“I’m not one of your patients, Edie.” Letter to Reader Title Page Dedication ACKNOWLEDGMENTS About the Author Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Copyright

“I’m not one of your patients, Edie.”

Holden bit out the words. “Platitudes and encouraging pats on the back are not what I need from you.”

She shook her head, trying to clear it as she drew in a shuddering breath, which brought her breasts flush up against him.

She saw the havoc her action wreaked on his composure. On his ability to remain detached and in control, which was so blasted important to him, and not just as a physician.

Fully knowing what she was doing, she took another lung-filling breath. His gaze burned into hers.

Edie didn’t pull away. Couldn’t turn away, and not because she had promised herself she wouldn’t.

“What do you need from me, then, Holden?”

Dear Reader,

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In Suzanne McMinn’s engaging BUNDLES OF JOY title, The Billionaire and the Bassinet. a blue blood finds his hardened heart irrevocably tamed. This month’s FABULOUS FATHERS offering by Jodi O‘Donnell features an emotional, heartwarming twist you won’t soon forget; in Dr. Dad to the Rescue, a man discovers strength and the healing power of love from one very special lady. Marrying O’Malley, the renegade who’d been her childhood nemesis, seemed the perfect way for a bride-to-be to thwart an unwanted betrothal—until their unlikely alliance stirred an even more incredible passion; don’t miss this latest winner by Elizabeth August!

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Enjoy this month’s titles—and please drop me a line about why you keep coming back to Romance. I want to make sure we continue fulfilling your dreams!

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Senior Editor Silhouette Romance

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Dr. Dad to the Rescue
Jodi O’Donnell

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my soul sisters, both human and canine.

You saved my life.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My thanks to Tammy Hermanson for her help with the ins and outs of physical therapy, and to William R. Irey, M.D., for providing me with the technical descriptions on broken arms. Any errors are entirely my own.

JODI O’DONNELL

grew up one of fourteen children in small-town Iowa. As a result, she loves to explore in her writing how family relationships influence who and why we love as we do.

A USA Today bestselling author, Jodi has also been a finalist for the Romance Writers of America’s RITA Award and is a past winner of RWA’s Golden Heart Award She lives in Iowa with her two dogs, Rio and Leia.

Dear Sam,

We haven’t been communicating too well lately, have we, son? So I thought maybe a letter would help me get out some things I don’t seem able to say. The fact is, I’m at a loss as to what to do, and it isn’t a feeling I’m used to.

I know it’s been a rough year since your mother died. Rough for us both. And what with being so busy moving us to Dallas and getting established here as an ER doctor, I haven’t always been there for you. I don’t have much of an excuse for that, except to say I’m doing my best. You see, I lost both my parents when I wasn’t much older than you are now. Lost them—and my best friend in the whole world, Elsa Dog.

I know you miss your mother, Sam. Believe me when I say I’d give anything to bring her back. But I can’t, so we’ll have to go on without her. We still have each other, you know, even if it seems to me you could use a friend.

Maybe we both could use a friend. Someone faithful and loyal and true. Someone whose love and devotion would help you heal and believe in the future again. Someone like E.D. was to me. But I also need something—someone—more. And it would take a miracle....

Love, Dad

Prologue

Rural East Texas, twenty-four years ago

Pale legs flashed between breaks in the brush as the boy raced headlong through the pine woods. His jagged breathing was the only sound in the early-evening silence.

Matching her gait to his, as she did everything, the golden retriever loped alongside him, worry in the brown-eyed glances she cast up at him.

Lungs bursting and heart about to, Holden McKee collapsed on the cushioned ground, soaked from days of April rains. Even now the downpour started again, drops pattering down between the thick canopy of evergreen boughs.

Holden didn’t care that the damp seeped into the seat of his cutoffs as he sucked in air and the scent of loamy earth, pine resin and silty river water.

He swallowed, trying as he’d been trying for weeks not to break down. He was ten years old. Too big to blubber like a baby.

But his mother was dying!

The retriever’s tongue swiped at his cheek, taking away raindrops and the few tears that escaped from Holden, despite his efforts.

“Cut it out, E.D.,” he scolded not very strongly, fending off the dog’s advances. He gave the retriever a smile to show he didn’t mean it. Her chestnut eyes showed sympathy. She cleaned another swatch of his cheek, and he was comforted, as always, by her loyalty. Sometimes it seemed she was the only one who understood him.

He didn’t know what he’d do without her.

Holden buried his face in the dog’s neck. “Oh, Elsa Dog.”

She’d been his friend and companion for five years, ever since the pup had been given to Holden’s father when he’d refused to take payment from a patient he knew struggled to keep food on his family’s table. That was Samuel McKee’s way, putting others’ concerns before his own. Just like two winters ago when a bad flu outbreak hit the county, and he’d seen to everyone’s health before his own. His mercy had cost him his life.

And now...now God was calling home Holden’s mother, too.

“So what’s going to happen to me?” Holden muttered rebelliously into Elsa’s ear. He’d done pretty well so far, keeping faith that things would turn out somehow. But right now he couldn’t find it in him to trust God knew his business.

Elsa whimpered softly, probably because of the tight grip he had around her. He didn’t ease up but clasped her tighter to him.

The retriever leaned into him, solid and true. Her copperand-gold coat glowed like a halo. How could someone not want such a pretty dog?

Blinking back more tears, Holden tried to distract himself by staring up through the trees. It did the trick, for he noticed two pines standing side by side, both with forks in their trunks, which was unusual enough, but the top of one split trunk crossed over the other.

“X” marks the spot, he thought. Like in a treasure hunt. And this was his spot, his very own corner of the world. He belonged here, not in some strange house in the suburbs of a city, away from all that was familiar and dear.

Holden set his jaw. “I won’t go. No way they can make me.” And no way would he leave without Elsa.

Holden launched himself to his feet and continued into the woods toward the river and the section of undercut bank he’d come to think of as his.

Within minutes, though, Holden was up to his ankles in freezing mud. Wiping the raindrops from his eyes with one sleeve of his sodden T-shirt, he peered through the undergrowth. It looked like the path to his hideout might be underwater. Should he turn back?

But there was something he kept wedged in a cranny in that hideout. Secured in a watertight box were his most treasured possessions.

He couldn’t lose everything he cared about all at once.

Holden gritted his teeth against the lump that rose in his throat, thinking about how his mother had called him to her bedside this afternoon and told him that Aunt Tina and Uncle Dwight would take care of him from now on; Chicago would be his new home. Would he try, for her, to be good—to be happy?

Holden had wanted to reassure her. But he couldn’t speak, or he’d have poured out his fear and heartbreak to her. Still, she’d known.

Then she’d laid her hand on his cheek and gazed down at him with tear-filled eyes, and he’d sensed she wasn’t able to find the courage to tell him something else. But what could be worse than losing your mother and having to leave your home forever?

When he’d come out of Mama’s bedroom, Elsa had risen from her spot by the door, and he’d noticed the look in his aunt’s and uncle’s eyes. They didn’t have a large house, Aunt Tina said, and not much more than a patch of a yard. Cousin Seth, with whom Holden would be sharing a bedroom, had allergies....

Holden had gotten the message, loud and clear. That was when it had all seemed too much, too unfair. He tore out the door, Elsa at his heels and his mother’s plea swept from his head.

His attention was brought abruptly back to the present as Holden found himself fighting for every foothold in water that had deepened to thigh-high. This was too dangerous, he scolded himself. He knew East Texas weather, knew better than to venture into rushing water.

And he knew he must go back. He couldn’t let Mama down.

Something bumped up against the back of his knees, nearly upsetting his shaky footing. Elsa had already lost contact with the ground. Her front legs churned against the swelling current. Holden’s hand shot out to secure her by her collar. He had to get them both out of there, fast.

