STRIPPED OF HER JACKET and skirt, Shannon took stock of her surroundings as she peeled off her tights. With barely any room to turn in the tiny den, she didn’t have the luxury of leaving her boots in the middle of the floor. With no closet, she had to stand them in the corner, squeezed in next to the stacked storage containers holding the rest of her clothes. Most of her worldly possessions—her couch, the tables, her grandmother’s rocking chair . . . the queen bed she’d caught Brad screwing Brenda in—had been sold for practically nothing before she left Denver. Just to afford the fare back home. “Not that I wanted the bed back,” she muttered as she tugged on leggings and the sweatshirt she’d worn earlier in the day.
She tried not to think about all the furniture she’d left behind. Beautiful pieces she’d found in thrift stores. A few antiques thrown in the mix. The fabrics she’d taken hours to select . . . waiting for each of her finds to speak to her. How best to refinish the broken Windsor chairs? Sanding, painting, restoring. When she hadn’t been working at Brad’s restaurant, she’d spent time rehabbing her treasures.
The heartbreak had been her grandmother’s rocker. Adding insult to the injury of losing the inheritance Jane Marshall had left her seventeen year old granddaughter, Shannon had been forced to hock Gran’s rocking chair to secure the final eighty bucks she needed for the mind-numbing bus ride home.
“You’re such a loser, Shan.” Tired of crying over it, she blinked back the aggravating tears trying to force their way out. She’d spent months beating herself up over her stupid mistakes. Punishing herself hadn’t changed her situation. It had only battered her self-esteem even further.
Glancing at the clock on the table wedged next to the futon, she calculated the rest of her day. One hour 'til Kerry got home, assuming she wasn’t working late. Shortly after, Theo would arrive. Their dinner would commence at seven-thirty. Sex would commence at nine-ish . . . if it didn't start up at seven fifteen. Theo was a guy who wanted what he wanted—when he wanted it. Her presence didn't seem to matter.
“I could go to Mom’s for dinner.” But, was a free meal worth the trade-off of an intense interrogation? She could stay at her sister’s, of course. Kerry always made her feel welcome. But Theo’s expression was increasingly one of annoyance. Shan couldn’t really blame the guy—who seemed to truly care for her sister. "You're the interloper." In her sister’s life and her home. It wasn’t fair to crowd their space when Kerry had already given her so much.
Two weeks earlier, she’d landed a part-time home health aide job. Though it was only temporary, it kept her out of the apartment a few days a week. Her first paycheck would arrive Friday. Small as it would be, she could finally offer Kerry a few bucks for rent and food. The rest she would save for a security deposit on a place of her own. If she could land the job with Four Seasons, she'd start earning a real paycheck as early as the following week. Even if one of the hospitals called in the next few days for an interview, she'd easily lose another month. Between the interview process, the background check and the orientation . . . she'd be lucky to start before mid-May.
Her growling stomach reminded her she'd skipped lunch. Okay—she could suck it up for an hour. Eat dinner. Get lectured. Bolt. The visit she'd managed to postpone with her hard-to-please mother would serve to kill two birds. Marilyn's four year litany of criticism had been stockpiled for her eldest daughter's return. In trade for the you'll-never-amount-to-anything lecture, Shannon would cop a free dinner. "Kerry deserves a break."
"An hour—tops," she promised herself forty minutes later on the drive out to her mother's place. After dinner, she could park herself at the community college library. Since moving in with Kerry, she’d grown adept at discovering free places that stayed open late. With the nights lengthening as they approached summer, she sometimes spent her evenings at public parks. Since it didn’t grow dark until eight, she could read on a park bench or get her run in on the track. Occasionally, she watched little league games from the bleachers, pretending she was there watching kids she knew. Concession stand burgers were cheaper than fast food. Pride had her keeping track of each night her sister wasn't obligated to feed her, for it was one less night she felt like a freeloader.
But today was Tuesday. On Tuesdays, the college library was open until ten pm. If she stayed until closing, she’d be home around ten-thirty. Kerry and Theo could have the place to themselves. Hopefully by the time she arrived home, she could slip into the apartment and fall into bed. With earplugs.
