It’s never too late for love in Hope’s Crossing…

Evie Blanchard was at the top of her field in the city of angels. But when an emotional year forces her to walk away from her job as a physical therapist, she moves from Los Angeles to Hope’s Crossing seeking a quieter life. So the last thing she needs is to get involved with the handsome, arrogant Brodie Thorne and his injured daughter, Taryn.

A self-made man and single dad, Brodie will do anything to get Taryn the rehabilitation she needs…even if it means convincing Evie to move in with them. And despite her vow to keep an emotional distance, Evie can’t help but be moved by Taryn’s spirit, or Brodie’s determination to win her help—and her heart. With laughter, courage and more than a little help from the kindhearted people of Hope’s Crossing, Taryn may get the healing she deserves—and Evie and Brodie might just find a love they never knew could exist.

Dear Reader,

Of all the people in Hope’s Crossing who could use a little hope in their lives, Brodie Thorne and his daughter, Taryn, probably lead the list. Taryn was severely injured in a car accident that devastated the town several months earlier, and her outlook for full recovery looks bleak. But in the way of loving parents everywhere, her single father Brodie refuses to give up. He pursues whatever avenue necessary to provide his daughter the best possible life, even if it means enlisting the help of a woman he dislikes as much as he does Evie Blanchard.

Evie doesn’t want to be sucked into her previous career as a physical therapist again. She knows the cost of allowing herself to care too much, and she fears Brodie and Taryn will threaten the serenity she found working at the bead store in Hope’s Crossing.

Together with the help of her patient dog—and other surprising sources—Evie is able to reach Taryn…and Brodie as well.

To me, this story is about healing hearts as well as bodies, about redemption and forgiveness and how with a little effort and faith, it is possible to heal the scars of the past in order to move forward to a brighter future.

All my best,

RaeAnne

Woodrose Mountain

RaeAnne Thayne

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To all the teachers, aides and physical, occupational and speech therapists who have been such a valued part of our life, working tirelessly to help children reach beyond their abilities. Thank you!

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

ON A WARM SUMMER EVENING, the homes and buildings of Hope’s Crossing nestled among the trees like brightly colored stones in a drawer—a brilliant lapis-lazuli roof here, a carnelian-painted garage here, the warm topaz of the old hospital bricks.

Evaline Blanchard rested a hip against a massive granite rock, taking a moment to catch her breath on a flat area of the Woodrose Mountain trail winding through the pines above the town she had adopted as her own.

From here, she could see the quaint old buildings, the colorful flower gardens in full bloom, Old Glory hanging everywhere. At nearly sunset on a Sunday, downtown was mostly quiet—though she could see a few cars parked in the lot of the historic Episcopalian church that had been the first brick structure in town, back when Hope’s Crossing was a hustling, bustling mining town with a dozen saloons. Probably a Sunday-evening prayer service, she guessed.

Farther away, she could see more cars and a bustle of activity near Miners’ Park and she suddenly remembered a bluegrass band was performing on the outdoor stage there for the weekly concert-in-the-park series.

Maybe she should have opted for an evening of music in the park instead of heading up into the mountains. She always enjoyed the concerts on a lovely summer night and the fun of sitting with her neighbors and friends, sharing good music and maybe a glass of wine and a boxed dinner from the café.

No, this was the better choice. As much as she enjoyed outdoor concerts, after three days of dealing with customers nearly nonstop at the outdoor art fair she had just attended in Grand Junction, she had been desperate for a little quiet.

Next to her, Jacques, her blond Labradoodle, stretched out on the dirt trail with a bored sort of air, tormenting a deerfly with the effrontery to buzz around his head.

“You don’t have any patience when I have to stop to catch my breath, do you?”

He finally took pity on the fly—sort of—and swallowed it, then grinned at her as if he had conquered some advanced Jedi Master skill. Mission accomplished, he lumbered to his big paws and looked at her expectantly, obviously eager for more exercise.

She couldn’t blame him. He had been endlessly patient during three days of sitting in a booth. He deserved a good, hard run. Too bad her glutes and quads weren’t in the mood to cooperate.

Finally she caught her breath and headed up again, keeping to a slow jog. Despite the muscle aches, more of her tension melted away with each step.

She used to love running on the beach back in California, with the sea-soaked air in her face and the thud of her jogging shoes on the packed sand and the sheer, unadulterated magnificence of the Pacific always in view.

No ocean in sight here. Only the towering pines and aspens, the understory of western thimbleberry and wild roses, and the occasional bright flash of a mountain bluebird darting through the bushes.

She was content with no sound of gulls overhead. She still loved the ocean, without question, and at times yearned to be alone on a beach somewhere while the surf pounded the shore, but somehow this place had become home.

Who would have expected that a born-and-bred California girl could find this sort of peace and belonging in a little tourist town nestled in the Rockies?

She inhaled a deep, sage-scented breath, more tension easing out of her shoulders with every passing moment. It had been a hectic three days. This was her fourth outdoor arts-and-crafts fair of the season and she had one more scheduled before September. Her crazy idea to set up a booth at summer fairs across Colorado to sell her own wares and those of the other clients of String Fever—the bead store in Hope’s Crossing where she worked—had taken off beyond her wildest dreams.

She was especially pleased, since all of the beaders participating had agreed to donate a portion of their proceeds to the Layla Parker memorial scholarship fund.

Layla was the daughter of Evie’s good friend Maura McKnight-Parker and she had been killed in April in a tragic accident that had ripped apart the peace of Hope’s Crossing and shredded it into tiny pieces.

Outdoor art-and-crafts fairs were exciting and dynamic, full of color and sound and people. But it was also hard work, especially when she worked by herself. Setting up the awning, arranging the beadwork displays, dealing with customers, running credit cards. All of it posed challenges.

Over the weekend, she’d had to deal with two shoplifters and the inevitable paperwork that resulted. This Sunday-evening run was exactly what she needed.

Finally tired, her muscles comfortably burning, she took the fork in the trail that headed back to town, her cross-trainers stirring up little clouds of dirt with every step. She’d forgotten her water bottle in her haste to get up on the cool trail after the drive and suddenly all she could think about was a long, cold drink of water.

The return trip took her and Jacques down Sweet Laurel Road, past some of the small, wood-framed older houses that had been built when the town was raw and new. She saw Caroline Bybee out watering her gorgeous flowers, her wiry gray braids covered by a big, floppy straw hat. Evie waved to her but didn’t stop to talk.

The air smelled of a summer evening, of grilling meat from a barbecue somewhere, onions being cooked in one house she passed, fresh-mown grass at another, all with the undertone of pine and sage from the surrounding mountains.

By the time she turned at the top of steep Main Street and headed past the storefronts toward her little two-bedroom apartment above String Fever, she was hungry and tired and only wanted to put her feet up for a couple of hours with a good book and a cup of tea.

String Fever was housed in a two-story brick building that once had been the town’s most notorious brothel, back in the days when this particular piece of Colorado was full of rowdy miners. She cut through an alley that opened onto the lovely little fenced garden behind the store, enjoying the sweet glow of the sunset on the weathered brick.

Jacques gave one sharp bark when she reached the gate into the garden, barely big enough for some flowers, a patch of grass and a table and four chairs where the String Fever employees took breaks or the kids of Claire Bradford—soon to be Claire McKnight—could hang out and do homework when their mother was working.

Evie really needed to think about moving into a bigger place where Jacques could have room to run. When she had moved into the apartment above the store, she’d never planned on having a dog, especially not a good-size one like Jacques. She had only intended to foster him for a few weeks as a favor to a friend who volunteered at the animal shelter, but Evie had fallen hard for the big, gentle dog with the incongruously charming poodle fur.

“Hold on, you crazy dog. You’re probably as thirsty as I am. I can let you off your leash in a minute.”

She pushed through the gate, then froze as Jacques instantly barked again at a figure sitting at one of the wrought-iron chairs. The shade of the umbrella obscured his features and her heart gave a well-conditioned little stutter at finding a strange man in her back garden.

Back in L.A., she probably would have already had one finger on the nozzle of her pepper spray and one on the last “1” in 9-1-1 on her cell phone, just in case.

Here in Hope’s Crossing, when a strange man showed up just before dark, she was definitely still cautious but not panicky. Yet.

She peered through the beginnings of pearly twilight and suddenly recognized the man—and all her alarm bells started clanging even louder. She would much rather face a half dozen knife-wielding criminals out to do her harm than Brodie Thorne.

“Evening,” he said and rose from the table, tall and lean and dark amid the spilling flowerpots set around the pocket garden.

Jacques strained against the leash, something he didn’t normally do. As she wasn’t expecting it and hadn’t had time to wrap her fingers more tightly around it, the leash slipped through and Jacques used his newfound freedom to rush eagerly toward the strange man.

The distance was short and she’d barely formed the words of the sit command before the dog reached Brodie. Given her experience with the annoying man, she braced for him to push the dog away with some rude comment about how she couldn’t keep her dog under any better control than her life, or something equally disdainful. Instead, he surprised her by scratching the dog between his Lab-shaped ears.

She didn’t want him to be kind to dogs. It was a jarring note in an otherwise unpleasant personality.

Her relationship with Brodie had gotten off to a rocky start from the moment she’d started an email friendship with his mother nearly three years ago on a beading loop, a friendship that had finally led Evie to Hope’s Crossing and String Fever, the store Katherine had opened several years ago and eventually sold to Claire Bradford.

His mother had become a dear friend. She had offered unending support and love to Evie during a very dark time and Evie adored her. She owed Katherine so much. Being polite to her abrasive son was a small enough thing, especially since Brodie had troubles of his own right now.

“Sorry. Have you been waiting long?” she asked after an awkward, jerky sort of pause.

“Ten minutes or so. I was about to leave you a note when I heard you coming down the alley.”

She didn’t feel at all prepared to talk to him, especially when she couldn’t focus on anything but her thirst. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t take my water bottle on my run and I desperately need a drink. Can you give me a minute?”

“Sure.”

“Do you want to come up or wait for me down here?”

“I’ll come up.”

On second thought, she should have phrased that differently. How about you wait here where it’s safe and stay the heck out of my personal bubble. Alas, too late to rescind the invitation now.

She led the way up her narrow staircase, aware with each step of the man following closely behind her. She wasn’t used to men in this space, she suddenly realized. Yes, she had dated a few times since she’d come to Hope’s Crossing, but nothing serious and nobody she would consider inviting up to her personal sanctuary.

For the most part, her life was surrounded by women. She worked in a bead store, for heaven’s sake, a location not usually overflowing with an overabundance of testosterone. If she wanted to date, she was going to have to put a little effort into it. Now that she almost thought she’d begun to finally achieve some level of serenity after the last rough two years, maybe it was time she did something about that.

If she were to start thinking seriously about entering that particular arena again, she could guarantee with absolute certainty that the words Brodie Thorne and dating would never appear in the same context in her head—even though he was gorgeous, if one went for the sexy, dark-haired, buttoned-down businessman type.

Which she so didn’t.

She pulled her house key out of the small zipper pocket on the inside waistband of her leggings and unlocked the door. As soon as it swung open, she winced. She had forgotten the mess she’d left behind when she headed up into the mountains immediately after her return to town—the jumble of boxes and bags and suitcases. She really ought to have left Brodie down in the garden with Jacques.

Brodie raised an eyebrow at the mess—or perhaps at her eclectic design tastes, with the mismatched furniture covered in mounds of pillows, the wispy curtains on the windows and the jeweled lampshades she’d created one winter night when she was bored. It was a far cry from her sleek little house in Topanga Canyon or her childhood home, a sprawling mansion in Santa Barbara, but she loved it.

Brodie lived in a huge designer cedar-and-glass house up the canyon high on the mountain, she remembered. She could only imagine what he must think of her humble apartment—and the fact that she could spend even an instant being embarrassed about her surroundings sparked anger at herself and completely unreasonable annoyance at him.

“Sorry. I’m in a bit of a mess. I only arrived back in town an hour ago from an art fair in Grand Junction. I’m afraid I only stopped here long enough to unload the car before Jacques and I took off for a run.”

