Sheridan's Fate

by Gun Brooke

  Lark pulled up a stool and sat down, directly in front of Sheridan. “Listen to me. The dead nerve cells are gone. That’s correct. But, and I’m sure your doctors told you this, other neural paths will step up to the plate and take over. Not entirely, that’s true, but well worth training for. The more you train, the more your body recognizes what needs fixing. We all have a wonderful ability to heal.” Lark leaned forward. “I’ll be honest with you. You’ll probably never be able to run, or even walk without support, but you can improve so much more. Trust me, and I’ll prove it to you.”

  Lark sounded so convincing, so sure, but her optimism went against every pragmatic cell in Sheridan’s body. She thought about the bacterial meningitis that had wrecked her body six months ago. After six weeks in the ICU, when the bacteria seemed to defy every attempt to eradicate it, she’d spent another long two months in a private rehab clinic where she’d finally accepted that she was now confined to a wheelchair and would never walk again.

  Now she looked around the large room that she’d had Mrs. D and her first physical therapist turn into a gym. It contained every piece of training equipment known to man and an in-ground pool with a newly installed lift, which she hadn’t used yet. Not comfortable with water even before her illness, she certainly wouldn’t go near it now. I’d look like an idiot, trying to stay afloat just by using my arms.

  “You sound awfully confident,” Sheridan said, nailing Lark with her best glare, which normally sent people running out of the room.

  “Only because of my experience and training. You’ve been through a lot, and I’d really like to see you begin to go forward rather than dwell on the past. But recovery is a process in itself, and you can’t skip a step. If you do you’ll only have disappointing setbacks.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll make progress, and sometimes it’ll be hard to see that, since it’ll take some time—”

  “You have three months,” Sheridan interrupted Lark.

  “What?” Lark blinked.

  “I became ill five months after our previous stockholder meeting, and I need to be in the best shape possible for the next one.” Sheridan injected a scornful tone in her voice in a desire to rattle the collected woman in front of her. “That won’t be so hard for someone with your experience, will it?”

  Lark recognized a challenge when she was thrown one. Three months wasn’t long, but they could do it. “All right. But you misunderstand something. I’m not the one that has a lot of work to do during the next few months. You do, Sheridan. This all depends on you. I can guide you, show you, nag, and push you—but ultimately, you’re the one responsible. Are you prepared to work that hard? To give yourself this chance, this opportunity?”

  Sheridan sat up straight in her wheelchair, obviously struggling to keep her posture, to remain the epitome of the CEO, the boss, despite her trembling muscles. “If you knew me, Lark, you wouldn’t ask that. If you had any inkling of who I am, and what I’m about, you’d know—”

  “I don’t know you. Yet. But give me a chance to.” Spontaneously, Lark took Sheridan’s right hand between hers. It was ice cold and she automatically tried to warm it by stroking it. “Let me in and let’s work together. If you fight me, like you’ve done so far by questioning every single thing that I want you to do, it’s going to take a lot longer than three months.”

  Sheridan stared at their joined hands, speechless all of a sudden. “I suppose you have a point,” she conceded after a while. “It’s just my normal MO, to not take anything at face value.”

  “Which probably is a great trait in the business world. I understand that. This is different. Without mutual trust, the result will be…less than optimal.”

  A flicker of something unreadable passed across Sheridan’s face. It might have been remorse, or confusion, but it was gone before Lark could decipher it.

  “All right. What’s next?”

  The curt tone of voice made Lark let go of Sheridan’s hand. It dropped back onto her paralyzed legs and remained there as if it was also affected by the cruel disease.

  “I want you to rest, as I said, then we’ll meet again after lunch, when it’s convenient for you, and I’ll give you a massage.”

  Black, well-plucked eyebrows rose in disdain-filled surprise. “A massage?”

  “Surely you got massages regularly at the rehab clinic?”

  “Yes, of course, but—”

  “Apart from the fact that it will stimulate and increase the blood flow to the dormant muscle groups in your legs, it’ll provide me with information about the areas where you might be heading for trouble. Other muscles are already compensating for the ones that are not functional. If you use them wrongly, you’ll create a whole new set of aches and pains which could be prevented.”

