When life hands you lemons…

You make lemonade. That’s what Lynn Duncan believes. A single mother and nurse practitioner, she works at The Lemonade Stand, a unique women’s shelter supported by various businesses. These include a physiotherapy service, where Grant Bishop, a landscape designer, takes his disabled brother.

When Grant and Lynn first meet they’re intensely attracted to each other—but they don’t see a future for themselves. They’re too committed to the people they need to protect. For Lynn that’s three-year-old Kara and the residents at TLS. And Grant will sacrifice anything for his brother. That might have to include a relationship with Lynn….

“Mr. Bishop?”

Turning, Grant recognized the woman approaching him at once. Her long hair was pulled back from her face, but the warm glow in her eyes was just as he’d remembered.

He’d told himself he’d imagined the woman’s effect on him the last time they’d met—four years before. She’d had a wedding ring on back then. She didn’t now.

“Lynn,” he said. She held out her hand. He took it. And didn’t want to let go.

“You don’t remember me,” he said, quickly shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he faced her in the empty, fluorescent-lit hallway. He’d heard that The Lemonade Stand was beautiful, a haven, resortlike. The commercial beige tile and white walls didn’t give him that impression.

“I do, actually,” she said. “Now that I see you. I recognized your name when you called, but I wasn’t sure why. You’re the one with the brother. Darin, right?”

“I’m impressed.” Grant smiled. “You were his nurse for one day. You’ve got a good memory.”

“Darin was memorable. So what can I do for you?” Lynn asked, that not-quite-smile he’d remembered curving her lips, and hitting him where a guy only liked to be hit when he could do something about it.

He’d hoped she’d remember him, too, and she had. More important, she’d remembered his brother. With enough affection to pull strings and get Darin into their physiotherapy program?

The Lemonade Stand was the only option he had. This had to work.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to The Lemonade Stand. Life hands all of us challenges; happiness comes through the choices we make in the face of those challenges. And sometimes the choice that brings happiness is the decision to reach out for help.

I know that sometimes life feels as though there are no options left. No hope for true joy.

And then there’s a place like The Lemonade Stand, a very special shelter for women. More than a shelter. It’s a place that shows women that they have the right to be happy. Wife by Design is the first of a series called Where Secrets Are Safe—and that refers to both the secrets that some women hide before they come to the Stand and the secrets, the hidden selves, they’re able to reveal and explore once they’re there. I am deeply committed to these books. And to the hope that the decent men and women at The Lemonade Stand have to offer. There is true joy and deeply peaceful happiness available to every one of us.

Because, after all, when life hands you lemons, you can choose to make lemonade!

Please let me know what you think of this book. And join me in the fight against domestic violence, which afflicts a shocking number of women in this country and worldwide. You can reach me at www.tarataylorquinn.com.

Tara Taylor Quinn

Wife by Design

Tara Taylor Quinn

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

With sixty-five original novels, published in more than twenty languages, Tara Taylor Quinn is a USA TODAY bestselling author. She is a winner of the 2008 National Readers’ Choice Award, four-time finalist for the RWA RITA® Award, a finalist for the Reviewers’ Choice Award, the Booksellers’ Best Award and the Holt Medallion, and she appears regularly on Amazon bestseller lists. Tara Taylor Quinn is a past president of the Romance Writers of America and served for eight years on its board of directors. She is in demand as a public speaker and has appeared on television and radio shows across the country, including CBS Sunday Morning. Tara is a spokesperson for the National Domestic Violence Hotline, and she and her husband, Tim, sponsor an annual in-line skating race in Phoenix to benefit the fight against domestic violence.

When she’s not at home in Arizona with Tim and their canine owners, Jerry Lee and Taylor Marie, or fulfilling speaking engagements, Tara spends her time traveling and in-line skating.

MILLS & BOON

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To the women whose pictures line the wall of my private office at The Lemonade Stand:

Penny Gumser, Phyllis Pawloski, Leeanne Williams, Patricia Potter, Lynn Kerstan, Kim Barney and Paula Eykelhof.

Each of you plays a vital role in my Lemonade recipe.

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

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

Three years earlier

“WE HAVE TO TALK.”

