by Rachel Lee
Ashley took the hint, closed the door against the cold and hurried into the living room. Dismay and concern immediately filled her as she saw Zane lying on his side on the floor, the tipped wheelchair not far away.
“What happened?” she asked, hurrying to him.
He cussed again, and using his arms, pulled himself a few inches toward the old sofa.
“For Pete’s sake, Zane, what happened? And let me help. Stop cussing.”
He didn’t exactly follow that last order. “I’m too heavy,” he growled. “You can’t help. No legs. Just deadweight.”
A pang speared Ashley, but she refused to let sympathy for him get in the way of doing something practical. “Cut it out. Either let me figure out how to help or I’m calling the EMTs.”
“Hell, no.”
She didn’t ask him what he was objecting to and didn’t give him a chance to explain it. She had a bit of temper, too, and it was rising again. Stubborn cuss, she thought. How long did he plan on lying there? Nell obviously couldn’t lift him.
Thoughts of making sure he had a way to call for help ran through her head as she squatted beside him. “Okay,” she said. “Listen to me. I can see how strong your arms are. I doubt you need me to pull on you to get you to the sofa. What about if I help lift you at waist level? Or just your legs?”
Mercifully he fell silent and motionless, reflecting on the problem. “Deadweight,” he said. “I can pull it, but I’m dragging on the rug. I need to get rid of this damn rug. Too much friction.”
“Rug, later. You, now. Where should I lift, Zane?” Never mind the question of what he had planned to do about the tipped wheelchair once he reached the couch. They could discuss his planning later. And they were going to, she decided. Absolutely.
“Let me try lifting your legs. Would you be better on your back or on your front?”
Again he was silent for a few seconds. “On my back,” he decided. “For now at least.” As he spoke, he used one arm to turn himself over.
Now he would no longer be dragging himself, but using his arms to lift and walk backward. She could see the advantages in that immediately.
Kneeling, she got between his legs, slipped one arm under each of his thighs and said, “Tell me when to lift.”
He nodded, his expression steely. “Now.”
He was no lightweight, and whatever he was doing in physical therapy had clearly kept his legs strong. She could feel the heft, feel the muscles even though they were flaccid. Still, lifting them was not impossible.
He pushed up with his arms and walked back on them while she held his legs. The couch was coming closer. He stopped once, not seeming to be out of breath, so she suspected he was halting for her sake. Since her arms had begun to ache a little, she wasn’t about to object.
They didn’t talk at all during that break. She wondered if he was feeling awful about needing her help. Well, probably. He was over here trying to be self-sufficient, a self-proclaimed hermit, and now this.
They crabbed their way closer to the sofa until he was sitting upright against it. Ashley shook out her cramping arms. “You know, Zane, you shouldn’t be afraid to call for help sometimes.”
“Why? Because Nell came for you?”
She sparked. “You ought to be damn glad she did. I have no idea how to get you off the floor, so you better start thinking. As for Nell, except for her you wouldn’t be relaxing now.”
Nell, who had lain down to watch the process, perked her ears at the sound of her name.
Zane sighed. “You’re right. She wasn’t supposed to leave me, but I guess she had a better plan.”
“Well, since she can’t dial the phone...” Ashley crossed her legs, still sitting on the floor, and spread her hands. “Don’t you keep your cell with you all the time?”
“I left it on the table. Even I get forgetful at times. Besides, I didn’t need to call anyone.”
“Of course not. You could have just cussed your way to the couch over the next several hours.”
To her surprise he smiled faintly. “Guess so. Thanks, Ashley. You were a great help.”
“Was? You still aren’t back in your chair, and I have no idea how we’re going to manage that from here.”
“I can do it. It’s not easy. Of course, it helps if the chair is upright and locked.”
She looked at it doubtfully. Or maybe amazed. “Really, you can get from the floor into it?”
“Sure. If I couldn’t I doubt I’d be able to live alone. I have a seat in my shower. I have a bed with a rod over it to lift myself. I have lots of useful things around here. But some things I still gotta do by sheer strength.”
She nodded slowly, wondering at the dimensions of the problems he faced. She suspected she didn’t know the tenth of them.
“If you wouldn’t mind, turn the chair upright and bring it over here. I’ll show you.”
So she turned the chair over, brought it to him and watched as he set the locks. “Hang on to the push bars, if you don’t mind. Just for some extra stability, but I’ve done this when I’m all alone, so don’t get uneasy.”
Then, with a strength and ease she could scarcely believe, he lifted himself on to the couch and turned himself partially over while holding onto the wheelchair seat and pressing on the couch seat. Then, with a great thrust of his arms, he lifted himself from the couch until he was sitting sideways in the chair. Another twist and he was seated properly.
“I can’t believe you just did that!”
“There was a time I wouldn’t have believed I could do it, either. It’s one of the reasons it’s so important to keep my upper body in shape.” Leaning forward, he lifted his legs and settled his feet on the footrests. “All done.”
She was impressed. Totally impressed. She bet he could have done it without the couch if the chair hadn’t tipped. He probably wanted to get to the couch just to get off the floor and decide what he needed to do next.