CURT FROWNED, REMEMBERING he'd been forced to park in the commuter lot for his class this evening. Normally, he wouldn't mind. But, lately . . . his leg was getting worse. He'd become the living embodiment of the Catch-22. Knowing his days were numbered with the fast approaching surgery, he'd been cramming fourteen hour work days to prepare for a several week absence after surgery. But with no one running the office, he was forced to waste time on tasks that consumed hours he could have better utilized in bidding new work and scheduling the contracts Four Seasons was already committed to.
"This was the last thing you should have taken on." At the time he'd committed to teaching the Introduction to Security Systems class at the community college, his leg had been 'normal' painful. And thoughts of surgery had been shoved to the back of his mind. His plan had been to keep postponing surgery until he could no longer walk.
"Looks like that day has arrived." Hobbling down the last set of stairs, he cursed under his breath as several students passed. For a brief, amazing moment, he appreciated the glorious range of motion they all took for granted. Bouncing down those stairs, with knees that worked properly, cushioning the movement. Ligaments steering them in the right direction as they performed athletic feats their owners had no knowledge of. Eighteen and nineteen year olds—their whole lives ahead of them—unable to fathom how a split second . . . a single moment in an otherwise uneventful day . . . could change everything.
By the spring of the year he turned twenty, the course of his life had already been altered forever. One morning, he'd awakened with two good legs. Shit—two great legs. Two frigging awesome knees. Beautiful, perfect, athletic knees that had carried him down the basketball court rather nicely.
The next time he woke, several weeks had passed. Emerging from the coma, Curt had learned the severity of his injuries. His leg had been severely damaged by the impact with the vehicle he'd collided with. His girlfriend had—thankfully, been uninjured. But by the time he'd awakened, she'd disappeared. Curt had been left to face two more surgeries and the year-long recovery his injuries demanded. After that, the trial. More difficult than the conviction for his actions, was the proceeding itself. Facing the woman's family each day. Knowing he'd destroyed not only his own life, but the lives of an innocent family. Even after he'd served his time, Curt had been left to endure an endless future of days, awakening each morning to the briefest moment of peace . . . until he remembered. He'd taken a life. Every day, he was forced to relive the impact of a single moment in time.
Grateful to clear the lobby without stumbling and embarrassing himself, Curt pushed through the double doors, heading out into the cool night air. The headiness of a floral scented night soothed him momentarily. Despite what had happened thirteen years earlier, he'd finally been able—with therapy—to envision a future for himself. Therapy and Travis. His brother had never given up on him, bullying him through his recovery, through the endless months of physical therapy and sticking with him during his prison sentence. But, it was Travis' wife, MaryJo who had finally provided the perspective that had eluded him for years. Accident. His actions—selfish . . . stupid and careless—had not been deliberate. Acknowledging that had finally made a difference. His remorse could finally serve a purpose.
Grimacing, he began the long hobble to the far side of campus. He would be sweating by the time he got there. Hell, he was sweating now. His doctor's fateful words buzzed in his head with each agonizing step. 'Four years, Curt. Not a moment longer'. Why had he believed he could g
amble with Dr. Sullivan's prediction? Partly, it was the dread of another surgery. This would be his fifth in the last decade. Maybe it was knowing the recovery would be a nightmare. It would be long. Painful. Debilitating. He would be helpless for several weeks. He would suffer. Four Seasons would suffer. And anyone unlucky enough to be stuck managing his care would suffer, too.
So, he'd pushed the surgery from his mind. For not one year, but an idiotic two past the expiration date. As he ignored doctor's orders, pain was something he'd learned to live with. But now—it was weakness, too. His bad leg wouldn't support him. What was left of his knee and the floppy, abused, patched together ligaments was crying uncle. "Fate is gonna bite me in the ass."
Ten minutes later, he was only a quarter of the way to his truck. Damn. His knee felt like mush trying to support his weight. "One wrong step and you're going down." His grim voice broke the monotony of hearing his labored breathing. Double damn. Spying an unoccupied bench, Curt flopped down to regroup. What the hell was he going to do? Resisting the urge to massage his knee, he was a little afraid of what he'd find.
