SEAL of My Dreams
Page 4
“Actually,” he ventured, “you look pretty good from here.” He gave her his most charming smile. “Sorry about that—I didn’t see you.”
“Really?” She indicated her neon-colored running clothes. “Are you blind?”
“No,” he said cheerfully. “Hop in, I’ll give you a ride.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t know where I’m going.”
“I grew up here—wherever you’re going, it can’t be far.”
She angled her head and stepped closer. “You’re Barry Ballantine.”
He grinned. “That’s right. Do I know you?”
“No,” she said, then took off on a jog in the direction she’d been running.
Barry frowned, then backed up the Jeep to keep pace with her. She ignored him and slung water from her long arms. His mind raced to place her, but he felt sure if he’d seen this dark-haired beauty before, he’d remember it. Porter Armstrong knew he was coming—maybe word had gotten around town to be on the lookout for a stranger. Sweetness was like that . . . or at least it used to be.
“C’mon, jump in,” he cajoled. “I’m sorry—let me make it up to you.”
“You can’t,” she yelled.
“Hey, that’s not fair, I’m trying here.” A horn blared behind him. He slammed on the brakes and the car went around him.
The woman had stopped, her hands up, as if bracing to see a collision.
“You’re going to cause an accident,” he said pointedly, then leaned over and opened his passenger side door. “C’mon, get in. You’re shivering.”
The woman looked at the door, then down to her soaked clothes and relented with a drop of her shoulders. She strode to the Jeep wordlessly. Barry scrambled to move the wooden box in the seat to the floorboard. She swung into the seat and banged the door closed, but sat as close to it as possible, as if she might dive through the open window if he made a wrong move. Her shoes squished and water dripped from the end of a very pretty nose . . . and chin.
Barry stared at her profile, searching his memory banks and coming up empty. He reached into the backseat and pulled a sweatshirt from his duffel bag. “Here, put this on.”
“Thanks,” she mumbled, pulling the sweatshirt over her head. It swallowed her, but the shivering subsided.
“Where to?” he asked.
She didn’t look at him. “I’m staying at the boarding house, straight ahead.”
He put the Jeep into gear and drove slowly. “You’ll have to show me when we get there. I’ve been away for a while.”
“I know.”
He frowned. “So how do you know who I am?”
Her mouth tightened. “We went to school together . . . here.”
Surprise shot through him. “Here in Sweetness? I’m sorry, I don’t remember. What’s your name?”
She finally turned to look at him. “Lora Jansen.”
The last name rang a bell because there had been several families named Jansen in the area, but he couldn’t place the sweet, heart-shaped face of the girl next to him. Her eyes were as green as grass, framed with a dark fringe of lashes. Her mouth was wide and curvy, and he had the feeling if he could coax a smile out of her, dimples would appear under those high cheekbones. How could he forget such a face?
“Were you behind me?” he asked. Their high school had been small, a couple hundred kids at most.
“Actually, I sat directly behind you in sophomore English.”
He squinted. “We were in the same grade?”
She nodded and pulled at the hem of her wet shorts. “What brings you back to Sweetness?”
He took in her fresh face and wide-eyed innocence, and felt a surge of gratitude that she would never have to see the things he’d seen. “A favor for a friend.”
She pointed as they approached the downtown area. “The boardinghouse is the large building with the porches.”
Barry looked around at the collection of structures that were so different from the original downtown area—in addition to the boardinghouse was a diner, a general store, a city hall building, a medical clinic, and a strip of storefronts that housed a hair salon and other businesses. Pedestrians bustled around on new sidewalks. In the distance, he saw a new school. “I can’t believe it,” he murmured. “They really have rebuilt the town.”
She nodded. “The Armstrong brothers are the driving force for pretty much everything around here. The town’s expanding every day. You can let me out here.”
He pulled into the parking lot of the diner that sat across from the boardinghouse. She’d jumped out before the Jeep stopped. When she banged the door closed she chirped, “Thanks,” and turned to go.