She moved her suitcase out of the way so he could enter the living room and immediately the space seemed to shrink in half. Good thing she’d left Jacques down in the garden or she wouldn’t have room to breathe, with two big, rangy males in her small quarters.

“No problem.”

He moved inside the room but didn’t sit down. For a man who usually seemed self-assured to the point of arrogance, he seemed ill at ease for some reason. She couldn’t define why she had that impression. Maybe the sudden tension of his shoulders or some wary look in his eyes.

She swallowed and was instantly reminded of the reason she had come upstairs in the first place. She was parched. After crossing to the refrigerator in the open kitchen, she opened the door and pulled out her filtered pitcher. “Can I get you something? Water? Iced tea or a Coke?”

“I’m good.”

She closed the door and took a long, delicious drink, playing for time as much as quenching her thirst.

Why was Brodie standing in her apartment looking restless and edgy? She couldn’t begin to guess. In the year since she’d arrived in Hope’s Crossing, she’d barely exchanged a handful of terse words with him, and most of their interactions had been in some public hearing or other where she was speaking out about his latest plan to turn the charming community into a carbon copy of every other town.

A social call was completely unprecedented.

What had she done lately that might have annoyed him enough to come looking for her? She’d been too busy during the summer with the art fairs to be around town much. Maybe he was still smarting from the last time she’d taken him on at a planning commission meeting over one of his developments she considered an environmental blight.

She was painfully aware of the damp neckline of her performance T-shirt and her tight leggings, which she suddenly realized must have given him quite an eyeful of her butt as he’d followed her up the stairs.

Hiding her discomfort, she lifted her ponytail off her neck in the hot, closed air. The room felt like a sauna. She set her glass down on the counter and hurried to open a window, wishing she’d had the foresight to do that before she headed out with Jacques for the peace and cool of the mountains.

“You don’t have air-conditioning up here?”

Evie shrugged, instantly on the defensive about her employer and landlady and, most important of all, good friend. “Claire wanted to install it earlier in the summer but I wouldn’t let her. A fan in the window is usually sufficient for me on all but the hottest summer afternoons and I can always sit down in the garden if it’s too stuffy up here.”

She turned on the box fan placed in one of the three windows that overlooked Main Street. The air it blew in wasn’t much cooler but at least the movement of it served to make the room feel less stuffy.

“I’m assuming you aren’t here to discuss my ventilation issues, Brodie.”

He glanced out the window at the gathering dusk, his jaw tight, as if he were steeling himself for something particularly unpleasant, and her curiosity ratcheted up a notch.

“I want to pay for your services.”

O—kay. She blinked. The building that housed String Fever and her apartment above it had been a bordello in the town’s wilder days but she was almost positive Brodie didn’t mean that like it sounded.

She was also quite sure she should ignore the little quiver low in her belly as her imagination suddenly ran wild.

She sipped at her water again. “Did you want to commission some jewelry? Is it a gift for Taryn?”

“It’s for Taryn. But not jewelry.” Again, that hint of discomfort flashed in his expression and just as quickly, he blinked it away. “You haven’t talked to my mother, have you?”

“No. Not since before I left town Thursday.”

“Then you probably haven’t heard the news. Taryn is coming home.”

Some of her tension lifted, replaced by instant delight. “Oh, Brodie. That’s wonderful!”

She might heartily dislike the man but she could still rejoice at such terrific news, for Katherine’s sake if nothing else. “Isn’t this sudden, though? I’m stunned! Last week when your mother came into the store, she said Taryn would be at the rehab facility at least another couple of months. How wonderful for you that she’s so far ahead of schedule!”

“One would think.”

She frowned at his tone, his marked lack of excitement. “You don’t agree.”

“I would like to.”

“It’s been more than three months since the accident. Aren’t you overjoyed?”

“I’m happy my daughter is coming home. Of course I am.” His voice was clipped, his words as sharp as flat-nose pliers.

“But?”

He released a long breath and shifted his weight. “The rehab facility is basically kicking her out.”

“Kicking her out? Oh, surely not.”

“They don’t phrase it quite that bluntly. More a kindly worded suggestion that perhaps the time has come for us to seek different placement for Taryn.”

“Why on earth would they do that?”

“The rehab doctors and physical therapists at Birch Glen have reached the consensus that Taryn has reached a plateau there. She refuses to cooperate with them, to the point that she’s become unmanageable and refuses to even go to therapy anymore.”

“It’s their job to work around her plateau and take her treatment to the next level.” Nearly a decade as a physical therapist had proven that over and over. She couldn’t count the number of times she thought she had taken a patient as far as she could, had managed to push them to the limit of capability, only to discover a new exercise or stretch that made all the difference.

“Birch Glen is the most well-regarded rehabilitation facility in Colorado. As such, they have a lengthy waiting list of patients who actually want to be there and the staff would like to focus on people willing to be helped. It’s not malicious. Everyone is very sorry about the situation, blah-blah-blah. The director just gently suggested Birch Glen had helped Taryn as far as she would let them and perhaps staff members at a different facility might be better able to meet her needs at this time.”

Evie could understand that. Sometimes patients and therapists couldn’t gel, no matter how hard each side tried. “That must be aggravating for you—and especially for Taryn. I’m sorry, Brodie. I’ve heard of several excellent rehabilitation centers in the Denver area. Perhaps therapists with different personalities and techniques can find a way to challenge and motivate her.”

“We’re dealing with a fifteen-year-old girl who’s suffered a severe brain injury here. She’s not being rational.”

“Is she talking now?” Last she’d heard from Katherine, the girl was reluctant to say much since each word seemed to be a struggle.

“Her speech is coming along. Better than it used to be, anyway. Taryn has managed to communicate in her own determined way that she wants to come home. That’s it. Just come home.” He sighed. “She’s made it abundantly clear she won’t cooperate anywhere else—not even the best damn rehab unit in the country. All she wants is to come home to Hope’s Crossing.”

He showed such obvious frustration, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. Yes, she might dislike the man personally and, in general, find him arrogant and humorless. It was more than a little tough to reconcile those first—and second and third—impressions with the image of a devoted father who had dedicated all his resources to helping his daughter heal in the three months since the car accident that had severely injured her and killed another teen.

“Taryn’s basically throwing a temper tantrum like a three-year-old,” he went on.

“She’s been through hell.”

“Granted. And as much as I want to ignore her wishes and continue with the status quo or find her another rehab facility, I have to listen to what she’s telling us. She’s not progressing and a few of the members of her care team have suggested giving in to what she wants—bringing her home and starting a therapy program here.”

His words suddenly echoed through her mind. I want to hire your services, he had said. Suddenly, ominously, all the pieces began to click into place.

“And you’re here because?” she asked, still clinging to the fragile hope that she was far off the mark.

He looked as if he would rather be using those flat-nose pliers she’d thought of earlier to yank out his toenails than to find himself sitting in her living room, preparing to ask her a favor.

“It was my mother’s idea, actually. I’m sure you can imagine the level of care required if we truly want to bring Taryn home. For this kind of program, she’s going to need home nursing and an extensive program of rehab therapies—physical therapy, occupational therapy, speech. She still can’t—or won’t—take more than a step or two on her own and as a result of her injuries she has very limited use of her hands, especially her left one. Right now she struggles to even feed herself. Doctors aren’t sure what, if any, skills she might regain.”

Brain injuries could be cruel, capricious things. In an instant, a healthy, vibrant girl who loved snowboarding and hanging out with her friends and being on the cheerleading squad could be changed into someone else entirely, possibly forever.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “The people at Birch Glen are telling me I really need someone to coordinate Taryn’s care. Someone who can work with all the therapists and the home-nursing staff and make sure she’s receiving everything she needs.”

Evie braced herself for him to actually come out and say the words he had been talking around. She pictured another fragile girl and those raw, terrible weeks and months after she died and everything inside Evie cried out a resounding no to putting herself through that again.

“My mother immediately suggested you as the perfect person to coordinate her care. I’m here to ask if you’ll consider it. “

And there it was. She drew in a breath that seemed to snag somewhere around her solar plexus.

“I’m a beader now,” she said tersely.

“But you’re also a licensed rehab therapist. My mother told me you even maintained Colorado certification after you moved.”

And hadn’t that been one of her more stupid impulses? She’d tested mainly as a challenge to herself, to see if she could, but also in case anyone raised objections to her volunteer work at the local senior citizens’ center. Now she deeply regretted it.

“Simply because I’m capable of doing a thing doesn’t mean I’m willing.”

Good heavens, she sounded bitchy. Why did he bring out the worst in her?

His already cool eyes turned wintry. “Why not?”

A hundred reasons. A thousand. She thought of Cassie and those awful days after her death and the hard-fought serenity she now prized above everything else.

“I’m a beader now,” she repeated. “I’ve put my former career behind me. I’ve got commitments. Besides working for Claire at the store, I’ve got several commissioned projects I’ve agreed to make, not to mention another art fair over Labor Day weekend. What you’re asking is completely impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible. That’s not just a damn T-shirt slogan.”

He rose from the couch and moved closer to her and Evie had to fight the urge to back into the fireplace mantel. “This is my daughter we’re talking about,” he growled. “After the accident, not a single doctor thought Taryn would even survive her head injuries. When she didn’t come out of the coma all those weeks, some of them even pushed me to turn off life support. No chance of a normal life, they told me. She’ll only be an empty shell. But she’s not. She’s the same stubborn Taryn inside there!”

His devotion to his child stirred her. She had to respect it—but that didn’t mean she had to allow herself to be sucked under by it.

“That isn’t what I do anymore, Brodie. Perhaps her care center can recommend someone else in the area who might help you.”

“I’ll pay whatever you want.”

He named a figure that made Evie blink. For one tiny moment she imagined splitting the amount between the scholarship fund here in Hope’s Crossing and the charitable foundation she supported in California that facilitated adoptions of difficult-to-place special needs children.

No. The cost to her would be far too great.

“I’m sorry,” she said firmly. “But I’m not part of that world anymore.”

“By choice.”

“Right. My choice.”

His eyes looked hard suddenly, glittering blue agate. “Does it mean nothing to you that a young girl needs your help? Taryn needs your help? You could change her life. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

Oh, he definitely didn’t fight fair. How could the blasted man know so unerringly how to gouge in just the exact spot under her heart to draw the most blood?

She wouldn’t let him play on an old guilt that had nothing to do with his daughter. “You’ll have to find someone else,” she said.

“What if I increase the salary figure by twenty percent?”

“It doesn’t matter how much you offer. This isn’t about money. You should really look for someone with more experience in the Colorado health system.”

Any politeness in his facade slid away, leaving his features tight and angry. “I told my mother you wouldn’t do it. I should have known better than to even ask somebody like you for help. I’m sorry I wasted my time and yours.”

And the arrogant jerk raised his ugly head. Somebody like you. What did that mean? Somebody with a social conscience? Somebody who opposed his efforts to turn the picturesque charm of Hope’s Crossing into just another cookie-cutter town with box stores and chain restaurants?

“Next time you should listen to your instincts,” she snapped.

“There won’t be a next time. You can be damn sure of that.”

He stalked toward the door, jerked it open and stomped down the stairs.

After he left, Evie pressed a hand to the sudden churn in her stomach. Only hunger, she told herself. What did she expect, when she hadn’t eaten except for a quick sandwich on the road six hours ago?

She sank down onto a chair. Not hunger. Brodie Thorne. The man made her more nervous than a roomful of tax attorneys.

Maybe she should have said yes. She adored Katherine and owed her deeply. And Brodie was right. Despite the difference in their ages, she had been friends of sorts with Taryn, who used to frequently come into String Fever before her accident, full of dreams and plans and teenage angst.

Evie wanted to help them, but how could she possibly? The cost would be far too dear. Since coming to Hope’s Crossing, she had worked hard to carve out a much healthier place than she had been in the day she had arrived, lost and grieving, wrung dry.

She knew her limitations. Hard experience was a pretty darn good teacher. She threw everything inside her at her patients—her energy, her strength, her passion. She lost all sense of professional reserve, of objectivity.

After Cassie and the emotional fallout from her death, Evie knew she didn’t belong in that world anymore, no matter whom she had to disappoint.

