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 there. 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 doesn’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.
* * *
BRODIE HAD TO EXERT EVERY BIT of his considerable self-control to prevent himself from slamming the door behind him as he stalked down the stairway and back out to the garden behind her apartment.
His temper seethed and bubbled and he wanted to rip out a flower or two. Or every last freaking one.
Her dog—half poodle, half Labrador and all unique, just like her—woofed a quick greeting and headed for him, tail wagging. Brodie scratched the dog between the ears and released a breath, some of the tension seeping away here in the summer evening with a friendly dog offering quiet comfort.
A little of his tension. Not all of it. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Yeah, maybe it had been stupidly shortsighted of him, but despite what he had said up there, he’d never truly expected her to say no.
Ironic, really. He hadn’t wanted her involved in Taryn’s home-care program in the first place. He thought his mother was crazy when she first suggested it a few weeks ago, after the director of the Birch Glen rehab center had first rather gently suggested Taryn’s placement there might not be working out.
Evaline Blanchard was a loose screw. She kept her long, blond wavy hair wild or in braids, she favored Teva sandals to high heels, she always had some sort of chunky jewelry on that she had probably designed herself. Most of the time she wore flowing, flowery sundresses as if she was some kind of Mother Earth hippie—except when she was wearing extremely skintight exercise leggings, he amended. His body stirred a little at the memory, much to his chagrin.
He didn’t want to be attracted to Evie Blanchard. She was a bleeding heart do-gooder who seemed to spend her spare time trying to think of ways to mess with things that weren’t broken. Everything about her grated on him like metal grinding on metal.
When she first came to town, he had entertained the idea that maybe she was some kind of grifter trying to run a con on his too-trusting mother. Really, what woman in her right mind would decide to pick up and move across three states—leaving what had apparently been a lucrative rehab therapy career—on the basis of an email friendship alone?
Either she was the most patient shyster he’d ever heard of or she had genuinely moved to Hope’s Crossing for a new start. She had been in town a year and seemed to have settled in comfortably, becoming part of the community. His mother and all her friends certainly adored her, anyway.
He scratched the dog one last time, then headed out the wrought-iron gate and through the alley toward Main Street.
Evie Blanchard might not be a con artist but he still took pains to avoid her. She had a particular way of looking at a man that made him feel edgy and tense, condemned before he even opened his mouth. He knew her opinion of him. That he was a bully with a big checkbook who liked to have his way around town. He was the big, bad developer who wanted to ruin Hope’s Crossing.
Not true. He loved this town. He had made his home here, had brought his three-year-old daughter here after his hasty mistake of a marriage had fallen apart. And now he was bringing Taryn home again to heal. Didn’t that count for something?
Not to Evie Blanchard, apparently. She obviously disliked him intensely. It didn’t help that every time they had appeared on opposite sides of some planning commission meeting or public hearing or other, she would be giving some eloquent opposition to whatever he was working on and he would be appalled by the hot surge of completely inappropriate lust curling through his gut.
Of course, he couldn’t tell his mother that. He didn’t even like admitting it to himself.
He would prefer to keep a healthy distance from Evie Blanchard and her wavy blond hair and her lithe figure, which definitely filled out her tight running leggings in all the right ways.
Too bad his mother had convinced him she w
as absolutely the best person to help his daughter right now.
Katherine’s arguments had been persuasive, full of journal articles Evie had written a few years earlier, media reports about the amazing progress she’d made with some of her patients, even references from parents of her former clients. His mother had done her homework and had presented all her findings to him with a satisfied flourish. After reading through her dossier on Evie’s time as a physical therapist in California, he had to admit he had been impressed. Now he didn’t know if he could be satisfied with anyone else.
Brodie sighed as he headed toward his car, parked in the lot behind the Center of Hope Café. He spotted Dermot Caine, owner of the café, heading to the Dumpster out back with a garbage bag in each hand. Brodie waved and Dermot called out a greeting.
“Is it true your girl’s coming home?” the other man asked, a hopeful expression on his sunbaked features.
“That’s the plan. She still has a long way to go.” He really wished he didn’t have to add that disclaimer whenever he talked to anyone in town, but the people of Hope’s Crossing had seen enough disappointment and sorrow over the last three months. He didn’t want anyone to set unreasonably high expectations.
“You give her a big hug from me, won’t you? That little girl’s a trouper. If anything sounds good to her—one of my huckleberry pies, some of that chocolate mousse she always liked—you just say the word and I’ll personally deliver it.”
“Will do. Thanks, Dermot.” There had been a time when the owner of the diner considered Brodie nothing but a troublemaker with a chip on his shoulder. Brodie had worked hard to overcome his rep around town over the years and it was heartening to see Dermot’s concern for his daughter.
“I mean it. Everyone in town is praying for that little girl. She’s a miracle, that’s what she is, and we can’t wait to have her back.”
“I appreciate that. I’m sure Taryn does, too.”
All of Hope’s Crossing was invested in her recovery. That was a hell of a lot of pressure on a fifteen-year-old kid who couldn’t string more than a couple of words together at a time.
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