“So what exactly happened?” she asked, studying the rug. “How did you tip?”
“Honestly? I don’t remember. I came back to myself cussing a blue streak with Nell licking my face, and I was on the floor. I must have zoned again. I don’t think it lasted very long, though, because my face wasn’t totally covered in dog slobber.”
“What a description!” Since he was making light of it, she decided to do the same. To a point.
He rolled toward the kitchen, and because he hadn’t indicated in any way that she should leave, she followed to make sure there weren’t any aftereffects. And to discuss some important arrangements, whether he liked it or not.
She watched him stretch and reach to make coffee and remarked, “I bet the shop class at the high school would love a project of making your kitchen more useful to you. And I happen to know the shop teacher.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “I’m managing.”
“I can see that. Of course you are. But wouldn’t it be nice to have things at a comfortable level? You could do even more then if you wanted to.”
He switched on the coffeepot and turned his chair so he was facing her. “Have a seat, Teach. How much are you going to press me about this?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t see why your life should have to be harder because you’re more stubborn than an army mule.”
For an instant she feared she had gone too far. His face reflected no expression. Then a loud laugh burst out of him. “Touché, Teach. Touché.”
Relieved, she pulled out the one chair at the table and sat. “We need to talk about some other things. Like you being able to call for help when you need it. I get that you’re an independent person. I think you’re absolutely amazing. But if something bad happens you have to be able to reach out. So carry your cell with you all the time. Please. Nell knows to come get me, but what if I’m not home?�
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His smile faded. She suspected he didn’t like to be faced with his limitations, but that was too bad. Now she had to worry about him because he’d refused to let her call for the EMTs for help... She hesitated. “Do you know how often the fire department gets calls for a lift assist? Very often. And they don’t mind doing it. If you want, I’ll introduce you to the chief and let him explain that they don’t mind. You’re not the only person in this county who has a problem getting up once they’ve fallen. Every year someone from the department comes to talk to my class, and every year they talk about how much they like being able to help people.”
“I thought they’d prefer a fire.”
She couldn’t stifle a laugh. “I’m sure they do. Smoke eaters, every one.”
But the tension she’d felt growing in him eased. After a few seconds he nodded. “You’re right. I’m too stubborn. But I need to be stubborn. There are a lot of things I can do now only because I didn’t give up.”
She nodded, believing he was right but also hurting for him. He’d once been a SEAL. A powerful man. Someone capable of feats that no amount of training could make possible for just anyone. He’d lost more than his legs. He’d lost his purpose, his identity. He’d had to carve out a huge chunk of himself.
She couldn’t imagine what it must be like for him. And she desperately wished there was some way to make it better. So often in life, she wished she could make things better for someone, usually when there wasn’t a damn thing she could do.
“I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I have no business lecturing you. I’m just worried about you.”
“Why in the hell should you worry about me?”
“Because I like you a whole lot.”
At that instant, every bit of air in the room seemed to vanish. Their eyes locked, and she wondered if she’d ever breathe again. Her insides turned to hot syrup.
“How much do you like me?” he asked baldly.
She swallowed and managed to drag in some air. Why the heck had she said that? It wasn’t necessary, and it opened the door to all kinds of complications she was sure they both wanted to avoid. “Let’s not go there,” she said, her voice sounding rusty. “You don’t want it. You’ve made that clear. And I’m happy with my life the way it is. Just leave it.”
She looked away a moment, deciding to change the topic fast. “Julie had her baby, a boy. Trace called to tell me this morning. No name yet. He says that’s because he doesn’t want his son to be called Trace.”
Several seconds of silence followed, then Zane chuckled. “I guess that means Julie does. Most dads would leap at that.”
“Would they?” Feeling calmer internally, she was able to look at him again. Why had she danced so close to a possible flame? She decided she’d better think about that later. “So how did you tip your chair?”
“I was probably diving for cover.”
That bald statement painted an image so clear in her that it was inescapable. No more intellectual acknowledgment that this guy’s psyche had been wounded. No more vague thinking about the PTSD he was dealing with. Somehow those words, when combined with finding him on the floor, made it vivid, extremely vivid. Real. Something she finally had to face head-on. She closed her eyes, absorbing the blow, truly anguished for him.
Where did people ever get the idea that they could send soldiers off to war and get them back completely unchanged, completely unscarred? That they should be able to live that kind of horror and then just forget about it? Because it made the people at home so uncomfortable?
At every catastrophe, counselors were brought in to help people deal with death, destruction and loss. And those were usually instantaneous, or relatively short-term. There was nothing short-term about going back to war time and again. To go on the kinds of missions she suspected SEALs went on. Seth Hardin had mentioned something about six months on and six months off. Like that could erase the six months on mission?
“What are you thinking?” Zane asked. “You’re not looking very happy.”
“I don’t look happy all the time.” Then she relented. For once he was reaching out to her, and she didn’t want to shove him away. “I just suddenly got hit by reality. The reality you’re experiencing. It’s one thing to think about in the abstract—it’s another to get punched with it.”
He frowned and his hands clenched. “You feel punched?”
