Chapter Two

Birdie’s feet hurt.

But pain wasn’t the worst of her worries. Neither was the certainty that the new minister was a disaster. No, her biggest concern was money. Actually the lack of it.

She glared at the back of the last customer as he strolled out of the diner. He’d left her a quarter and a dime. Thirty-five cents on a seven-dollar order. She shoved the tip in her pocket and balanced his dirty dishes on her arm.

The lunch crowd was getting stingier and stingier. Due to the uncertainty at the asphalt plant, the town’s biggest employer, fewer people ate out and those who did left smaller tips. With two teenage granddaughters to raise on her salary and tips and the payments from her husband’s Social Security, eking by was difficult. Sadly, eking was the best she could do. She needed new shoes if she continued to spend six hours a day on her feet, but couldn’t buy them now, not with school starting in a couple of months, not with the girls’ expenses.

She dumped the dishes in the plastic bin and rolled it into the kitchen, then returned to wipe down all the counters and tables. That finished, she pulled out her cell to call Mercedes Rivera, her lifelong friend, who had a break at work now.

“The new minister is a disaster.” Birdie spoke into the cell as she settled in one of the booths. “I don’t know what to think of the man. He’s so darned young.” She knew her friend would disagree. That’s what she always did, but Mercedes disagreed courteously.

“Now, now, we all have to start someplace. He’ll learn through experience.”

“I don’t want a minister to learn his job by practicing on me. I want a minister with an established connection with God.”

“Stop complaining, Bird. I swan, you’re getting so grumpy.”

Birdie didn’t respond. If she said what she wanted to, she’d just prove Mercedes right, again, so she didn’t say a word.

“Think of him as a novice,” Mercedes said. “Someone who will benefit from your influence.”

Birdie snorted. Mercedes had learned years earlier—back in the toddlers’ class at church when she’d attempted to use the purple crayon Birdie wanted—not to confront her directly. Now Mercedes attempted to lead Birdie.

“We’re not Catholic,” Birdie snapped. “We don’t deal with novices.”

“Then an apprentice. You’ll get him in shape. You know you will.”

Birdie leaned back against the high back of the booth and sighed. “I’ve got a lot going on with the girls and work. You know, I’m not a spring chick. I may be too old to train him.”

She knew Mercedes struggled not to laugh—or be heard laughing over the phone—at the statement. Her friend was always polite.

After a pause, Mercedes said, “Bird, Bird, Bird, as if you’d allow something as insignificant as being busy or growing old to turn you away from your duty.”

The problem with a lifelong friend was that she knew Birdie far too well.

“Rodolfo told me the preacher was really pleased with the new furniture.” Mercedes changed the subject as she always did when Birdie was upset. “Nice of you to bull… to persuade people to donate.”

Birdie harrumphed.

“I know you don’t like to be thanked for good works, but it was nice of you.”

“Hated to see the house bare,” Birdie explained. “He didn’t have a thing, not a stick of furniture, nothing worthy of that beautiful old parsonage. I couldn’t stand it.”

“All right. You got the community together to provide furniture only to preserve the architectural integrity of the house.” Mercedes didn’t contain the laugh this time. “I should know better than to compliment you for doing something nice.”

Birdie glanced at the clock. Nearly two thirty. She needed to get home if she wanted to see the girls. “Talk to you later.” She folded the phone and stuck it in her pocket.

As usual during the summer, the girls had slept in this morning. Bree, a junior, had volleyball practice until six and Mac, a sophomore, would be marching with the band until five thirty. If she hurried home, she could see them before they took off.

Her daughter had given the girls silly names: MacKenzee and Bre’ana. Whoever heard of putting an apostrophe in the middle of a name or identical vowels at the end? Birdie had given her daughter a sensible name. Martha. Martha Patricia. Had Martha lived up to such an honest, trustworthy name? No, at seventeen and without finishing school, she’d run off with a no-good man who’d deserted her when she got pregnant the second time. Everyone had told her he was all hat and no cattle, but Martha wouldn’t listen.

