Nerves of Steel

by CJ Lyons

  Drake decided it would take a long time to completely understand Cassandra Hart. He took a deep breath and realized he was smiling. Somehow, he was certain the effort would be worth it.

  He reached his apartment and for the first time since last summer, he felt ready to paint.

  Drake pulled the Mustang up to the curb in front of Hart's house. He eased his way out of the low-slung car, his thigh muscles burning a bit, and reached for the brown-paper wrapped package from the rear. He was exhausted, he'd been up the past two nights sketching, painting watercolor drafts, working, re-working the visions that had insinuated themselves in his brain.

  Most art theorists suggested that passionate affairs sapped an artist's creative drive, that the energy needed to sustain a relationship detracted from the art. But since meeting Hart, Drake had more ideas than ever before.

  The framed watercolor was the best of the studies. He knew it might be weeks, months even, before he finished the full blown canvas. So he brought it as an offering.

  He only hoped it was enough.

  As he began up the steps to her porch he remembered sprinting up them the last time he was here, arms filled with roses and candy. Today it felt like climbing Mt. Everest. Halfway up his breath grew ragged, his head bowed by effort. By the time he made it to her front door, his heart was racing. He reached a trembling finger to the doorbell.

  No answer. He returned to the Mustang, leaned against the side, catching his breath. He did fine on the four flights to his apartment, why was it so hard making it to her front door? Chalking it up to nerves, he looked around and spotted her car down the street. She was somewhere close by.

  It was a brilliant spring day, no way was he going back up those steps to wait in the shadows of the porch. Her back yard had looked like an oasis even covered in snow, he'd wait for her there. He followed the narrow concrete walkway between houses to the back. A privacy fence ran along the property line, leading him to a gate in the rear alley. Drake unlatched it and entered Hart's garden.

  And there she was. Sitting on a glider, sunlight streaming over her, eyes closed, head tilted back, basking in the warmth. Drake's blood surged through his veins as if his heart had only just now remembered how to pump it.

  God, he'd been a fool, thinking that walking away was the best thing for either of them.

  The garden filled the entire yard. Drake could only imagine how it looked at the height of the growing season. Juniper, rhododendrons and azaleas grew along the shady side. In the center was a blazing circle of color provided by a rainbow of crocus and some petite yellow and purple irises.

  "Hart." Adeena had said that Hart isolated herself the first few weeks after what happened, as much to guard her privacy from the reporters as to heal her soul.

  She remained silent. He moved over to sit beside her on the glider, lifted her cane out of the way. She'd lost weight, her flannel shirt and sweat pants threatened to swallow her whole. Her ankle was encased in Velcro and nylon.

  He felt her tense, he'd been expecting that. After so long apart, after everything they'd been through, it was hard to bridge the gap back to where they had once been. That was his fault, he shouldn't have run away, not called her, should have talked to her before now. But he hadn't known what to say to her. Still didn't.

  "So, how are you?" When in doubt, go for the tried and true. Maybe he'd comment on the weather next.

  It felt like a long time before she answered. "In a few days they'll let me start weight bearing, now I'm just doing range of motion and stretches."

  Drake knew all about the torture methods of the physical therapists. He also knew that she knew he hadn't been asking about her leg.

  "That's good," he said in a neutral voice. "Are you going back to work, then?"

  She sighed, shrugged her shoulders. Finally she opened her eyes and looked at him. Still, she was silent, watching, waiting for him to make the first move.

  "You don't make it easy," he finally said. "It was you who ran away that first night--"

  "I stayed the second," she reminded him. Was there a hint of warmth underlying her tone? Drake hoped so.

  "And then kicked me out of your house the next morning."

  She straightened, knocking the cane to the ground. "I already apologized for that."

  "Sometimes you're too damned good at shutting me out. Why? Is it so terrifying to let me get close?"

  "I'm not the one who ran away and never returned my calls."

  He had that coming. "I know, I know. I just felt so--"

  "Scared? Overwhelmed? Out of control? That's how I felt."

  "Helpless," he finally admitted. "Ashamed. I let you down out there. You saved my life. And I was helpless to do anything--"

  "No, you don't understand." She took a deep breath. "I was ready to die. In my heart I knew I was going to, was absolutely certain of that fact. Oh, I was going to fight all the way, but Sinderson won--I had already given up.