“C’mon, girl. I won’t let you drown.”

Panting, Elsa gazed up at him in perfect trust.

He retraced their route, using the trunks of trees to pull himself along. He didn’t dare let go of Elsa.

Finally, grimy with mud, bits of leaves and sticks clinging to his clothes and Elsa’s coat, they made it to higher ground and the dog bounded up the incline ahead of him, shaking herself furiously. She turned and crouched in her usual playful stance—front legs spread wide as she went down on her elbows, hind end high in the air, a grin wreathing her face. Holden had to grin himself. Yes, the danger was over, for now.

Reaching up, he grabbed a low hanging branch to haul himself up that last stretch of the embankment. His hand closed over not rough bark but muscled smoothness, cold and wet and slimy—

A musky, mtring smell invaded his nose. Holden came eye to eye with a deadly cottonmouth.

Every hair on his body stood on end. He jumped away, but the ground was slippery and his feet flew out from under him. Tumbling backward, he came down in three-foot-deep water, going completely under. Yet within an instant, he was up and splashing, scrambling back however he could, arms flailing, his every effort aimed at putting as much distance between himself and sure death. Elsa would take care of herself, he knew. The retriever had been snake-proofed by his father, had had the lesson to avoid all reptiles drilled into her.

Except there was no getting away from a riled-up cottonmouth. Quick as lightning, it uncoiled from the tree branch and dropped to the ground before slithering toward Holden.

He could only backpedal deeper into the water, where he knew he’d have even less of a chance against the cottonmouth. His only hope was to find a long stick to catch the snake under its middle and Sing it far away.

He was frantically feeling under the murky water for such a weapon when Holden heard a low growl. He spun. Terror sliced a trail straight up his spine, for Elsa’s manner was now anything but playful as she squared off in front of the cottonmouth, directly between it and her master.

“Elsa!” he shouted, taking a step toward them. The current tugged at him. Had it grown that much stronger in just a few minutes? “Elsa, no!”

She retreated not one inch as, lips curled back, she bared sharp white teeth that would have made a lesser beast think twice about tangling with her.

Not the cottonmouth. Holden saw the snake rear up its triangular black head and open its jaws.

Hackles raised, the retriever raked the dirt with one paw, feigning first strike. Her water-soaked coat looked like polished copper, smooth as armor. Yet it wasn’t armor; she was just a dog, with skin as tender as his.

“Elsa, no!” Holden yelled again, clambering out of the water, hoping to distract one or the other.

Then the snake struck, and in an endless moment all he could see were flashes of red-gold and the writhing, dark-brown whip of the reptile. The struggle propelled both dog and snake into the water, where Elsa completely submerged while still going after the cottonmouth for all she was worth. His heart pumping, Holden’s eyes stung at the raw, fierce beauty of her.

Oh, his brave, loyal girl!

Just as suddenly it was over, the cottonmouth swimming away, oozing dark blood in its wake.

Had Elsa been bitten, too? Caring nothing for his own safety, Holden plunged once more into the floodwaters. But the flow had picked up, and he found himself being carried along. He’d have welcomed the current if it would bring him closer to Elsa, but she was moving as rapidly.

He should never have come here and tried to retrieve his treasure box! It wasn’t worth losing Elsa.

He used his arms and legs as rudders to steer him toward the dog. He came within an arm’s length of her, and Holden stretched out his hand as she thrashed toward him. His fingers caught a handful of slick fur—

Slam! He crashed into a tree trunk, which nearly knocked the wind out of him—and caused him to lose his hold on Elsa.

Holden wrapped his arms around the tree as he searched for the retriever. His heart sank when he located her. She was so very, very far away. If he let go of the tree trunk, he might never catch up to her and would surely lose his life.

It seemed hopeless.

“No!” Holden screamed. “Don’t give up, Elsa!”

But he saw her losing strength, going under, then surfacing briefly, water spraying from her nostrils, chin stretched and straining. Her movements grew sluggish, weaker.

“Come on, girl,” he pleaded. “Don’t give up on me now!”

Her brown eyes fixed on him, valiant, devoted, loyal to the last. She blinked.

Then she was gone.

“Elsa! Elsa!”

He cried her name over and over, was whispering it hoarsely when Dwight and half the county found him hours later still clinging to that tree trunk, even though the water had receded.

They wrapped him in blankets, but the shivering didn’t stop. He didn’t think it ever would, and right then he didn’t care.

Dwight pried the story out of him. Strangely, his uncle wasn’t angry that Holden had risked his life over a dog. He set a forearm across Holden’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze.

“She’s gone, son,” he said. Whether he meant Mama or Elsa wasn’t clear.

Holden hunched his back in resistance and denial. But he couldn’t hold back the truth: He had no one now. No one.

With a sob, he pressed his face against his uncle’s side and cried for all he had loved and lost this day. He cared nothing for the treasure left in the cubbyhole on the edge of the river. That river had taken from him something much more precious. God had taken from him something much more precious.

And he would never, ever forget.

Leaning back in his heavenly throne, God gave a heavy sigh, anguished as always by his children’s pain. Right now, Samuel McKee was waiting at the pearly gates for the arrival of his soul mate. Yet here was another soul who stood aching and alone.

It was not the boy’s time, though. Holden McKee still had much work to do before he would be called home. It was why his canine companion had been placed there, to save the boy. And why God had given man such a creature—to bring the human spirit the example of unwavering trust and hopefulness and faith, which he wished for all his children to find.

“But how to bring them to such trust?” he mused. “Its promise is made on Earth every day—in the bloom of the rose, the rising of the sun, the birth of a child...”

Great fingers drummed a low rumble like thunder on the celestial armrest for a long moment, yet only a blink in time. Then his eyebrows parted like the clouds; eyes cleared like the dawn breaking.

“Of course!” he said. “How else on Earth can you glimpse a little bit of heaven?”

He peered lovingly down upon the boy Holden McKee as he was led home in the darkness.

“Have faith, my son,” God whispered. “I have not forsaken you. In good time, the answers you seek will be yours.”

Chapter One

Dallas, Texas, present day

There came a time in every little boy’s life, Holden supposed, when he was forced to accept the inevitable and often painful fact that the ability to fly was reserved for birds, airplanes, comic book heroes—and certain “illusionists” who performed this amazing deed on prime-time television.

How often had Holden himself listened to such tales of disenchantment as he’d set collarbone or leg, stitched a split lip or patched up the odd contusion sustained as a result of some young man’s literal leap of faith?

Telling himself this instance was no different, Holden shot a sidelong glance at his son, who sat next to him in treatment room three at the Brookside Physical Therapy Associates. Sam’s face was pinched and pensive. Stoop-shouldered, the six-year-old cradled his splinted forearm against him as if protecting a newborn.

Somehow, Holden was not convinced.

Too bad the cast had had to come off this morning, just when Sam seemed to be getting used to it But there was still a lot of healing on his broken arm that needed to be done outside of such a protective shell.

“Are you having any pain?” he asked the boy.

Lips thinning, Sam shook his head.

Holden shifted in his seat, stretching an arm along the back of the empty chair on the other side of him. “That’s good. You should have little discomfort, actually. You heard the orthopedist say the X ray showed the bones had realigned perfectly, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

He reached into his suit coat pocket. “You could put on some more of this lotion if your skin itches.”

“I’m okay.”

Holden felt his own mouth crease. He would have asked Sam what was the matter, what he could do for the boy, but he didn’t think Sam would tell him. Ever since Sam’s accident, the gap between father and son had grown, especially after Holden had tried to impress upon him the folly of allowing make-believe to take precedence over common sense.