Martha, irresponsible Martha who’d always needed a man to take care of her and couldn’t take care of anyone else, spoiled by her father and disciplined by her mother, had come home to have the baby. She’d disappeared only weeks after MacKenzee’s birth, as Birdie had suspected she would. Birdie had ended up raising two girls when she was looking to retire, but what else could she do?

The community had shortened the girls’ names to Bree and Mac. With that, every trace of Martha disappeared from Butternut Creek except the memories of her miserable mistakes and her terrible grades in the permanent record of the school district.

All that had happened a few months after Elmer’s death. The double loss about killed her. Not that she let anyone know, but inside, deep inside, she’d felt as if she didn’t have anything left but a future of pain, exhaustion, and sorrow. But the girls, they’d pulled her out of that. They’d brought new meaning to her life, as well as worry and fatigue.

After she finished wiping down the last table, Birdie shouted, “Bye, Roy,” to the manager as she left the diner. He waved, then went back to separating the checks and credit card receipts.

After the two-block walk to the bungalow she and Elmer had bought forty years earlier, she entered and shouted, “I’m home, girls.”

“Hey, Grandma.” Mac came down the stairs to hug her. The child had curly brown hair, matching brown eyes, and the sweetest smile in the world. “Gotta go. Band practice starts in fifteen minutes and I need to get my trumpet out of the music room.”

“Did you eat lunch?” Birdie shouted as the girl ran out the door.

Then Bree, always in motion, dashed across the room, her long, straight dark hair swirling behind her. Everything about this older grandchild snapped with energy. She made Birdie tired just watching her. With a quick wave, she passed her grandmother and shouted as the screen door snapped shut behind her, “Love ya. See you tonight.”

At least she’d seen them. Birdie grinned for a second. They were good girls, turned out well. If she weren’t so worried and weary, she’d admit she loved them more than anything. They’d been the joy and center of her life since she’d first held them, but Birdie’d never tell them. Well, maybe on her deathbed. They’d get swelled heads if she got all sentimental. Besides, she wasn’t real good about expressing feelings. They’d all feel uncomfortable, her most of all.

Stepping out of her shoes, she headed toward the laundry room and tossed a load into the washer. Within two hours, she dropped folded towels on a spot she’d cleared on Bree’s unmade bed by shoving several stuffed animals on the floor. She hoped the child could find the pile when she needed them.

She rotated her left shoulder. Impingement. That’s what the doctor had said a month ago, then sent her to physical therapy. When her shoulder started hurting, Birdie quit picking clothes up and straightening the girls’ room. They were old enough to do that. If Bree couldn’t find a clean uniform because they were all in her athletic locker or Mac complained the jeans she’d planned to wear that day were dirty, Birdie just shrugged. Amazing how quickly the girls discovered the location of the dirty clothes hamper and learned to use the washing machine.

For a moment she paused, considered her thoughts, and shook her head. She had become a crabby old lady, exactly like Mercedes had told her, politely and as only a friend of long standing could. The realization had surprised her a little, but this was not the time or place for self-examination. She had plenty to do and no time to find a new attitude.

On Bree’s side of the bedroom hung posters of men and women with tattoos. She called them tats and wanted a rose on her back. What did she call it? A “tramp stamp”? If that didn’t beat all. Birdie’d never allow that. At times, the girl acted a lot like her mother, except that Bree made fair grades and didn’t get in trouble, and had the possibility of a college scholarship in either volleyball or basketball.

Birdie smiled. A MacDowell in college. Every member of Mercedes’s family had gone to college, most to graduate school, but Bree would be the first MacDowell.

In contrast with her sister’s, Mac’s side of the room looked spare. Desk with a lamp on it, desk chair, dresser, and bed. One of the posters on her wall showed some scientist from England with numbers floating over his head. Stephen Hawking, Mac had told her. Why would anyone have a poster of a physicist—that’s what Mac said he was—on the wall?

The other poster showed Wynton Marsalis playing a trumpet, the instrument Mac played. The portraits of the two men faced each other across the bedroom, precisely hung and as straight as if they’d been lined up with a ruler. Birdie felt as if she should straighten the stack of clean towels to conform to the rigid angles of the room.