* * *

BRODIE HAD TO EXERT EVERY BIT of his considerable self-control to prevent himself from slamming the door behind him as he stalked down the stairway and back out to the garden behind her apartment.

His temper seethed and bubbled and he wanted to rip out a flower or two. Or every last freaking one.

Her dog—half poodle, half Labrador and all unique, just like her—woofed a quick greeting and headed for him, tail wagging. Brodie scratched the dog between the ears and released a breath, some of the tension seeping away here in the summer evening with a friendly dog offering quiet comfort.

A little of his tension. Not all of it. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Yeah, maybe it had been stupidly shortsighted of him, but despite what he had said up there, he’d never truly expected her to say no.

Ironic, really. He hadn’t wanted her involved in Taryn’s home-care program in the first place. He thought his mother was crazy when she first suggested it a few weeks ago, after the director of the Birch Glen rehab center had first rather gently suggested Taryn’s placement there might not be working out.

Evaline Blanchard was a loose screw. She kept her long, blond wavy hair wild or in braids, she favored Teva sandals to high heels, she always had some sort of chunky jewelry on that she had probably designed herself. Most of the time she wore flowing, flowery sundresses as if she was some kind of Mother Earth hippie—except when she was wearing extremely skintight exercise leggings, he amended. His body stirred a little at the memory, much to his chagrin.

He didn’t want to be attracted to Evie Blanchard. She was a bleeding heart do-gooder who seemed to spend her spare time trying to think of ways to mess with things that weren’t broken. Everything about her grated on him like metal grinding on metal.

When she first came to town, he had entertained the idea that maybe she was some kind of grifter trying to run a con on his too-trusting mother. Really, what woman in her right mind would decide to pick up and move across three states—leaving what had apparently been a lucrative rehab therapy career—on the basis of an email friendship alone?

Either she was the most patient shyster he’d ever heard of or she had genuinely moved to Hope’s Crossing for a new start. She had been in town a year and seemed to have settled in comfortably, becoming part of the community. His mother and all her friends certainly adored her, anyway.

He scratched the dog one last time, then headed out the wrought-iron gate and through the alley toward Main Street.

Evie Blanchard might not be a con artist but he still took pains to avoid her. She had a particular way of looking at a man that made him feel edgy and tense, condemned before he even opened his mouth. He knew her opinion of him. That he was a bully with a big checkbook who liked to have his way around town. He was the big, bad developer who wanted to ruin Hope’s Crossing.

Not true. He loved this town. He had made his home here, had brought his three-year-old daughter here after his hasty mistake of a marriage had fallen apart. And now he was bringing Taryn home again to heal. Didn’t that count for something?

Not to Evie Blanchard, apparently. She obviously disliked him intensely. It didn’t help that every time they had appeared on opposite sides of some planning commission meeting or public hearing or other, she would be giving some eloquent opposition to whatever he was working on and he would be appalled by the hot surge of completely inappropriate lust curling through his gut.

Of course, he couldn’t tell his mother that. He didn’t even like admitting it to himself.

He would prefer to keep a healthy distance from Evie Blanchard and her wavy blond hair and her lithe figure, which definitely filled out her tight running leggings in all the right ways.

Too bad his mother had convinced him she was absolutely the best person to help his daughter right now.

Katherine’s arguments had been persuasive, full of journal articles Evie had written a few years earlier, media reports about the amazing progress she’d made with some of her patients, even references from parents of her former clients. His mother had done her homework and had presented all her findings to him with a satisfied flourish. After reading through her dossier on Evie’s time as a physical therapist in California, he had to admit he had been impressed. Now he didn’t know if he could be satisfied with anyone else.

Brodie sighed as he headed toward his car, parked in the lot behind the Center of Hope Café. He spotted Dermot Caine, owner of the café, heading to the Dumpster out back with a garbage bag in each hand. Brodie waved and Dermot called out a greeting.

“Is it true your girl’s coming home?” the other man asked, a hopeful expression on his sunbaked features.

“That’s the plan. She still has a long way to go.” He really wished he didn’t have to add that disclaimer whenever he talked to anyone in town, but the people of Hope’s Crossing had seen enough disappointment and sorrow over the last three months. He didn’t want anyone to set unreasonably high expectations.

“You give her a big hug from me, won’t you? That little girl’s a trouper. If anything sounds good to her—one of my huckleberry pies, some of that chocolate mousse she always liked—you just say the word and I’ll personally deliver it.”

“Will do. Thanks, Dermot.” There had been a time when the owner of the diner considered Brodie nothing but a troublemaker with a chip on his shoulder. Brodie had worked hard to overcome his rep around town over the years and it was heartening to see Dermot’s concern for his daughter.

“I mean it. Everyone in town is praying for that little girl. She’s a miracle, that’s what she is, and we can’t wait to have her back.”

“I appreciate that. I’m sure Taryn does, too.”

All of Hope’s Crossing was invested in her recovery. That was a hell of a lot of pressure on a fifteen-year-old kid who couldn’t string more than a couple of words together at a time.

Brodie headed toward his SUV, a grim determination pulsing through him. Evie Blanchard was still his best hope.

He wasn’t about to give up after one measly rejection. He had never been a quitter, not in the days when he used to ski jump and had trained for the Olympics, nor in his business endeavors. He sure as hell wasn’t going to quit on his little girl.

He had failed her enough as a single father, starting with his lousy choice of her mother, who had jumped at the chance to escape them as soon as she could, leaving him with a three-year-old kid he was clueless to raise. With a great deal of help from his mother, Brodie had worked hard to give Taryn a stable life, with all the comforts any kid could want.

What he hadn’t given her was much of himself. The last few years, their relationship had been stilted and awkward, filled with fights and tantrums. He found out as she hit about thirteen that he knew diddly-squat about teenage girls and their mood swings. Somehow in all the lecturing and grounding and disappointments, he had missed the signs that Taryn had strayed dangerously off track, running with a bad crowd, drinking, even burglarizing stores.

He might have been earning a failing grade as a parent before the accident—something he was used to from his own school days—but he refused to let her down now. He was determined to find the absolute best person to spearhead her rehabilitation program on the home front. Like it or not, Evie Blanchard appeared to be that person.

So what if he found her grating and confrontational on a personal level? He was a big boy. He would get over it, especially if she could help him give his daughter her best chance at a full recovery.

CHAPTER TWO

EVIE AWOKE EARLY the next morning tired and gritty-eyed. Jacques stuck his nose into the curve of her neck and she laughed hoarsely.

“Yeah, okay. I know what you want,” she muttered. She sat up gingerly, her body aching a little from the long weekend. Jacques needed to go out and an early-morning hike up the Woodrose trail would be just the thing to shake the cobwebs away.

She dressed quickly, especially since the dog was prancing around anxiously by now, and ten minutes later she grabbed the dog’s leash and they headed out just as the sun peeked above the mountains.

By the time they reached the trailhead to Woodrose Mountain, both of them were a little more settled. The trail was wet from a predawn storm and she wondered if it were possible to become intoxicated from the scent of rain-washed sage and tart pine.

The farther she hiked up the trail, the more stunning the view. It never failed to move her. Hope’s Crossing looked small, provincial, especially with the vast shadows of mountain ranges rippling out in every direction.

The quiet stillness was a far cry from the traffic and craziness of L.A.—and she wouldn’t trade it for anything. When she arrived in Hope’s Crossing, she had been battered and lost. Somehow here in this space where she could breathe and think, she had reconnected with herself, and the aches and pains and scabs of grief and self-doubt had begun to heal.

Not completely. She sighed, lifting her face to the sun just barely cresting the mountains. Just when she thought she was finally in a good and healthy place, content with the world and her place in it, reality had smacked her upside the head like an unexpected branch stretching across her life’s trail.

Despite her exhaustion from the busy weekend, she hadn’t slept well, her dreams fragmented and jagged, a tangle of memories and ghosts. No surprise whom to blame. Brodie Thorne’s unexpected request had ricocheted through her mind all night.

She felt like a coward for saying no to him but she knew she wasn’t. It had taken great courage to walk away from a career, a home, friends she loved, in search of something she knew she could no longer find in L.A. She had worked too hard to achieve homeostasis—harmony, balance, equilibrium, whatever word fit best. Although some part of her felt guilty for saying no to him and refusing to help with Taryn’s rehabilitation, she knew it had been the most healthy answer she could have offered.

After she and Jacques had both worked out their edginess, she headed back down the mountainside, passing a couple of tourists who were obviously continental, with their walking sticks and their Birkenstocks and that indefinable élan. They greeted her in heavily accented English then said something quickly to each other in musical French, gesturing toward Jacques, with his Labrador body and his wool-like poodle coat, which she kept groomed short in the summer for his comfort. He gave them a regal nod before padding down the trail behind her and Evie smiled, rubbing his head with affection. Boy, she loved this mutt.

Back at her apartment, she spent the morning working on the instructions for a couple of bead designs she planned to submit to an industry magazine, then grabbed a quick sandwich before heading for work.

It was impossible not to compare her commute now—sixteen narrow steps down the back stairway and then through the String Fever rear entryway—to the endless lifetime she used to spend in the stop-and-go nightmare of Southern California traffic.

A teenage girl was poring over the wires, and a couple of young mothers sat in the reading corner leafing through the bead pattern books while their children explored with the toys Claire had provided in the playroom.

Evie’s employer was on the telephone in her small office. Through the open doorway, Claire Bradford waved at her as she crossed to the rack hanging behind the big worktable for the multipocketed half apron that came in so handy for holding her beading tools.

By the time she returned, Claire had finished her phone call. She glowed today, her eyes shining and her smile bright and cheerful. She wore her new happiness like a brilliant tiara and Evie was thrilled for her. Claire was the most generous, giving woman she knew, always reaching out to lift someone else. Though she didn’t seem bitter that her ex-husband had married someone ten years younger shortly after their divorce and seemed to flaunt it in her face by settling into Hope’s Crossing with his bride, Evie knew it must have stung.

Riley McKnight made Claire happy. Everyone in town could see that, and the man plainly adored her.

“You’re not supposed to be here for—” Claire checked her watch with its band of gorgeous pink-toned Murano art glass “—another hour.”

Evie smiled. “I wanted to double-check the kits for my class tonight.”

“Probably a good idea. We had a rush on last-minute sign-ups over the weekend. I think we added six more Saturday alone. Your classes are always full. Face it, honey, you’re a rock star among the beaders of Hope’s Crossing.”

Evie laughed. “That’s something, right?”

“I hope we’re going to have enough room at the worktable. Let me know if you think you’ll need a second one. So how was Grand Junction?”

“Much better than I expected. So good, in fact, we’re going to have a crazy time replenishing the inventory before the last show over Labor Day weekend.”

“I’ll put out a notice by the checkout that you’ll be taking consignment items. This is a great thing you’re doing, Evie. I can’t believe how the scholarship fund has grown in just a few months. Between the ginormous amount we collected at the benefit auction in June and the money that’s come in since then because of everything you’re doing, as well as the other fundraisers around town, we might have enough of an endowment to be able to fund a couple of scholarships a year in Layla’s memory. You’re doing a wonderful thing, Evie.”

“I’m not doing much. You’re the one handling all the organizational legwork. Selling jewelry is the fun part.”

“I’ve done arts-and-crafts fairs before. Parts of it are fun but it’s hard, intense work.”

“So far I’m enjoying it. Almost done now. Only the Labor Day festival in Crested Butte.” She quickly shifted the subject. “How are the wedding plans coming?”

“Whose?”

Evie laughed. “Um, yours. What wedding did you think I meant?”

“As far as certain people are concerned, the Beaumont-Danforth nuptials are the only game in town, even though it’s still nine months away. Gen Beaumont has been in once a day, looking for that order of art glass she placed last week for the jewelry sets she’s making for her bridesmaid gifts. I keep telling her it takes two weeks for delivery but she seems to think she can make the process move faster by sheer force of will.”

“If anyone could manipulate the space-time continuum, Genevieve Beaumont would get my vote.”

Claire’s laugh had a wild edge. “I think I speak for all the merchants in Hope’s Crossing when I say how happy I will be when her wedding is a distant memory.”