He simply didn’t know what to do or say or ask next, and had told the grief counselor Sam had been seeing just that. The man had given him the rather simplistic advice that Holden should let Sam make the next move. So far, his son had done nothing.

And so the gap widened, imperceptibly.

Yet what if Sam came to him with a question Holden couldn’t answer, a problem he couldn’t fix?

I’m scared.

And I miss her so much.

With a sigh, Holden dropped his chin and massaged a persistent and painful knot in his jaw muscle. He’d always had a tendency to clench his teeth when under stress, but if he didn’t ease up soon, he’d crack every molar in his mouth.

“dead?”

Holden lifted his head. “Yes?”

“I just wondered if—” Sam was looking at him anxiously. Not often did the boy see him showing any sign of vulnerability. After all he’d been through, Holden made sure of that.

He straightened his spine and asked again, “Yes?”

Sam’s gaze slid away. “If I could, you know, hit the bathroom before the therapist comes in.”

“Oh. Sure. I saw one when we came in. Down the hallway.”

Resisting the urge to offer help, he watched the boy disappear, the door swishing shut behind him. Left alone, Holden let his head fall back against the wall behind him with an oath of self-censure. He really needed to pull himself together, once and for all, for Sam’s sake, if nothing else.

But things had gotten so complicated, so close, lately.

He stared at the recessed spotlights above him and wondered if their brutal illumination, so like the flash-bulb brilliant lighting in the ER, might help him find the distance he usually donned as easily as a stethoscope. At least pondering the subject gave him something to concentrate on, take his mind off of...things.

Like how hard he’d been working. He’d thought leaving the job at County Hospital in Chicago and the daily dose of senseless death would help put his life on a more even footing. Yet even within the less-intensive atmosphere of a private suburban hospital, he continued to feel as if he slogged through a mire as thick as quicksand.

Holden realized the lights had burned hot spots on his retina only after he heard someone say his name. All he could see was a reddened aura surrounding the figure before him.

He closed his eyes, giving them a second to recover.

“Holden McKee?” the still faceless woman repeated. There was something strangely soothing about her voice. Yet rather than calming him, Holden recognized trepidation mingling with the sense of powerlessness he’d been fighting.

“Yes, I’m Holden McKee,” he said blindly, not liking the sensation. “Who are you?”

“I’m here to help your son,” she answered. She had a faint drawl he found rather attractive. “You, too, it would seem. Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course. It’s just temporary. Stupid of me, looking into the light like that—”

A hand rested on his shoulder, delicate as an angel’s touch. The impression was reinforced by the caress on the back of his hand, which felt like nothing so much as a feather.

With a certain urgency, Holden blinked. What finally came into focus was a young woman bending toward him, her face inches from his. He realized where he’d gotten the impression of auras and feather-light touches: she was surrounded by a glorious veil of red-gold hair, wavy and as fluid-looking as molten copper. The ends of its waist-length strands brushed his hand as it lay on his knee.

He got the strongest urge to reach up and rub a lock of it between his fingers to see if it was real. Or to bury his face in that thick curtain of softness—to see if she was real.

She smiled. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I don’t believe in—”

The rest of his thought was lost as he was captured by a pair of fine brown eyes fringed with dark eyelashes so curly they curved right up over her brow bone. They were quite expressive—open and honest and caring. Quite...familiar.

With that realization, the calm Holden sought settled over him, as if now that the moment of reckoning was near, he could face it—wanted to face it—and get it over with, once and for all.

Her eyes darkened with bewilderment. He must be staring like a madman. His gaze faltered, bringing her mouth into his line of vision.

He found himself riveted by those full lips, so close to his. A mere heartbeat away. All it would take was the slightest shift in his position to bridge the gap between them in a kiss. And with that connection, somehow he would know...what?

The moment held, a wrinkle in time. He felt himself at a crossroads, as if he was being given a rare, brief glimpse of two possible paths to take.

Neither way was quite clear. So close, though.

“What did you say your name was?” Holden whispered, so elusive was the moment.

“It’s Edie. Edie Turner.” Her voice held puzzlement. She didn’t know him, obviously. Disappointment mushroomed and spread in him.

The moment began to slip away.

Desperately, Holden riffled through a mental Rolodex for her name. Edie Turner. It struck no chords with him, but then he came into contact with so many people. Patients, colleagues, co-workers—all passed in and out of his life at such a rate they seemed one faceless blur. He had no time to stop and look closely at anyone, as he was doing now.

Close. So close.

Where on earth—and when—would he have known a woman named...Edie?

“You’re late.” The words popped out of Holden’s mouth of their own volition. Much too late, he wanted to add.

At his accusing tone, she straightened in surprise. Her hand dropped away. “Yes, I-I am, I guess. A little. But we still have plenty of time. There’ll be no one else after you.”

Why did her assurance—and the hurt in her eyes—do nothing to soothe his sudden anger? In fact, that look nearly undid him again, especially coming on the heels of a moment when he’d almost felt he could have told this woman anything and she would have understood.

Unsure why he was so irritated, Holden stood and indicated the time on his watch. “My son’s appointment was at four. It’s now twenty after. That’s more than a little late.”

She took a step back. Whatever connection he’d felt between them snapped.

“I apologize for any inconvenience I’ve caused,” she said, which only rankled him further.

“I just need to know if this is what I should expect when I bring Sam to his appointments. Because I can certainly put that twenty minutes to good use.”

Edie gave the clipboard in her hand a quick glance. “It’s Dr. McKee, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Of course. Well—again—I apologize for the wait, Dr. McKee, but in the interest of providing the best treatment possible to our patients, appointments sometimes do run over.” Though her tone remained polite, she flicked a long lock of that hair behind her shoulder in a telling gesture. “As a health-care professional yourself, I’m sure you understand.”

He raised an eyebrow at such insubordination. Not the wisest move on her part, but then—

“I deserved that, didn’t I?” Holden said.

“You’re the doctor.” She returned his scrutiny steadily. She had spirit, he’d give her that.

Yet there was not a bit of recognition in her eyes for him. The caring warmth he’d spied there had definitely departed—if he’d actually seen it at all.

He shook his head. He really had been working too hard.

Holden massaged the back of his neck. “I’m the one who should apologize, Ms. Turner. I’ve been under a lot of strain, though that’s hardly an excuse. I guess I don’t blame you, getting back a bit of your own from a doctor. We’re the ones who make the world wait for and on us,” he quipped, trying for a lighter tone.

She seemed slightly mollified, enough to return mildly, “I think they call it a God complex, Dr. McKee.”

Again, the words spilled out of his mouth of their own accord. “Not this doctor, Ms. Turner,” he said with grim emphasis. “Because that would mean I believed there’s such a thing as an almighty and healing God. And the fact is, we’re on our own down here.”

There was a muffled sound from behind him. Holden turned to find Sam had returned and stood in the doorway. He looked as if he’d learned there was no Santa Claus. Holden supposed, in a way, the boy had just endured a similar disillusionment.

His heart sank like lead.

“Sam, I—” Holden extended a hand toward the boy, then dropped it—and shut up. Just as before, he couldn’t think of a single thing he could say to make the situation better. He would have given anything to take back his words. That he couldn’t shake his bitterness about the turn their lives had taken was one thing, but his son ought to have some hope to sustain him.

Yet the futility of trying to make sense of such a loss was a strong force in Holden. Not for the first time, he wondered how he was going to raise this child, given his cynical view of life. Maybe that’s what made him feel so world-weary. There were a thousand hurts he could heal, but what was that power if he couldn’t heal the human spirit? Because his was next to lost. The dearth of hope and trust in him seemed so deep a debt, it would take a miracle to replenish it.

Edie had never seen a person look more forsaken, like he’d just lost his best friend.