Forget it. Little Miss Perfect—Bree’s name for her younger sister—could refold them if they didn’t please her.

In her own bedroom, Birdie padded barefoot across the scuffed hardwood to put her shoes in the closet and slide into a worn pair of slippers. On the way, Carlos the Cat attacked her ankles before he ran under the bed.

Lord, she was tired. She leaned against the wall. For a moment, she felt dizzy from exhaustion, but she shoved the feeling aside. She couldn’t get sick. What would happen to her granddaughters if she did? How would the church survive this new minister without her guidance? She attempted to pray for strength but it took too much effort and never seemed to help much anyway.

Or maybe it did. Maybe she’d be in an even worse state if she didn’t pray.

She needed to sit down for a minute, rest. After pausing in the kitchen to pour herself a glass of tea, she went out to the front porch of the small house and settled into one of the Adirondack chairs. Elmer had built them so he and Birdie could sit on the porch and wave to neighbors. He’d died only a year after that and she no longer had the time or the desire to sit there. She hadn’t when Elmer had placed them there, but he’d enjoyed that hour together even if it made Birdie want to leap up and start sweeping the steps or pull a few weeds.

Early evening was surprisingly cool for June, although the weather was never really cool in Texas during the summer. Less hot, at maybe eighty-five degrees. The big maple she and Elmer had planted years ago shaded the area. A nice breeze cooled the porch as peace and quiet overcame her. She took a deep breath and leaned back, closing her eyes to breathe in the warm Texas air laden with the scent of gardenias.

The calm lasted five minutes before she got antsy. She hated peace and quiet. Too much to do. She wouldn’t relax until they put her in the casket, if then. She pulled the phone out of her pocket to call Pansy about the food pantry. The woman would destroy the entire effort if Birdie didn’t step in and set her straight.

When Adam explored the entire house the next morning, the sheer size again overwhelmed him. Downstairs, the tiny basement had a dirt floor. Spiderwebs hung from supports and a twenty-watt lightbulb illuminated a small circle, but a washer and dryer sat in the corner so he didn’t mind the primitive surroundings.

The second floor had five bedrooms, each larger than both the bedrooms together in the Kentucky parsonage, and two bathrooms. The space on the third floor stretched across the entire house with storage closets built into the eaves. It seemed like a huge playroom for all those children he didn’t have.

He strode up and down staircases and across halls and into bedrooms, his footsteps resonating loudly on the hardwood floors. Last night, his sleeping bag had felt warm and familiar. Tonight he’d haul his things upstairs, and approach the nuptial bed.

Before he could decide which to do—to laugh at or worry about that thought—he checked his watch. It was after nine o’clock, the time he’d decided a real minister started the day. He’d dressed like a real minister in a pair of black slacks and a white shirt with one of his two ties: a red one and a ministerial one with black and gold stripes. He also had a Christmas tie his best friend had given him. Red with elves on it that played “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” He doubted he’d have many chances to wear that one, now he was a real minister.

Because he was already running late, Adam hurried, descending the steps from the second floor two-by-two. Reaching the first floor, he grabbed a file folder and his Bible and headed out the door toward the church.

“Hello, Preacher,” a woman called from behind him as he headed north across the lawn.

When he turned, Adam saw a smiling blonde coming down the steps of the even larger Victorian next door, a plate in one hand and a little girl grasping the other.

“I’m Ouida Kowalski.” She nodded at the child. “This is Gretchen.”

“Weed-a?” he said.

“Yes, that’s how it’s pronounced. It’s spelled O-u-i-d-a. A Southern name and a family name. Most people who aren’t from here don’t know it.” She smiled and held the plate out. “I heard you’re young and single so I brought you some sweet rolls for breakfast.”

He took the offering and couldn’t help but smile back. “Thank you. Are you a member of the church?” he asked, completely ignorant of who was and who wasn’t.

