by Becky Wade
Willow’s lungs tightened. “Sorry, this isn’t a good time. I’m in a rush.” She walked as rapidly as she could in her high-heeled boots. Please, Lord, let him respond respectfully and leave.
He didn’t. Fast, heavy footsteps approached as he jogged in her direction. “I’m one of your biggest fans.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got to get to work.”
“It’ll just take a minute.”
The polite part of her chafed at the prospect of avoiding interaction with him. But the cautious, experienced part of her knew better. This guy hadn’t left the property on Tuesday morning when Corbin had asked him to go. And now he’d returned to the inn even though the police had given him a warning when they’d ushered him off. He was stubborn, he was trespassing on her land, and he was three times her size.
He came to a stop a few yards in front of her on the path. His shortcut across the grounds had positioned him between her and the inn.
He’d cut off her escape route.
Willow halted and tried to master the fear beginning to course through her.
“Willow, hey. I’m really glad to finally meet you.” He was out of breath because of his sprint. “I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time. My name’s Todd.”
He had no sense of boundaries and was overly persistent, but those faults didn’t have to mean he was dangerous. She straightened tall. “Todd, I really need to get to work inside.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. I won’t keep you, I just . . . I’m a big fan. A huge fan. I really need a picture with you.”
“Someone recently took a photo of me without my permission and posted it to social media. It’s caused me and the Merryweather police quite a bit of difficulty. I don’t want my presence in Merryweather to become a public thing.”
“I get it. But this’ll just take a second. I won’t say anything on social media about where you are.”
“If I allow you one picture will you go?”
“Yes.”
“And you won’t disclose my location?”
“No.” One of his hands started to rattle nervously at his side.
Grimly, she nodded her permission. He leaned in and took a selfie of them.
“Now if you’ll just let me pass by—”
“Willow, this one’s not very good.” He held up his cell phone. “Can we take a few more?”
“You agreed to one. Please let me pass.”
He gave her a victimized look, as if she were the one who was out of line. “I’m not asking that much of you. I drove a long way to get here, and I’ve been waiting a couple of days for this, so let’s try a few more.” Rising determination underscored his words. “Some video footage would be good, too.”
Anxiety seized Willow. She’d had to deal with people like Todd a few times over the years. No matter what you gave them, they wanted more.
She shot a glance over her shoulder toward her car. Should she run in that direction? Or should she try to make it to the inn? She was almost positive that he could outrun her before she could reach the safety of either place. She had pepper spray in her purse. If she dropped the croissant box and reached into her purse, would she be able to find her pepper spray quickly enough?
She looked him in the eye. “The answer’s no,” she said as confidently as she could. “I’m going inside now.”
Every trace of friendliness drained from Todd’s face, revealing features stark with anger. He raised his phone and began videoing her. “You seem nice in interviews, Willow. Was that just an act? Are you nice? Be nice and let me take a few more pictures of us.”
She walked around him toward the inn. As she did so, his hand shot out to grab her. Willow side-stepped, just escaping his reach. Panic burst through her and she ran—
He lunged and caught her forearm.
The box fell to the earth. She twisted her arm from his grasp and bolted toward her car. She thrust her hand into her purse for her pepper spray. Where was her pepper spray? The toe of her boot struck a root, and she went sprawling forward through empty air. She landed hard on her hands and knees, heartbeat hammering.
“I was just reaching out to position you for a picture,” Todd spat. Distantly, she heard a car door slam. The crunching of twigs and leaves. “You didn’t have to make me lose my temper.” He leaned over her, reached down—
In the next instant, Todd was wrenched away. She looked up to see Corbin standing in the gap between herself and Todd.
“Back off,” Corbin growled.
Todd staggered back a few feet.
Corbin helped her—lifted her, really—to her feet. “Are you okay?” He scanned her face.
She couldn’t remember ever being this glad to see someone familiar. “I’m okay.”
Corbin released her and turned back to Todd.
“Who do you think you are?” Todd snarled at Corbin. His eyes roiled with adrenaline and wrath.
“I’m Corbin Stewart, you jerk. Get off Willow’s property.”
Todd advanced. “I just wanted a few pictures and some video with her.”
“And you wouldn’t take no for an answer?” Corbin asked.
“I wasn’t asking for much—”
“Back off,” Corbin warned. When Todd continued to approach, Corbin shoved him in the chest.
Todd came up swinging with both fists. Corbin arched out of the way, then threw a punch with his left hand. Thud. He connected squarely with Todd’s jaw. Todd faltered, then ran at Corbin as if to tackle him. Corbin bent at the legs and stopped Todd’s progress by burying his shoulder and upper arm into Todd’s midsection.
A sickening tearing sound rent the air.
Corbin drove Todd back until the younger man landed on the ground with a crash. Corbin stood, holding his own right shoulder, body taut with fury. “Get. Off. Willow’s. Property.”
He’d hurt his shoulder, Willow realized with dismay. Because of the angle at which Todd had barreled forward, Corbin had used his right side to stop him. That tearing sound had come from Corbin’s healing shoulder.
