by Susan Crose
Melinda and her baby? Why is she lying? How does Parker know her? As much as this mess angers me, I can't forget that Melinda is only eighteen, unmarried, and pregnant."
"Does she have any family?"
"I don't know." Shawna blew a strand of hair from her eyes. "All she said was that her dad would kill her when he found out. I think she was just using a turn of phrase. At least I hope so."
"But you're not sure."
"That's one of the most frustrating things about all of this. I don't know a thing about her. I've never even heard her name before and now she claims to be carrying my fiance's child."
"Maybe there's something I could do."
"Such as?"
"I don't know, but something."
"Not this time," she decided, grateful for his offer. "But thanks. This one I've got to handle by myself."
❧
"I don't believe it!" Doris McGuire exclaimed. Sitting on her antique sofa, she stared across the room at her daughter. "Parker, and some, some girl?"
"That's what she claims," Shawna said.
"She's lying!"
"Who is?" Malcolm McGuire opened the front door and shook the rain from his hat, then tossed the worn fedora over the arm of an oak hall tree in the foyer. "Who's lying?" he repeated as he strode into the den and kissed Shawna's cheek. "You're not talking about Parker, are you?"
"Indirectly," Shawna admitted.
"Some young girl claims she's pregnant with Parker's child!" Doris said, her mouth pursed, her eyes bright with indignation. "Can you believe it?"
"Hey, slow down a minute," Malcolm said. "Let's start at the beginning."
As Shawna explained everything that had happened since she'd first met Melinda, Malcolm splashed a stiff shot of Scotch into a glass, thought twice about it, and poured two more drinks, which he handed to his daughter and wife.
"You don't believe it, do you?" he finally asked, searching Shawna's face.
"Of course not."
"But you've got doubts."
"Wouldn't you?"
"Never!" Doris declared. Malcolm's face whitened a bit.
"Sometimes a man can make a mistake, you know," he said.
"He was engaged to Shawna, for goodness sake!"
"But not married to her," Malcolm said slowly.
"Dad?" Did he know something? She studied the lines of her father's face as he finished his drink and sat heavily on the edge of the couch.
"I have no idea what Parker was up to," Malcolm said. "But I warned you that we didn't know all that much about him, didn't I? Maybe he had another girlfriend, I don't know. I would never have believed it before, but now? Why would she lie?"
Why indeed?
"But let's not judge him too harshly," Malcolm said. "Not until all the facts are in."
"I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation," Doris replied.
"Of course I do. Now, tell me about Parker. What does he have to say?"
"Not much." Shawna told her parents about the scene in the hospital room.
Malcolm cradled his empty glass in both hands and frowned into it. Doris shook her head and sighed loudly, though her back was ramrod stiff. "He'll just have to submit to a paternity test—prove the child isn't his and then get on with his life."
"Maybe it's not that simple," Malcolm said quietly. "He has a career to think of. All this adverse publicity might affect it."
"We're talking about the man Shawna plans to marry," Doris cut in, simmering with fury, "and here you are defending his actions—if, indeed, he was involved with that . . . that womanl"
"She's barely more than a girl," Shawna said.
"Eighteen is old enough to know better!"
Malcolm held up his hand to calm his wife. "I'm just saying we should all keep a level head."
Now that she'd said what she had to say, Shawna snatched her jacket from the back of a wing chair. "I think Dad's right—we should just low-key this for now."
"The girl is pregnant!"
"I know, I know. But I've decided that what I'm going to do is try and help Parker through this. It's got to be as hard on him as it is on me. That's one of the reasons I've decided to move in with him."
"Do what?" Doris was horrified. She nearly dropped her drink and her pretty face fell.
"He's being released from the hospital tomorrow. And I'm taking him home—to his house—with me."
"But you can't—you're not married. And now, with that girl's ridiculous accusations—"
"All the more reason to try and help jog his memory." Shawna saw the protests forming on her mother's lips and waved them off.