Glancing from the baby in her arms to the man standing in the doorway of their bedroom, Lynn nodded. Brandon had been acting odd since before Kara was born, moving into the spare bedroom ostensibly so his tossing and turning didn’t make Lynn more uncomfortable than she already was.

And now five weeks after their daughter’s birth, he was still using the spare room.

“Come on in.” She patted the bed beside her. The baby had just finished her 9:00 p.m. feeding and should sleep until midnight. Lynn had napped that afternoon. She could manage without more rest. And even if she couldn’t, she would. Brandon was her life—and was obviously having a hard time adjusting to sharing their world.

At least, she prayed that was the problem.

He joined her on the bed, and she placed his pillow against the headboard so he could sit propped up beside her. Ignoring the pillow, he turned his gaze to Kara and remained seated on the edge of the bed. The sadness in his smile scared her.

“Brandon? What’s going on?” They’d been best friends since the ninth grade. Knew everything about each other.

He looked from her to Kara. “She’s perfect, Lynn. Everything we hoped and more...”

But? She heard it there. His chin taut, he stared silently at the baby.

“You want to hold her?”

Nodding, he reached for the soft, blanketed bundle sleeping against her. Cradling Kara’s body easily on one arm, the baby’s head safely nestled between his biceps and chest, Brandon looked comfortable, natural, as though this was his fifth child, not his first.

His gentleness, as always, touched her deeply.

“She’s great, isn’t she?” he said, his voice thick with emotion. Reminding her of their wedding day, of standing at the front of the church that was filled to capacity with their friends and loved ones and hearing the catch in his voice as he vowed to love her forever. There’d been no mistaking his sincerity. Listening to him, she’d known very clearly that he spoke a truth beyond words. Brandon’s love was real. The kind that came from someplace more powerful than the human mind or heart. From that point on she’d never worried that they’d make it. She’d known their marriage was safe.

Taking comfort in the memory, Lynn smiled. Nodded. “Yeah,” she said, loving the sight of her engineer husband holding their infant daughter. “We made a beautiful baby, Bran, just like we always said we would.”

Looking at Brandon, she waited for him to raise his eyes to her—for their eyes to meet in the silent communication that had been their gift even in high school. The private smile that soothed her deepest fears. Or made her heart race, depending on the moment.

Brandon didn’t look up. And her heart raced. With fear. “Hon, what’s the matter?”

Had Kara’s advent into their lives created a gap between them? She’d read about the possibility. About husbands feeling rejected, neglected, a little jealous even.

“She hardly ever cries,” he said. “I expected a lot more crying.”

“We’re lucky she’s not colicky.” Any other time Lynn would have been happiest sitting with Brandon, talking about their baby.

“Diaper changing is a breeze, too,” he said. From day one Brandon had insisted on being a full contributing partner in their daughter’s life. Apart from the feedings that, biologically, he couldn’t manage. “A lot easier than those plastic dolls they made us practice on.”

He’d knocked the baby stand-in onto the floor the first time he’d tried to get the slippery disposable diaper fastened around it. She grinned, remembering. He didn’t.

Kissing the top of the sleeping baby’s head, Brandon transferred their daughter gently back to Lynn, still not meeting her gaze.

If she didn’t know better, she’d think he’d just said goodbye.

Feeling desperate, she said, “I was thinking maybe we should plan a night out, just the two of us, next weekend. It’s my six-week mark.”

The doctor had said they could start having sex again at six weeks postbirth.

“Lynn, we need to talk.”

Suddenly she didn’t want to continue with her attempt to draw him out. She was tired. Postpartum.

And...Brandon was struggling. Of course she had to listen. Just like he always listened to her. Every time.

She was waiting. He still wasn’t talking. She drew strength from the baby in her arms. Those sweet little lips. The eyelids that were closed to a world that could be so confusing at times. Flushed cheeks and little hands clenched into fists, even in rest. “Do you still love me, Bran?”

His gaze shot to hers. Finally. “You know I do.”

He looked away immediately, but that depth of emotion was there in his voice again. His words trembled with it.

He wasn’t a macho man’s man, like her little sister Katie’s ex-husband had been. But Brandon had never lifted a hand to her, either, or attempted to control her, as Katie’s ex had done to Katie.

