Charity blinked back tears. She could go out on the patio where she could really savor the scent. If she wanted, she knew Gabe would wheel the chair out onto the grass for her or carry her out and set her on the sweet green lawn.
But she didn't want to be settled onto the grass like an infant. She wanted to run across it, feel it cool and soft beneath her bare feet. She wanted to roll on it; dance on it; revel in the feel of it. Instead she was trapped in this damned chair.
She knotted her hand into a fist, pounding it lightly against the arm of the wheelchair. Anger was good, the therapist had told her. Anger and frustration could be turned into determination. Despair was something else entirely, though. Despair was self-defeating, the first stage of giving up.
Easy for the therapist to say, Charity thought irritably, turning away from the window. She had two perfectly good legs. What did she know of how it felt to look at your legs and wonder if you were ever going to stand on them again.
"Stop feeling sorry for yourself," she whispered, trying to banish the dark mood. "You'll walk again. It's just a matter of time."
She thrust her fingers through her honey-colored hair, massaging the ache that had settled into the back of her neck. Most of the time she managed to keep a positive attitude; to believe everything was going to be all right. She'd smiled and looked cheerful until her face ached.
Everyone seemed to accept her good cheer at face value. Except maybe Gabe. Sometimes she caught him looking at her with something in his eyes that made her wonder if he saw through to the fear she was trying so hard to keep at bay.
She suspected that Gabe saw a great deal more than most people. That lazy smile and those never-quite-serious eyes made it easy to think of him as a lightweight. But you couldn't live with someone without getting to know them and the Gabriel London she was coming to know was a man of deep feeling.
A man who stirred her emotions far more deeply than was wise. Charity rubbed her fingers absently along the arm of the wheelchair. She was beginning to fear that while she was regaining the use of her legs, she was losing her heart.
Chapter 8
The house was early-morning quiet. Outside, the sun had barely crept over the horizon and the birds were just starting to wake up, sending out an occasional sleepy chirp to test the day.
Charity guided her wheelchair noiselessly down the hall. She breathed a little easier once she'd turned into the living room. Making her way across the smooth expanse of hardwood floor, she eased over the threshold that divided the kitchen from the living room.
Stopping in the middle Of the kitchen, she let her hands relax on the wheels of the chair, grinning like a child who'd just given her teacher the slip. She'd been staying here for almost two weeks and this was the first time she'd managed to get up before Gabe. It seemed a sort of triumph. Of course, he'd worked until after midnight the night before, so she'd had a definite edge.
But she'd learned to enjoy what few successes she could. God knows, there hadn't been many of them lately. She rubbed absently at the aching muscles in her arms, her eyes on her unresponsive legs.
Two weeks out of the hospital, and all she had to show for it was a growing set of muscles in her arms. As she'd told Diane, she was going to have an upper torso like Arnold Swarzennegger and a lower body like PeeWee Herman in a few more weeks.
Diane had laughed, but was quick to say that in a few more weeks, she'd no doubt be walking again. Charity had smiled and let her sister think the words were reassuring. The truth was, it was getting harder and harder to believe that she was going to walk again.
"Stop it," she muttered out loud. It was thoughts like that that had kept her awake most of the night. Those same thoughts led to nothing but despair. She had to believe she was going to walk again. If she didn't hold on to that hope, she wasn't sure she could go on.
Drawing a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. It was going to be a wonderful day and she was going to enjoy it if it killed her. Her determination made Charity smile. That was a great attitude: have fun or die.
Still smiling, she wheeled her chair over to the counter. Coffee would help her mood. Nothing like a little caffeine to get the blood moving. Too little sleep, too much worrying, she scolded herself as she put the filter in place and scooped coffee into it.
A few minutes later the heady scent of brewing coffee filled the kitchen, lightening her mood. Life couldn't be a total loss as long as she could make a decent cup of coffee. Of course, she could only manage that much because Gabe had rearranged his kitchen to make things more accessible to her.
But that was dwelling on the negative, she reminded herself briskly. And she had to try and remember the positive. Like how kind Gabe had been. And how lucky she was to have a friend like him. Because he'd definitely become a friend these past weeks, and she believed that he felt the same way about her.
Charity poured herself a cup of rich, dark coffee, cradling it between her palms for a moment, as if the warmth of the cup could chase away the inner chill that never seemed far away these days.
Sipping the coffee, she suddenly thought that the perfect accompaniment to an early-morning cup of coffee would be a muffin, fresh and warm from the oven. A quick search of the cupboards told her that muffins were not among the things that Gabe stocked, not even a box of muffin mix. But he did have all the ingredients to make them from scratch.
Charity hesitated. One thing she'd learned was that the average kitchen was not set up for someone trapped in a wheelchair. The counters were too high, the majority of cupboards were out of reach. Other than making herself a sandwich or heating a can of soup, she hadn't tried to do any cooking.
Gabe had been cooking dinner. Or Diane brought something with her that could be reheated. Once Jay had ordered a pizza and joined them for dinner. Diane had stayed that night, and she and Jay had taken verbal shots at each other all night.