The little boy stood in the doorway cradling his injured forearm, the faded-to-gray color of his jeans shorts echoed in eyes so like his father’s. He held the support crossed on his chest, fist on his heart, as if he were set to swear an allegiance and waited only for someone to tell him to whom. And if no one did, he’d bolt at any moment.

In that instant, he owned her heart.

All the cautions given her by the clinic supervisor not three hours ago—that she could not be the world’s rescuer and continue to work in health care—flew right out of Edie’s head. How could she not respond to such a silent cry for help?

He was a handsome child, with those enormous eyes and that spiky dark-brown hair begging for a hand to smooth it down. She wondered what his mother was like, and what kept her from being here in her child’s time of need.

Her heart squeezed painfully.

Edie tossed a reproachful glance at his father, whose own eyes—more gray-green than strictly gray—looked as bleak, his face carved from stone. Thank God he’d checked his tongue before completely demoralizing the boy. Even she had flinched at the gloom and doom in his voice. At least he seemed to perceive his blunder, for she saw the doctor’s jaw bulge with the gritting of his teeth.

Reluctant sympathy stirred in her. She’d give him credit for his remorse, even if she had a feeling the damage had already been done, in so many ways.

She’d have to do the best she could with what was left.

“So you’re Sam,” Edie said, bending at the waist so she was on a level with the boy. Her action worked. Sam shifted his gaze from his father to her.

Edie smiled her warmest smile. “I’m Edie Turner, your physical therapist, which means I’m going to see if we can make that arm of yours better so you can get back to playing all your games. Why don’t you hop up here on the table and we’ll take a look at your arm?”

Sam complied, his climb-up made awkward by his continued grip on the white plastic splint. The padded surface sighed as he stoically settled on the edge of the plinth in front of her, sneaker-clad feet dangling. Yet when Edie moved to take a cursory look at his forearm, he recoiled.

She knew immediately to drop her hand. This would take some delicate maneuvering. Perhaps it would be best to get more acquainted first.

Edie pulled a pen from the pocket of her lab coat, flipping to the history portion of Sam’s file. “How’d you injure your arm, Sam?”

“He took a fall from the top of the stairs to the landing,” the doctor interjected from behind her.

Edie turned to find him a few feet away in a rather commanding stance, with fists thrust into the pockets of his trousers, coattail flipped back behind him. He nodded toward Sam. “His injury involved a bone forearm fracture, completely displaced and the fragments overriding, which required closed reduction of Sam’s arm and eight weeks’ immobilization. Because of the nature of the fracture, the orthopedic surgeon decided to err on side of caution and recommended therapy.”

He spoke to her as he would a class of first-year medical students, and with the same patronizing delivery.

Edie stifled a sigh. On the whole, the physicians she knew were a pleasure to work with. Yet despite his assertion to the contrary, Dr. Holden McKee seemed to be in firm possession of a power complex, divine or otherwise. Would it have killed him to drop the doctor-in-charge act and go stand near his son, give him a little moral support?

“So you accidently fell, Sam?” Edie pointedly asked the boy.

“Not ’xactly,” he admitted. “I didn’t fall. I sorta... jumped. I-I was trying to fly. You know, like David Copperfield.”

“Aha. I guess that’s where the landing part comes in. Not so smooth, was it, Sam?”

To her delight, Sam gave one of those deprecating, all-in-a-day’s-hard-play shrugs.

She chuckled. “So I’d say it wasn’t exactly a fall, wouldn’t you?”

“I guess.” He looked at his father over her shoulder. “I mean, no, ma’am. I didn’t fly, I just fell.”

“Oh, please call me Edie, will you?” She drew Sam’s attention back to her with her request. “I want to be really comfortable with you.”

“Okay—Ee-dee,” he said, enunciating each syllable.

“Thanks. I appreciate it. So, how many steps were you aiming to soar over?” Nonchalantly, she reached out and adjusted one of the Velcro straps on the splint. “Five, six...more?”

“Eight,” Sam owned. He threw another glance, this one guilty, over her shoulder.

“Eight!” she exclaimed, cocking her head to the right and into his line of vision. “I bet there must’ve been at least a second or two when you really did feel like you were flaying.”

He blinked at her. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

Edie felt encouraged enough to ask, “Think I could have a look at the souvenir of such a feat?”

“Well...okay.”

This time when she reached to remove the molded plastic splint, Sam allowed her to undo the straps and set it aside. His forearm and wrist were pale and somewhat atrophied from their weeks in plaster, yet looked to have healed well, with only a slight thickening still present.

Sam swallowed and averted his gaze. He seemed almost repelled by the sight of his own frailty.

“Why, you’re mending just fine, Sam,” she reassured him.

He squinted one eye. “Really?” he asked suspiciously.

“Yes, of course. Did you think you wouldn’t?”

He gave another shrug of his small shoulders, but there was nothing devil-may-care about this one. “I-I guess I didn’t know.”

Once more, Edie felt her heartstrings wrench as she realized he’d been protecting his injury not just from her sight. The worry he must have been going through! Apparently he hadn’t felt he could ask his father, the doctor, for an assessment—and an assurance.

The man wasn’t exactly increasing in her estimation.

“Well, you are getting better, champ,” she said. “We just need to keep up the good work that’s already been done.”

With infinite gentleness, Edie took Sam’s forearm in her hands. But even that merest touch made the youngster flinch.

She felt another twist of her heart. He was obviously terrified. “I’m sorry, Sam. Does it feel uncomfortable just touching it?”

“Naturally he’ll have some tenderness, with or without moving his arm, because of the nature of his injury,” his father again broke in, finally stepping around to the other side of the examining table, next to his son. Yet he was as stiff as ever as he placed his hand on the brown leatherette surface next to Sam’s hip, then seemed to recall himself and withdrew it

She began to wonder if anything could penetrate that impassive shell of his.

He cleared his throat. “But it’s important to begin moving the joint at this point so that its range of motion isn’t permanently restricted and full function is recovered as soon as possible.”

Edie wondered if this particular explanation was for her benefit or his six-year-old son’s. All right, this time she’d try acknowledging his input and work with it. “Could that be it, Sam? You know, not the soreness right now, but being kind of scared of how it might cause a little discomfort to move your arm?”

“I dunno. Maybe.”

“Are you scared what I might do will cause discomfort, Sam?”

Chin tucked, he chewed his lip. Then he nodded. “A-a little.” His voice trembled, the poor little boy.

The doctor made a sound, no doubt gearing up for what was sure to be another of his textbook interpretations of the problem, which would naturally be so helpful to Sam. Quickly, she shot Holden a forestalling glance, hoping this time he’d get the message. Normally, parents didn’t involve themselves in their children’s treatment once the therapist had established a rapport with the child. As a medical professional, Dr. McKee should know better than to interfere with that process, although she had a feeling getting him to give up even a little control to her was going to be an uphill battle.

She saw a muscle spasm pulse in his jaw. He inclined his head ever so slightly, yielding to her judgment For now.

Edie turned her focus back to Sam, whose hunched shoulders had drawn up even more, until he looked like a turtle retreating into its shell.

He would break her heart before this was over, Edie was certain. Something told her what she did in the next few moments would make all the difference in the world to this boy.

“You know, Sam, it’s all right to be scared.” She made her voice very hushed, just between the two of them. “I won’t lie to you and say what we’re going to do won’t feel a little uncomfortable for you, but we won’t do anything you’re not okay with. Deal?”

He didn’t answer.

Oh, what to do with a boy who shut everyone out of his pain! Edie was at a loss for how to proceed, was acutely aware Dr. McKee watched her every move. The words of her supervisor rang in her brain. You can’t let yourself get so emotionally involved, Edie. It’s not good for the patient—your judgment isn’t as clear—and it’s not good for you. You’ll end up losing yourself, burning out.