Genevieve Beaumont was the daughter of the Hope’s Crossing mayor and the town’s most prominent attorney. Her society wedding had been in the works for months. It was supposed to be a lovely fall wedding, set for October, but Gen had postponed it after the tragic accident that had impacted the entire town three months earlier.

“Have you had any time to plan your own?” Evie asked.

“It’s coming. We’re looking at December now, with a small, intimate dinner and dance afterward in the Silver Strike ballroom.”

“Lovely. I can picture it now. Everything silver and white and blue, with fairy lights and acres of tulle.”

Claire’s features turned dreamy for just a moment before she shrugged. “I’ve already done the big-reception thing once. I don’t want to go overboard this time around.”

“Riley hasn’t, though.”

“He doesn’t care. He would run off to Vegas tomorrow if his mother and sisters wouldn’t kill us later.”

Evie smiled, though she was disconcerted by a sudden, completely unexpected twinge of envy at Claire’s bubbly happiness.

Where did that come from? She wasn’t jealous of Claire. Absolutely not. While she was certainly delighted for her friend, Evie wasn’t in the market for a relationship. Hadn’t she just decided the night before that she was completely happy with her single, unencumbered life here? She had Jacques for company and he was far more comfortable than any romantic entanglement of her experience.

“You both deserve a lovely wedding. You know I’m here for whatever help you need,” she assured Claire.

“Be careful what you offer.” Claire laughed. “I might take you up on it when the date gets closer.”

“You know perfectly well I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to help.”

Claire started to answer but paused when the teenage girl approached them, her plump features hesitant. “Sorry to interrupt. I can come back.”

“Not at all,” Evie said quickly. “Hannah, right? You’re friends with Lara, who works here sometimes.”

“Not really. We just know each other from school and stuff.”

Something about the girl’s unease, her hesistance bordering on gawky awkwardness, tugged at Evie’s heart.

“How can we help you?” Claire asked just as the phone in the office rang.

“I’ve got this,” Evie answered. “Go ahead and take the call.”

“It’s probably Gen again,” Claire said with a reluctant sigh, but she crossed the showroom to the phone at her desk.

“If you’re busy or whatever, I can come back another time.”

“Not at all,” Evie assured the girl. “I’m all yours. How can I help you?”

“I don’t know anything about beading but I think it looks kind of neat. I’d like to learn, I guess. I was thinking about trying to make some earrings for my mom. It’s her birthday next week.”

“Lovely!”

“She’s been, you know, kind of sad lately and I sort of thought, you know, that some new earrings would cheer her up.”

Kirk. That was her last name, Evie suddenly remembered. Hannah Kirk. Evie didn’t know the family well but she suddenly recalled the buzz around town had it that Hannah’s father had walked out on them right after Christmas for another woman, leaving her mother to struggle alone with Hannah and three younger siblings.

If rumor could be believed, the Angel of Hope—the mysterious benefactor who had been busy around town for the last six months or so helping families hit hard by the poor economy or by health concerns or family issues—had paid more than one visit to the Kirks since Christmas. She hoped so. Gretchen Kirk and her children were just the sort of down-on-their-luck family that deserved a helping hand.

“Your mother will love new earrings, especially handmade ones.”

“It was just a crazy idea. Like I said, I don’t really know what I’m doing or anything. I would need a lot of help.”

“You’ve come to exactly the right place.” Evie smiled. “We love to help beaders, trust me. Especially beginning beaders. We’ve got a worktable here with all the supplies and tools you need and there’s always someone around who can give you a hand with any project.”

Hannah’s face lit up with relief. “Really? That would be great. Thanks. Thanks a lot. You’re right, my mom will love them, I think.”

“Moms go crazy for the handmade stuff. Trust me on this. Do you want to get started now? We can look through the beads and get an idea of colors that your mom likes to wear, if you want.”

Hannah pulled out an older sort of flip phone and looked at the time on it. “I’d better go. I have to go to work. Um, I work at the shave-ice stand over by the hardware store and afternoons are kind of busy for us. Can I come back another time?”

“Sure. If I’m not here to help you, Claire should be or one of our other resident beaders. You think about what kind of earrings your mom likes and we’ll look through the books and come up with some killer designs.”

“Something easy, though, right?”

“Sure thing.”

“Thanks. That’s really nice of you.” Hannah’s sweet smile transformed her rather plain, round features into someone young and bright and pretty. “I don’t have much money, though. I can probably only make one pair.”

“We’ll figure something out. We’ve probably got some overstock we can swing a good deal on.” If Claire objected—though Evie knew she wouldn’t—Evie had samples from her own huge inventory of beads she would be willing to donate to the cause.

“I’ll see you later, okay?”

The girl smiled again, looking much happier than she’d been earlier. “Great. Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

She headed for the door and reached to pull the handle just as it was pushed in from the other side and Katherine Thorne walked into the store.

Evie’s stomach plummeted, all her angst of the long, sleepless night returning in spades.

While Katherine always looked elegant and put-together, from her streaky ash-blond hair, cut in a chin-length bob, to her strappy sandals and blush-painted toenails, the last three months since her granddaughter’s accident had definitely taken a toll. She was thinner than ever, her sixty-year-old skin showing a few more wrinkles.

The little happy buzz Evie had been enjoying at the prospect of helping a very needy young girl make a birthday present to lift her mother’s spirits fizzled away. Saying no to Brodie Thorne had been as easy as adding beads to a basic earring headpin, something she could do in her sleep. Katherine’s inevitable disappointment was a different matter altogether.

Hannah brushed by her with a flash of that hesitant smile, and Katherine closed the door behind her while Evie tried to come up with some excuse to avoid her dear friend. She could always use the other customers as a reason but with Hannah gone, that left only the two young mothers who, unfortunately, seemed perfectly at ease poring over magazines while their children giggled in the play space.

Evie was stuck. With as much grace as she could muster, she greeted Katherine with their customary warm embrace, sweet with the scent of blooming fresh-cut flowers from the Estée Lauder Beautiful fragrance Katherine used. The other woman felt fragile somehow, her bones sharp and defined. She wasn’t eating like she should, Evie fretted. How much more of a burden would Katherine take on after her granddaughter returned to Hope’s Crossing for rehab?

“How was your trip, my dear?” Katherine asked.

She pulled away. “Great. They had big crowds this year and people were actually willing to spend money again.”

“I did that show once or twice and always loved it.”

She didn’t seem angry. No yelling or asking how Evie could disappoint her like that. Maybe she didn’t know what Brodie had asked of her—or that Evie had refused.

No. She couldn’t believe that. Katherine had a purposeful look in her eyes and Evie wasn’t naive enough to think she was only here to look at beads.

They traded pleasantries for a few more moments until Evie could barely wade through the murky currents of subtext between them.

Finally she sighed. “All right. Have pity on me, Kat. You might as well come out with it. Brodie knows exactly what he’s doing, doesn’t he, sending you in as his reinforcement?”

Katherine sniffed. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Ha.” Evie straightened some of the inventory hanging on the wall, just to keep her hands busy and for an outlet to the tension in her shoulders. This was what had kept her restless and uneasy through the night, this terrible fear that she would be forced to choose between her self-preservation or losing a dear, dear friend.

In a way, Katherine had become a surrogate mother to her. After Cassie’s death, their email correspondence had provided a spark of life, of hope. When Katherine encouraged Evie to come to Colorado for a few weeks as her guest, she had jumped at the chance and instantly fallen in love with the town and the people here.

Most of them, anyway.

“You want me to believe Brodie didn’t send you.”

“No. In fact, he told me not to come.”

“Yet here you are.”

“Only because we’re desperate, my dear. Brodie and I both want the absolute best care available for Taryn. Surely you can understand that.”

Oh, she hated this. “Any parent would want the same.”

“You’re the best,” Katherine said simply. “Can you blame us for wanting your help?”

“Whatever I might have once been is a long road away. That’s not me anymore, Katherine. I’m a beader. I make jewelry.”

“I thought you might make an exception in this case, if not for Brodie than maybe for me and especially for Taryn.”

The tension in Evie’s shoulders tightened to a fine and exquisite pain. No wonder Katherine made such a good Hope’s Crossing Town Council member. She knew exactly which buttons to push.

“Not fair,” she murmured.

“I know.” Katherine looked unapologetic. “My son is not the only ruthless one in the Thorne family.”

Evie was trapped in an unwinnable dilemma. Refuse and hurt a dear friend. Accept and hurt herself.

Claire’s approach was a welcome reprieve. “Katherine! I didn’t hear you come in. Hello, darling! How’s Taryn?” she asked instantly.

Katherine aimed a quick look at Evie and then turned back to Claire. Evie’s tension tightened a few more screws.

“She’s coming home at the end of the week.”

Claire’s mouth sagged open and a fierce joy lit up her lovely, serene features. “You’re kidding! I never heard a word. This is fabulous! We need to celebrate! Fireworks, confetti. Throw a parade or something!”

Katherine shook her head slightly, squeezing Claire’s fingers. “I’m afraid we’re not breaking out the champagne yet. The doctors and therapists in Denver are basically kicking her out of the rehab center, saying they’ve done all they can with her. She’s become what the experts call a recalcitrant patient.”

A little of Claire’s ebullience faded but she was enough of a natural optimist that Evie could tell she wouldn’t let that minor setback completely dim her happiness. “Well, it will be wonderful to have her back in Hope’s Crossing anyway, right? What can we do? Do you have any idea yet what Brodie’s going to need help with at first?”

Claire’s instant willingness to step forward, no matter the cost, left Evie feeling small and ashamed. That was always her friend’s way, always thinking about what she could do to help someone else. As much as she loved Claire, sometimes she privately thought her friend carried that whole give-of-yourself thing a little too far.

Katherine hugged the other woman again. “We don’t know yet. We have so many details to figure out. We’ve been looking ahead to this day for some time. Over the last month or so, Brodie has been having Paul Harris do some work on the house, knock out a couple walls to put in a roll-in shower, install a couple of ramps, a lift system, that sort of thing.”

Katherine’s gaze slanted quickly toward Evie. That tension gripped her and she drew in a ragged breath. Here we go.

“Actually, we’re trying to persuade Evie to help us set up a home-based rehab program.”

Claire gasped, her eyes bright. “Oh, brilliant!”

“That’s exactly what Brodie and I think. I’m afraid Evie isn’t as convinced.”

Claire’s gaze zinged from one of them to the other and Evie knew precisely the moment she picked up the undercurrents of tension seething between them.

“Is it the store?” she asked. “If that’s the case, don’t you worry about us for a moment, Evie. I know I said you’re a beading rock star and all that but we can get along here at the store without you if we have to, especially when it’s for such a good cause. I’ve got a couple of teenage girls who’ve been in a half dozen times since the beginning of the summer with their résumés, looking for part-time work. I can use them until school starts in a few weeks and then figure something else out. You take as long as you need with Taryn.”

“Actually, that’s one of the reasons I stopped in,” Katherine said smoothly. “I don’t want you to think we’re trying to steal Evie away from String Fever during the rest of the busy summer tourist weeks before the shoulder season. I wanted to offer a trade.”

When Evie was a girl, their nanny used to take her and her younger sister to the park near their home in Santa Barbara. Lizzie would beg her to come with her on the merry-go-round and Evie would always eventually relent, though she always hated that out-of-control feeling, that whirling, churning, wind-tossed disorder. This conversation felt very much as if she was clinging tightly to the bars, trying to keep from being flung into chaos.

Claire smiled at Katherine. “Tell me more.”

“I want to apply for a temporary job as Evie’s substitute here at the store,” Katherine said. “I can even take over some of her classes. That would free her schedule so she can work with my granddaughter.”

Evie fought the urge to close her eyes. She was well and truly trapped now. Claire looked delighted at the offer. Why wouldn’t she be? Katherine was the founder and original owner of String Fever. She’d sold the store to Claire a few years ago after Claire’s divorce. Nobody in town—least of all Evie—knew more about beads than Katherine.

“Again, brilliant, Kat. You’re a genius.”

“I was going to say, positively Machiavellian,” Evie muttered.

