Country Bride

by Debbie Macomber

  “Sure.”

  “Do you want to come up or wait for me down here?”

  “I’ll come up.”

  On second thought, she should have phrased that differently. How about you wait here where it’s safe and stay the heck out of my personal bubble. Alas, too late to rescind the invitation now.

  She led the way up her narrow staircase, aware with each step of the man following closely behind her. She wasn’t used to men in this space, she suddenly realized. Yes, she had dated a few times since she’d come to Hope’s Crossing, but nothing serious and nobody she would consider inviting up to her personal sanctuary.

  For the most part, her life was surrounded by women. She worked in a bead store, for heaven’s sake, a location not usually overflowing with an overabundance of testosterone. If she wanted to date, she was going to have to put a little effort into it. Now that she almost thought she’d begun to finally achieve some level of serenity after the last rough two years, maybe it was time she did something about that.

  If she were to start thinking seriously about entering that particular arena again, she could guarantee with absolute certainty that the words Brodie Thorne and dating would never appear in the same context in her head—even though he was gorgeous, if one went for the sexy, dark-haired, buttoned-down businessman type.

  Which she so didn’t.

  She pulled her house key out of the small zipper pocket on the inside waistband of her leggings and unlocked the door. As soon as it swung open, she winced. She had forgotten the mess she’d left behind when she headed up into the mountains immediately after her return to town—the jumble of boxes and bags and suitcases. She really ought to have left Brodie down in the garden with Jacques.

  Brodie raised an eyebrow at the mess—or perhaps at her eclectic design tastes, with the mismatched furniture covered in mounds of pillows, the wispy curtains on the windows and the jeweled lampshades she’d created one winter night when she was bored. It was a far cry from her sleek little house in Topanga Canyon or her childhood home, a sprawling mansion in Santa Barbara, but she loved it.

  Brodie lived in a huge designer cedar-and-glass house up the canyon high on the mountain, she remembered. She could only imagine what he must think of her humble apartment—and the fact that she could spend even an instant being embarrassed about her surroundings sparked anger at herself and completely unreasonable annoyance at him.

  “Sorry. I’m in a bit of a mess. I only arrived back in town an hour ago from an art fair in Grand Junction. I’m afraid I only stopped here long enough to unload the car before Jacques and I took off for a run.”

  She moved her suitcase out of the way so he could enter the living room and immediately the space seemed to shrink in half. Good thing she’d left Jacques down in the garden or she wouldn’t have room to breathe, with two big, rangy males in her small quarters.

  “No problem.”

  He moved inside the room but didn’t sit down. For a man who usually seemed self-assured to the point of arrogance, he seemed ill at ease for some reason. She couldn’t define why she had that impression. Maybe the sudden tension of his shoulders or some wary look in his eyes.

  She swallowed and was instantly reminded of the reason she had come upstairs in the first place. She was parched. After crossing to the refrigerator in the open kitchen, she opened the door and pulled out her filtered pitcher. “Can I get you something? Water? Iced tea or a Coke?”

  “I’m good.”

  She closed the door and took a long, delicious drink, playing for time as much as quenching her thirst.

  Why was Brodie standing in her apartment looking restless and edgy? She couldn’t begin to guess. In the year since she’d arrived in Hope’s Crossing, she’d barely exchanged a handful of terse words with him, and most of their interactions had been in some public hearing or other where she was speaking out about his latest plan to turn the charming community into a carbon copy of every other town.

  A social call was completely unprecedented.

  What had she done lately that might have annoyed him enough to come looking for her? She’d been too busy during the summer with the art fairs to be around town much. Maybe he was still smarting from the last time she’d taken him on at a planning commission meeting over one of his developments she considered an environmental blight.

  She was painfully aware of the damp neckline of her performance T-shirt and her tight leggings, which she suddenly realized must have given him quite an eyeful of her butt as he’d followed her up the stairs.

  Hiding her discomfort, she lifted her ponytail off her neck in the hot, closed air. The room felt like a sauna. She set her glass down on the counter and hurried to open a window, wishing she’d had the foresight to do that before she headed out with Jacques for the peace and cool of the mountains.

  “You don’t have air-conditioning up here?”

  Evie shrugged, instantly on the defensive about her employer and landlady and, most important of all, good friend. “Claire wanted to install it earlier in the summer but I wouldn’t let her. A fan in the window is usually sufficient for me on all but the hottest summer afternoons and I can always sit down in the garden if it’s too stuffy up here.”

  She turned on the box fan placed in one of the three windows that overlooked Main Street. The air it blew in wasn’t much cooler but at least the movement of it served to make the room feel less stuffy.

  “I’m assuming you aren’t here to discuss my ventilation issues, Brodie.”

  He glanced out the window at the gathering dusk, his jaw tight, as if he were steeling himself for something particularly unpleasant, and her curiosity ratcheted up a notch.

  “I want to pay for your services.”

  O—kay. She blinked. The building that housed String Fever and her apartment above it had been a bordello in the town’s wilder days but she was almost positive Brodie didn’t mean that like it sounded.