Yet every cell in her urged her not to hold back, and not just with Sam. Edie didn’t know why, but something told her that by doing so even a little, she would lose a part of herself. If she stifled the emotion, then she stifled her ability to connect.

She’d become like the doctor here.

She found herself wondering again where Sam’s mother was, could not imagine what kept her from being with him—and her husband.

On that thought, Edie laid her palm on Sam’s shoulder—much as she’d done moments earlier with Holden, it occurred to her. But it just seemed the thing to do, both then and now.

And such was the power of a simple touch that the boy responded like his father had. His head came up, chestnut brown hair falling over his forehead, and he peered at her, gaze searching.

“Will you trust me, just a little, Sam?” she murmured.

Dark lashes flickered, as if he were afraid to believe in what she offered. But then, hadn’t he stood there barely ten minutes ago and listened to his father insist upon the futility of believing in anything or anyone? Then to have that point driven home by being forced to admit he shouldn’t have believed he could fly!

How many more hopes and dreams could this child stand to have dashed?

“Will you trust me, Sam?” Edie urged.

His brow furrowed—as if he were afraid not to believe.

You can believe in this, Sam, she telepathed to him. My help, my understanding, my friendship. My allegiance.

Sam nodded. “’Kay. I’ll trust you.”

Relief washed over her. So the damage was repairable at this point.

“I’m glad you’ve put your trust in me, Sam,” she said around the lump in her throat. “I won’t let you down.”

With a smile of confidence, Edie glanced up at Holden.

Eyes hard as granite met hers.

“Is making personal affirmations to patients standard practice at this clinic, Ms. Turner?” he asked in that instructor-tostudent manner.

Her face grew hot. She couldn’t entirely blame him for that; by making her promise to Sam, she was the one who wasn’t being entirely professional. Yet she couldn’t find it in her to regret doing so. She’d had to follow her instincts.

“Do you think it better to tip the scale on the other end of the spectrum, Dr. McKee?” she asked, with that same air of them having a friendly debate, her calming hand still upon Sam’s shoulder. “Detach yourself completely from another’s distress when you have the ability to help ease it?”

“Of course not. But we’re not miracle workers. Too much is out of your control, and what is could get yanked out from under you in an instant—”

He broke off, clearly angry at himself for losing some of his control. “All I’m saying is, don’t make promises you can’t keep, Ms. Turner.”

Not to my son. She was well aware of his unspoken addendum, was well aware that Sam listened and might pick up on the tone of their conversation.

“But that’s just it. I haven’t.” She lifted her chin. “I will help Sam to the very best of my ability, Dr. McKee. You may depend on that, too.”

He studied her as skeptically as ever but said no more. Truly, she didn’t want to butt heads with him—especially not in front of Sam—but she had to do what she thought best.

Settling that aim in her mind, Edie turned her complete attention back to the boy. “All right, then! Let’s get an idea of what’s going on with that arm. Can you try and make a fist for me, Sam?”

Though obliging enough, the loose fist Sam curled his fingers into seemed not altogether his best effort. True to form, Dr. McKee was Johnny-on-the-spot with a pithy piece of medical advice. “Simple flexion of the fingers doesn’t significantly demonstrate range of elbow motion and forearm rotation.”

Whether he meant the comment for her enlightenment or Sam’s wasn’t clear. She only saw the boy’s mouth go taut.

She really was losing her patience.

“You know what I just realized?” Edie said. “That this trust thing sort of works both ways. Meaning we need to trust you, Sam, to be the judge of how much you can do. Don’t you agree, Dr. McKee?” She gazed at him innocently.

Holden’s own mouth went rigid as another of those spasms pulsed in his square jaw. “Of course,” he answered.

“Great.” She nodded to Sam. “Just give it your best shot, champ.”

Tongue curled up over his lip, Sam made a fist not much tighter than the last. Regardless, Edie made sure her praise was lavish—and quick. “Very good! Now try touching your pointing finger to your thumb.. .now your middle finger, right...ring finger, then pinkie. There you go!”

The boy’s shoulders relaxed visibly, she noted with satisfaction. “I guess...I guess maybe I will be able to play again. Regular stuff, I mean. Not magic tricks.”

“Well, it is pretty hard learning you’ve got a long way to go to be a master illusionist—or an escape artist, like I wanted to be when I was about your age. I was going to be the next Harry Houdini. Squeeze my fingers, will you, Sam? Hard as you can, but don’t hurt me, okay?”

Sam actually cracked a one-sided smile, even as he earnestly concentrated on complying with her request. The result seemed most promising. He was loosening up, both literally and figuratively. “Playing Harry Hou...who?”

“Harry Houdini. He was a very famous magician who specialized in escaping from things. Yup, I cracked my head a good one trying to escape from a straitjacket while hanging upside down.”

The boy’s eyes rounded. “Really?”

“’Course I didn’t have a real straitjacket, just an old bedsheet I wrapped around myself after I’d shinnied up a tree. Lost my balance before I even got—”

“Ms. Turner.”

Edie glanced up. She’d forgotten Holden was there. “Yes?” The look on his face was impassive no more. Forbidding was more like it. “Sam doesn’t need any more ideas on magic tricks. If you really must continue on that bent, you might encourage him to try some sleight of hand, like making a quarter disappear, which would not only mobilize his arm but keep him occupied with less-dangerous activities.”

Imperceptibly, Sam drew his shoulders up.

That did it, Edie decided. She’d hoped to avoid a confrontation, but it seemed inevitable.

“Would you excuse me for a moment?” she said.

She left the room and returned a minute later with the perky young woman who was her aide.

“Colleen here is going to put some moist heat on your arm to help loosen it up, okay, Sam?”

She turned to Colleen. “Nothing too intense. Sam’s real good about letting you know what he can stand.”

“Got it,” Colleen said.

Edie smiled politely at Holden, but her words brooked no dissent. “If you’ll come with me, Dr. McKee, I need to consult with you a moment.”

He raised one dark eyebrow. “I welcome the opportunity.”

Oh, yeah, she was in for a fight.

Edie gave Sam a wink of reassurance. “You’ll be fine, champ, I promise.”

He nodded bravely. “Okay, Ee-dee.”

She couldn’t prevent herself from delivering a parting touch in the form of smoothing down that spiky hair. “You know, I kind of like the special way you say my name,” she teased.

Her heart melted at the yearning that sprang to his eyes as a result of her gesture, even as he shied away from it.

“I-I never knew anybody with initials for a name,” he said hesitantly. “What’s ED. short for, anyway?”

The question, so out of the blue, brought her up short.

“But it’s not...that,” she stammered, wondering why she felt as if she was equivocating. “It’s Edie. I don’t think it’s short for anything. My mother told me the name came to her in a dream when she was pregnant.”

For some reason, she found her gaze locking with Holden’s. He was impassive no more-instead she glimpsed a naked yearning in his eyes that was startling. It brought to mind how he’d stared at her before, right after she’d come into the room and found him looking almost...lost. And how it seemed he looked to her to bring him back home.

Edie was held spellbound by the searching in those intense gray-green eyes. They delved miles deeper than Sam’s ever could—almost intimately. Like a man would gaze at...at a lover.

She realized only now how she’d avoided that look before, much in the same way his little boy had recoiled from her and the potential for pain she represented.

With some desperation, Edie pushed such thoughts from her mind so that she might concentrate on helping the one who needed her most at the moment.

But she was not quite so confident as she’d been a minute ago of who that person was as she left the room, Holden McKee only a step behind her.