“No, not of any church.” Her smile didn’t diminish. “George, my husband, says we’re missing the spiritual gene. I don’t know.” She shrugged before leaning toward him. “But even if we’re heathens, we’re good neighbors and are delighted you’re here. That parsonage has been empty for too long. I hope you don’t mind, but the kids have been playing on the swing set in your yard.”

Other than noting the existence of grass, he hadn’t studied the back lawn in detail. “No problem. Glad someone can use it.”

“Mama.” Gretchen tugged on her mother’s hand.

“Better go,” Ouida said. “Again, welcome.”

The sun shone and the birds sang and his neighbors had brought him breakfast. There could be no better place to be in the entire world.

When he entered his office, an immediate problem confronted him: sixteen boxes of books and only two small bookcases, already filled with dusty tomes that he felt sure no one had perused in years. Maybe centuries.

“Excuse me.”

He turned to see a plump dark-haired woman.

“I’m the part-time secretary, Maggie Bachelor.” She held out a hand and gave him a hearty handshake. “Good to meet you. I just got here, running a little late. I work from nine to eleven four days a week. I answer the phone, type the newsletter, and print the bulletin.” She ticked off each duty on her fingers. “I’ll need everything written out and on time so I can get the bulletin and the newsletter done.” She put a sheet of paper on his desk. “Here are the deadlines.”

She reminded him of a hummingbird. She talked fast—not that hummingbirds talk—but she also flitted from place to place.

“Do you have your sermon title, scripture, and hymns?”

Fortunately, he’d realized that his first week would be busy and had worked on the sermon last week. “It’s from the tenth chapter of…”

She pointed at a pad and pen on the desk. “Write it down.”

“Do you have a hymnal handy?” Adam had imprudently neglected to memorize the page numbers of the hymns. Actually, he’d neglected to choose any but wasn’t willing to confess that failing.

“On your desk, too.” She fluttered her fingers toward him and left.

Following her instructions, Adam jotted down his sermon title and scripture, then hunted through the hymnal. Finished, he stood and walked the information out to Maggie.

She glanced at the hymns he’d chosen then glanced up at him. “Oh, dear, Pastor, the congregation doesn’t know the last two.”

“Won’t it be fun to learn them?” he asked.

Her expression assured him it wouldn’t. She picked up a pen. “I’ll choose a couple we know.”

“I’d like for the congregation to sing the ones I picked. They go with the theme of the morning.”

“Well, if that’s your choice, but…” Her words, expression, and shrug warned of dire consequences. “Well, then, here’s your visitation and hospital call list for today.” She handed him several note cards.

At eleven thirty, half an hour after Maggie left, Adam heard a knock at the office door. Just outside, he saw a large man wearing enormous paint-stained overalls with an orange-and-yellow Hawaiian shirt underneath.

“Ralph Foxx.” The visitor stretched out a meaty hand. “Two x’s on the end, like that old baseball player, Jimmie double-x Foxx. Played for the Philadelphia A’s.”

Adam didn’t know about the baseball player and hadn’t realized the A’s had ever been in Philly, but he still shook his visitor’s hand and gestured toward chairs covered with books. “Please sit if you can find a place.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Pulling a chair in from the office, Ralph settled down and made himself comfortable. Adam later discovered settling down comfortably was one of his greatest talents. Talking was another. Within minutes Adam had learned about Ralph’s sciatica, his wife’s hysterectomy, and much more. He didn’t know how to shut off this font of information, but what else did Adam have to do this morning except pick up his car, which Rex had called to tell him was ready?

Adam discovered within a week that the retired men of the church felt it was their duty to keep the minister company, especially a single young man like him who obviously had nothing else to do and needed to be amused.

“Are you working today?” Adam successfully interrupted after five minutes.

Obviously disappointed the minister had gotten a word in, Ralph shook his head. “I’m a painter. Seasonal work. Not much business today. That’s why I’m retired this week.”

“Then maybe you can help me.”

The two men spent the next hour moving the church’s books to the library and putting the new minister’s on the shelves as Ralph talked on and on. Finally, Ralph said he couldn’t work anymore, because of that sciatica. When he left, Adam knew more about the Foxx family and its far-flung branches all over the country than he’d wanted, but he’d also learned a few things about church members. Not a wasted morning.