Claire looked startled but Katherine only gave a smug sort of smile. “When I have to be, my dear.”

“You don’t have to be in this case. I’m a beader now, not a physical therapist,” she repeated for what felt like the umpteenth time. “I have no experience here in Colorado.”

“But you are licensed, right?”

“Katherine. You know why I quit.”

For the first time, she saw a glimmer of sympathy in the older woman’s eyes but it quickly hardened into more of that steely determination. How could Evie blame her? She understood Katherine’s perspective. Her granddaughter was facing months—possibly years—of painful, difficult rehabilitation with no guarantee of a rosy recovery.

Evie could empathize. She would have done anything to help those she loved, would have traded on every possible friendship to help Liz after the fire that had severely burned her and their mother.

And Cassie. In the two years she had with her daughter, she had fought fiercely to provide the best possible care but in the end none of her efforts had worked.

“I know. I’m sorry. You know that. But we need you, Evie.”

Claire looked from one of them to the other, her expression confused. “I don’t understand,” she said. How could she? Evie had never shared all her reasons for leaving her practice in L.A. As far as Claire knew, she had dropped out of her practice and moved to Colorado only because she needed a change.

Katherine knew, however. She had been there to comfort and lift Evie through a very dark and ugly time. Evie heartily wished she could do the same now for her friend.

“I understand your reluctance, my dear,” Katherine went on. “This is a big commitment with a great deal of pressure attached to it.”

“You know that’s not it. If I could help you, I would.”

Katherine nodded and to Evie’s dismay, her friend pulled her into another hug. “I do understand,” she murmured. “I’m sorry I’ve put you in a difficult position.”

“You’re the only one I would consider coming out of retirement—or whatever you want to call it—to help. You know that, don’t you?”

Katherine eased away. “I do. And I’m going to presume on our friendship terribly to ask you one more favor.”

Evie braced herself.

“Will you at least consider helping us for a week or two, just while we find our feet and start a treatment plan for Taryn?” Katherine asked. “With your knowledge and experience, you can make sure Brodie has retrofitted the house with everything we might need for her care. A few weeks would give us a little breathing room so we can take our time looking for the best possible person for the job.”

The request was reasonable and certainly made sense. Refusing to give up a few weeks of her life for her dear friend would make her sound churlish. Immature, even.

“When is Taryn being transferred from Birch Glen?” she asked, doing her best to keep the weary resignation from her voice.

To Katherine’s credit, not so much as a trace of victory flashed in her expression, even though she must have known Evie couldn’t say no. “Friday.”

“I suppose I could give you a week or two, as long as you can help Claire with my responsibilities here.”

Claire squeezed her arm. “Of course. Take as long as necessary. Whatever Taryn needs.”

“Just a few weeks. No more than that. I’ll help you hire another therapy coordinator and set up the treatment plan, but that’s all.”

She could handle anything for a few weeks, couldn’t she?

“That should be plenty of time to point us in the right direction.” Katherine pressed her cheek to Evie’s, filling her senses with flowers and guilt. “Thank you so much. I know it’s difficult for you and I’m very sorry, but believe me, we’re so grateful. I don’t know how we’ll ever repay you for this.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Katherine,” she answered, taking a subtle step back. “Tell Brodie to donate whatever fee he would have paid someone else for those few weeks to the scholarship fund.”

At least something good should come of this, she thought, as Katherine and Claire began discussing another fundraising event the high school student body officers wanted to sponsor for the Layla memorial fund.

Evie let their conversation drift around her, focusing instead on double-checking the kits for her class that evening to help beat off the residual twinges of panic. After a few moments, one of the mothers asked a question about their display of Greek worry beads and Evie was grateful to help the customers, an excuse to leave her friends and the heavy weight of their expectations.

“They’re called komboloi,” she explained. “Traditionally, they’re made with an odd number of beads and then a metal spacer in between. Touching them at various times throughout the day is believed to help with relaxation and stress management.”

“I certainly need that,” the woman said, rolling her eyes at her busy preschooler in the play area.

Evie smiled. “They’re easy to make and they can really relieve tension. There’s something very soothing about working the beads between your fingers. Lots of people even put them on their key chains. Want to try one?”

The two women exchanged glances. “Sure. Sounds like fun,” the other young mother said.

“You can use any kind of bead, though usually people use amber or coral because of their soft, comforting texture.”

Evie pointed them toward the beads, then went to gather the basic supplies for them. While she was helping them, she would make one for herself, she decided on impulse. It had been too long since she had crafted a piece simply for her own enjoyment—and she had a very strong feeling she was going to need all the stress management tools she could find in the coming two weeks.

CHAPTER THREE

BRODIE’S HOUSE IN the exclusive gated Aspen Ridge community wasn’t quite what Evie had imagined.

Given her preconception of the man as someone who always wanted something bigger and better than anyone else—at least in the various businesses and developments he owned around Hope’s Crossing—she had expected something opulent and overwhelming. The house was certainly vast and sprawling, with soaring windows and cedar-plank walls, unusual curves and angles. But the landscaping was tasteful and seemed to focus on native plants and trees and granite boulders. Whoever designed the place had managed to adapt it nicely to its surroundings, nestled into the hollow of a foothill.

His view was spectacular, she would definitely give him that. Even from her favorite spot on the Woodrose Mountain trail, she couldn’t see as far as Silver Strike Canyon but from various places on the property, he would have a clear vantage point of both the town below and the higher ski resort in the canyon.

She might have allowed herself to enjoy the view a little more in the stretched-out shadows of late afternoon but she wasn’t exactly in the mood for restful Zen-like contemplation of the mountains—not when she stood on Brodie’s doorstep holding a basketful of therapy-equipment catalogs.

Oh, she didn’t want to be here. Three days after Katherine had laid on the emotional blackmail, Evie wasn’t any more comfortable with her decision to help Taryn transition to a home-based program. She didn’t want to be dragged into this world again, not after she had fought so hard to find peace outside of it.

She would simply have to be tough and determined and remind herself that this was all only temporary. For a few weeks she could be tough and detached, clinical even. She could keep her emotions contained and safe, despite her relationship with Katherine.

It was only a job, right?

With that thought firmly in mind, she rang the doorbell and waited, expecting some housekeeper or secretary to open the door. When it opened a moment later, she was greeted by the unexpected sight of Brodie standing in the doorway wearing jeans and a white-cotton dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to midforearm.

His dark hair was slightly messy as if he’d just run his hands through it and he had that typical afternoon shadow that made him look somehow rakish and dangerous. Throw in a sword and an eye patch and maybe switch out the tailored cut of his white shirt for one with flowing sleeves and she could definitely see him sailing the high seas with Jack Sparrow and friends.

Yum.

That was the only word that seemed to register in her brain for about half a second, until he spoke and shattered, like a well-placed cannon blast, all those half-formed pirate fantasies.

“Evaline. Hello. I wasn’t expecting you.” His tone was stiff, formal, as if he were greeting unwelcome gate-crashers at some highbrow society function, and she had to fight down her instinctive sharp retort.

“Katherine asked me to stop by and check on the renovations in Taryn’s bedroom and bathroom so I’ll know what equipment we might need to order eventually.”

“Right. Of course.” He thawed enough to give her a half smile. “She mentioned you might stop by to check things out. It’s a great idea, one I should have thought of earlier.”

He held the door open wider for her. “Come in. The truth is, I’ll be glad to have your perspective on what we’ve done in her rooms, to see if we’ve missed anything.”

Brodie inclined his head in the direction of the hammering she could hear coming from the far reaches of the house. “The crews might be working all night to wrap things up before tomorrow but at least they’re down to the finished carpentry now. Come in. We can work our way around the dust.”

She gazed at that door and the muscled arm holding it open, aware of the tiniest flicker of nervous hesitation. Stupid. It was only a doorway and this was only a job. A few weeks, that’s all, and then she could go back to her happy place, among the good and kind beaders of Hope’s Crossing.

When she finally forced herself to move forward, Brodie ushered her into a welcoming two-story foyer decorated in the Craftsman style—clean lines, tasteful use of wood and stone, a stunningly understated burnished glass chandelier that had probably cost a fortune.

The house was appealing and warm, just as she should have expected. No one ever said the man was a tasteless boor. His sporting-goods store managed to be stylish without seeming trendy and she had heard that several of the restaurants he owned in Hope’s Crossing had won design awards.

He led the way down a long hallway decorated with photographs of places she recognized around Hope’s Crossing. The bridge near Sweet Laurel Falls, moonlight reflecting on Silver Strike Reservoir, a moose standing in a pond she had walked past often on Woodrose Mountain, moss dripping from his antlers.

While one part of her mind was enjoying the photographs, the therapist side of her brain she could never quite silence was thinking that this long space with the polished-wood floors might be a perfect place to practice walking with Taryn.

“I’ve moved her bedroom down to the main level,” Brodie said when they neared a doorway at the end of the hall. Behind the extrawide door, the sounds of construction intensified.

“That seems logical.”

“You and I might agree but I’m afraid Taryn likely won’t see it that way. She loved her room upstairs and I have a feeling she’s likely to pitch a fit about the new digs. Just one more major change for her.”

“Some things can’t be helped. She’ll get over it.”

“I’m shocked. You actually agree with me about something?”

She smiled a little. “Don’t worry. I won’t let it become a habit. In this case you’re right. It makes perfect sense to keep her room on the ground floor for now.”

“For now. Right.” He frowned. “I’d like to tell her she can move back up to her room eventually, but that’s one more promise I can’t make Taryn right now. It seems cruel to promise her that when we don’t know if she’ll ever be out of that wheelchair.”

Somehow she sensed this was important to him. Only logical. He was a very active, very physical man. One of his many businesses was a sporting-goods store and Brodie had even been a former competitive ski jumper at one time.

Katherine had told her once that Brodie and Taryn interacted most through skiing together in the winter, hiking and mountain biking in summer. No doubt the prospect of his daughter never being able to join him again in those activities would seem a crushing blow. She only hoped he wouldn’t pin unrealistic hopes on Taryn and could keep proper perspective. Walking again was only one of Taryn’s many hurdles.

As he opened the door, the scent of fresh paint wafted out and the thuds and bangs grew louder. She had a quick impression of a roomy, bright space with large windows and a light-grained wood floor. The room was painted white with some lavender trim and one wall of mirrors reflected the mountain scene out the window.

The construction workers apparently were installing large eye-hooks from the ceiling at various intervals, which would be perfect for hanging a pommel or swing. Around the corner from the therapy space, set in its own good-size alcove, was a sleeping area, complete with a hospital bed covered in a fluffy lavender comforter. A padded treatment-table just right for stretching ran the length of one wall and she could see a wheeled lift in one corner for helping to transfer Taryn from the wheelchair to different positions. The workmen were putting the finishing touches on a built-in cabinet in one wall with open shelves that would be perfect for storing odds and ends like exercise bands, hand weights, small weighted balls.

She had worked in world-class therapy facilities that weren’t as well equipped.

“Wow.” It was all she could say.

“We ended up taking out a couple of walls between rooms down here to make an extra-large space. Most of the work was focused on the bathroom, where we put in a roll-in shower and a lift tub.”

“This looks really great, Brodie. Perfect.”

“I hope we’ve considered everything, at least structurally. If you think of any equipment we need, just say the word. I’ve got a treadmill and stationary bike in the exercise room upstairs and we can bring those down, or if you’d like a different kind, we can get that, too. I’ve also got plans to have an all-season cover installed over the pool and hot tub out back so Taryn can continue to use them for therapy after the weather changes.”

Evie didn’t want to admit it, even to herself, but she was touched that Brodie was going to so much effort and expense for his daughter. Despite her best intentions, she was finding it a little hard to dislike a man who was so obviously committed to doing all he could to return his injured daughter to her previous abilities.

“Offhand, the only need I can see immediately is perhaps a table and some chairs in here so the occupational therapist can work on fine motor skills during her visits.”

“Oh, right. I hadn’t even thought of that. We’ve got one down the hall in the media room I can bring up.”