Maybe she should just forget about muffins, Charity thought uneasily. Or she could view it as a challenge, her more adventuresome side suggested. A chance to prove that she wasn't completely helpless. Think how nice it would be to present Gabe with homemade muffins fresh from the oven.
He'd done so much for her. She knew that he felt as if there was nothing he could do for her that would make up for the fact that it was his bullet that had injured her. But she didn't feel that way, and it would be a pleasant change to be on the giving side. Muffins could hardly compare to his opening his home to a virtual stranger, but it was the best she could offer at the moment.
She found a recipe in the one cookbook Gabe owned and began to methodically gather ingredients. A bowl, measuring spoons wedged in the back of a drawer, baking powder, sugar, eggs and milk—all were neatly lined up on the counter. The only thing she was missing was the flour.
She reached up to catch the bottom of an upper cabinet door with her fingertips, tugging it open.
There was the flour, sitting smugly on the bottom shelf, just a few inches back from the edge. Charity stretched her arm up, but she could just brush the side of the canister.
She scowled up at the cabinet. She had everything she needed to make muffins but the flour, and she wasn't about to be stymied now. She'd started this to prove that she wasn't totally helpless. She couldn't give up at the first obstacle.
She set the brake on the wheelchair so it couldn't slide out from under her. Bracing her left arm on the counter, she levered her body up, stretching her right arm toward the elusive flour. Her left arm trembled under her weight, but she was determined not to give up.
Her fingers closed around the canister, and she grinned, but it was to be a fleeting triumph. Just as she tugged the canister off the shelf, her left arm caved in under the strain. Startled, she cried out as her arm collapsed, depositing her roughly back into the chair.
She lost her grip on the metal canister, which fell to the counter, somehow losing its lid in the process, bouncing off the carton of eggs and then tumbling against the milk carton. Charity made a fut
ile grab for the canister as it rolled off the counter and onto the floor, spreading a dusty white cloud behind it.
For an instant all she could do was stare at the disaster. There was flour everywhere. All over the counters, all over the floor, all over her. She didn't doubt that the eggs were all broken and there was a pool of milk spreading across the counter in a slow white tide.
"What happened?" Gabe, no doubt alerted by the crashing of the canister, skidded into the kitchen doorway, clad in a pair of briefs and carrying a .38.
A quick glance was enough to show him that Charity was not in danger, and he slid the gun back into its holster.
"Are you okay?" He set the holster down out of reach of the flour that was still drifting through the air and moved toward her. "Charity?"
She said nothing. She couldn't have gotten words out past the choking knot in her throat. It was a simple little task. She hadn't been trying to run a marathon or lift a Volkswagon. She'd just wanted to prove that she wasn't completely helpless.
"Charity? Are you okay?" He'd stopped next to the wheelchair, his bare feet leaving footprints on the flour-dusted floor. She saw his hand come out, and she jerked back as if his touch would burn.
"Don't touch me!'' she snapped.
She tried to move the chair back, wanting only to put distance between herself and Gabe's kindness. But the brake was still on and her quick twist of the wheels did nothing but sting her palms. It was the final straw. Not only had she proven—to herself and the entire world—that she was too helpless even to feed herself, but now she couldn't even run her damned wheelchair.
"No, I am not okay," she said tightly. Her hands were clenched into fists in her lap. "I can't walk. I'm paralyzed and I'll probably always be paralyzed."
"Don't say that!"
"Why not?" she cried, her eyes filling with hot tears. "It's the truth! Everyone keeps telling me to have patience, that the feeling will come back in my legs. Well, it hasn't come back. It's never coming back. I'm going to be stuck in this damned chair for the rest of my life."
Tears blurring her vision, she pounded her fists against her thighs, feeling the impact only in her hands. "I hate my legs! I hate them. I hate them." Her voice cracked on a sob.
"Stop it!" Gabe crouched down beside the chair, catching her hands in his. "Stop talking like that."
"Why? It's the truth. I'm never going to walk again. I know it."
"You don't know anything of the kind," he barked, his fingers tightening over hers. "You're scared and you're frustrated but you're going to get past this and you're going to keep on fighting."
"No, I'm not. I'm tired of fighting." It was nothing more than the truth. All the anger had gone out of her, leaving her weary and hopeless. She let her hands stay in his because it was too much of an effort to pull them away. What difference did it make whether or not he held her hands? What difference did anything make?
"I'm paralyzed and I might as well start accepting it."
Gabe dropped her hands, reaching up to catch her shoulders in his, giving her a quick shake. Charity's startled green eyes met his, almost pure gold with emotion.
"If you say that one more time, I'm going to shake you until your teeth rattle," he told her. His tone was so fierce that she believed him.
"It's true," she whispered, her eyes dropping away from his.
"No, it's not." One hand left her shoulder to cup her chin, tilting her face up until she was forced to meet his eyes. "You're going to walk again. You just have to be patient."
"I'm sick of being patient." She would have turned her head away but he refused to release her, holding her as much with the strength of his gaze as with his grip on her chin.
"You're going to walk again, Charity." He said each word slowly and distinctly, his eyes steady on hers, willing her to believe him, to believe in herself.
