Promise Me Forever (Debbie Macomber Classics)

by Debbie Macomber

  “I’ll take it to him,” Joy volunteered. She wouldn’t avoid another confrontation.

  She knocked once before swinging open the door. “Good afternoon. I imagine you’re anxious for this.”

  “Then you imagined wrong.”

  “Listen, Sloan, we can do this easy or we can do this hard. The decision is yours.”

  “Nothing in my life’s come easy,” he returned sharply.

  Joy’s laugh was filled with challenge. “You’re sitting in this showroom house with people fighting to wait on you, and you want my sympathy? You’re looking at the wrong woman.”

  He tipped his head to one side and glared at her. “Get out—or I’ll throw you out.”

  “If you want me to leave, you’ll have to do it physically. That’s pretty tough for a cripple.”

  His nostrils flared. “Don’t be so confident.”

  “Oh, I’m sure.” She tossed the words at him flippantly. “I run two miles every morning, and in addition to being in great physical condition, I could flatten you with one swift punch. Look at you,” she returned smoothly. “You’ve been sitting in the wheelchair for six months. Your muscles are weak and limp. I doubt that you could lift your own weight. But if you want to try, don’t let the fact I’m a woman stop you.”

  A muscle jumped along the side of his jaw. With a violent shove, he propelled the wheelchair onto the veranda. For now, Joy recognized, he was running; he didn’t know what else to do. But the time was fast approaching when he’d have nowhere to go.

  Before she left, Joy set up the meal tray. A satisfied smile spread to her eyes as she regarded the meager contents. She’d bet hard cash Sloan Whittaker was going to eat his lunch.

  When she returned she noted that she’d been right. He’d devoured every bit and would probably look forward to dinner.

  “I’m taking you outside now,” she told him in a silky, smooth voice.

  “No, you aren’t.”

  She didn’t argue. Instead, she stuck her head out the door and called Paul.

  Almost immediately the muscle-bound young man stepped into the room.

  “I’d like you to take Mr. Whittaker to the beach.”

  “No,” Sloan shouted.

  “Do as I say, Paul,” Joy encouraged.

  “You so much as touch my chair and you’re fired.” The way he spoke proved that the threat wasn’t an idle one.

  “She told me you’d say that.”

  “Don’t do it.” The thin line of Sloan’s mouth was forbidding.

  Uncertain, Paul glanced to Joy for assurance. They’d had a long talk and had reached an understanding where Sloan Whittaker was concerned.

  “You can’t fire either one of us. You realize that, don’t you?” she asked, in a bored voice.

  “Like hell.”

  “As I understand the situation, it’s your family who hired us, and therefore we work for them. Not you.”

  Joy could have kissed Paul as he effortlessly pushed Sloan out the bedroom door. Only at rare times had she seen such barely restrained rage. Sloan’s face was twisted with it as Paul directed the chair out the back door and onto the sheets of plywood they had laid on the sand to help manipulate his chair.

  The day was gorgeous, and a gentle breeze ruffled the soft brown curls about her face.

  “Is that all?” Paul looked to her and she nodded, indicating he could leave.

  Slipping off her shoes, Joy sat on the soft beach and burrowed her feet in the warm sand. Lifting her face to the soothing rays of the sun, she closed her eyes, oblivious to the angry man beside her.

  After several minutes of contented peace, she lowered her gaze and turned to Sloan. He sat erect and angry, like a prisoner of war. He was a prisoner, she mused.

  “Tomorrow we’ll start with the therapy.”

  “What therapy?”

  She ignored the censure in his voice. “Your first session will be in the morning with me. I thought we’d start in the pool. Later, in the afternoon, Paul will be helping you tone up the muscles in your arms.”

  His hands grabbed hold of the arms of his chair in a death grip. “What has my mother told you?” He breathed the question.

  Joy let the sand drain out of her closed fist, watching it bounce against the beach. “Plenty.”

  “I refuse to fall into your schemes.”