Chapter Two

Holden followed Edie down the hall, where she indicated he should precede her into an unoccupied treatment room. She closed the door after them, startling him when she whirled to face him. Gone was the gentle, compassionate angel of mercy, surrounded by her halo of red-gold hair, who had so recently ministered to his son.

In her place was a fierce, passionate champion outfitted in an armor of copper. Her brown eyes snapped, the color in her cheeks rose. She was magnificent to behold.

A surge of some force passed over Holden, through him, paralyzing him like an electrical shock. What was it about this woman that resounded in him so profoundly? Like that ripple in time he’d felt before, which he’d begun to believe had been a result of the stress he was under.

Yet it had happened again in the treatment room with Sam—that little misunderstanding about her name. That time, though, she’d experienced a jolt, too, which he’d seen disorient her.

It wasn’t just him—or was it? He had been under a lot of stress—the job, the move, this new crisis with Sam. The changes and events of the past year were simply catching up with him. That had to be it.

He could not succumb to the confusion.

“Let’s get a few things straight right now, Dr. McKee,” Edie began, starting right in on him, just as he knew she would. Well, he had a few things to say to her, too. “You’ve brought Sam to me for physical therapy. I am assuming this is because your ability to provide such treatment is outside your expertise. Am I wrong?”

“No, but—”

“Then why won’t you let me do my job!” she demanded.

He crossed his arms, determined to remain calm and keep from taking her attack personally, even though she was stepping way out of line. Even though something told him he wasn’t the only one taking things personally right now. “Precisely how have I prevented you, Ms. Turner?”

She stared at him with patent disbelief. “Are you serious? What do you call the lectures on this bone being connected to that bone so that I feel like I’m in Anatomy 101 again? But you know what? I can handle that. I’ve dealt with worse attacks on my competence by doctors. What’s really damaging to any progress I might be making is your indirect criticism of just about anything Sam says or does!”

Holden was surprised into protesting, “Now, that is not true.”

“Dr. McKee. please!” Clearly frustrated with him, she paced to the other side of the room, where she pivoted and slapped her palms down on top of the waist-high table. “He needs to tell me himself where it hurts and how it feels and what he’s comfortable doing. You are not inside his body with him! Only Sam knows what he can tolerate. You should know that as a physician!”

“First of all, Ms. Turner, I did take your hints—as a physician—and kept my mouth shut while you worked at building a rapport with your patient so you could evaluate him,” Holden said evenly, crossing to the table and planting his knuckles on it to face her squarely. “But I was forced to speak out at that last bit of yours, when you practically drew him a diagram of how to break his neck!”

“I was trying to let him know he hadn’t done anything but be a typical little kid!” She leveled an accusing glare at him. “And don’t tell me you’re not angry with Sam for that.”

Despite his resolution, Holden felt his control slip. “I am not angry! Why would I be when he’s done nothing wrong?”

“Hasn’t he? Launching himself down a staircase headfirst?”

Holden’s chin snapped back. Though the accident had happened over a month ago, the mere thought of that day had the power to propel him into a snare of self-blame he’d scarcely become untangled from.

Blast Edie Turner for making him go there!

“This sort of psychoanalyzing hardly falls within your function as Sam’s therapist,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I think it does! Sam’s emotional state affects how well I can do my job, which is helping him to recover from his injury.”

“Which I have my doubts of your being competent to do.” Holden leaned forward on his fists. “I can have you taken off this case, and don’t think I won’t do it.”

Now it was her turn to be taken aback. “You wouldn’t be so rash at your son’s expense.”

“Would it be rash? I’m not convinced.”

Edie blinked, her mouth working with frustration. But she rallied. “Certainly, you must do what you feel is best, Doctor. Which doesn’t change the fact that Sam needs to hear from someone that sometimes kids do reckless and even kind of foolish things, like jumping off of landings and falling out of trees, and that such a mistake won’t be held over his head forever. I mean, honestly, didn’t you ever try some dangerous, foolish feat when you were a kid and nearly come to complete disaster?”

At her question, Holden took another hit, like a bomb going off inside him. Too close this time. Too damn close. The heat of it radiated around him.

This time he knew he’d be unable to temper his reaction, which only added more fuel to it.

“Of course I did!” he exploded, his face inches from hers. “Does that mean Sam’s accident shouldn’t have scared the hell out of me? Good God, Ms. Turner, I may be a doctor, but he’s my son!”

His words reverberated in the room and seemed to bring both of them back to their senses. Holden rocked back on his heels, yanking one hand through his hair. He hated feeling out of control!

Yet his outburst had obviously struck a chord with Edie. Her fingers covered her open mouth as she gaped at him for several moments. She pressed one palm to her chest.

“You’re right,” she said simply. “I apologize, Dr. McKee. I haven’t been dealing with you as a parent. As a...a person. I realize now your comments, however analytical or critical or inept, were your way of showing concern for your son.”

“So glad you understand,” Holden muttered, cramming his fists in his pockets.

She actually smiled, and it changed the whole aspect of her appearance, brought back that warmth of spirit she’d shown with Sam and less that role of fierce protector of all that was innocent—with Holden starring as the barbarian invader.

He even found himself adding ruefully, “I suppose I might have given you the impression I was treating Sam like any other case with my comments. I only meant to offer him encouragement.”

His olive branch, such as it was, seemed to be accepted.

“Well, don’t be too hard on yourself,” Edie said. “I bet mere were some of the usual father-son dynamics working there, too—you know, that male trait of not being able to be open with understanding or sympathy. Or maybe—” she cocked her head to one side, that fall of hair sliding down the length of her arm “—you’ve been angry with yourself, for letting him get hurt. Maybe that’s what I was picking up on in the other room.”

“‘Picking up on’?” he asked cynically.

“Having Sam suffer an accident might be harder for a doctor to accept, even one who claims to have no power issues.”

He felt himself tacking back toward ticked off at this woman. “Please, Ms. Turner, I really can do without the pop psychology. Which brings up a point.” She wasn’t the only one who could render a performance evaluation. “Speaking as a doctor now, you need to keep more of a professional distance and do your job. You’re a physical therapist, not his shrink or his mother.”

Her chin set rebelliously at his suggestion, but she answered readily enough. “Point taken, Doctor.”

Holden had just begun to think he was getting a leg up on the situation—and Edie Turner—when she said, “Which brings up yet another matter. Where is Sam’s mother?”

It was another blow to the gut, and it left him just a little more exposed than after the last.

This was why he avoided becoming personal with people.

“My wife died a little over a year ago,” Holden said without a bit of inflection. Oh, but would the words ever get any easier?

At least they had the effect of stunning Edie into another silence, except for a murmured “I see.”

The silence drew on, making Holden search to fill it with something, anything to draw them away from the dangerous ground he seemed to step onto with this woman with regularity.

“Now you know what Sam’s dealing with,” he said stiffly.

“Yes,” she said on an outrush of air. “Knowing of your loss certainly clears a lot of things up for me. At least I understand a little better the rather...pessimistic philosophy you let fly with earlier.”

“Sure, I’m pessimistic,” he said. “Can you make rhyme or reason out of why a woman in her prime might be struck down with a brain aneurysm?”

“I don’t know why. That doesn’t mean there isn’t a reason.”

Before he could react to such an absurd remark she’d gone on with infinite gentleness, “I’m... terribly sorry, Dr. McKee. For both yours and Sam’s loss.”

“Sorry?” Holden asked. “It’s not your fault.”

“Neither is it yours,” she answered as gently, not rising to his gibe. Her brown eyes no longer snapped with righteousness. On the contrary, within their liquid depths were echoes of the sympathy and understanding he’d seen there before, when she’d leaned over him, her face—her mouth—so close to his he had almost kissed her.

