tell him so. There was too much emotion between them. It had to calm down or explode.
    "I thought we were supposed to be riding," she said, her voice purposely light. "If I sit here much longer I'm going to take root."
    "Then you would be a flower, and I would pick you," he said, laughing as he stood up. He took her hand to help her up, but his strength surprised them both, and as he gave her a jerk, she was pulled hard against his chest, knocking the breath from her.
    "Danny," she said breathlessly, "finding a new friend is a wonderful thing, a special thing. It's an event I would like to stay conscious to appreciate. I won't do that if you keep knocking me senseless."
    He laughed in delight, interpreting her mood if not her words.
    "Seriously," she said, "you have to be very careful of your strength. It's normal to you, but others are not so strong."
    A playful gleam appeared in his unusual gray eyes. "Danny," she said warily, "I don't like that look. What