  “We’ll see about that.” She rose lithely and rolled her pant legs up to her knees. The ocean was several hundred yards away, and she ran down to the water’s edge. Her big toe popped the tiny bubbles the surf produced. The sun felt soothing and warm, and she basked in the beauty of the afternoon. When she glanced back she saw that Sloan had somehow managed to turn his chair around, and with a determined effort had begun to wheel the chair toward the house.

  For now she’d let him escape. His pride demanded as much.

  Joy didn’t see him again until later that evening. She wasn’t surprised when Clara proudly exclaimed that Mr. Whittaker had eaten his dinner.

  The sky was pink with the setting sun when she unpacked her flute and stood on the veranda. The music flowed from her, unbound and free. There’d been a time when Joy had had to decide between a musical career and the medical profession. Once the decision had been made she had no regrets. She was a good therapist, and she knew it. Cases like these were her best—and for a reason. Absently, she stopped playing and rubbed her thigh.

  “Don’t quit.”

  The words surprised her, and she turned around. Sloan had rolled his chair onto the veranda and was only a few feet from her. Foolishly, Joy hadn’t realized their adjacent rooms shared the deck.

  Wordlessly, she lifted the flute to her lips and played her favorite pieces. Lively jigs followed by the sweet, soulful sounds of the classics.

  “Where did you ever learn to play like that?” he asked, in a whisper.

  It was the first time she had heard him speak without being angry. “I started as a child. My father was a musician.”

  His strong profile was illuminated by the darkening sky. Her eyes fell from the powerful face to the chair, and her heart wanted to cry for him. Arrogant, noble, proud—and trapped.

  No. Swiftly, she jerked her gaze free. The last thing she wanted was to become emotionally attached to a patient. For now Sloan Whittaker needed her, but that would soon change, and he would be free from the chains that bound him. As he became independent to live and love again, he wouldn’t want or need her.

  Joy had never fooled herself—she wasn’t a beauty. Dark hair and equally dark eyes were probably her best features. Her mouth was too small to be sensuous, her nose a little short, her cheekbones too high. The Sloan Whittakers of this world wouldn’t be interested in a hundred-pound misfit.

  “Good night, Mr. Whittaker,” she spoke softly.

  “Miss Nielsen.” He remained on the deck while Joy turned sharply and entered her room, closing the sliding glass door after her. Her heart was pounding wildly, and she placed a calming hand over it. What was the matter with her? It would be utter foolishness to become attracted to this man. Two, maybe three, months at the most, and she would be leaving.

  Joy woke with the alarm early the following morning. The sun hadn’t broken the horizon when she pulled open the draperies and stared into the distance. Quickly, she dressed in sweatpants and an old gray sweatshirt. She hadn’t run on sand before, and she wondered about wearing tennis shoes.

  The house was quiet and still as she slipped out the kitchen door. A chill ran goose bumps up her arms, and she jiggled them loosely at her sides as she performed the perfunctory warm-up exercises.

  An angry gust of wind nearly toppled her along the beach as the surf pounded the shore. Heedless to the blustery force, Joy picked up her heels and ran. The first quarter-mile was always the hardest. Her lungs heaved with the effort. Her shoes sank in the sand, making it almost impossible to maintain her usual pace. Soon she discovered it was much easier if she ran close to the water, where the sand was wet and hard.

&n
bsp; When she figured she’d gone a mile or more, she turned and headed back. The house was in sight when she spotted a seagull walking along the shore, dragging one wing. Slowing her pace, she watched as the poor creature pitifully attempted to fly. After several tries the large bird keeled over, exhausted. Realizing the pain it must be enduring, she stopped running, hoping she could find some way to help. When she took a tentative step toward it, the gull struggled to sit upright and flee.

  Speaking in soothing tones, she fell to her knees in the sand. “Long John Seagull, what are you doing here?”

  The bird hobbled a few steps and fell over.

  “It looks like you need a friend,” she said softly. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” With urgent strides, Joy raced toward the house.

  Breathlessly, she stumbled into the kitchen.