“Wait,” he called. “Can you tell me where I can find Porter Armstrong?”
She gestured toward a narrow side road. “He’s usually at the construction office. You can park here and walk—it’s not too far.”
“Thanks . . . Lora. Sorry I got you wet.” He scratched his temple. “And I’m sorry I don’t remember you from school—I guess it’s been too long.”
She gave him a flat smile. “I went by another name back then.”
“What was it?”
“Metal Face.” She lifted her hand in a wave, then looked both ways before jogging across the road.
Her words resonated in his head like a gong. Metal Face—the name he and his buddies had given to a gangly dark-haired girl in their class who had a mouthful of braces and big, wire-framed glasses. They had teased her mercilessly . . . how miserable she must’ve been, and how much she must’ve hated him. He didn’t remember directly taunting her, but he certainly hadn’t done anything to stop it. And what did it say about him that he couldn’t even remember her real name?
Well, if it was any consolation, Lora Jansen had shown them . . . Metal Face had grown up to be a knockout. Good for her.
Shoulda, coulda, wouldas flitted through his head as he parked the Jeep. Barry reached for the wood box in the floorboard and hopped out. After collecting a cane from the rear seat, he turned in the direction of the construction office. It would be nice to see Porter Armstrong again after all these years.
“Ooh!” Lora closed the door to her room with more force than necessary. It was so like Barry Ballantine to breeze back into town and humiliate her all over again, as if he was still the most popular jock in school and she were still Metal Face. She yanked off the sweatshirt he’d given her, along with her wet T-shirt, then grabbed a towel to dry her arms and squeeze more water out of her hair. Her hands shook, more from anger than cold.
Of course he would have matured into a gorgeous man, his sandy hair still sun-kissed, his blue eyes even more arresting, his chiseled jaw even more . . . chiseled, darn it. She hated how she could look into his eyes and revert back to her fifteen-year-old self, clumsy and tongue-tied. She’d heard through the grapevine that Barry had joined the military, which the Naval insignia on the sweatshirt he’d lent her seemed to bear out.
She released her ponytail and walked to the window while she towel-dried her hair. Barry had parked his Jeep and emerged, taking her advice, she presumed, to walk to the construction office. It came as no surprise that he was tall and wide-shouldered, but she was shocked to see him using a cane and favoring his left leg. As she watched his awkward gait, she zoned in on the injured leg with a practiced eye. The top part of his jeans leg was filled out with a powerful thigh, but the bottom part of his pants billowed loosely around a stiff core. Lora covered her mouth with stunning realization.
Barry Ballantine was walking on a prosthetic lower leg.
Chapter Three
Lora couldn’t get her mind off him, not even after she started her afternoon shift at the Sweetness Family Medical Center. When Dr. Nikki Salinger had brought her on board as a physical therapist, she’d had her doubts that a town the size of Sweetness—even if it was growing every day—would offer enough patients to keep her busy. But with the army of men and women the Armstrongs had employed to build the town, there was always a bac
k, neck, limb, or joint that needed to be rehabilitated. Today between Mr. Tyler’s trick knee and Ms. Jacoby’s carpel tunnel, she found her mind going back to Barry again and again. She felt horrible for being so short with him—it wasn’t as if he’d splashed her on purpose. And it seemed petty to hold him accountable for all the unkind teasing that had come her way in high school. That was, after all, more than a decade ago.
On the other hand, she didn’t want to fall into the trap of feeling sorry for the man simply because he’d lost part of his leg—amputees were not to be pitied. But she was sensitive to the fact that it was likely he’d lost it defending his country, and to the fact that his life would always be harder than a person who had two healthy legs.