  She was also quite sure she should ignore the little quiver low in her belly as her imagination suddenly ran wild.

  She sipped at her water again. “Did you want to commission some jewelry? Is it a gift for Taryn?”

  “It’s for Taryn. But not jewelry.” Again, that hint of discomfort flashed in his expression and just as quickly, he blinked it away. “You haven’t talked to my mother, have you?”

  “No. Not since before I left town Thursday.”

  “Then you probably haven’t heard the news. Taryn is coming home.”

  Some of her tension lifted, replaced by instant delight. “Oh, Brodie. That’s wonderful!”

  She might heartily dislike the man but she could still rejoice at such terrific news, for Katherine’s sake if nothing else. “Isn’t this sudden, though? I’m stunned! Last week when your mother came into the store, she said Taryn would be at the rehab facility at least another couple of months. How wonderful for you that she’s so far ahead of schedule!”

  “One would think.”

  She frowned at his tone, his marked lack of excitement. “You don’t agree.”

  “I would like to.”

  “It’s been more than three months since the accident. Aren’t you overjoyed?”

  “I’m happy my daughter is coming home. Of course I am.” His voice was clipped, his words as sharp as flat-nose pliers.

  “But?”

  He released a long breath and shifted his weight. “The rehab facility is basically kicking her out.”

  “Kicking her out? Oh, surely not.”

  “They don’t phrase it quite that bluntly. More a kindly worded suggestion that perhaps the time has come for us to seek different placement for Taryn.”

  “Why on earth would they do that?”

  “The rehab doctors and physical therapists at Birch Glen have reached the consensus that Taryn has reached a plateau t
here. She refuses to cooperate with them, to the point that she’s become unmanageable and refuses to even go to therapy anymore.”

  “It’s their job to work around her plateau and take her treatment to the next level.” Nearly a decade as a physical therapist had proven that over and over. She couldn’t count the number of times she thought she had taken a patient as far as she could, had managed to push them to the limit of capability, only to discover a new exercise or stretch that made all the difference.

  “Birch Glen is the most well-regarded rehabilitation facility in Colorado. As such, they have a lengthy waiting list of patients who actually want to be there and the staff would like to focus on people willing to be helped. It’s not malicious. Everyone is very sorry about the situation, blah blah blah. The director just gently suggested Birch Glen had helped Taryn as far as she would let them and perhaps staff members at a different facility might be better able to meet her needs at this time.”

  Evie could understand that. Sometimes patients and therapists couldn’t gel, no matter how hard each side tried. “That must be aggravating for you—and especially for Taryn. I’m sorry, Brodie. I’ve heard of several excellent rehabilitation centers in the Denver area. Perhaps therapists with different personalities and techniques can find a way to challenge and motivate her.”

  “We’re dealing with a fifteen-year-old girl who’s suffered a severe brain injury here. She’s not being rational.”

  “Is she talking now?” Last she’d heard from Katherine, the girl was reluctant to say much since each word seemed to be a struggle.

  “Her speech is coming along. Better than it used to be, anyway. Taryn has managed to communicate in her own determined way that she wants to come home. That’s it. Just come home.” He sighed. “She’s made it abundantly clear she won’t cooperate anywhere else—not even the best damn rehab unit in the country. All she wants is to come home to Hope’s Crossing.”

  He showed such obvious frustration, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. Yes, she might dislike the man personally and, in general, find him arrogant and humorless. It was more than a little tough to reconcile those first—and second and third—impressions with the image of a devoted father who had dedicated all his resources to helping his daughter heal in the three months since the car accident that had severely injured her and killed another teen.

  “Taryn’s basically throwing a temper tantrum like a three-year-old,” he went on.

  “She’s been through hell.”

  “Granted. And as much as I want to ignore her wishes and continue with the status quo or find her another rehab facility, I have to listen to what she’s telling us. She’s not progressing and a few of the members of her care team have suggested giving in to what she wants—bringing her home and starting a therapy program here.”

  His words suddenly echoed through her mind. I want to hire your services, he had said. Suddenly, ominously, all the pieces began to click into place.

  “And you’re here because?” she asked, still clinging to the fragile hope that she was far off the mark.

  He looked as if he would rather be using those flat-nose pliers she’d thought of earlier to yank out his toenails than to find himself sitting in her living room, preparing to ask her a favor.

  “It was my mother’s idea, actually. I’m sure you can imagine the level of care required if we truly want to bring Taryn home. For this kind of program, she’s going to need home nursing and an extensive program of rehab therapies—physical therapy, occupational therapy, speech. She still can’t—or won’t—take more than a step or two on her own and as a result of her injuries she has very limited use of her hands, especially her left one. Right now she struggles to even feed herself. Doctors aren’t sure what, if any, skills she might regain.”

  Brain injuries could be cruel, capricious things. In an instant, a healthy, vibrant girl who loved snowboarding and hanging out with her friends and being on the cheerleading squad could be changed into someone else entirely, possibly forever.