Taking Brandon’s hand in hers, she held it between them on the bed, focusing wholly on him while the baby lay sleeping against her breast. “And you know I love you,” she told her husband of eight years. “We’ll be fine, Bran, just please tell me what’s bothering you.”

As she said the words, fear struck anew. The one thing that had always made her and Brandon so good together was their ability to talk things out. They’d always been able to tell each other anything. And everything. Until then.

“We aren’t going to be fine, Lynn.” It was the tears in his eyes, when he finally held her gaze, that cut through her, far more than the death knell in his words. Words could change.

His sandy-blond hair, short and pristine, just as he’d always liked it, made him seem vulnerable to her in that moment. Exposed. The rest of him―his tight, in-shape, average-height body―just seemed dear.

Laying the baby in the basinet beside the bed, she moved over on the mattress to sit directly facing her husband. “Are you sick, Brandon?” Had someone given him a frightening prognosis? Just now, when they were embarking on the challenge of a lifetime with their new offspring to raise? “You know doctors aren’t always right, hon. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it. Get second opinions and treatment...” If she just kept talking everything would be all right. She was a nurse. She’d nurse him.

With a finger against her lips, Brandon shook his head. “You can’t fix this one, babe.”

Babe. He hadn’t called her that in a while. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it.

“You’re scaring me.”

“I’m scaring me, too.”

“Is it cancer?”

Whatever was wrong, it was so awful that her husband didn’t know how to tell her about. So she’d help him. Guess all night if she had to. She’d said they’d get through it together and they would. She’d show him. She had enough faith for both of them. They just had to―

“No, it’s not cancer,” Brandon said, shifting so that no part of him was touching any part of her. The movement was subtle. Moving a knee. But she noticed. “I’m not sick,” he added.

“Then what?” His expression, no matter how hard she studied it, told her nothing. Except that he was hurting.

She racked her brain, trying to think of anything that had happened, anything she might have missed. Tried to figure out when the problem had started. And still drew blanks.

It had to have something to do with Kara. Everything had been fine...normal...until shortly before the baby was born.

The baby was fine. Not only had all the doctors said so, but as a nurse, Lynn would know if something was wrong with her infant daughter. Kara had a healthy appetite. Slept well. And, as her father had just pointed out, didn’t cry much at all.

She was fine. Kara was fine. Which, in her mind, only left one other possibility. “There’s another woman.” While she’d been fat and pregnant, and uncomfortable and unable to have sex, he’d met someone else....

“No! Whatever else happens, Lynnie, you always have been and always will be the only woman I ever wanted or had sex with.”

There was no mistaking the truth in those words. They spoke straight to her heart. Breathing a little easier, Lynn reached for his hand again. “Just tell me, hon.” They were a team. Partners. For better or worse. “Things always seem worse until you get them out.”

His family was close by. And hers had visited twice since the baby’s birth. They’d help with whatever the problem was.

Maybe that was it. Maybe he was tired of both sets of parents camping out on their doorstep now that Kara was there.

“Please, Brandon. You’re making me crazy with worry. What’s wrong?”

She braced herself. Knew, when he met and held her gaze, that her life was about to change forever. And still wasn’t prepared for his reply.

“I’m gay.”

Present

THIRTY-EIGHT-YEAR-OLD Grant Bishop wasn’t an emotional guy. He was a busy guy—too busy to get tangled up in things he couldn’t control. Except for the things he couldn’t let go.

He couldn’t let go of Darin’s condition.

Sitting in the silence of his older brother’s hospital room that balmy February morning, he rested one ankle on his knee and beat out the rhythm playing over and over in his brain. Da da dah. Da da dah. Da da dah. Da da dah.

Dr. Zimmer’s Tuesday-morning rounds were at seven-thirty. Grant wanted to be at a job site across town by nine so he could be back to make sure Darin got up in his chair for lunch. As long as his brother cooperated, he should be able to have Darin back home the next day.

Assuming the doctor told him the previous day’s surgery had gone as well as he’d thought. That Darin was responding as expected. His forty-four-year-old brother had still been groggy from the anesthetic the night before when Grant, after spending fourteen hours at the hospital, had finally gone home to shower and get some sleep.

Darin, with a big patch of gauze taped over one side of his head, didn’t look much different nine hours later.