  Sheridan merely nodded, apparently not in the mood to volunteer any information regarding the neck pain she’d suffered last Friday during their meeting. “Very well. I have a teleconference at one p.m., so how about two thirty?”

  “Good. I also need access to your schedule, so I can plan ahead. I suppose Erica can fill me in?”

  “No. No, I’ll do that myself. Erica knows of my business schedule, but I have some…personal engagements that I keep track of myself.” Sheridan suddenly looked exhausted and leaned against the backrest for the first time during their conversation. “I’ll e-mail you the hours I have free during the day. Early mornings and late afternoon mostly. I hope that’ll be sufficient.”

  “That should work. The morning sessions will be the tougher ones, while you’re still energetic and up for them. The late-afternoon ones will consist of more relaxation, pool sessions, and massage. Some ADL training perhaps.” Lark watched Sheridan’s eyes glaze over a bit while she talked and knew she was too tired to retain any more information. “If you have time for a power nap, that’d be good,” she said. “You look bushed.”

  Closing her eyes briefly, Sheridan nodded, surprisingly candid. “You’re right. This did me in for a bit. I’ll see you at two thirty, then.”

  “Want me or Cecilia to wheel you back?”

  This question obviously overstepped a boundary. Sheridan’s shoulders went up and her back was once again ramrod straight. “Certainly not. I’m fine.”

  Of course you are. Lark watched as the proud woman wheeled toward the door. The near desperation in her arrogance tugged at Lark’s heart. An unexpected part of her wanted to shield Sheridan and remove the pain and worry that was obvious in her eyes, despite her formidable persona.

  Annoyed and startled at where her thoughts were going, Lark stood and faced Cecilia, who had put away the equipment and disinfected everything they’d used. “How’s the lunch at this place?”

  Cecilia, short and plump in a very pretty way, smiled, showing cute dimples. “Mrs. D makes sure the staff has lunch between noon and 2 p.m. We use the dining room in the southeast wing, on the first floor. Want me to show you the way? It’s a bit of a maze here, until you know your way around,” Cecilia said and winked.

  As adorable as this young woman was, she wasn’t Lark’s type. Sometimes Lark wished that she’d find these seemingly more free-spirited and uncomplicated girls attractive, but so far she’d mostly fallen for the tall, dark, and brooding type.

  Lark halted and closed her eyes. Dark and brooding. Oh, no. No, no, no. Sheridan Ward’s beautiful, austere features seemed etched on the inside of Lark’s eyelids.

  “You okay, Lark?” Cecilia interrupted her thoughts.

  “Sure. Yes. Just thought of something.” Lark mentally shook her head and strode toward the door. “Let’s go. I’m starving.”

  Chapter Three

  Sheridan closed the telecommunication software on her computer and let her head fall back with a deep sigh. This was not going to be easy. She had spent the better part of the last six weeks talking with every member of her board of directors, and today it seemed that she’d hardly made any progress at all. Men and women, most of them older than she, had
obviously—infuriatingly—decided to treat her as a child, with all the patronizing that came with such an attitude. Only when she infused her voice with her infamous cold, controlled fury did some of them relent. She had three months to convince them that only her legs had suffered any damage. It was apparent that her disease had rattled the stock market as well as the boardroom.

  Sheridan had rested for half an hour after a shower and a quick lunch, but trying to relax had only created more tension. Lark Mitchell’s words, honest and blunt, swirled in her head. Was it really possible for her to regain some of what she’d lost? The doctors had been carefully optimistic the first week after she regained consciousness. Frightened and bewildered, Sheridan had hidden behind a proud façade, asking all the right questions and showing very little feeling in the presence of the health-care professionals. Only when Mrs. D had visited her, which she did every afternoon, had Sheridan been unable to hide the torment in her soul. With a shudder she remembered clinging to the hand of the woman who had been part of her household for more than thirty years. Sheridan wasn’t ready to share how she felt, not even with Mrs. D.