“Getting old isn’t for sissies,” Birdie mumbled to herself. Stiff and straight in the chair of the physical therapy waiting room at the hospital, she flipped through a magazine. Old Elgin Crump who lived down on Highway 28 slumped in his wheelchair. Must be at least eighty-five. Next to him sat Susan Pfannenstiel, her walker pulled up next to the chair.

Two younger patients waited alone, reading magazines. One was a cheerleader, a friend of Bree’s, who’d fallen from the top of a pyramid during halftime at a basketball game. Those stunts should be outlawed. What had happened to the cheerleaders of her time, back when they wore uniforms that covered their navels and reached to their knees? Back then, they just jumped up and down and shouted. Now they jiggled their bodies and built towers the girls toppled off.

Birdie didn’t recognize the young man. Maybe six feet tall but she couldn’t tell. He slumped. His dark hair fell almost to his shoulders, rumpled but clean, like a man who cared about hygiene but had no interest in his appearance. She’d noticed when he came in that his jeans and khaki-colored T-shirt hung straight from his broad shoulders like he’d lost weight and hadn’t bothered to buy clothes that fit.

Mostly she’d noticed his stumbling gait on the crutches when he entered, the lines of pain etched on his face, and the missing right leg. And yet, with the stubble on his world-weary face, he was handsome in a lost-soul way, in the dangerous and slightly disreputable manner many young women would find intriguing.

Was he Effie Peterson’s nephew? Couldn’t be too many amputees in the area, but he didn’t look a bit like the happy kid who used to visit his aunt—no, his great-aunt—years ago. She’d heard Sam’d come back and was living in Effie’s house. No one had been inside since Mercedes and Birdie and her granddaughters had cleaned it after the funeral. Probably covered with dust now and smelled musty.

She should go say hello to the young man, even if he wasn’t Sam Peterson. Wouldn’t hurt. Might be the only time anyone from the church could get in touch with him, but she hated to step up. No one would ever guess Birdie MacDowell hesitated to do anything. She usually didn’t, but speaking to anyone about her church never felt comfortable, not in the least, especially if she had to approach a man who looked so unwelcoming, and do that out here in the middle of a waiting room with people watching.

But doggone it, she had to. God would expect it.

To protect her left shoulder, she pushed herself up with her right hand and briskly walked to his chair.

“Hello.” She stretched out her hand. “I’m Birdie MacDowell.”

He ignored her hand but made brief contact with eyes that held no emotion.

“Are you Effie Peterson’s nephew Sam?”

He dropped his gaze to the magazine.

“I’m a member of the Christian Church on the highway, the one your aunt attended. We’d surely like to see you there sometime.”

He didn’t say a word, didn’t nod or lift his eyes or change expression.

She’d tried, which was all anyone could expect her to do. “We’re a friendly church,” she said to the top of his head. “Give Pastor Adam a call if you need anything.” She took a few steps backward, almost tripped over the footrests on Elgin Crump’s wheelchair, then turned and headed for her chair.

As she settled back in her seat, she noticed everyone staring at her before their gazes fell back on what they were reading. She didn’t care. She was supposed to welcome people to town, invite them to church. She’d done her duty.

When she considered the problems and pain that plagued the others in the waiting room, she guessed she was pretty lucky to have only this shoulder acting up. Not good at all for a waitress to have a bad shoulder but better than a bad back or a bad knee.

“Mrs. MacDowell,” the physical therapy clerk, a flighty teenager named Trixie, called from the doorway.

Inwardly cursing the weakness she hated to display, Birdie again pushed herself up with her right hand and straightened to walk into the therapy area. Curtains covered the treatment area in the back while other clients walked or pushed and tugged on the machines and weights on the main floor. Birdie stepped on a stool to pull herself onto a high table. Across the room, a pretty redheaded woman watched another patient for a few seconds before turning and approaching Birdie.

“I’m Willow Thomas, the new physical therapist.” She held out her hand.