At least now that temptation was held at bay by the treatment table that separated them like two adversaries. Except... Edie’s hand lifted from the table. Holden watched, nearly mesmerized, as she held it out toward him, a lock of that vibrant hair caught on her cuff. It fanned down from her sleeve to her lab coat in a curtain of burnished copper.

If she touched him, he wasn’t certain what he’d do.

Yes, exposed was exactly how he felt. Exposed and not in control at all.

But Edie apparently thought better of the gesture, for she let her hand drop to her side. Holden cleared his throat, wondering what had held her back.

She drew in a deep breath, looking somewhat troubled. “Well, then, Dr. McKee. Are we agreed that the most important thing is Sam’s welfare?”

“Of course.”

“And what’s best, I think, is for me to gain his confidence and trust.” She stuck her hands into the pockets of her lab coat. “Most of all, I need to be able to work on his PT at a pace he’s comfortable with, preferably in an atmosphere where his efforts aren’t explicitly or implicitly judged.”

Holden lifted a cool eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“You want him to come out of this with a fully rehabilitated forearm and wrist, and without any lingering fears about his injury, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then I’d like you to let me treat Sam—without you.”

His other eyebrow shot up.

Her gaze became determined. “I’m sure you’re well aware giving PT to a child outside of a parent’s presence is normal procedure. In fact, most parents feel it’s easier on their nerves as well their child’s.”

“And if I don’t hold that opinion?”

“You could ask for another therapist I’m asking you not to do that.” Her gaze turned almost pleading now. “Please. Let me help Sam.”

Indeed, her brown eyes beseeched him. With a stifled oath, Holden turned, focusing on a chart of the human skeletal system tacked to the wall.

What was it about this woman that made him want to shake her one instant and the next take her in his arms?

She didn’t see him as a parent—or even as a person! Well, appearances aside, Holden thought sarcastically, he was both. But he was also a doctor, and perhaps that was what she’d been getting at—that he closed himself within that persona to keep from letting emotion cloud his judgment Often, it was this very ability to disconnect that permitted him to give a patient the best care. But Sam was not a patient; Sam was his son. And because he was, Holden felt all the normal feelings of fear and guilt and anger.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but believe that he still must continue to set those feelings aside—for Sam’s sake, as she’d said.

No, on first pass, he didn’t like her suggestion, but the second and third times around his head, he saw the sense in it Whatever Edie Turner was, she was committed. Even passionate, in a way that perhaps was imprudent while still being completely reliable. In part, he was glad she was just so, for it did seem to be exactly what Sam needed, or she wouldn’t have made such progress with him in the short time she’d worked with him.

Yet another part of him, Holden acknowledged, rued that very development. He wanted to help his son. But as much as he hated to admit it, he wasn’t doing the boy any good the way he was now. Edie had the right idea: Sam’s welfare was his main concern.

Holden turned back to her. “All right, Ms. Turner. I’ll still be bringing Sam to his appointments, and you can call me in toward the end of each session to show me the exercises he’ll be doing. He’ll need my help to do them right, and I want to be there for him. I do promise not to push him or make him feel like he’s damaged himself in my eyes in any way. Fair enough?”

Relief broke out over her face as she smiled. “Fair enough.”

He held the door for her as Edie led the way back to the treatment room where Sam was. She paused outside the door, though, and looked up at him.

“Thank you, Dr. McKee, for seeing the sense in my suggestion.” She made a graceful swaying gesture with her head that swung her hair back over her shoulder. It really was her best feature, Holden decided. “I appreciate you putting your trust in me.”

She’d made the same statement to Sam, and despite still questioning the wisdom of such an assurance, Holden found himself liking that she’d make the same one to him, too. It occurred to him then that she might be apprehensive about what had happened back in the other treatment room.

“Just so you know, I won’t switch Sam to another therapist once he’s started with you,” he said gruffly. “You have my word.”

“I trust you, Dr. McKee,” she said, eyes vibrant with that emotion, undoubtedly sincere.

He would wonder later what impulse made him reach out and take a lock of that living mantle in his fingers. Edie stiffened but didn’t pull away, emboldening him to leisurely rub the strands between thumb and forefinger. Each filament was like that of a precious metal, shimmering in the light. And soft, like the feathers he’d imagined he’d felt as the tips of these copper-gold locks had brushed the back of his hand. As then, it took all his might not to surround himself in the curtain of her hair.

“Is it really as easy as that, Edie?” he murmured. “You say you trust someone, so then you do? I give my consent, and so I’ve given you my trust? Is believing really that effortless?”

He waited for her answer, still caressing the silky strands. When none came, he glanced up. The trust had been replaced by the same disorientation he’d seen at Sam’s misinterpreting her name.

“Naturally, it’s not that easy,” she said, her voice low. “Real trust can’t be built in a day. It’ll take time for Sam to put his faith in me. But I won’t let your son down.”

“Yes...Sam.” Holden dropped the lock of hair and stepped back. “Shall we get back to him?”

As he followed Edie through the door, he realized that, indeed, like Rome, real trust could not be built in a day. Yet he knew from experience that it could burn to the ground in an instant.

He would have to be very careful—for everyone’s sake.

Edie pushed open the door from the changing room to the pool area, her running shoes dangling from two fingers, her socks tucked under one arm. Warm, humid air surrounded her, along with the pervading smell of chlorine. Music continued to blast from a boom box on a bench, even though the seniors’ hydrotherapy class had ended five minutes earlier. Several of the attendees were still tooling around in the pool on their foam boards.

She spied her aunt Hazel among the balding pates and bathing caps just as the older woman saw her.

“How’d it go today?” Edie called above the echoing strains of Brooks & Dunn’s “Boot Scootin’ Boogie.”

“Fine.” Hazel dog-paddled over. “This left hip of mine is acting up again. Fool thing.”

“Hey there, Edie,” called one of the older gentleman.

“’Lo, Ralph.” She shoehorned her heel into her shoe with one finger and nodded toward Hazel. “Say, would it be possible for you to give her a lift in tomorrow afternoon, too, and I’ll see if I can get a room where some work can be done on Hazel’s hip?”

“You betcha.”

Edie grinned at the sight of her aunt’s pink cheeks. Ralph Janssen gave Hazel a ride to hydrotherapy class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, even though her house was out of his way, allowing Hazel to then ride back home with Edie. Ralph’s motives were not altogether altruistic. It was obvious to everyone that he was sweet on Hazel, but the older woman would hear nothing about it.

“Actually,” Edie suggested, “you wouldn’t have to come in tomorrow—so long as you spend another twenty minutes bare minimum doing your stretching exercises in the water while I’m working out, okay?”

Hazel frowned at her mightily. The pool was Ralph’s element. He could hang out there forever.

“Hey, Edie, whyn’t you join us?” Ralph asked.

Edie concentrated on picking a knot out of her shoelace. On a shrug, she answered, “I’m not much of a water person, to tell the truth. I guess it’s from growing up near Lubbock where the most water a person sees at one particular time is at the bottom of their bathtub—and that’s only during the wet season.”

Ralph laughed. “I thought I heard a West Texas twang. What brings a small-town girl like you all the way to Dallas?”

Instantly, the answer popped into her head: Holden McKee. If her mouth had been open, she’d have said it. Holden McKee.

A premonition rippled through her, making her shiver in the warm, humid air.

“You know why, Ralph,” Hazel jumped in. “She’s my caretaker. Gave up a good job in Lubbock to come be with me. Without her, I’d be in a nursing home.” She gave an emphatic nod. “Yup, she’s been nigh onto a savior to me.”

Edie smiled at her aunt with great affection. Rheumatoid arthritis certainly limited Hazel’s activity, but she was hardly an invalid. If anything, the older woman inspired Edie, for Hazel Turner lived daily with pain that was literally bone deep. Yet her spirit would not allow her to sink into despair. Whatever her limits, she lived life to the very edge of them, fearlessly so.