  Disease was something she’d been taught to ignore or, even more so, disdain. Her father had displayed only contempt for human physical frailty, which had turned Sheridan into a stranger after her mother died. Sheridan swung her chair around and faced the window. When she noticed that it was time to go to the gym, she surmised that Cecilia had shown Lark the room with the massage bench.

  Sheridan’s arms seemed heavier than usual as she wheeled toward the end of the corridor, took a left, then stopped just outside the door. A golden-brown head appeared instantly.

  “I thought I heard you. Ready to begin?”

  Resisting an instinctive “no,” Sheridan merely hummed in vague consent and followed Lark into the room. At the far end, next to the pool, another door led into a spacious room that now held a massage table.

  “I’ve lowered it to the same height as your bed. I want to see how you move over on your own.” Lark motioned toward the table. “The bench is firmer than your mattress, but it should be okay.”

  You’ve been in my bedroom? When? “All right.” Stiff, both emotionally and physically, Sheridan pulled up next to the bed. Using all of her arm strength, she pushed sideways over to the massage table, then tried not to seem as out of breath as she was.

  “Not bad, but it can improve a lot,” Lark stated. “First of all, hasn’t anybody showed you how easy it is to remove the armrests on your wheelchair? Like this.” She tugged at the armrest closest to the table and pressed a small knob at the same time. “There. Now try scooting back.”

  Sheridan obeyed and, to her surprise, had to exert only half the effort to slide sideways back into the chair. Two seconds later she had refastened the armrest and removed it again. “I’ll be damned.”

  Lark laughed out loud, “If you could see the look on your face!” There was no malice in her laughter.

  “Enjoy the moment.” Sheridan gave a faint smile, but thinking about what Lark had confessed earlier, she slowly grew serious again. “Tell me, when were you in my private rooms? I’d appreciate it if you didn’t snoop around without my consent.”

  Staring at Sheridan with a completely blank look on her face, Lark then shook her head. “What do you mean? I haven’t been to your rooms.”

  “You know what my bed looks like.” Somehow Lark’s deceit hurt more than Sheridan had bargained for, and she realized she had harbored a faint hope that Lark would turn out to be different.

  “Only because I asked Cecilia during lunch. I was thinking of different ways to begin the ADL training, and moving in and out of the chair to and from different kinds of furniture is pretty basic.” Lark’s brown eyes darkened to almost black.

  Taken aback, Sheridan glanced down at her hands before she met Lark’s eyes again. “I apologize,” she said stiffly. “It…I got the impression that you—”

  “Took the opportunity to snoop around a big house that belongs to one of the rich and beautiful.” Lark pursed her lips. “Well, who can blame you?”

  Beautiful? Did she realize what she just said? Sheridan could only stare for a few precious seconds, then saw a pink blush creep up Lark’s neck and flood her skin up to her hairline.

  “I’m sorry. I—” Lark coughed, obviously embarrassed. “I spoke before I thought.”

  In other words, not beautiful. Sheridan smiled wryly. “No need to apologize. I see my reflection every day, and I know I look like a barely warmed-up corpse these days.”

  “What?” Lark looked stunned at Sheridan’s attempt to defuse the situation. “No, you don’t. A bit pale, but you look fine.”

  “Fine?” Sheridan remembered only a short time ago when she’d been considered not only one of the richest and the most influential business tycoons in Texas, but also the most stunning. Men and women had always found her attractive, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that she’d married her conglomerate of businesses a long time ago, she could have had a new date on her arm each Saturday. Those days were over now.

  “Yes, fine. Let me help you up on your stomach. You really need that massage now.”

  “Thank you.” Uncertain how exactly this massage was going to take place, Sheridan waited while Lark pushed the wheelchair out of the way.

  “You need to remove everything but your panties. Do you need help? Is it warm enough for you in here?”