“By what you’re enduring. No intellectual exercise.”
“Sorry. I didn’t want to do that to you.”
“I know. You didn’t try. It was just when you said you’d probably been diving for cover...well, I guess some little protective shell I’ve been wearing just went away. It’s okay. I think I needed to lose it.”
But he swore, anyway. The next thing she knew, he’d wheeled up next to her and reached out, lifting her right out of her chair and onto his lap.
“Don’t wiggle,” he muttered. “I don’t want to tip again.”
She held perfectly still until he held her firmly on his lap, and wondered what she was doing there. She certainly hadn’t said anything to make him feel like he needed to hug her, but that’s what he was doing. Or maybe he needed the hug.
She felt as if part of her had just been run through a shredder and the results weren’t pretty. Just like him, now she was going to have to put herself back together in a new configuration.
She leaned into him, sensing his strength—and not only his obvious physical strength. This man had fought in wars, and now he’d come home with the war on his back and was still fighting. She began to truly comprehend the huge suicide rates among veterans.
“Ashley?”
“Yeah?” Breathing wasn’t getting much easier. He could probably hear it in her voice.
“I want you.”
Well, that did it. She couldn’t breathe at all now, her eyes closed and she softened throughout her entire body as a heavy beating began at her center. “And?” she whispered.
“I shouldn’t. I can’t be good for anyone right now. You saw why. But I still feel it...”
She was still wearing her jacket, but he pulled down the zipper and slipped his hand inside, cupping her breast through fleece. His thumb stroked over her engorging nipple, somehow extremely sensitive even through fabric. “God, you feel good. Tell me to stop. Please. I don’t know how to handle this...”
Something in his tone called her back from the precipice. He wanted her, but he was worried about it. Either he feared the coupling for some reason or he feared the outcome. She managed to pull in a long, shaky breath.
She opened her eyes, reached for his cheek and turned his head toward her until she could brush a kiss on his lips. Hoping her legs would hold her, she slid carefully off his lap.
She looked at him, sitting there with his face tight, his hands clenched.
“Sorry,” he said. “I should have more self-control.”
“Don’t expect the impossible,” she said as she gathered herself and recentered. “I want you, too. But promise me something?”
“If I can.”
“Don’t tease me like that again until you’re ready to go through with it.” She zipped up her jacket and settled her knit hat more firmly on her head. “I was going to the store. I want to cook some food to put in Trace and Julie’s freezer so they can concentrate on their new son. I’ll see you later.”
Then she turned and walked out of the house, feeling as if she was leaving part of herself behind. A connection had just been made. She felt as if some cord stretched between them now, and she had no idea whether that was good or bad.
She’d find out, though. She was sure of that.
Chapter Eight
Julie came home with the baby a day later. The girls had all gotten together, and the freezer on Julie and Trace’s mud porch was full of easy-to-reheat m
eals. The layette had been taken care of weeks ago, so there was little to do.
Knowing that Julie would be tired and just want some quiet with her family, Ashley didn’t hang around for long. Just long enough to add some more oohs and ahs to the ones they’d provided late yesterday and to remind Julie and Trace that they were there if the new parents needed any help at all.
But Trace would be there, Ashley thought with a smile as she headed back to school, her lunch hour over. He’d apparently had some kind of dangerous hush-hush job before but had retired on disability because of his hand. He was looking around for ways to occupy himself, and Ashley thought one had just landed in his lap. Julie wanted to continue teaching kindergarten. House husband, anyone?
Mikey had bubbled during the morning, telling everyone about the service dog Deputy Marcus was going to train for him, and about Zane’s Nell. By the time she got back from lunch, the kids had decided to beg her to get Zane to bring Nell to the classroom.
Oh, Lord, how was she supposed to manage that? She could just imagine Zane’s reaction. She quieted the excitement as best she could, promising to ask but reminding them that Mr. McLaren wasn’t perfectly well yet and might not feel up to it.
Some disappointment tempered their eagerness, and they settled down. Ashley continued with her lesson plan, preceding tomorrow’s testing. Then Halloween would take over. Dang, she hoped they forgot their desire for Zane to visit them. She’d been surprised that he’d been willing to meet Mikey, self-professed hermit and all, but he’d done well with the boy, maybe because they had something in common with their disabilities. But a whole classroom of nineteen kids? She wasn’t seeing it. Let the approach of Halloween drive everything else from their minds, please. Well, except their schoolwork.
On the way home she bought a large pumpkin to put on her porch, although she wouldn’t carve it until the day before. She vividly remembered the year she’d been early and the fruit flies had found her pumpkin. Ugh. Never again.
For the classroom, she had some plastic pumpkins that lit up and a simple skeleton to hang in one corner. After the tests. She also stopped at the bakery to order a couple dozen decorated cupcakes for her students. Bad, she knew, but she compromised by having them made with pumpkin bread and skipping the icing in favor of some plastic pumpkin faces to be pressed into them. After all, part of her job was supposed to be teaching nutrition. Kids would eat cupcakes and candy regardless, but she could err a little on the side of “not too bad.”