By mid-afternoon, the man had worn a rut in her mind. So when she walked a patient to the lobby and she spotted Barry coming into the clinic, she thought she’d conjured him up. She watched him move, took note of his alignment and how it threw off his gait. He stopped in front of the receptionist’s desk and spoke briefly. When the woman gestured toward the waiting area, he headed toward a row of chairs. Before he could sit, he noticed her and stopped.
Lora felt obliged to move toward him. Her pulse clicked higher with every step. “Hello,” she said simply.
He straightened and subtly moved the cane behind him. “You, again.” He tried to smile, but she noticed the pinched look around his mouth.
“Me, again.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“No, I’m a physical therapist.”
His eyes clouded. “I’ve seen my share of those.”
She inclined her head. “How long have you had the prosthesis?”
Surprise flickered over his face. “About three months.”
“Is it trans-tibial?”
“Yeah, I got to keep my knee, thank goodness.”
She nodded. “Do you mind if I ask what brings you in to the clinic?”
He gave her a tight smile. “I need a prescription.”
“For pain killers?” When he didn’t respond immediately, she added, “I can tell you’re in pain.”
“Damn foot still thinks it’s down there.”
“Have you tried massage?”
His mouth tightened. “No offense, but the pain meds work for me.”
She kept her tone light. “No offense, but I can get you off that cane.”
Anger flashed in his eyes. He brought the cane around front and leaned harder. “I’m okay with the cane—I think it adds character.”
Lora inclined her head as she backed away. “Sorry to intrude. I’m sure Dr. Salinger will get you what you need.”
“I think you need more physical therapy,” Dr. Salinger said.
From the exam table where Barry sat, he tamped down his irritation. “I’ve had six months of physical therapy.” He thumped the exposed metal prosthesis, then rolled down his jeans leg. “I’ve gotten as good with this thing as I’m going to get.”
The doctor gave him a little smile. “Maybe.”
“I’m not addicted to the painkillers,” Barry said. “I take them only when I really need them.”
She nodded. “I believe you. I completed my residency at a veterans’ hospital, so unfortunately, I’ve treated many amputees. I think the right physical therapist would not only increase your mobility, but also decrease your pain. I don’t know how long you’re planning to stay in Sweetness, but we have an excellent therapist here at the clinic.”
Barry set his jaw. Having one of the male physical therapists at Bethesda Naval Hospital work on his stump was one thing, but having Lora Jansen’s hands on him and letting her see him stumble and fall around—no thanks. “I’m only going to be here for a few days.”
Dr. Salinger studied him until he averted his gaze. When he looked back, she angled her head. “I’ll make you a deal, Seaman Ballantine—I’ll write you the script for the pain meds, if you agree to a one-hour session with our physical therapist before you leave today.”
Barry pushed his tongue into his cheek—he didn’t like being blackmailed. But he’d been trained to handle torture at the hand of the enemy . . . he could handle Lora Jansen for one measly hour.
“Again,” Lora said.
Frustration ballooned in Barry’s chest and he made a face.
She arched an eyebrow. “You have a problem with walking?”
“No,” he said more vehemently than the situation warranted. “But I’ve walked across the room and back a dozen times.” And he hated that each time she’d studied him as if he were a newly discovered species of animal.
She lifted a camera. “This time I’m going to record you.”
“This isn’t like any PT I’ve had,” he grumbled as he once again traversed the floor of the long, narrow room furnished with equipment, sets of stairs, walking corrals, and massage tables.
“And now back, please.”
He retraced his steps, feeling irritable and self-conscious. And the more self-conscious he felt, the more he leaned on the cane. “Do you get paid to watch people walk?”
She lifted her head from the camera. “Sort of. Okay, you can have a seat.” She nodded toward a chair, then hooked up the camera to a television monitor in front of the chair where he sat. The video of him walking came on the screen. She stilled the picture, then picked up an erasable marker, drawing lines and circles on the screen as she talked. “Your alignment is off here and here. See how your hips are tilted?”
He scowled and rubbed his aching left knee. “Yeah, it’s called walking on an artificial leg.”
