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grasp. "I-I can do it myself."
    He released her and stepped back. Olivia barely managed to remain upright with the loss of his support. She panted like she'd run up Longs Peak, and the unwelcome sensation of light-headedness swam through her.
    "Where's your cane?" Hank asked.
    Olivia pulled in a few more deep breaths, and the wooziness faded. "In the house."
    He frowned, and the expression pulled at the comers of his sensuous lips. "Helluva lot of good it's doing you there."
    Olivia's earlier fear faded even as her knee's pain intensified, and she snapped, "Tell me something I don't know, Mr. Elliott."
    His eyes darkened. "If you won't let me help you, let me get your cane."
    "So you can get the layout of the house?"
    He appeared confused, but it was quickly replaced by cynicism. "Look, if you don't want my help, fine. Stumble up those stairs yourself."
    He spun away and headed back to the corral.
    Trembling, Olivia took a step toward the house. Pain flashed like lightning up and down her leg. Tears filled her eyes, and she damned her weakness. She looked around, but her father was nowhere in sight. But Mantle was still there, watching her like some damned snake ready to snatch a mouse. She may have lost much of her confidence, but Olivia was no mouse.
    "Mr. Elliott?" she shouted.
    He stopped and looked back at her over his shoulder, his expression cut from granite.
    "I think I will accept your assistance," she said past the dryness of her mouth.
    After a moment's hesitation, he ambled back to her side.
    "Do you want to lean on me, or would you like your cane?" he asked, his low timbre wreaking havoc on her already weak defenses.
    The scent of male sweat tickled Olivia's nose, and she could almost taste its brackish flavor. Harsh memories of another man's caustic sweat in her nostrils surfaced, and she cringed. Although she didn't want Hank in her sanctuary, she was more fearful of a flashback. "My cane. In my bedroom. Down the hall."
    She barely saw his nod through her hazy vision, but she felt his physical withdrawal with a keenness that shocked her. Hank Elliott was a convict, someone to be distrusted, yet Olivia wanted to trust him.
    A headache throbbed in her temples, keeping rhythm with the beat of her heart. If the knee pain didn't upset her stomach, the headache would.
    "Here's your cane, Ms. Kincaid," Hank said, holding it out to her.
    Her estimation of him rose a notch. He kept his distance, as if knowing his proximity bothered her. She extended her hand, and her fingers closed around the polished wood of the curved handle. She quickly put it to use, immediately easing the pressure on her bad knee. The relief was so profound, she nearly wept.
    "Thank you." Her voice was faint, sounding nothing like the strong ADA's from Chicago.
    Hank nodded. "I'll walk you to the porch."
    Olivia nodded, again sensing she could rely on him. She made it to the bottom of the steps without embarrassing herself. In fact, her pain had abated, and the nausea had disappeared.
    She turned around and lowered herself to the second step, then stretched out he bad leg in front of her. Kneading the flesh above the knee, she noted that Hank remained a good six feet away. Close enough to assist her, but far enough away to give her a sense of safety. His actions could be a ploy, but even if they were, she owed him her gratitude.
    "I appreciate your help, Mr. Elliott." She found it was tougher to say the words than she expected.
    "Contrary to what most people think, just because I'm a con doesn't mean I like to see people hurting." Resentment twined through his words.
    Olivia was obviously in the "most people" category. Three months ago she wouldn't have cared, but now the comment drew a trickle of guilt.
    She tilted her head back to look up at him, noting the defensive clench of his jaw and the challenge in his eyes. Remembering that he'd wanted to be a veterinarian, she said quietly, "I take it that goes for animals, too."
    He blinked and shrugged,