"Look, I've already made up my mind. If things had turned out differently, I'd already be married to him and living in that house. He and I would still have to deal with Melinda—unless this is all a convenient story of hers just because he's lost his memory. So, I'm going to stand by him. I just wanted you to know how to get in touch with me."
"But—"
"Mom, I love him." Shawna touched her mother's shoulder. It felt stiff and rigid under Doris's cotton sweater. "I'll call you in a couple of days."
Then, before her mother or father could try to change her mind, she walked out of the room, swept her purse off an end table, and opened the front door. She was glad to drive away from her parents' house because she needed time alone, time to think and clear her head. Tomorrow she'd have the battle of her life with Parker. He'd already told her he didn't want her tied to him as a cripple, that they couldn't marry until he was strong enough to support them both. Now, after Melinda's allegations, he'd be more adamant than ever.
Well, that was just too damned bad. Shawna intended to stand by him no matter what, and if he never walked again, she still intended to marry him. All she had to do was convince him that she was right. Involuntarily, she crossed her fingers.
❧
Parker shoved the dinner tray aside. He wasn't hungry and didn't feel like trying to force food down his throat. With a groan, he reached for the crutches near his bed.
Dr. Handleman and the idiot down in physical therapy didn't think he was ready for crutches, but he'd begged them off a candy striper. Tomorrow he was going home and he wasn't about to be wheeled down the hall like a helpless invalid.
Gritting his teeth against a stab of pain in his knee, he slid off the bed and shoved the crutches under his arms. Then, slowly, he moved across the room, ignoring the throbbing in his knee and the erratic pounding of his heart. Finally he fell against the far wall, sweating but proud that he'd accomplished the small feat of walking across the room.
Breathing hard, he glanced out the window to the parking lot below. Security lamps glowed blue, reflecting on the puddles from a recent shower. Parker had a vague recollection of another storm. . . .
Rain had been drizzling down a windshield, wipers slapping the sheeting water aside as he had driven up a twisting mountain road. Someone—was it Brad?—had been slumped in the passenger seat. The passenger had fallen against Parker just as the Jeep had rounded a corner and there, right in the middle of the road, a huge truck with bright glaring headlights was barreling toward them, out of control. The truck driver blasted his horn, brakes squealed and locked, and Parker, reacting by instinct alone, had wrenched hard on the wheel, steering the Jeep out of the path of the oncoming truck and through the guardrail into the black void beyond.
Now, as he stood with his head pressed to the glass, Parker squeezed his eyes shut tight, trying to dredge up the memories, put the ill-fitting pieces of his past into some order.
He remembered Melinda—he'd seen her that night.
But she was just a girl. Surely he wouldn't have slept with her!
Impatient with his blank mind, he swore and knocked over one of his crutches. It fell against the table, knocking over a water glass and a book. From the pages of the book fluttered a picture—the single snapshot of Shawna on the carousel.
In the photograph, her cheeks were rosy and flushed, her eyes brigh
t, her hair tossed wildly around her face. He'd been in love with her then. He could feel it, see it in her expression. And now, he'd fallen in love with her again and this time, he suspected, his feelings ran much deeper.
Despite the searing pain in his knee, he bent down, but the picture was just out of reach, in the thin layer of dust under the bed, and he couldn't coax the snapshot back to him, not even with the aid of his crutch.
He frowned at the irony. He couldn't reach the picture just as he couldn't have her, wouldn't chain her to a future so clouded and unsure. She deserved better than a man who might never walk without a cane—a man who couldn't even remember if he'd betrayed her.
Chapter 8
Bracing herself, knowing full well that she was in for the fight of her life, Shawna walked into Parker's hospital room. "Ready?" she asked brightly.
"For what?" Parker was standing near his bed, fully dressed in gray cords and a cream-colored sweater, and balancing precariously on crutches.