She held out the basket, feeling a little like Red Riding Hood offering goodies to the Big Bad Wolf. “I’ve brought some catalogs with basic items that will probably be useful. Therapy balls, pommels, that sort of thing. I’ve marked them with sticky notes. There are a few other things you may want to consider down the line but I suggest you give me and the O.T. a chance to work with Taryn for a few days and assess a baseline before you make any decisions.”

“Great.” He took the basket from her, leaning a hip against the padded table while he leafed through the catalogs.

She found it interesting that even during a moment of apparent ease, when he was only looking through catalogs, he seemed restless. His toe tapped a little, he shifted his weight, he flipped a page and then back. It occurred to her she had never seen the man completely still. Was it her imagination or was that just Brodie?

She wasn’t here to wonder about him, she reminded herself, and forced herself to wander the room taking mental measurements. As soon as she shifted gears, her mind began to spin with ideas about how she could utilize the space for therapy.

This all seemed natural, right, as if the clinical part of her brain had simply been hibernating, waiting for the first chance to emerge and stretch in the sunlight again.

She should have known she couldn’t just twist a valve shut on years of training and experience. It was part of who she was. She had loved being a therapist, helping children in need because of accident or illness regain skills they had lost or achieve new milestones.

Until Cassie’s death, she had been extremely content in her career and had enjoyed knowing she was good at what she did.

Everything had changed when her adopted daughter died. What had always given her such satisfaction and fulfillment suddenly became a harsh reminder of her own failures. After the funeral, she had returned to work but quickly discovered that the passion and drive so necessary in a dedicated physical therapist seemed to have shriveled away. After a few weeks, she had known she couldn’t do it anymore. Her patients deserved more than someone going through the motions. If she couldn’t force herself to stretch past the pain—and if she was no longer able to find that joy and passion again—she had reached the grim conclusion it was time to walk away.

Apparently it wasn’t as easy as she’d thought to turn her back on the career path she had once loved.

“Can you give me your honest opinion?” Brodie asked, sliding the catalog back in the basket with the others.

“That’s usually not a problem for me.” She gave him a wry smile. “If anything, I can sometimes be a little too brutal.”

“Brutal is just what I need right now. Most of the doctors give platitudes and best-case scenarios. How the brain still is a big mystery and we have to wait and see, blah-blah-blah. It’s been more than three months and I need more than that. I know you’ve visited Taryn in Denver and I’m sure you’ve seen similar brain injuries to hers. When all is said and done and we’ve thrown all the intensive therapy we can at her, let’s be realistic. What are our chances for a full recovery?”

Oh, the dreaded question. Her stomach muscles tightened and she cursed that she’d ever allowed herself to be dragged here. Yes, she might have been hibernating. But right now she couldn’t help wishing she could curl up back in her warm cave where she was safe, and slide back into sleep.

“I haven’t seen Taryn yet from the perspective of a therapist, Brodie. Even if I had, I’m not sure I could answer that adequately. For one thing, full recovery is very subjective. Will she ever be exactly as she might have been if the accident had never happened? Probably not. That’s the cold, hard truth. People who have suffered traumatic brain injuries often have things they have to struggle with the rest of their lives. But does that mean she won’t be able to lead a functional, successful life? I’m sure the doctors at the rehab facility have given you a much more comprehensive outlook than I ever could.”

“They won’t tell me anything. Just about how the brain is still a big mystery, how every case is individual, how it’s a miracle she even survived the accident.”

“Six weeks ago, she was in a coma. Think about how far she has come!”

“Has she? Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it.”

“Tell that to Maura, why don’t you?” She tried to keep the anger out of her voice but she was certain some of it filtered through, especially when a muscle in his jaw tightened at the reminder of Maura’s daughter, Layla, who hadn’t survived the same accident that had injured Taryn.

“Taryn is alive. I know. I get it. She survived and I’m deeply grateful for that. But I can’t help wondering what quality of life she’s going to have.”

Though his features were stony, she heard the pain filtering through his voice and her anger faded. Whatever she might think of him, Brodie was a concerned father, worried for his daughter’s future and frustrated by the slow pace of her recovery. Evie had spoken with many such parents in her career and had been one herself for a few brief years.

Though she knew it would be far easier for her to keep a comfortable distance if she could nurture her dislike of him, she was sympathetic to his concerns.

Acting out of habit rather than conscious thought, she touched his bare forearm beneath the rolled sleeve of his shirt. A tiny spark jumped from his warm skin to hers and she pulled her hand away quickly.

“By the looks of things here, she’s going to have the very best quality of life you can provide for her. She has you and she has Katherine in her corner, along with the prayers of everyone else in Hope’s Crossing, which is no small thing.”

He didn’t look convinced. “We’re doing all we can. I just hope it’s enough.”

“You’re bringing her home tomorrow, then?”

“That’s the plan.”

She didn’t miss the glint of apprehension in his eyes. Again, she was aware of a pang of sympathy. The first night she took Cassie home, she had been terrified. Despite years of training and working with children who had similar disabilities, the idea of being responsible for this fragile person had been overwhelming.

“Have Katherine call me when you leave the care center and I’ll meet you here when you arrive. I’d like to get started right away.”

Surprise widened those startling blue eyes. “You don’t think she’ll need a rest? The drive from Denver might be rough on her, especially sitting in her wheelchair in the van for an hour.”

“I expect it will be tiring for her. That’s why I’d like to start working her muscles right away.”

“Whatever you think best.” He didn’t bother to hide his doubt.

“You asked me to do this, remember? You’re going to have to trust my judgment on some things.”

It wouldn’t be easy, for either one of them. Brodie was a man of strong opinions—their limited contact before this week had made that crystal clear.

“Actually, I would like to make one thing clear,” she continued. “I’ve agreed to help you only as a stopgap while you’re looking for someone else to fill the position.”

“Believe me, I haven’t forgotten. You want to get back to your beads as soon as you can.”

She refused to let herself flinch at the hint of disdain in his voice. Let him think what he wanted about her motives. She didn’t care. “While I’m only planning to be working with Taryn for a few weeks, I see my role as laying the groundwork for subsequent therapies.”

“I fully concur.” He was back to being the stiff, formal businessman, which she found something of a relief. That Brodie was much easier to categorize than the one who engendered empathy and compassion.

“Good. That makes this easier.”

He looked wary. “Makes what easier?”

“I need a promise from you before Taryn comes home tomorrow.”

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific. I learned a long time ago that the devil was in the details. What sort of promise?”

“I need to be certain I have full authority to do whatever I think is best for her care. I can’t have you coming in and questioning everything I do. If you have concerns about my methods, of course we can discuss those and you’re more than welcome to sit in all day as I work with her if you’d like.”

She really, really hoped he wouldn’t do that. She could imagine few things more disconcerting than having to work with Taryn while the girl’s entirely too gorgeous father watched from the sidelines. “But I need to know you’re not going to micromanage what I do here.”

“Full authority. I don’t even give my chief operations officer full authority.”

“It all comes down to trust. If you can’t trust me to do what I think is best for Taryn, this isn’t going to work out, even for the short term. You would be better coordinating her care yourself.”

“You’re asking a great deal.”

“Too much?”

He appeared to be consider. “I suppose it’s fair, especially since my mother basically guilted you into agreeing to help us anyway.”

She laughed. “Big of you to admit you sicced Katherine on me.”

“I didn’t get where I am today by refusing to capitalize on my advantages. My mother was my ace in the hole. I knew you could say no to me without blinking, but she has a true talent for getting her way.”

“Good to know she passed something on to the next generation.”

He laughed softly and her stomach muscles shivered. “Along with blue eyes, healthy tooth enamel and a particular fondness for artichokes,” he said.

Oh, this was bad. Really, really bad. Not only did she have to once more confront a life’s calling she thought she’d left behind, but working with Taryn was bound to put her into repeated contact with Brodie.

A few days ago, she had thought that wouldn’t matter. She had assumed that nothing could induce her to soften toward a man she disliked so instinctively. She was beginning to have the very uneasy feeling she might have been a smidge optimistic in that blind confidence in her ability to resist the man.

* * *

WHAT WAS IT ABOUT EVIE Blanchard that seeped under his skin like water wearing away at shale?

Fifteen minutes later, Brodie watched her drive through the gates and back toward town in her sporty little Honda SUV and wondered how one small, slender woman could leave him feeling as if he’d just tangled with a badger in a bad mood.

Every time he was with her, he felt itchy and off balance and he didn’t like it. A big part of it was this inconvenient attraction. Intellectually, he knew damn well he shouldn’t be so drawn to her. It made no sense at all, especially when they approached the world from completely different stratospheres when it came to, oh, just about everything. Politics, philosophy, business. Probably because of the attention deficit disorder he still battled, he craved order in his life, neat and organized structure to help him cope with the chaos that was his mind sometimes.

In contrast, Evie’s personality was like the beads and bangles she tended to favor—colorful, splashy, unique.

He knew his reaction to her was purely physical. Something about that lithe body, her delicate, sun-kissed features, all that sumptuous, silky honey-blond hair just reached into his gut and twisted hard.

Having her here in his house for the next few weeks would be an exercise in self-restraint, especially when his unruly mind drifted into all kinds of unwelcome areas, like wondering just what she would do if he gave in to temptation and tasted that mobile, fascinating mouth of hers.

If he tried it, he didn’t doubt she would probably shut him down faster than that pissed-off badger would go for his throat if he ventured into its personal space.

He couldn’t afford to antagonize her any more than he seemed to do just by simply breathing. The woman knew her stuff. His mother was right. He hadn’t even seen her work with Taryn yet but he sensed knowledge and competence in the cool appraisal she’d given the renovations to the house.

He was impressed, despite his instinctive objections, by her firm assurance that she planned to begin working immediately with Taryn. How could he help but respect her willingness to jump right in, especially when she was still quite obviously reluctant to take on Taryn’s therapy.

Absolute authority, Evie had demanded he give her. He shook his head, watching as her little SUV headed down the hill. That wasn’t going to be an easy thing to surrender but he understood the wisdom of it. In every one of his endeavors, someone needed to be the boss. Sometimes he refused to relinquish that role but most of the time he had seen the wisdom and efficiency in handing it off to someone else he trusted. Like it or not, this was going to have to be one of those times. If he second-guessed every decision, she might bolt before the two weeks were up.

Already, he could tell he wasn’t going to be satisfied with her agreement to only help Taryn transition to a home program. He wanted her here permanently. She was the best choice to help Taryn; he knew it in that same gut that responded so physically to Evie as a beautiful woman—which meant he would have to do everything in his power to convince her to stay beyond that initial two weeks.

What choice did he have? She was absolutely right. He intended to do every freaking thing possible to make sure his daughter had the best chance at a normal life, no matter what the cost.

CHAPTER FOUR

HOME.

She was almost home.

Taryn looked out the window of the van. Town. Trees. Mountains.

Home.

She was glad. So glad.

She shifted, back aching from the wheelchair.

“We’re almost there, baby.” Her dad spoke from the front seat.

“Only a few more miles.” Grandma smiled. She looked pretty. Tired.

No more hospital. Her friends. Her room.

Normal.

She heard the word just right in her head but she when she tried to talk, she could only make a stupid sound. “Noorrmmm.”

Grandma smiled again. “You’re going to be surprised. Your dad’s been so busy fixing things up for you. You’ve got a beautiful new room downstairs with a roll-in shower in the bathroom and your own private workout space.”

She frowned. “No. Up.” She thought of posters on the wall, her pillow couch, purple walls. Her room.

Her dad turned, frowning. “We don’t have an elevator yet and you’re a ways from tackling the stairs, kiddo. This will be better.”

She wanted her room. Window seat, canopy bed, everything. She wanted to argue but the words caught. “No. Up.”

“Wait until you see your new room, Taryn.” Dad’s smile was fake, too big. “We painted the trim your favorite color and it has a really nice view. I think you’re going to love it.”

She shook her head. She wouldn’t.

This wasn’t right. She was going home but it wasn’t the same. Out the window, she saw trees, flowers, mountains.

Home.

Everything else was normal. Not her. Not anymore. Never again.

She was broken.

* * *

IN THE REARVIEW MIRROR, Brodie watched his daughter’s chin tremble and he thought she would cry. He’d been afraid of this. She wanted her regular room, her regular life. That she couldn’t have those things right now would be one more stark reality-check for a girl who had endured far too many already.