  "Then you came charging in like John Wayne, and I dared to hope again. For a brief second before Sinderson shot you, anyway." Her voice dropped even lower. "But you wouldn't give up. It was," she searched for words, "extraordinary."

  She looked up into his eyes. "I don't know how you did it, but you somehow found the strength to push that tire iron over to me. You saved my life."

  "I'm sorry it couldn't have happened differently," Drake told her. "I wish I'd been the one to use the tire iron."

  She looked down, a shudder running through her body, and he felt her withdraw. "No," her voice was barely a whisper. "No, you don't."

  He took her hand in his. She pulled it away, held both hands out as if inspecting them for blood. "How can I ever go back after what I did? I killed a man. With these hands."

  Drake felt his throat tighten as he blinked back tears. Jimmy was right, he was a selfish bastard. How could he have been worried about his pride when she was living through what had to be a physician's worst nightmare?

  "You save lives," he told her, cradling her hands in his and lifting them to rest against his heart. "Don't you ever forget that, Hart. You saved my life--long before Sinderson shot me. I was lost, and you brought me back."

  She raised her face, a frown of confusion creasing her features. Drake tried again. "I brought you a present. A family portrait."

  "What do you know about my family?"

  "More than you might imagine. Want to see if I got it right?" He held up the thin package, laid it in her lap. She slowly unwrapped it, her eyes constantly darting back up to meet his.

  The painting depicted a family at the beach. A man with glasses, his gaze intent on his daughter as she danced in the surf, wind tousling her dark hair. At his side was a red-headed woman, equally engrossed in her daughter's antics. The adults' hands were joined together, forming a protective barrier between the girl and the storm-tossed sky behind them. Two adults united in their love of their child, solid and enduring against the vagarities and inconstancy of the world beyond their circle.

  A small choking noise came from Hart. She reached out her fingers, almost, but not quite, touching the figures of her parents.

  "How did you--" Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

  "It's only a study. I saw the photos on your mantle. I didn't think they really captured the spirit of your family, not the way it should have been in a perfect world. Not the way your parents would have wanted it to be."

  "You found all that," she gestured to the painting, "in a few old snapshots?" Now her attention was focused solely on him, her eyes wide, filled with wonder. And the light that had so captivated him, the light he feared was lost, the light had returned.

  "I found it in the woman who came from them."

  A look of anguish crossed her face as she regarded the painting on her lap. Had he made a mistake, trusting his instincts after so long? But then she looked up and gave him a small, crooked smile.

  "Thank you," she said.

  Drake traced her smile with his fingertips. "All I want to do
is take care of you."

  "I can take care of myself."

  "I know that. The point is, you don't need to--not anymore." She gnawed on her lower lip, thought that over. "I'm not going to walk out again, not going to abandon you in dark places. I'm not going away like your parents did. I will always be here for you."

  "You can't be certain of that," she said.

  Her eyes locked onto his, searching for answers he didn't have. Answers he hoped they could discover together. Drake wrapped an arm around her, pulled her tight against him, a hint of lavender drifting from nearby. She responded by reaching out her hand, intertwining her fingers with his.

  "Yes, I can. You're not alone any more."

  About CJ Lyons

  As a pediatric ER doctor, CJ Lyons has lived the life she writes about in her cutting edge suspense novels. She has assisted police and prosecutors with cases involving child abuse, rape, homicide and Munchausen by Proxy and has worked in numerous trauma centers, as a crisis counselor, victim advocate, as well as a flight physician for Life Flight. CJ credits her patients and their families for teaching her the art of medicine and giving her the courage to pursue her dream of becoming a novelist.

  Her first novel, LIFELINES (Berkley, March 2008), received praise as a "breathtakingly fast-paced medical thriller" from Publishers Weekly, was reviewed favorably by the Baltimore Sun and Newsday, named a Top Pick by Romantic Times Book Review Magazine, and became a National Bestseller. LIFELINES also won a Readers' Choice Award for Best First Novel.

  Her second novel, WARNING SIGNS, was published by Berkley in January, 2009, with the third, URGENT CARE, in November, 2009. To learn more about CJ and her work, go to www.cjlyons.net.