Todd attempted to clamber up. Slipped back. Finally made it to standing. His chest heaved. “I’ll sue you for that,” he told Corbin.
“Be my guest. I have an excellent team of lawyers.”
The two men faced off. Please don’t fight anymore. Please. Too much damage had been done as it was. Corbin’s shoulder had already been surgically repaired twice.
Todd stalked to his car, cursing with every step.
Corbin remained exactly where he was, attention trained on Todd. “Can you get a picture of his license plate?”
Willow just managed to capture a photo of Todd’s car before it disappeared from sight. Then she faced Corbin, feeling disheveled and shaky. Numb and at the same time acutely sensitive. “You injured your shoulder.”
He gave a curt nod.
“How badly?”
“I’m not sure. Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
She explained the exchange between herself and Todd. “He grabbed my arm, and I yanked it out of his grip. I was running to my car when I tripped. That’s when you arrived.”
“Let me see your arm.”
With hands that weren’t quite steady, she straightened her scarf and shirt.
“Let me see,” he said.
She paused. Then pushed up her sleeve. An angry red ring encircled her forearm.
Corbin’s tight countenance remained the same, except for his eyes. They turned positively murderous. He’d bent his right arm in, against his abdomen. He reached out with his left hand and turned her palm faceup. A few light scratches marred the skin. Gently, he brushed dirt from her palm with his thumb. He lifted her other hand and did the same.
She couldn’t breathe. Her mind was a calamity.
To be touched by him again was delight. And torture. He wasn’t trying to seduce her. He was simply brushing dirt off her hands. Yet the simple contact contained the force of a hurricane.
This
is unsafe, her intuition murmured. The warning was sluggish, however. This is unsafe, she told herself more insistently and stepped back. She tried to push her hands into her pockets only to remember she was wearing leggings under her long shirt. She set her hands on her hips. “We need to get your shoulder taken care of.”
“Probably.”
“Should I call an ambulance?”
“No.”
“Then where do I need to take you? The hospital?”
“The rehab center, if Dr. Wallace is there today. I’ll call.”
“I’m going to run inside the inn real quick. Then I’ll meet you at my car.”
Willow retrieved the box of croissants, which sat intact on the ground, lid closed, without even a dent. She deposited them on the inn’s kitchen counter and called Britt to ask if she could take over breakfast duty at the inn. Britt said she’d be there within fifteen minutes.
“Dr. Wallace is on his way to the rehab center,” Corbin told her as she neared her car. “They’re expecting me.”
An injury to the Super Bowl–winning body of Dr. Wallace’s most famous patient? You better believe they’d be expecting him when he arrived.
“I also called the police,” he said. “When you have time, they want to talk to you about what happened. You should press charges.”
Willow opened the passenger door for him. He took a seat, his right arm still motionless against his side. She grabbed his seat belt and passed it to his left hand.
Willow started the engine and steered them toward the road. “Are you in pain?”
“Not much.”
She peeked at him. His face was pale, and he was clenching his jaw. “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s not bad.” He gave a sardonic smile. “So long as I don’t move.”
“How long has it been since your first surgery?”
“Ten months. I had the first surgery back in Dallas in January.”
“And the second surgery?”
“The beginning of June.”
“Why did you need a second surgery?”
For a moment, no sound other than the hum of the engine filled the car. Corbin shifted in his seat, trying to adjust his large frame into a more comfortable position. “My orthopedic doctors in Dallas wanted to try to save the humerus bone and the shoulder socket, so they used a metal plate and twelve screws to piece it all back together.”
Willow had yet to break a single bone.
“After the surgery, my right arm didn’t heal like it should have. It ached all the time. I had limited range of motion. After four months of therapy, the doctors decided I needed a second surgery. This time, they wanted to cut the bone off here.” With a flat palm, he indicated a mark halfway between his elbow and shoulder.
“They decided they couldn’t save the bone, after all,” Willow said.
“Right. They wanted to do something called a reverse total shoulder replacement.”
“Were the doctors in Dallas wrong initially? To try to save the bone?”
“No, I don’t think so. The theory is that it’s best to try to save the bone if it can be saved. Ordinarily, the first surgery works.”
“But yours didn’t.”
“Mine didn’t. Then again, I’ve never been ordinary.”
“Don’t feel obligated to joke with me while you’re in pain, Corbin.”
“I’m not trying to joke. I’m trying to flirt with you.”
“As you well know, flirting’s against the rules.” A silver Honda pulled out in front of her. “Excuse me, Honda, but I’m right here.”
“Did you just talk to that car?”
“Did you call Dr. Wallace after you found out you needed the second surgery?”
“Yes. Dr. Wallace works on a lot of players. He’s operated on a few of my buddies over the years with good results. So I came to Washington and, after the surgery, to Shore Pine.”
“With a bionic shoulder.”
He nodded.
It went unsaid that up until today, his recovery had been going well.