  He shoved his hands in his pockets. “The people at Birch Glen are telling me I really need someone to coordinate Taryn’s care. Someone who can work with all the therapists and the home-nursing staff and make sure she’s receiving everything she needs.”

  Evie braced herself for him to actually come out and say the words he had been talking around. She pictured another fragile girl and those raw, terrible weeks and months after she died and everything inside Evie cried out a resounding no to putting herself through that again.

  “My mother immediately suggested you as the perfect person to coordinate her care. I’m here to ask if you’ll consider it. “

  And there it was. She drew in a breath that seemed to snag somewhere around her solar plexus.

  “I’m a beader now,” she said tersely.

  “But you’re also a licensed rehab therapist. My mother told me you even maintained Colorado certification after you moved.”

  And hadn’t that been one of her more stupid impulses? She’d tested mainly as a challenge to herself, to see if she could, but also in case anyone raised objections to her volunteer work at the local senior citizens’ center. Now she deeply regretted it.

  “Simply because I’m capable of doing a thing doesn’t mean I’m willing.”

  Good heavens, she sounded bitchy. Why did he bring out the worst in her?

  His already cool eyes turned wintry. “Why not?”

  A hundred reasons. A thousand. She thought of Cassie and those awful days after her death and the hard-fought serenity she now prized above everything else.

  “I’m a beader now,” she repeated. “I’ve put my former career behind me. I’ve got commitments. Besides working for Claire at the store, I’ve got several commissioned projects I’ve agreed to make, not to mention another art fair over Labor Day weekend. What you’re asking is completely impossible.”

  “Nothing is impossible. That’s not just a damn T-shirt slogan.”

  He rose from the couch and moved closer to her and Evie had to fight the urge to back into the fireplace mantel. “This is my daughter we’re talking about,” he growled. “After the accident, not a single doctor thought Taryn would even survive her head injuries. When she didn’t come out of the coma all those weeks, some of them even pushed me to turn off life support. No chance of a normal life, they told me. She’ll only be an empty shell. But she’s not. She’s the same stubborn Taryn inside there!”

  His devotion to his child stirred her. She had to respect it—but that didn’t mean she had to allow herself to be sucked under by it.

  “That isn’t what I do anymore, Brodie. Perhaps her care center can recommend someone else in the area who might help you.”

  “I’ll pay whatever you want.”

  He named a figure that made Evie blink. For one tiny moment she imagined splitting the amount between the scholarship fund here in Hope’s Crossing and the charitable foundation she supported in California that facilitated adoptions of difficult-to-place special needs children.

  No. The cost to her would be far too great.

  “I’m sorry,” she said firmly. “But I’m not part of that world anymore.”

  “By choice.”

  “Right. My choice.”

  His eyes looked hard suddenly, glittering blue agate. “Does it mean nothing to you that a young girl needs your help? Taryn needs your help? You could change her life. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  Oh, he definitely didn’t fight fair. How could the blasted man know so unerringly how to gouge in just the exact spot under her heart to draw the most blood?

  She wouldn’t let him play on an old guilt that had nothing to do with his daughter. “You’ll have to find someone else,” she said.

  “What if I increase the salary figure by twenty percent?”

  “It doe
sn’t matter how much you offer. This isn’t about money. You should really look for someone with more experience in the Colorado health system.”

  Any politeness in his facade slid away, leaving his features tight and angry. “I told my mother you wouldn’t do it. I should have known better than to even ask somebody like you for help. I’m sorry I wasted my time and yours.”

  And the arrogant jerk raised his ugly head. Somebody like you. What did that mean? Somebody with a social conscience? Somebody who opposed his efforts to turn the picturesque charm of Hope’s Crossing into just another cookie-cutter town with box stores and chain restaurants?

  “Next time you should listen to your instincts,” she snapped.

  “There won’t be a next time. You can be damn sure of that.”

  He stalked toward the door, jerked it open and stomped down the stairs.

  After he left, Evie pressed a hand to the sudden churn in her stomach. Only hunger, she told herself. What did she expect, when she hadn’t eaten except for a quick sandwich on the road six hours ago?

  She sank down onto a chair. Not hunger. Brodie Thorne. The man made her more nervous than a roomful of tax attorneys.

  Maybe she should have said yes. She adored Katherine and owed her deeply. And Brodie was right. Despite the difference in their ages, she had been friends of sorts with Taryn, who used to frequently come into String Fever before her accident, full of dreams and plans and teenage angst.

  Evie wanted to help them, but how could she possibly? The cost would be far too dear. Since coming to Hope’s Crossing, she had worked hard to carve out a much healthier place than she had been in the day she had arrived, lost and grieving, wrung dry.

  She knew her limitations. Hard experience was a pretty darn good teacher. She threw everything inside her at her patients—her energy, her strength, her passion. She lost all sense of professional reserve, of objectivity.

  After Cassie and the emotional fallout from her death, Evie knew she didn’t belong in that world anymore, no matter whom she had to disappoint.