  “Dear heavens, are you all right?” Clara stood with her back to the sink.

  Out of wind, all Joy could do was nod.

  “You scared me clean out of my skin.”

  “Sorry,” Joy managed. Not wishing to wake Sloan, she moved quietly down the hall to her room. Only yesterday she’d unpacked some emergency medical supplies. She gathered what she thought she’d need in a large shopping bag, found some tough garden gloves, and hurried out of the room.

  “You headed for a fire?” Clara asked, as Joy scurried through the kitchen a second time.

  “No. I found an injured seagull. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “But, Miss …” Clara called after her.

  With the wind beating against her face, Joy returned to her newfound feathered friend.

  A half-hour later her back ached and her fingers felt swollen and numb with the continued effort of trying to help the bird while not being cut by his powerful beak. As far as she could tell, the wing hadn’t been broken, only injured. After carefully applying some antibiotic cream and binding it to his body with a strip of gauze, Joy felt confident the gull would heal.

  Long John didn’t look pleased when she picked him up and carefully placed him in the sack. A movement out of the corner of her eye captured her attention. She straightened and placed a hand above her eyes to shield them from the glaring sun. She saw that Sloan was on the veranda, watching her. Even from this distance she could see that he was displeased.

  “His bark is worse than his bite,” Joy informed the bird, who stuck his head out of the sack and looked around. “Don’t worry. I know a safe place for you.”

  Her hair was wet from the shower when Joy came out of her room and closed the door.

  “What were you doing this morning?” The question came at her like an arrogant challenge.

  “Running,” she replied, and rotated to face Sloan.

  He glared at her. “I saw you working on something.”

  “I found an injured seagull. His wing,” she added. “Are you ready for breakfast?”

  Sloan’s gaze hardened and shifted to her eyes. “You like to play the role of the rescuer, don’t you? Birds, animals, people. Well, get this straight, Little Miss Miracle Worker. I don’t need you, and furthermore, I don’t want you. So get out of my life and stay out.”

  “My, my, we’re in a fine mood this morning,” Joy said cheerfully. “How do you want your coffee? Lukewarm and in your lap, or perhaps over your head?”

  In return she saw a hint of a smile. “Would it be too much to ask for it in a cup?”

  “That depends entirely upon you,” she said softly. “Don’t go away. I’ll be right back.”

  A few minutes later she brought in his breakfast tray. “You’ll be pleased to know I ate in the kitchen,” she said, a mocking reminder of his earlier statement.

  Again a near-smile came over him.

  “I thought that would please you,” she said.

  On Joy’s instructions, Clara had prepared a much lighter meal this morning. A warm croissant was served with butter and homemade strawberry jam. She poured his coffee and set the pot to the side.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes with Paul.”

  “I don’t need him this morning,” Sloan said stiffly.

  “Are you already in your suit?”

  “My suit?”

  “We’re going swimming, remember?”

  Sloan laughed coldly. “Not likely.”

  “It’ll probably hurt, so prepare yourself.”

  “Miss Nielsen,” he muttered grimly, “there’s no way on God’s green earth that you’re going to get me in that pool, so kindly accept that and save us both a lot of trouble.”

  “We’ll see,” she returned lightly.

  The grooves around his mouth deepened with defiance. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a stubborn bi—”

  “I do find such language unnecessary.” She effectively cut him off by pivoting and walking away.

  An hour later, dressed in her one-piece turquoise swimsuit, Joy dived into the deep end of the pool. Her slim body sliced through the water. She surfaced and did a couple laps, enjoying the feel of the cool water against her skin.

  When she paused, she found Paul standing outside the pool, looking ill at ease and uncertain.

  “Whittaker isn’t pleased about this.”

  “I don’t imagine he is. If necessary, bring him down here naked. He’s coming in this pool one way or another.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Very,” she said confidently. “Throw him in, if necessary.”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  Waiting in the shallow end of the pool, Joy could hear Sloan long before seeing him. An angry torrent of abusive words was followed by the sight of a red-faced Paul.