He kept his gaze on the road as he drove the wheelchair-accessible van he’d purchased for an ungodly amount from a dealership in Loveland just a few days earlier, but he allowed himself occasional glances at Taryn in her wheelchair—secured by latches to the lowered floor behind the driver and passenger seats—until finally the distress in her features eased a little.

She was still pretty, his baby girl. Her facial features might seem a little more slack than before the accident and she would always have faint traces of scars but most of them were beneath her hairline.

Her hair was short since they’d had to shave it during her various procedures, but it was dark and impishly curly, and her eyes were still the same blue of the sky just before a twilight thunderstorm. He wondered if others would see the courage and strength inside her or if they would only register the wheelchair, the scars, the halting, mangled words.

“Oh, it will be nice to be home,” Katherine said from the seat beside him.

She gazed out the window as if she’d been away for years and he was grateful all over again for his mother’s sacrifices for him and his daughter. After the accident, Katherine had basically given up her own life and moved to Denver to stay at Taryn’s bedside around the clock. He had spent as much time at the hospital as he could and had turned many of his business responsibilities over to his associates at Thorne and Company. He had eventually set up a mobile office at the apartment they had rented near the hospital and had scrambled the best he could to keep everything running smoothly.

“Look at that,” Katherine suddenly exclaimed.

He followed the direction she was pointing and saw a six-foot-long poster driven with stakes into a grassy parking strip near Miners’ Park. “Welcome Home, Taryn,” he read. A little farther, splashed in washable paint in the window of a fast-food restaurant, was the same message.

On the marquee at the grocery store that usually broadcast the latest sale on chicken legs or a good buy on broccoli was another one. “We love you, Taryn.”

And as they headed through town, he saw another message in big letters on the street, “Taryn Rocks!”

The kids at the high school had probably done it, since it was similar to the kind of messages displayed during the Paint the Town event of Homecoming Week.

He was grateful for the sentiment, even as a petty little part of him thought with some bitterness that the message might have been a little more effective if a few of them could have been bothered to visit her on a regular basis in the hospital.

That wasn’t completely fair, he knew. The first few weeks after she’d come out of a coma, Taryn had been inundated with visitors. Too many, really. The cheerleading squad, of which she was still technically a part, the captains of the football team, the student body officers.

Eventually those visits had dwindled to basically nothing, until the last time anybody from Hope’s Crossing High School stopped in to see her had been about a month ago.

He supposed he couldn’t really blame the kids. It was obvious Taryn wasn’t the same social bug she had been. She couldn’t carry on a conversation yet, not really, and while many teenagers he knew didn’t particularly need anybody else to participate when they jabbered on about basically nothing, it would have been a little awkward.

This gesture, small though it might have been, was something. He could focus on that, he thought as his mother pointed out all the signs to Taryn, who smiled slightly at each one.

Though he could have easily circumvented driving through the main business district of downtown to reach their home in the foothills, he could tell the outpouring of support had touched Katherine. This was a small thing he could give his mother to thank her for all her help these last weeks. A few more moments of driving wouldn’t hurt.

More Welcome Home signs hung on several of the storefronts downtown, including the bead store, the café and even Maura Parker’s bookstore.

“We should have put something up at the sporting- goods store and the restaurants,” he said. “I didn’t think about it. I’m glad someone else in town did.”

“We’ve had a few other things on our minds.”

“True enough.” He smiled, grateful all over again for her steady strength these last few months. He would have foundered on the rocks and sunk without her.

He had always loved his mother but that natural emotion had sometimes been tempered over the years by a low, vague simmer of anger he hadn’t really acknowledged. Why would someone as kind and giving as his mother ever stay with a man like his father, a hard, uncompromising man with no sense of humor about life and little patience for a son with learning deficits and a gnat-short attention span?

That frustration seemed far away and unimportant now when he considered all Katherine had done for Taryn since the accident. He supposed an adult child never really understood or appreciated the best qualities of a parent until they had walked a difficult road together.

She was growing older. It was a sobering reality made more clear in the harsh afternoon sunlight when he saw new lines around her mouth, a few gray streaks she usually ruthlessly subdued with artful hair color.

“You ought to think about taking a trip somewhere in the next few months,” he said suddenly. “A cruise or a trip back to Provence or something. Lord knows you deserve it and we can certainly hobble along without you for a month or so.”

“Maybe next spring, when things settle down a little.”

Spring seemed a long way off to him right now. The aspens were already turning a pale gold around the edges and in only a few months Hope’s Crossing would be covered in snow and the skiers would return like the swallows at Capistrano.

“Ice.” Taryn suddenly spoke up.

Considering what he’d just been thinking about, he wondered if she had somehow read his mind.

“It’s August, sweetheart,” he answered. “No ice around, at least for a few more months.” The idea of coping with the wheelchair ramp around town in the snow was daunting but maybe by then they wouldn’t need this van.

“Ice!” she said more urgently, looking out the van window with more animation than he’d seen since they had left the care center. He sent a quick, helpless look to his mother, who shrugged, obviously as baffled as he was.

An instant later, they passed a little stand shaped like a Swiss chalet, planted in a small graveled parking lot on the outskirts of downtown. A few people sat under umbrella-topped tables holding foam cups and, as he caught them out of the corner of his gaze, a light switched on.

“Oh! Ice! Shave ice!” he exclaimed.

Taryn gave her tiny, lopsided smile and nodded and he felt as if he’d just skied a black-diamond run on pure, fresh powder.

Though he was impatient to get her home and begin the next phase of this crazy journey they’d traveled since April, Taryn had asked him for something. She had actually communicated a need and, more importantly, he’d understood it. It seemed like a red-letter moment that ought to be celebrated—despite the fact that she wouldn’t be able to hold the cup by herself or feed herself the treat.

“You want a shave ice, you’ve got it, sweetheart.”

He turned the van around and by some miracle, he found a fortuitous parking space a moment later, sandwiched between a flashy red convertible with rental plates and a minivan with a luggage bag bungeed to the roof. The summer tourists were still out in force, apparently. He’d missed most of the onslaught while relocated in Denver.

“What flavor?”

Her brow furrowed as she considered her options and then she gave that smile that was a lopsided shadow of her former mischievous grin. “Blue.”

He had to guess that meant raspberry. That had been a favorite flavor of hers before the accident and he was heartened at this evidence that, while so many things had changed about his daughter, he could still find traces inside of all the things that made her Taryn.

He opened his car door. “Mom? Do you want one?”

Katherine looked elegantly amused. “I think I’ll pass today. But thank you.”

The afternoon was warm but mountain-pleasant compared to the heat wave they’d left down in Denver. Hope’s Crossing consistently enjoyed temperatures about ten degrees cooler than the metro area, one reason tourists even from the city enjoyed coming to town, to visit the unique shops and eat in the town’s many restaurants.

He recognized the teenager working at the shave-ice stand as one of Taryn’s friends from elementary school, Hannah Kirk. Before he had moved up to the Aspen Ridge area, the girl and her family had been neighbors.

“Hi, Hannah.”

She set down the washcloth she had been using to wipe down the counter, probably sticky from an afternoon of serving up syrupy treats. “Hi, Mr. Thorne,” she said. “How’s Taryn? I heard she might be coming home today.”

“She is. Right now, in fact. She’s in the van over there. We were just driving past on our way home and she asked for a shave ice.”

Hannah beamed. “She asked for a shave ice? That’s great. I heard she couldn’t talk,” she faltered, the excitement on her slightly round features fading to embarrassment, as if she was afraid she’d just said something rude. “Sorry. I mean…”

“She can talk. It’s still a little tough to understand her sometimes so she just doesn’t say much. Only the important things. I guess she really wanted a shave ice.”

“I can sure help you with that. What size?”

“Let’s go with a medium. She wanted blue raspberry. I’ll take a peach coconut, medium.”

He knew it was straight sugar but he figured every once in a while a guy was entitled to enjoy something lousy for him. Why that made him suddenly think of Evie Blanchard, he didn’t want to guess.

While he waited for Hannah to run the ice in the grinder—a process that seemed to take roughly the equivalent time to carve a masterpiece out of marble—he stood beside the faux chalet, looking at Main Street. The town looked warm and comfortable in the afternoon sunlight, full of parents pushing strollers, an elderly couple walking arm in arm, a couple of joggers with their white iPod earbud tethers dangling.

He loved Hope’s Crossing. When he was a kid, he couldn’t leave fast enough and thought it was a town full of provincial people with small minds and smaller dreams. But this was the place he’d come to after his marriage had fallen apart, when he had been a lost and immature twenty-four-year-old kid suddenly saddled with a three-year-old girl he didn’t know what the hell to do with.

If his father hadn’t just died, he wasn’t sure he would have come home, even as desperate as he’d been for his mother’s help with Taryn. Raymond Thorne’s massive heart attack at that particular juncture of Brodie’s life was probably the bastard’s single act of kindness toward him.

He was mulling that cheerful thought when a teenage boy with streaked blond hair rode up on a high-dollar mountain bike wearing board shorts and a black T-shirt with a vulgar picture on the front.

“Hey, Hannah-banana. Give me a medium watermelon.”

Raw fury curled through Brodie. He could taste it in the back of his throat, sharp and acrid. He hated this kid with every microcell of his heart and it took all the discipline he’d learned in his ski-jumping days to keep from grabbing the kid and shoving his face into that freezer full of ice beside the stand.

He stepped around the side of the fake little chalet and had the tiny satisfaction of seeing the kid’s features go a little pale under his summer tan.

“Nice bike,” he said to Charlie Beaumont, the son of a bitch who had ruined Taryn’s life.

The kid looked as if he would rather be anywhere else on earth, as if he were tempted to climb back onto his bike and race away. Hot color washed up to replace his paleness and he didn’t meet Brodie’s gaze.

“Mr. Thorne,” he muttered.

Brodie could think of a hundred things he would like to say to this kid, whose position of wealth and privilege apparently led him to think he could destroy lives around him with impunity from his choices.

Charlie’s father was the mayor of Hope’s Crossing and one of the town’s most powerful members. He was also an attorney who—along with his partners—was doing everything he could to keep his son from having to atone for his stupid choices.

Because of this little punk, his baby girl’s life had been decimated. While he rode around town flaunting his five-thousand-dollar mountain bike and buying iced treats, Taryn was forced to endure countless procedures and shots, to be unable to communicate even the most basic of needs, to spend her days in a wheelchair when she should be dancing and running and enjoying life as a teenage girl.

Shoving him into the freezer was too good for him.

“Um, how’s Taryn?” Charlie finally asked.

Brodie had to admit, the kid showed balls to pretend concern. “Do you really care? I didn’t notice you coming to the hospital anytime during the last three months.”

At least he had the grace to look embarrassed. “I wanted to. I just…my parents, uh, didn’t think I should.”

“Right. Wouldn’t want you to face something as inconvenient as your conscience, would we?”

If possible, Charlie’s features turned an even deeper shade of red. Brodie would have liked to say something cutting and harsh but a family of tourists in shorts and ball caps came up behind Charlie and the moment passed. What was the point anyway? Yelling at the kid wouldn’t help Taryn and probably wouldn’t make Brodie feel any better.

Hannah Kirk called his name just a moment later. “Here you go, Mr. Thorne. You tell Taryn we’re all praying for her, okay?”

He forced a polite smile, biting down the urge to point out that prayers hadn’t done a hell of a lot of good so far.

“I’ll tell her. And thank you for the shave ice. I’m sure she’ll enjoy it.”

Hannah hesitated. “Would it be okay if I stopped by to bring her another one sometime, now that she’s home?”

It was nice of her to offer, especially as their friendship seemed to have withered away after grade school. “I think she’d like that,” he answered.

Charlie was apparently following their conversation. “Wait. She’s home?” he asked.

“Didn’t you see the signs all over town?” Hannah asked, with a touch of pugnacity that seemed out of character for her. “Mr. Thorne is taking her home now. That’s why he bought her a shave ice here instead of in Denver.”