"Okay—if I can just make it to the truck, I can drive myself home." If he pulled up close, he could hop to the steps leading up his porch, then sit on them to push himself up. That would leave the length of the porch; the step up through the front door and about twelve hobbled paces to the couch. "I'll wear the brace," he muttered, bargaining with God and the rapidly emptying parking lot. "And the crutches," he emphasized. He should have been doing exactly that for the past several months. If he'd taken care of himself, he'd likely be in his truck driving home right now. "Instead of praying campus police don't find you sitting here on their midnight rounds."
THE NEVER-ENDING NIGHT was entering its final phase as Shannon walked leisurely to her car. A cool breeze lifted her hair from her collar. The pounding headache she'd arrived on campus with was now a distant memory. The worst part of her evening was safely in the rearview mirror. As hoped for, she had easily a half pound of pasta sitting in containers on the front seat, perfuming her car with the most amazing scent of garlic. “After that lecture, I might eat it again when I get home.”
She'd parked in her usual space, comforted by the flood of light spilling from the library. Around her, car doors slammed as a flood of adult learners rushed to leave the idyllic campus, their evening classes ended for the night. Young, old and ages in between. Shannon loved being on a campus again, even if it was only to kill time. Despite all the loans, she'd loved every minute spent earning her nursing degree. And now that she’d had a taste of working in the business world, she hoped at some point to return to school—maybe take a few business and marketing classes. A nudge toward her dream of one day indulging her passion for rehabbing old, forgotten furniture.
If she hadn't been wandering, intent on observing everyone else leaving campus, she likely would have missed the prone figure on the bench. A man. Not casually sitting. Not waiting for a ride. He was more or less sprawled across the park bench. And even from a distance, he appeared to be in pain.
Tugging her cell from her pocket, she crossed the deserted lot. Not one to take unnecessary risks, Shannon knew she could assess his need for help and dial campus police practically at the same time. Glancing around, she acknowledged seven people within shouting distance—in the event her instincts proved to be off.
"Sir . . . can I help you?" Drawing closer, she watched him shift hastily upright. "Are you alright?"
"Fine. I'm . . . good. No problem." He waved her off. His mistake was in attempting to stand. As his leg crumpled beneath him, she experienced a flash of recognition in the agonized grimace on his face before he slumped to the ground.
"Curtis? Is that you? Mr. Forsythe?" Shannon closed the gap between them, dropping to her knees to assist him. "Don't try to move."
"I don't think that will be a problem." His words were released on a harsh groan. Through a haze of pain, his eyes cleared for a moment. "Sh-Shannon? From . . . the interview? Is that you?"
Focused on his leg, she was careful to run her hands lightly over the joint. Though it was hard to conduct an assessment through his clothing, she guessed the ACL had finally given out. His knee appeared to be distended. "Oh, Curt . . . this isn't good. We need to get you home," she announced. "You're going to need crutches until you can get your surgery scheduled."
"Already scheduled," he rasped. "Four weeks. Crutches at home."
Shannon took a mental inventory of the items in her trunk. She needed something to brace the leg until she could get him upright. And into a vehicle. Hell—and to get him home. Wherever the heck that was. "I don't have an immobilizer, but I have a couple knee straps in my trunk," she remembered. The agency had given her a starter pack of supplies for the elderly client she was visiting three days a week. But cantankerous Mr. Sleighton had refused to use them.
"If you can just help me up, I can make it to my truck."
“On a leg that won’t support you?” Lifting her head, she gazed across the nearly empty parking lot. "Where's your truck? I don't see it."
"I had to park in Q lot tonight. I worked late."
Incredulous, she met his gaze. "Q lot? What was your plan? Crawling there?"
The tension in his eyes was replaced with annoyance. "Could you just get me up on the bench? Please? I’ll take it from there."
"Not until I get that knee strapped." Disregarding his muttered curse, she squatted beside him, level with his piercing stare. Though he was hurting badly, Curtis appeared to be more concerned about looking helpless.