As for being a savior, it was Hazel who’d been one to Edie, urging her six months ago to leave Lubbock behind and come live with her. Family should be with family, her aunt had said, and each was all the family either had left.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Aunt Hazel, but flattery goes as far with me as it does with you.” Setting her hands on her thighs and shoving off, Edie stood and pointed a finger at her aunt. “Stretches. Twenty minutes. I mean it.”

“Oh, all right,” Hazel said.

Edie was still chuckling a minute later as she programmed the treadmill. She’d have preferred an outdoor run, but her hours rarely permitted it. At least at this time of the evening she had the equipment in the exercise room to herself. And she had Hazel’s company on the rather long commute home to rural Parker.

She sank into an easy rhythm, her mind coasting as impressions of her day sifted into place, such as the high school athlete with a torn rotator cuff she was rehabilitating, her conversation with the clinic supervisor...

Then there was Holden McKee. Of its own volition, her mind called up a picture of father and son, with their expressive eyes—one set gray, like beaten pewter, the other the gray-green of verdigris—and that unruly chestnut brown hair that both contended with.

Of course. She must have been thinking of Holden’s son when Ralph had asked what brought her to Dallas. Not that Sam had brought her here. It had been more like a sense of real purpose that had infused her upon seeing him. The serious, dark-haired boy had tugged good and strong on her heartstrings. She didn’t get many children that young as patients; they were open books, their struggles written clearly on their faces. Naturally he’d make an impression on her.

But no denying it, there’d also been the tug from Sam’s father, perhaps because she was quite grateful to him. Holden McKee could have demanded a different therapist for his son today, which surely would have led her supervisor to giving her a formal reprimand. At one point, Edie almost thought Holden might report her.

But he hadn’t. He hadn’t let ego or pride or whatever drove him get in the way of doing what was right for his son.

There may be hope for you yet, Holden McKee. she thought wryly as she upped her pace so that she was now at a fast jog.

Yes, one had to look harder and work harder to bring out the flashes of humanity within him, such as when his son had first entered the treatment room on the heels of his incriminating remark. Or when he’d burst out at her about fearing for his son.

Or when he’d first looked at her, gaze open and unguarded.

It had been the memory of that look that had compelled her to hold out her hand to him across the width of the table. The man lived in a world of pain, and while he couldn’t be blamed for wanting to protect himself from more, neither could he remain in that place forever. Now seemed a particularly significant time for Holden McKee, when he might turn toward his son, toward the pain of losing his wife and get past it to heal.

Or he might just as easily turn away.

Edie didn’t think she could stand by and watch that happen to Sam. Happen to both of them. Happen to all of them.

She frowned, shaking her head. Maybe her supervisor had a point. Maybe Edie did need to pull back, take a more objective stance. Not become so emotionally involved. She’d certainly felt uncomfortable with the closeness generated by Holden’s own reaching out to her, capturing her hair in his fingers....

Thankfully, just then the pace on the treadmill kicked up to ten miles an hour—fast yet still well within Edie’s capacity. But it did take more of her concentration.

She regulated her respiration, two strides breathing in, two strides breathing out. She felt her body straining for oxygen. Just a few more minutes and she’d be in the zone...

Legs churning. Hard arms thrashing through a thick fog. Heart pounding.

Edie drew in a gasp, upsetting her rhythm. What...?

Images flashed before her eyes: Woods, all around. A boy. A dark-haired boy.

What was happening?

With a note of alarm, Edie noticed that her breathing had suddenly become uneven, almost labored, as if she were afraid and trying to get away from something—or someone. She struggled to bring it back under control. Two in, two out.

Now there was shouting. He was shouting something at her. Screaming it. Very upset. “Don’t... don’t give...”

Edie’s throat closed. She stumbled, caught herself with a hand on the side rail. Through a haze of emotion, she found the stop button and jabbed it.

The treadmill ground to a halt.

Her breathing came in gulps. Flattening her hand against her stomach, Edie tried to bring it back under control, her other hand clutching the rail for balance. She felt so dizzy, spinning around and around. She pressed two fingers to the side of her throat. Her heart was going like a trip-hammer.

Edie staggered over to one of the weight machines and sat down on its padded bench. She dropped her head between her knees, sucking air. What had happened? It had been as if she were inside someone else’s head, in a whole different place. The dark-haired boy: could it be Sam? Had she picked up on something the child was feeling?

What was that poor little boy dealing with right now?

Edie sat up, fingers digging into her thighs. Was she already in too deep with this child? Because she realized she wanted to see Sam McKee very badly right then, wanted to hold him, comfort him, let him comfort her—

Almost as badly as she did not want to see his father.

With a shaking hand, Edie wiped the perspiration from her forehead. No. All this was about was her internalizing her perceptions about both Sam and Holden. Whatever it was, whatever scared her about Holden, she couldn’t let it overcome her. Sam needed her. If she had to contend with certain feelings between his father and herself, then she would do it.

She would not be the first to turn away.

Chapter Three

“Can you try a royal wave for me now, Sam?” Edie said. “As if you’re greeting your loyal subjects. Excellent! How about some Motown moves?” Hand on her hip, she stuck her arm out straight and cocked her wrist. “Like, ‘Stop! In the Name of Love.’”

Grinning bashfully, the boy followed suit, earning him more kudos. Pride filled Edie’s chest. Only three therapy sessions, and Sam was coming along splendidly. If anything, he seemed even more pleased than she, and Edie had to give credit for the boy’s changed attitude to Dr. McKee. Even if Holden’s manner toward her was strained at best, he’d obviously been true to his word in setting aside his own emotional issues in order to see to Sam’s.

Whatever he was doing seemed to be working. Sam’s handsome face took on a look of amazement at being able to extend his wrist back to nearly a twenty-degree angle.

“I didn’t think my arm would ever be right again,” he breathed.

“Why not?” Edie asked, biting back a smile.

He had a constellation of dark freckles across one cheek, which he scratched as if they were bug bites. “I guess ’cause it made such a... cr-r-runch when I came down on it. Like a stick breaking. My arm just bent back, way back, like it could never straighten out again.”

Edie managed to conceal her wince of pain, knowing it was part of the healing process, this needing to relate the gory details of a frightening episode to another person in a post-traumatic-stress way of reliving it in order to be purged of it.

Which, once begun, now seemed to pour out of Sam. “I got up, and my hand flopped down a little in this really weird way. That’s when Mrs. Baxter came around the side of the staircase. She turned white as a sheet when she saw my hand. I thought, uh-oh, and I started to get scared. I tried to move my fingers but it hurt too much.”

She forestalled any further confession from Sam by asking, “Who’s Mrs. Baxter?”

“She’s my sitter. Kind of an older lady—”

“Whose heart probably isn’t used to seeing such daring.” She set her hand on the boy’s knee to emphasize her point, and for the first time Sam permitted the caress. “You must take more care, Sam. The next time you think about trying something kind of chancy like that, would you run it by your dad or Mrs. Baxter first? Would you do that, for me? It’d ease my mind so much.”

Dark lashes fell, then lifted again to reveal his clear-eyed gaze. “Okay. I don’t want people to worry ’bout me.”

“I know you don’t, Sam.” She thought of the boy’s father, remembering the look of stark fear that had come over his features when made to picture Sam’s accident—along with the anger in his eyes when he reprimanded her for putting more ideas into the boy’s head.

Perhaps Holden had been right in that judgment The last thing she wanted was for Sam to hurt himself again. Well, maybe her words to him now would help make up for that.

“You know, it might be best to stick to regular sports for a while,” she said. “Are there any you like you look forward to getting back to?”

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