"To go home." She picked up his duffel bag and tossed it over her shoulder, overlooking the storm gathering in his eyes. "Hurry up, I'm double-parked."
"I'll call a cab," he said quietly.
"No reason. Your house is on my way."
"To where?"
"The rest of my life."
Taking in a swift breath, he shoved one hand through his hair and shook his head. "You're unbelievable," he muttered.
"So you've said. Come on."
"Mr. Harrison?" A nurse pushed a wheelchair into his room and Parker swore under his breath.
"I don't need that."
"Hospital regulations."
"Change them," he said, jaw tight.
"Come on, Parker, don't buck the system now," Shawna said, grabbing the handles of the wheelchair from the nurse. "Everyone has to use these chairs in order to get out."
Muttering to himself he slid into the chair and grumbled all the way along the corridor.
"I see we're in good spirits today," Shawna commented drily.
"Don't start in with that hospital 'we' talk, okay? I'm sick to death of it."
"My mistake. But don't worry. I'll probably make a few more before the day is over." She wheeled him into the elevator and didn't say a word until they were through the emergency room doors—the same door she'd run through weeks ago in her soggy wedding dress. That day felt like a lifetime ago.
Once they were in the car and through the parking lot, Shawna drove south, down the steep fir-cloaked hills of west Portland toward Lake Oswego and Parker's rambling Tudor house on the cliffs.
He stared out the window in silence, his eyes traveling over the familiar landscape. Leaves of the maple and oak trees had turned vibrant orange and brown, swirling in the wind and hanging tenaciously to black branches as Shawna drove toward the river. She glanced at Parker and noticed the tight pinch at the corners of his mouth and the lines of strain on his forehead as his stone house loomed into view.
Rising a full three stories, with a sharply gabled roof and dormers, the Tudor stood high on the cliffs overlooking the green waters of the Willamette. Trees and shrubbery flanked a broad, pillared porch and leaded glass windows winked in the pink rays from a setting sun.
Shawna cut the engine in front of the garage. She was reaching for the handle of her door when his voice stopped her.
"Aren't you going to ask me about Melinda?"
She froze and her stomach twisted painfully. Inadvertently she'd been avoiding the subject. "Is there something you want to tell me?"
Swallowing, he glanced away, then stared straight into her eyes. "I—I'm starting to remember," he admitted, weighing his words. "Part of the past is getting a little more clear."
She knew what was coming and died a bit inside, her fingers wrapping around the steering wheel as she leaned back in her seat. "The part with Melinda," she guessed, fingers clenched tight over the wheel.
"Yes."
"You . . . remember being with her?"
"Partly."
"Sleeping with her?"
She saw him hesitate, then shake his head. "No, but there's something . . . something about her. If only I could figure it out."
Licking her lips nervously, she forced her gaze to meet his. "I don't believe you betrayed me, Parker," she admitted, her voice rough. "I just can't."
"Maybe it would be easier if you did," he whispered.
"Why?"
"Because I feel—this tremendous responsibility."
She touched him then, her fingers light on his sweater, beneath which she could feel the coiled tension in his shoulders. "Give it time."
"I think we're running out." Then, as quickly as he'd brought up the subject, he jerked on the door handle and shoved the car door open. Cool wind invaded the interior as he gripped the frame and tried to struggle to his feet.
"Hey—wait!" She threw open her door and ran around the car just as he extracted himself from his seat and balanced on one leg, his face white with strain. "What do you think you're doing?" she demanded.
"Standing on my own," he said succinctly.
She caught his meaning, but refused to acknowledge it. "Sure, but you were almost flat on your face," she chastised. "How do you think Dr. Handle-man would like it if you twisted that knee again and undid all his work?"
"I don't really give a damn what he does or doesn't like."
"Back to your charming sweet self, I see," she said, though her heart was pounding a rapid double-time. "Personally I'd hate to see you back in that hospital bed—in traction or worse—all because of your stupid, bullheaded male pride." She opened the hatchback of her car and wrestled with the collapsible wheelchair, noting that he'd paled slightly at the mention of the hospital. Good! He needed to think that one over. "So, quit being a child and enjoy being pampered."