"I've lived with a bum leg for a long time. I think I can handle this."
Normally, Shannon tried to humor her patients, cajoling them into agreement with their treatment plan. But it was late, and she was tired. "Look, my car is right there. I'm gonna drive it over here. I'm going to strap your knee and then we can discuss whether I drive you to your truck or drive you home. Got it?"
Forsythe scowled up at her. "You hid the bossy part of your personality pretty well this afternoon."
"Duh—I was trying to get a job.” Shifting closer to him, she smiled before reaching behind him. "It’s one of many flaws,” she confessed. “If you hire me, you'll eventually discover them all. But for now, put your arm around my neck."
"Is this really necessary?"
"On three we make one clean move," she directed, ignoring his question. Her face was inches from his. So close, she could smell him. Perspiration and the faint remnants of an earthy cologne that would likely induce swooning, had it been fresh. Her sworn enemy smelled as good as he looked.
Why was she helping him? When she could exact revenge now. Leave him there. Helpless. Alone in a parking lot. Late at night. Sure, he could call campus security for help. But, it might take a while. On the flip side, revenge now meant she wouldn't get the job. Though if his surly expression was any gauge of her chances, she'd probably blown that opportunity, too. "I'm going to hoist you up and then a smooth drop to the bench. You'll have about three inches to close the gap."
"Don't hurt yourself," he muttered as he complied.
If not for the darkness, she could've seen the irises in his rather memorable, arctic eyes. "Don't move your leg," she reminded. "Keep it straight. Let me guide you."
It went smoother than she'd expected. Though he was heavy, Curt was able to bear a substantial amount of weight on his left side. He'd clearly become adept over the years at overcompensating for his damaged leg. Sprawled back on the bench, he panted from the effort.
"How's the pain?" Resting for a moment beside him, she dug her keys from her bag.
"Been worse." His jaw clenched tight, perspiration dotted his forehead.
No way in hell would he be able to drive. He was shocky with pain. Absently, she lifted the tail of her sweatshirt and blotted his face. Rummaging through her bag, she withdrew a water bottle. "Sip this. It will help your muscles recover from the shock."
"I think you'd be seriously underutilized as my office manage
r," he said, staring at her as he accepted the bottle.
"Why not look at it as gaining two skills for the price of one?" She forced a light tone, surprised by her reaction to his nearness. Okay—so, Curt was hot. Maybe admitting it would make her stomach stop fluttering. How could she be the one uncomfortable, when he was practically at her mercy? "Okay—I'm going for the car. I'll be right back. Don't even think about moving."
OUT OF THE ASHES
Available January, 2018
Look for Book 4 of the Blueprint to Love series, Hank Freeman's story, SHELTERING ANNIE.
Love Under Construction . . .
Solitary widower Henry Hank Freeman has relearned how to be alone. In a world gone colorless with grief, he views life in varying shades of gray. Until bumping into Annie McKenna, a mysterious woman walking her own lonely road. But when their paths cross, he sees only light. And a rainbow of opportunity.
Annie McKenna doesn't need any distractions. Perpetually on the run from her abusive ex- husband, she has two kids to hide and protect. No job. No money. No hope. Until she meets Hank Freeman at the shelter she's living in. For the first time in years, she's awakened to a sharp sense of longing. For a normal life. With a man she can trust. But Hank seems too good to be true.
Falling for Annie and her boys was the easy part. Convincing her to build a new dream with him might take longer than the addition he's constructing for the shelter. And protecting them from her ex is a full-time job. Believing Henry's beautiful blueprint will take all the faith Ann can summon. She can't afford another mistake. Because where she's escaped from . . . mistakes can kill.
SHELTERING ANNIE
Available February, 2018
Dear Reader:
Thank you for reading OUT ON A LIMB. I hope you enjoyed Travis and MaryJo's adventure on their way to love. If you liked this book, please consider leaving a review at your retail site or on Goodreads. I hope you'll return for Curtis and Shannon's story. OUT OF THE ASHES, available January, 2018.
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