Willow steeled herself against a wave of regret. Corbin’s confrontation with Todd had happened fast. She hadn’t known what to say or do from the moment Corbin had pulled Todd away from her. Perhaps if she’d tried to reason with Todd or drawn Corbin away from him the outcome would have been different.
“I wish I’d been on time this morning,” he said. “Something came up at home, and I was late getting to Bradfordwood to meet you.”
“I assumed you weren’t coming.”
“I drove straight to the inn because I knew I was too late to meet you at Bradfordwood. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when Todd showed up.”
“I’m sorry about your shoulder.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Thank you for . . . defending me.” The words sounded overly formal.
“You’re welcome. That was the same guy I dealt with earlier in the week.”
“I figured.”
At a stoplight, she looked across at him. He’d tipped up his chin, the back of his skull against the headrest. His eyes were closed.
Her vision skimmed from his jaw to his collarbone. His neck looked both strong and, in that position, vulnerable.
“I have a favor to ask of you,” Corbin said.
She refrained from pointing out that asking her for favors was a violation of the rules. “Okay.”
“It involves my dad. He lives with me.”
His dad? “When I came by your house the other day I didn’t see anyone else,” she said.
“He was at therapy that morning. I can’t remember how much I told you about him when we were dating.”
“Not much.”
“I’ve never told anyone much about him.”
The light turned green. As she continued in the direction of Shore Pine, she reached back in her memory for the information he’d given her about his father. “You told me that your dad worked at one of the auto plants in Detroit.”
“Yes.”
“I know that your mom left him when you were what? Six?”
“Five.”
“I know that your dad was a single parent and that he faced some struggles. But I never could get you to go into detail about what he’d struggled with exactly.”
“Bipolar disorder.”
Willow’s breath released gradually.
“I’ve always tried to protect his privacy.” Corbin gave a muffled grunt as he tried again to find a comfortable position. If she had to guess, “comfortable” wasn’t going to be an option for Corbin until someone gave him pain meds.
“The year I signed with the Mustangs,” he said, “I moved my dad out of Detroit and bought him a house in his hometown of South Haven, Michigan. I wanted him to relax and enjoy his retirement. For ten years, he did great. He felt good. He was surrounded by friends and family. He played golf every chance he got. He worked a few hours a week at the YMCA as a referee.”
“What changed?”
“Three years ago, he was diagnosed with multiple myeloma. Have you heard of it?”
“Is it a form of cancer?”
“Yes. Cancer of the plasma cells in bone marrow. It’s incurable, and the typical life span is around five years. Some patients live quite a bit longer than that, though. I wanted him to have access to the best doctors, so I moved him to Dallas to live with me.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Physically, he’s doing okay, considering that he takes a few dozen pills every day and goes in for treatments once a month. He’s tired a lot.”
They were just minutes from Shore Pine. Since she couldn’t see a single car in her rearview mirror, she twisted to face him at the next stop sign. “What’s the favor you need me to do?”
He stared at her levelly across the close space between the seats. “My dad’s expecting me back at the house soon, so I’m going to have to call him and tell him about my shoulder. When I do, he’s going to want to come to the rehab center right away.”
&
nbsp; She dipped her chin.
“He doesn’t drive. I had to take away his car keys a while back.”
“Do you need for me to pick him up?”
“I do.”
“All right.”
“Do you remember how to get to my house?”
“I think so. If I get confused I’ll pull up directions on my phone.”
Solemnity settled into the contours of his face. “I’m not sure how he’ll be, with you.”
She could see that he hated that he’d had to tell her as much as he had, that he’d been forced to ask for her help. Corbin frowned. “Maybe this isn’t the best idea. Maybe I could ask my neighbor—”
“Your house is just a few miles from the rehab center. As soon as I drop you off, I’ll go get your dad. I’ll bring him to the center. It’ll be fine.”
Several beats of silence.
“His name’s Joe,” Corbin said. “I’ll tell him you’re coming.”
Excerpt from report filed by Child Protective Services employee, April 18, 1992, Detroit, Michigan:
I responded to a phone call from a Mrs. Adele Carter regarding alleged neglect of her son’s friend, Corbin Stewart, age nine.
Corbin banged on Mrs. Carter’s door yesterday afternoon to tell her that his father was unconscious and to ask for her help. Upon arriving at the condo of Joe and Corbin Stewart, Mrs. Carter found Joe, age forty, unresponsive. Mrs. Carter called an ambulance, contacted Corbin’s grandmother by phone, then drove Corbin to the hospital. It was later determined by hospital staff that Joe, who has a history of mental illness, had overdosed on benzodiazepines, which are typically prescribed for the treatment of anxiety and insomnia. Joe is expected to recover fully.
Mrs. Carter suspects that Joe is neglecting Corbin’s care. The Stewart home is in fair condition and does not give evidence of neglect. I spoke with Joe, who assured me that he cares for his son, that this was an isolated event triggered by his bipolar disorder, and that he regrets it deeply. He has agreed to seek treatment.
I met with Corbin privately. He told me that his father meets his needs, and he insists on remaining with Joe.
I classify this case as low risk and will follow up with Joe Stewart in ten days.