“You’re actually relying way too much on your prosthesis,” she offered. “If you improved your posture and balance with Pilates and weight belts, you could shift your center of gravity back to where it used to be.”
He chewed on his tongue as anger churned in his stomach . . . anger at a violent world, anger at the randomness of life. If only he’d stepped right instead of left that day, he’d still be with his unit in Afghanistan, instead of sitting here in la-la land with a slip of a girl who wanted to fix him with yoga. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said through gritted teeth, pushing to his feet. “I think the requisite hour is up.”
She glanced at her watch and nodded, then used a dry eraser to remove the marks she’d drawn over his figure. She walked to the door with him, then stuck out her hand. “It was nice to see you again, Barry. Good luck.”
He shook her hand, startled at the bolt of awareness that traveled up his arm at the softness of her fingers wrapped in his. She smiled, flashing those dimples he’d suspected lay in hiding, then extracted her velvety hand. As she walked away from him toward the video equipment, remorse bled through him. Lora Jansen was a sweet woman who, despite having past and present reasons to dislike him, had only offered to help. It wasn’t her fault he was angry at the world, or embarrassed for her to see him like this.
“Lora.”
She turned back, her eyebrows raised in question. She was lovely, he thought, naturally pretty with fine-boned features and luminous eyes. Her shapeless white lab coat hid her figure, but after seeing her earlier in wet running clothes, her slender curves were emblazoned on his mind. His pulse pounded as he suddenly realized he was very much looking forward to spending more time with her—that is, if he hadn’t blown it . . . again.
He cleared his throat. “I’ll be in Sweetness for a few days. If you can work me into your schedule, I might as well try some of the things you suggested.” He shrugged. “I don’t have anything better to do.”
She gave him a curt nod, as if it didn’t matter to her one way or another. “Be here tomorrow morning at ten.”
Chapter Four
“Fifty more, and more slowly please,” Lora said to Barry, who lay on the floor of the PT room doing jackknife situps.
He fell back on the floor with a noisy exhale. “What is this, boot camp?” He reached down to massage his left knee, exposed in the gym shorts he wore. His metal prosthesis began just below his knee and ended in a lifelike
foot wearing an athletic shoe.
The pain pinching his face tugged at her heart. “May I?” she offered, gesturing to his knee.
He looked wary, but nodded.
As a professional, she was trained to mentally remove herself from the intimate act of touching another person, but with Barry, it took all her concentration. The man was a beautiful specimen of male strength, with long, lean limbs, and a well-muscled torso. Steeling herself against his powerful appeal, Lora knelt to lever her weight over his knee and massaged the flesh with firm, deep pressure. He grimaced.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Are the phantom pains bad?”
“Better than they were in the beginning,” he said through gritted teeth.
She cast about for conversation to take his mind—and hers—off his magnificent body. “Do you mind telling me how it happened?” She held her breath because she knew she could be treading on a touchy subject.
He was quiet for a while, wincing as she coaxed the muscles in his thigh to relax and the nerve endings to stop sending sensations to an absent limb. “Common story,” he finally said with a shrug. “I was on reconnaissance patrol, an IED went off.”
“That must have been horrifying.”
He only grunted.
“Were there other injuries in your unit?”
She thought he wasn’t going to answer, but after a long silence, he said, “Yeah,” but in a way that let her know the topic was closed.
She released him and sat back. “Okay, break’s over. Fifty more situps, please. Try to raise both feet at the same time and to the same level.”
She put him through several series of exercises nonstop. He wasn’t happy about some of the Pilates poses, especially when she made him lean on her to balance, but at the end of the session, he was sweating and tired, and she was satisfied with his effort, if not his progress.
“Good session today,” she said. “Do you know yet how long you’ll be in Sweetness?” She told herself it had everything to do with wanting to make the most of his PT and nothing to do with the fact that she was enjoying their time together.