"You don't know that," she muttered.
"Sure I do. Have any of the doctors told you differently? Have any of them said you won't walk?"
"No."
"Then what makes you think that's the case?"
"It's been so long, Gabe. And I still can't feel anything." Despite her determination not to cry again, new tears burned her eyes.
"I know." He slid his hand to the back of her neck, drawing her forward until her forehead rested against his. The despair in her eyes, in her voice, broke his heart. He'd have traded places with her in an instant if he were given the chance.
It was like acid in his gut to see her cry and know the tears were his doing. It was his mistake that had put her in the wheelchair she hated so passionately. Part of his bullet was still lodged near her spine. And if, God forbid, she never walked again, it would be because of him.
It was hard enough to see her struggling to stay cheerful, keeping the fear at bay by pretending it didn't exist. But it was ten times worse to see her like this, so full of despair.
"I know you're going to walk again, Charity," he said huskily. "If you don't believe the doctors, believe me. You're too strong to give up."
"I don't feel strong," she said on a sigh. But that wasn't quite true. With Gabe holding her, she did feel strong.
"You can't give up. You've got too much fight for that."
"Maybe." But he'd won and they both knew it. Her momentary urge to give up the battle was gone, chased away by his determination. "I'm sorry I acted like such an idiot."
"You're entitled to act like an idiot, once in a while."
"Gee, thanks."
"You're welcome." He drew back, smiling into her eyes.
Charity returned the smile, feeling her heart beat a little faster. It didn't seem fair that he should be so attractive first thing in the morning.
"You have flour on your face," Gabe said, brushing his fingers over her cheek. She felt the light touch shiver through her.
"So do you." She drew one finger across the light dusting of powder on his cheek.
Their eyes met and suddenly neither of them was smiling. A fine tension hummed between them, an awareness that couldn't be ignored.
"You know, you have the most beautiful smile." He brushed his thumb over her mouth, stealing her breath away.
"I do?"
"I think half the reason I was buying those crystals was because it gave me an excuse to come into the store and see you smile."
"It was?" His words stole what little breath his touch had left her. "You thought about me?"
"More than I liked to admit. I could have bought those little animals somewhere else and paid less for them, you know." His thumb stroked across her lower lip and her mouth parted.
"I didn't know."
"But they just didn't look as beautiful as they did when you were holding them."
Gabe leaned forward... to kiss her? And did she move to meet him?
A car backfired on the street outside, the explosion of sound shattering the fine tension of the moment. Charity sat back in her chair and Gabe eased back onto his heels, his hands sliding away from her. She felt an actual pang of loss.
Gabe looked away, groping for something to break the tension that still hummed between them. For the first time he really absorbed the disaster that was the kitchen.
"What were you tryingto do?"
"Make muffins?" Charity offered, her eyes following his to the flour-strewn counters and floor. Anything was safer than looking at the long body clad in nothing but a pair of plain white briefs.
"I think you're supposed to use a bowl," he suggested, his eyes settling on the counter where milk and egg had mixed with the flour.
"No. Really?" Charity widened her eyes in shock.
"Well, I'm not sure, but it seems to me that it might be a little easier." Gabe stood up and Charity jerked her eyes away from him. She wished he'd go and put a robe on. And she wished he'd stay just as he was.
She cleared her throat, banishing thoughts of cool sheets and Gabe's lean body stretched out next to her. "I guess I'll have to keep that in mind," she said, keeping her tone light.
"You look like an extra in a haunted house movie," he said, after studying her for a moment.
"Do I?" She brought her hand up to her face, drawing it away covered in flour. Her clothes were also dusted with white powder.
"You know, maybe it's a little late to mention this, but I don't think I own a muffin pan.".
Charity raised her head to look at him. "You mean, even if I hadn't made this mess, there wouldn't have been anything to bake the muffins in?"
"I think I've got a loaf pan," he offered with an apologetic shrug.
"A loaf of muffins?"
"Well, a loaf is better than none," he said seriously. The tuck that appeared in his cheek matched the laughter in his eyes.
Charity returned his smile. A few minutes ago she'd felt as if she might never have anything to smile about again. But Gabe had made it impossible for her to hold on to her depression. He'd buoyed her up again, given her the determination to keep fighting.
"Thank you, Gabe."
"For what?" He'd been dusting flour from his hands, and her quiet words brought his questioning eyes to hers. "For not having a muffin pan?"
"No. For making me laugh. For giving me a place to stay. For.. .being there." She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. Her eyes dropped away from his, suddenly afraid that she was starting to sound maudlin.
There was a moment of silence and then Gabe reached out and stroked his fingers over her cheek. "You don't owe me any thanks, Charity. Believe me. But if you want to thank me, just don't quit fighting."
"I won't."
Charity looked up into his eyes, feeling the light touch all through her body. If he kept looking at her like that, she'd probably promise to drag herself over hot coals. Gabe drew his hand away and Charity lowered her eyes, afraid of what he might see if she continued to look at him. ,
It was just the circumstances, she reminded herself. She certainly wasn't doing anything stupid... like falling in love with Gabriel London.
Charity's Angel Page 9