"Pampered by whom?"
"Me." She locked the wheelchair and rolled it toward his side of the car.
"I don't want to be pampered."
"Oh, I think you will. Think of it as a reward for all those grueling hours you'll be spending with the physical therapist. I already hired him—he starts tomorrow."
"You did what?" Parker was livid, the fire in his eyes bright with rage. "I'm not going to—"
"Sure you are. And you're going to get off this self-reliant-male ego kick right now!"
She pushed the wheelchair next to him, but he held up a hand, spreading his fingers in her face. "Hold on, just one minute. I may not remember a lot about my past, but I know one thing, I never let any woman—even a lady doctor—push me around."
"Not even Melinda James?" Shawna snapped, instantly regretting her words when she saw his face slacken and guilt converge over his honed features.
"I'll deal with Melinda," he said, his voice ringing with authority, "in my own way." Then, ignoring the wheelchair, he reached down and tugged on the crutches she'd wedged into the car.
"You can't—"
"I can damned well do as I please, Dr. McGuire," he said cuttingly. "I'm not in a hospital any longer. You're not the boss." He slammed the crutches under his arms and swung forward, landing on his good leg with a jarring thud as he started up the flagstone path leading to the back door.
"You'll be back in the hospital before you know it if you don't watch out," she warned. Walking rapidly, she caught up with him.
"You can go home now, Shawna," he advised.
"I am."
Cocking his head to one side, he asked testily, "You're what?"
"Home."
"What?" he roared, twisting to look at her, his crutch wedging in the chipped mortar to wrench out from under him. He pitched forward, grabbing frantically at the lowest branches of a nearby willow tree and landing with a thud on the wet grass.
"Parker!" Shawna knelt beside him. "I'm sorry—"
"Wasn't your fault." But he winced in pain, skin tight over his cheeks. "Now, tell me I heard wrong."
"I moved in this morning," she said, but her eyes were on his leg and without asking she p
ushed up his pant leg, to make sure that the stitches in his knee hadn't ruptured.
"I'm all right." He caught her wrist. "You are not my doctor. And you're not moving in here."
"Too late," she said, reaching into her pocket with her free hand and extracting a key ring from which dangled the keys to his house, car, and garage. "You gave these to me—for better or for worse, remember."
"We didn't get married."
"Doesn't matter. I'm committed to you, so you'd better get used to it!" She met his gaze steadily, her green eyes bright with defiance and pride. His fingers were still circling her wrist, warm against her skin, and her breathing, already labored, caught in her throat as his eyes moved from hers to the base of her neck and lower still. "Whether the ceremony happened or not, I consider myself your wife, and it will take an act of God for you to get rid of me."
"What about another woman's child?"
Her heart constricted. "We'll just have to deal with that together, won't we?" Nervously, she licked her lips, her self-confidence slowly drifting away.
He studied her mouth. "Maybe I need to stand alone before I can stand with someone," he said, sun glinting off the burnished strands of his hair.
"Are you telling me you won't let me live here?" She could barely concentrate. Her thoughts centered on her wrist and the provocative movement of his fingers against her skin. And his eyes, blue as the sea, stared into hers, smoldering with desire, yet bewildered.
"I just don't think we—you and I—can act like this accident didn't happen, pretending that Melinda James doesn't exist, that our lives will mesh in some sort of fairy-tale happy ending, when there are so many things pulling us apart." He glanced down at her lips and then to her hair, shining a radiant gold in the afternoon sunlight.
"Please, Parker, just give me a chance. I—I don't mean to come on like gangbusters, but we need time alone together, to work things out."
He pulled her close, kissing her as passionately as she'd ever been kissed, his lips possessive and strong with a fire she knew burned bright in his soul.