Birdie took it, noticing the woman’s gentle grip. She figured the dead-fish handshake wasn’t a sign of weak character but an effort not to crush anyone’s arthritic joints.

“Welcome home, Willow. We’re all glad to see you back. I remember you from way back when you sang in the Cherub Choir at church.” She smiled in as friendly a way as she could muster with the darned pain. “Won’t ever forget when you and your friends used to come into the diner after football games when you were in high school.”

How old was Willow? A little younger than Martha’s age, she guessed. Thirty-two or thirty-three. Probably she’d been too old to have met Sam when he visited Effie during the summer, too wide an age difference.

The young woman smiled, a lovely expression that made her features glow. “I didn’t know if you’d remember me. It’s good to be home.”

“You’re still one of our kids. Hope to see you in church again Sunday.”

“My sons and I plan to be there.”

Birdie swelled with a sense of accomplishment. Someone had accepted her invitation, even appeared pleased to get it.

“I’m not going to work with you today because I have a few folks to evaluate,” Willow said. “But I wanted to introduce myself. Christine will oversee your exercises.”

“As usual,” Birdie grumbled to herself. Christine, a PT aide, was sweet but so young she didn’t know anything. Birdie had attempted to talk to her about the Beatles and the first Gulf War, but she had to explain history and culture before 1990 to Christine. It was a whole heck of a lot easier to count the exercises out loud than attempt conversation with the child. Christine placed the cane in Birdie’s upraised hands and watched Birdie move it slowly forward and back over her head.

In a few minutes, Birdie heard the clerk call Sam Peterson.

“How’s the pain been?” the aide asked Birdie.

Obviously Christine hadn’t seen Sam yet or the young woman wouldn’t be paying attention to her.

“Fine, just fine,” Birdie lied. She couldn’t let on she was getting too old to carry heavy trays. If she did and lost her job, how would she support her granddaughters? If she didn’t tell anyone, if she gritted her teeth, she could push through exactly like she always had.

“Well, that’s good. Willow wants me to teach you another exercise to loosen up your shoulder and increase your range of motion.”

Then Christine glanced away from Birdie and her eyes grew enormous. Birdie lifted her head to see Sam limp into the therapy room and watched the reaction of the females. It was as entertaining as she’d expected. Trixie could barely take her gaze off him and tripped over Angus’s wheelchair while Christine just stood mouth open and outright gawked at the man. The cheerleader, who had been absorbed by her magazine back in the waiting room, followed his unsteady progress with wide eyes.

Sam didn’t notice. He barely lifted his gaze as he manipulated around the obstacles. When he did glance up, his eyes landed on Willow, who was talking to the cheerleader and hadn’t seen him yet. His reaction stunned Birdie. He stopped still, completely motionless, and gaped at Willow. Birdie bet she was the only one who had a handle on the meaning of his expression because the others were too busy watching other parts of the man, but she recognized it. Right there between the therapy table and the exercise ramp, he fell in love. At least, that was the way Birdie saw it. She was seldom wrong.

For barely a second, his expression was unguarded and vulnerable. Almost immediately, so quickly she might have thought it hadn’t happened, his features became sullen again as he looked at his foot and swung himself forward.

Back before his leg was blown off, Sam had appreciated women. He liked how they smelled, flowery and sweet. He liked their soft roundness, which made him feel even tougher and stronger in comparison. As a marine, he loved the way their pink and pale blue and mint-green clothing floated and swirled like pastel butterflies around his drab camo or dress blues.

He appreciated their soft spirits, their generous gestures, their winks and smiles. He never had trouble attracting any of them.

So why did the sight of this woman hit Sam so hard? She didn’t look soft and sweet. She wore tailored black slacks and a crisply starched white shirt, buttoned almost to the top. The combination didn’t make her look anything like a butterfly. He doubted she’d ever swirl around him.

For whatever reason, his reaction to her hit him hard, like the kickback of a rocket launcher, with a shock that shook his world.

Red hair and, he guessed, green eyes. Since her beautifully rounded backside was all he could see, he didn’t know.