  “Thank you, Paul.” She smiled at Paul and then glared at Sloan. “The time has come to separate the men from the boys.”

  Chapter Two

  A slow smile spread across Joy’s face. “Come on in. The water’s fine.”

  “I could hate you for this,” Sloan growled.

  “I’ve been hated by better men than you,” Joy informed him cheerfully. She didn’t doubt Sloan; her job was to channel some of his angry intensity into the exercises. Clara had told her how much Sloan had loved the pool, swimming laps early every morning. He would again if she had anything to do with it. “Put him in the water, Paul.”

  She turned and dove into the blue depths, feeling slightly guilty that Paul was left to deal with the abusive end of Sloan’s temper. By turning away she offered him the privacy to climb into the water without her seeing Paul lift him. His pride had taken enough of a beating lately, and she didn’t want to make this any more difficult than it already was.

  When she surfaced at the far end of the pool, Joy noticed Paul was standing back from the pool’s edge, his look unsure.

  “That’ll be all.” Treading water, she raised one hand and waved, indicating she wanted him to leave.

  Sloan was sitting on the steps that led from the shallow end, his look foreboding. “Let’s get this over with so I can get out of here.”

  “All right,” she agreed, swimming toward him. Her arms cut through the water as she stroked. Because of the distance separating them, she couldn’t hear his savagely muttered words, which was probably just as well.

  He held himself rigid, and one hand gripped the side of the pool.

  “I’ve always loved to swim,” she announced, and playfully dipped her head back into the cool, aqua-blue water.

  Sloan’s dark gaze followed her actions.

  “When I was a child, my father was the one who taught me,” she said. “I loved those days. We could never afford a pool like this, but summer evenings when Dad got off work, my brother, mother, father, and I went swimming in the pool at the park.”

  Sloan looked bored.

  “It seems ironic to me that my father would drown,” she continued. Her unflinching gaze met Sloan’s. “For a year afterward I couldn’t go near a pool. In some obscure way, I think I wanted to punish the water for taking my father.”

  Sloan exhaled a short, ang
ry breath.

  Joy’s mouth formed a humorless smile. It’d been a mistake to speak of her beloved father. She couldn’t understand why she had—especially with Sloan Whittaker.

  “For now, all I want you to do is familiarize yourself with the pool. Tomorrow I’m going to start you on a series of exercises. I won’t try to kid you. These movements are going to hurt, but they’re supposed to.”

  “Do you want me to leap for joy with some pie-in-the-sky dream you have of my walking again?” he said, and his eyes snapped fire.

  “No, but I’ll tell you this. Progress will be slow enough; if you fight me, it’ll only take longer.”

  “In other words, a lot of pain and only a little progress.”

  “That, Mr. Whittaker, is up to you.”

  “If it was up to me, you’d get the hell out of my life.”

  She couldn’t hold back her amusement, and a smile twitched at the edges of her mouth. “I’ll be happy to leave, but when I go, that wheelchair will be in the attic.”

  His fist slammed against the water, spraying it along the pool’s tiled edge. “Spare me from optimistic women.”

  “Starting tomorrow, Paul will be taking you to the whirlpool before our session here. There are several reasons for that, none of which would interest you, I’m sure.”

  His impassive expression didn’t alter.

  “You can go for now. I’ll see you at lunchtime.”

  “Don’t hurry.”

  The sun’s golden rays bathed his pale features. Joy realized that only a year ago Sloan Whittaker would have been sun-browned. Once he had been a compellingly handsome man, but pain had chiseled blunted, abrupt lines in his face. His dark eyes seemed to mirror the agony of the past months. Mournful and intense. Joy had seen it before, but never had it affected her like this. In some degree she gave a part of herself to each of her patients. Her greatest fear was that Sloan Whittaker would take her heart. That she couldn’t allow.

  “I won’t hurry,” she answered at last. “I’m not any more anxious to see you than you are me.”

  “At least we understand each other.”