An interesting mix of emotions crossed Charlie’s features. He looked happy and miserable and wary at the same time. “So she’s okay?”

Chief McKnight probably wouldn’t arrest him if he “accidentally” dumped a shave ice on the punk’s head, would he? “Right,” he growled. “If you call needing twenty-four-hour care, not being able to get out more than a few words, not having the motor control to feed herself this shave ice, okay, then yes. I guess she’s okay. Unlike Layla Parker.”

It was a cruel thing to say, he knew, and he felt small for it when Charlie hissed in a breath as if Brodie had coldcocked him like he wanted to. The kid stared at him for a long moment then climbed back onto his mountain bike and pedaled away without taking the icy treat Hannah was reluctantly fixing for him.

Brodie stood like an idiot for a moment watching after him, then shook his head. He tried to put the encounter out of his mind as he headed back to the van. This was a good day, right? Taryn was going home. That was the important thing, not some little shit with an entitlement complex.

At the van, he slid open the left rear door—the one without the ramp—set his own shave ice in the drink holder and then scooped a spoonful of the sugary treat for Taryn.

“Here you go, honey. Blue. Just like you wanted.”

She gave that lopsided smile again, the one doctors warned him might be permanent, and opened her mouth for a taste.

“Mmmm,” she said, so he gave her another one, wiping her face a little where some of the flavored ice dribbled out.

“Is that good for now?” he asked after a few more tastes. “I can give you more when we get home.”

“Yeah,” she answered, smiling again, and his heart ached with love for her. He hated that it had taken a tragic accident stunning the entire town to remind him how much.

“Everything okay?” his mother asked when they were once more heading up the causeway toward his neighborhood above the main section of town.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” He focused on the drive instead of the jumble of emotions he didn’t know what to do with. Anger at Charlie, love for his daughter, fury at this whole damn situation.

“You seem tense.”

In the rearview mirror, he could see Taryn gazing out the window, not paying attention to their conversation, so he decided to tell his mother the truth.

“Charlie Beaumont was behind me in line at the shave-ice stand.” He pitched his voice low.

Katherine didn’t seem to think this was all that earthshaking an event. “What did you do?”

“He’s still in one piece, if that’s what you’re asking.”

His mother’s smile had a bittersweet edge. “Glad to hear it. I think enough people have suffered from one boy’s foolish mistakes, don’t you?”

Except Charlie. The kid hadn’t suffered one damn bit. By one of those weird quirks of physics and sheer stupid luck, he’d emerged from the accident completely unscathed—and Brodie was quite sure one part of him would never be content until the kid paid somehow for all the lives he’d ruined.

* * *

SHE COULD BE SWITZERLAND.

Think the Matterhorn, lederhosen, those ten-foot-long trumpety thingies.

Above all, neutrality.

Evie stood inside the sprawling Thorne home, wondering at the delay. Katherine had texted her thirty minutes earlier to say they were arriving in Hope’s Crossing. They should have been here fifteen minutes ago but maybe they stopped somewhere along the route to enjoy the outpouring of support from the town.

She wasn’t sure how word had trickled out but by now everybody seemed to know. Maybe the Chamber of Commerce had started a phone tree or something, because nearly every store in town had some kind of sign in the window or on their marquee and it seemed everyone who came into the store wanted to talk about Taryn’s homecoming.

Evie only hoped Brodie would take that support in the light it was intended, as a manifestation of the good wishes of people in town and not as some expression of pity. Somehow she doubted the latter would sit well with him.

“Can I get you something to drink while we wait? A soda or some tea?” Mrs. Olafson, Brodie’s scarily efficient housekeeper, hovered in the doorway. She was squat and apple-cheeked and had seemed stern at first glance. A bit on the terrifying side, actually, but Evie could see by her frequent glances down the driveway that the housekeeper was eagerly anticipating Taryn’s return.

“I’m great,” she said, her tone gentle. “Why don’t you sit down and wait for her with me?”

“I couldn’t. I should be working on the salad for dinner.”

“Dinner is still a few hours away. Please. Sit.”

Mrs. Olafson looked reluctant but she finally perched on the edge of the teak bench beside the front door.

“How long have you worked for the Thornes?” Evie asked. She had seen the older woman around town but their circles hadn’t really connected before and she had yet to take the chance to get to know her. They would be working in close proximity the next few weeks. No harm in trying to be friendly and learn more about Mrs. Olafson, other than that she rarely smiled and always pulled her hair into a rather severe steel-gray bun at the base of her neck that made Evie think of her elementary school lunch ladies or perhaps the stereotypical warden at a women’s prison.

“Almost five years. My husband was a chef and Mr. Thorne hired him to work one of his restaurants up at the ski resorts.”

“Oh, is that where you learned to cook so well?”

“I taught him everything he knew,” the other woman said, the first hint of a smile Evie had seen just barely lifting the corners of her mouth. It faded quickly. “We moved from our home in Minneapolis just six weeks before he was diagnosed with liver cancer.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.”

The other woman shrugged. “I thought for sure Mr. Thorne would fire him but he didn’t. He continued to give him a paycheck even when he couldn’t work anymore. After David died, Mr. Thorne asked if I would like to come to work for him, helping him with the house and with Taryn. I’ve been here ever since.” She fidgeted with her apron, her pale blue eyes darting to the driveway again. “He’s a very good man, Mr. Thorne. Though I’ve always been a good cook, I had no real job experience at all. I married young and all I’d ever done was be a mother to my boys, who are both in college now. Mr. Thorne didn’t care about that. He hired me anyway.”

She should never have asked. Evie fidgeted. She didn’t want to hear these glowing words of praise for Brodie. It made him seem kind and generous, not the stiff, unpleasant man she’d always thought him to be.

“It seems to me a lifetime of taking care of your family made you eminently qualified to handle things here. If those delicious smells coming from the kitchen are any indication, I’m sure you do your job exceptionally well.”

The woman seemed to warm a little, some of the reserve in her expression thawing. “I try. I don’t have any experience with therapy either but if you need my help with Taryn in any way, I can always offer an extra set of hands.”

“Thank you. I might take you up on that.”

She knew Brodie had hired personal nurses to be help with Taryn’s medical needs, but the plan for now was for Evie to work with the girl on an intensive physical therapy program six hours a day, between the hours of ten and four, until Brodie could find someone to replace her. In addition, an occupational therapist who had worked with Taryn at the rehab facility would come to the house three times a week for two hours at a time. Evie would reinforce the skills she was working on during her own time with Taryn on the other days.

Only a few weeks. She could handle this, she reminded herself.

She had dreamed of her adopted daughter the night before, of Cassie’s sweet smile and loving heart and endless eagerness to please.

They had been lying in the hammock under the trees behind her bungalow in Topanga Canyon, telling stories and humming silly little tunes and listening to the creek murmuring by and the wind in the trees. Cassie had been laughing and joyful, just as Evie remembered her—and then she had awakened to the grim awareness that her daughter was gone.

It had been nearly two years since she died and the grief still seemed so much a part of Evie, despite the peace she had found in Hope’s Crossing. The raw pain of it had eased over the last year during her time here and she had begun to think that perhaps she was finally growing a protective scab over her heart.

The trick was going to be preventing Taryn Thorne and her entirely too appealing father from ripping it away.

Switzerland. Stoic and aloof, with no trace of emotional involvement. She could do it, even when her friendship with Katherine complicated the situation.

She was still trying to convince herself of that when a silver minivan pulled into the circular driveway.

“Oh. She’s here,” Mrs. Olafson breathed. Evie smiled and squeezed the woman’s hand, then rose to greet them.

Brodie seemed to hesitate a moment in the driver’s seat before hitting the button for the power ramp and Evie was aware of another unwanted pang of sympathy. She remembered well that panicky what now the first night she’d taken Cassie home after Meredith’s funeral, when she had to shift instantly from friend and therapist to parent.

That compassion urged her forward with a broad smile of welcome, down the gleaming new graded concrete walkway that had been artfully designed to accommodate a wheelchair. “Hi. Welcome home! How was your drive?”

He blinked a little as if he hadn’t expected such an effusive greeting. “Good. She’s been a real trouper but I’m sure she’s tired.”

Mrs. Olafson had followed her toward the van. “Mr. Thorne, the home-nursing company called and said their nurse was running late. She should be here in another hour.”

“Thank you, Mrs. O.”

He stood helplessly for just a moment as if not quite sure what to do next. Evie wanted to hug him and whisper that everything would be okay. As the mental image formed in her mind she almost laughed. She could just imagine how he would react to that.

Instead, she took charge, leaning in and placing a hand on the armrest of the wheelchair. “Hi, Taryn. Remember me? Evie Blanchard from the bead store?”

The girl nodded and her mouth stretched into a half smile. “Hi.”

What are you doing here? Though Taryn didn’t say the words, Evie could see them clearly in her eyes. One lesson she’d learned well with her patients was how to read all kinds of nonverbal cues and right now Taryn was completely confused by her presence.

“You want to know why I’m here, right?”

Taryn dipped her chin down and then back up again, which Evie took as agreement.

“Great question. I’m not sure if you knew this but back before I came to Hope’s Crossing and started working for Claire at the bead store, I was a physical therapist in California. Your dad and grandmother have asked me to help set up your home therapy program with the aides and nurses that will be working with you. Is that okay?”

She lifted one shoulder, though she didn’t look thrilled at the idea of therapy.

“I would guess you’re ready to head inside, aren’t you? I know my butt is always tired after I’ve been sitting in the car for a while. Let’s go stretch out, shall we?”

“O—kay.”

“I’ll bring your shave ice,” Katherine said.

“Shave ice. Yum. And blue. My favorite.”

“We saw that little shack near the end of Main Street on our way here and Taryn made it clear she had to have one.”

That must have been the reason for the delay, Evie thought. At this evidence that Brodie wasn’t so impatient and inflexible he couldn’t fulfill one of his daughter’s wishes, she felt a little scrape against that scab over her heart, like a fingernail prying up the edge.

Evie stepped back while Brodie wheeled the chair down the ramp and pushed Taryn toward the front door. When he turned her through the doorway leading to her suite of rooms, Taryn jerked her head back toward the stairway. “My room. Up.”

“T, we talked about this. For now you’ve got new digs down here.”

“No. My room.”

Brodie shot Evie a frustrated plea for help and she stepped forward. “You want your old bedroom up there?”

Taryn nodded firmly.

“Then you’re the one who will have to work your tail off to get there. Are you ready for that?”

“Yeah,” Taryn said, a rather militant light in her eyes that heartened Evie.

“Excellent. I am, too.”

“Come on, sweetheart,” Katherine said. “Let me show you your new room.”

Her grandmother pushed the wheelchair down the hall and, though Evie wanted to start working with the girl right away, she was aware of that twinge of unwanted compassion for Brodie as he watched his mother and daughter together—a stark, hopeless expression on his features.

She again wanted to comfort him, to promise him everything would be okay, but she wouldn’t lie to him.

“Did Taryn enjoy the shave ice?” She gestured to the cup Katherine had handed him when she’d taken over pushing the wheelchair.

“She only had a few tastes but I think so. I, on the other hand, could have done without the company.”

When she gave him a blank look, he shrugged. “I saw that little prick Charlie Beaumont at the shave-ice stand. And before you ask, no, I didn’t punch him—though I’ll be honest, I almost dumped my peach coconut on his head.”

“Admirable restraint,” she said with a smile. She decided not to tell him she felt a little sorry for the kid, who had been vilified by everyone in town.

“On a lighter note, I also talked to one of Taryn’s friends. She’d like to come visit sometime. Since you have requested absolute power, I guess that’s your call.”

“I don’t need absolute power,” she muttered.

“Visitors weren’t really a problem in Denver where we were nearly two hours away. She didn’t have that many visitors after the first few weeks out of the coma. Now that she’s home, I anticipate more of her friends may want to drop in. What do you think?”

“Why do you consider it an issue?”

He inclined his head toward the suite of rooms. “You saw her. She can’t carry on much of a conversation with anyone. I thought maybe it might be hard on Taryn, the constant reminders of everything she’s lost.”

“Regular social interaction is important to teenage girls, no matter what physical challenges they’re dealing with.”

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