When she turned to pick up a file, she glanced at him and smiled absently before returning her attention to the patient.

Yeah, green eyes and dimples and long lashes and a slender, slightly tilted-up nose. Her smile seemed cursory, as if she’d barely noticed him while she concentrated on her other patient. Not a usual female reaction to him.

But even her perfunctory smile made him feel like a man for the first time in months. Probably because the greeting came from rounded lips on the more-than-pretty face that topped her great body. He guessed she thought the severe hairstyle made her look more professional, but it didn’t. The sleekness emphasized her cheekbones and eyes and skin, almost everything about her. He bet she dressed like that to look strong and in-charge, but a woman who looked like her could never hide behind a starched shirt.

For a moment he swayed on the crutches as he checked her out. How old was she? Thirty-something? She didn’t look like it, but there were a few—he didn’t know what to call them. Not wrinkles because they didn’t make her look old. Maybe brackets or creases? No, she had a couple of grooves around her eyes, and frown marks between her eyebrows that emphasized dark circles under her eyes. A year ago, he would’ve thought he was just the man to cheer her up, but his confidence had ebbed considerably since the injury. As much as he liked them, his interest in women had lessened, too, until now.

“Excuse me, Mr. Peterson.” Trixie stepped in front of him, grinning and fluttering her eyelashes at him.

He hated women’s reactions to him now. His looks had been inherited from the general and generations of military men going back centuries. He had nothing to do with his appearance, plus he didn’t really want anyone noticing him for any reason. Right now, he didn’t feel too good about himself and was hardly a great choice for anything, not even a date. He had more problems than he could handle himself, let alone burden anyone else with.

Unfortunately, the longer he allowed his hair to grow, the scruffier his whiskers, and the deeper his frown, the more women fell at his feet. Most of them didn’t mind the fact he was missing a limb and lost his balance more times than he could count, but he did. Most of the females wanted to rescue him, to take care of him, to fall in love. He didn’t want to be taken care of or rescued. Didn’t need to be fixed and refused to fall in love.

He didn’t want romance. He didn’t want a relationship. Right now, he didn’t even want to pick up a woman, not with the stump at the end of his leg guaranteed to scare her off. With that and the pain any kind of movement caused, celibacy seemed pretty much his only choice these days.

But still Trixie stood in front of him, smiling and winking and flipping her hair while he swayed on the crutches.

Willow Thomas sighed. Whenever a good-looking guy arrived in PT, Trixie lost every bit of her nearly invisible veneer of professionalism. More good-looking guys than Willow had thought came here: college kids with broken bones and high school football players with bad knees, all far too young for Willow. But this one looked about Willow’s age if she discounted the deep lines of pain and the snarl Trixie’s attention brought forth.

Flirting was like breathing for Trixie. Willow had counseled the young woman, attempted to explain, then finally lectured her on the difference between their clients in PT and possible dates for the weekend. Trixie’s efforts at professionalism lasted until the next good-looking guy entered the room. Now she was nearly drooling.

Even displaying depression and anger like most of the vets she worked with, the new patient was hot. Willow had to admit that. This patient—she glanced down at the schedule—Captain Samuel Daniel Peterson looked so fine, even Willow felt an instant attraction. Hard for any man to make her feel that way.

But she ignored it. She was a therapist who treated all patients the same: professionally.

“Captain,” she said as she approached him. “I’m Willow Thomas, one of the physical therapists here.” She reached her hand out. When he glared at it, she drew it back. “I’ll be doing an intake at your next appointment. Today Trixie, our PT aide, is going to check your range of movement and degree of strength to get a baseline.”

Willow smiled. He didn’t.

“Please let me know what I can do to help.”

He glanced up at her, making eye contact for a second. He had beautiful blue eyes, but they were red with broken veins. She knew well what that meant, had seen it often before. Seemed sad that this man should let himself go, drink so much it showed.

Then he dropped his gaze again, an admission that he really didn’t care where she went or what she did as long as she left him alone. So she did, but not before she glanced at his reflection in the mirror that covered the entire west wall. As she moved away, he’d again lifted his eyes and watched her.