  It was suddenly too warm. Irritated, Sheridan told herself that Lark was merely another health-care provider, yet another stranger who gained access to her body, whether she liked it or not. And to think I used to be such a private person. Kind of hard when you need to let people do the most intimate things to you. Sheridan sighed and began to tug at the zipper of her sweat jacket. Undressing wasn’t as invasive as the examinations, probing, blood samples, and other tests done in one of those machines, each more futuristic-looking than the next.

  “I’ll give you some privacy. Shout if you need help.” Lark stepped out of the room and left the door ajar a few inches.

  Silly tears rose in Sheridan’s eyes at the simple courtesy, and as she tugged at her clothes her hands shook a little. Only when she came to the sweatpants did she eventually have to give in. She pulled a terry- cloth towel around her upper body. “Lark?” Her voice was husky and she hoped her tone wasn’t too obvious.

  “Right here. Oh, you did very well, considering that I stuck you on a table with nothing to hold on to. Here. Lie down.” Lark’s gentle hands guided Sheridan onto her back. Within seconds she had efficiently rolled Sheridan back and forth and liberated her from her pants. “There we go. And the socks.” Lark placed a warm towel over Sheridan’s legs and one over her upper body. “Better, huh?”

  “Thank you.” All covered, Sheridan began to relax as Lark reached for her left arm and began to carefully manipulate it. “You have good muscle tone in your arms. Let’s see. Does this hurt?” She pressed down on several points around the elbow, and Sheridan was glad to honestly say that it didn’t.

  Methodically, Lark went over every muscle in Sheridan’s arms and legs, then ended her assessment of each extremity with a gentle, soothing massage. “I use grape-seed oil,” she explained. “Best thing, in my humble opinion.”

  “Grape-seed oil? I’ve had a lot of massages at day spas and so on, but I’ve never heard of it.”

  “All I ever use.”

  “None of my other PTs ever suggested a massage.” Sheridan felt she had to break the comfortable silence or she’d fall asleep. “Especially not Frau Kreutz. She was just as hard-boiled as the name suggests.”

  Lark snorted. “Oh, really?”

  “I hope she’s not a valued friend and colleague of yours.” Sheridan grinned, happy that Lark caught on to her attempt at a joke.

  “Never heard of the esteemed Frau Kreutz. What did she do to you? Push-ups?”

  “Yes.”

  Lark’s hands stopped what they were doing. “What? You’re kidding?”


  “That’s not all she did. She wrapped me in wet, hot towels too. The day she actually scalded me was the day I called the Vogel Agency. I’d had it.”

  Lark still wasn’t moving. “I thought you were kidding. Honestly.”

  “Nope. Frau Kreutz turned out not to be licensed in the US to practice her…trade. In fact, she didn’t have a license to practice in any country.”

  “How did you end up with such a character?” Lark began to massage Sheridan’s left leg again, which wasn’t numb. Indeed, when the pain seared her legs during the night she wished they were.

  “Believe it or not, a friend of my father recommended her. That should have been my first warning, but I was just home and had fired the first PT already.”

  “Wow.” Lark’s hands reached Sheridan’s thigh, and the insistent massage ignited small sparkles across the skin that sent goose bumps from her thigh to her knee. “How many PTs have you sacked, by the way?”

  “Five.”

  “One per week. Interesting.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I intend to be the exception to the rule. Time to roll over. I need to do your back. Something tells me that’s where your problems are.”

  “All right.” Was she as breathless as she sounded? Sheridan struggled to turn her upper body, not even bothering to hold on to any of the towels. She was much too busy trying not to fall off the table. Since Lark was busy guiding Sheridan’s legs, the top towel fell unattended to the floor.

  “Oops. Here’s another one.” Lark placed a folded towel across Sheridan’s lower back and began to work on her shoulders. “Oh, my. You’re so tight here that I could use you as a cutting board. And your muscles are completely in knots. I bet this hurts.”

  “It’s not…so…bad.” Sheridan tried to speak evenly, but Lark’s ministration across her trapezius muscles, all the way from the back of the neck and down to each shoulder, made her squeeze her eyes shut.