More than two nights in the hospital was going to be a financial hardship. But if Darin wasn’t ready to go home Wednesday morning, they’d manage. He’d paid off the loan against his landscaping business and could borrow again if he had to.

And if there was a long-term problem? If the surgery hadn’t been successful? If the infection that had formed around the bit of irremovable stingray barb lodged in his brother’s brain was still active?

If Darin experienced any of the numerous side effects that could have resulted from the craniotomy itself?

Hands clasped, he pounded his thumbs together, keeping the beat with the rhythm rocking his foot.

Darin was going to be just fine. The brothers had been dealing with this—Darin’s accident—for seventeen years, and things always worked out.

Maura, the sixty-year-old widow next door, checked in on Darin for Grant on the rare days his brother couldn’t accompany him to the job site, in exchange for handyman work whenever anything needed fixing at her place. She was all set to nurse Darin through the two weeks postsurgery the doc had said it would take before his brother was able to return to work.

Arrangements had been made. Details tended to.

It was 7:40 and the doctor was late. Standing, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, Grant walked to the door of his brother’s room, pulled it open and stood in the entryway, watching the hallway. Nurses went to and from rooms; an orderly pushed a cart with breakfast trays up the hall, stopping at doors, delivering trays and moving on.

Darin was still on IV. He should have progressed to a liquid diet the night before but hadn’t cooperated enough to sit up and drink. He’d barely regained consciousness and hadn’t known Grant was even in the room, prodding him.

Running his fingers through thick black hair that hadn’t yet begun to show the gray that had started to appear on his older brother’s head, Grant rolled his shoulders and sat back down. He’d built extra time into his schedule in case the doctor was late. This wasn’t his first hospital run. He knew how things worked.

And Santa Raquel, the coastal California town where he and Darin had settled after Darin’s accident, wasn’t all that big. He could make it across town and to his job site in less than twenty.

“Grant?” The deep voice had Grant out of his chair and at the bedside in one second flat.

“Right here, bro,” he said, pushing the hair off from his brother’s forehead as he took Darin’s right hand in his and held on. “Just like always.”

Darin studied him with eyes that appeared to hold recognition—and more.

“How you feeling?” He started out small, not sure what kind of cognition Darin would have left. Or what further damage might have been done.

“Head hurts.”

“You just had surgery.”

“Not just. I had a night since then.”

With a grin, Grant nudged his brother’s shoulder. “You’re right, bro, you did. And if you’ll cooperate with the nurses today, tonight will be your last one here. You ready to come home?”

Darin made a face, scrunching his lips up toward his nose. And did it again.

What the hell was that?

The covers moved above Darin’s left hand. And then moved again. Darin made that face again.

“Nose itches.” Pulling his right hand free from Grant’s clasp, he scratched.

And Grant grinned a second time, letting go of a deep breath. The day before had been slightly alarming, he admitted to himself now that Darin was back. His brother hadn’t come out of the anesthetic as the doctors would have liked—the way he had for all previous surgeries.

He hadn’t really been coherent, either, even when he’d opened his eyes.

But Grant had known Darin would make it through just fine.

Still, it was great to―

“Good morning.” The tall, gray-haired doctor entered the room. Dr. Zimmer was Grant’s kind of doctor. No-nonsense, tell it like it is. With a nod toward Grant, he focused on Darin. Asked a couple of questions. Slowly. Kindly. Lifting the sheet to look at his brother’s feet, he asked Darin to move his toes. Asked about pain and other sensations. He studied Darin’s eyes, had his brother follow a penlight with his gaze.

Everything was going as expected. Fine. Grant would be out of there soon. He’d get to work on time, come back to spend the evening with Darin and then go home to prepare the house for Darin’s return the next day. All in all, they’d come through the potentially life-threatening episode with only one day of missed work. “Your left hand, Darin. Can you lift your left hand?”

Grant watched, nodding, waiting. The covers moved. And...nothing. The left toes had moved. Hadn’t they? Grant hadn’t paid that much attention.

He wanted Dr. Zimmer out of the way so he could check again. Just to make certain.

Moving to the left side of the bed, the surgeon lifted the cover, setting Darin’s hand on top of them. “Now,” he repeated gently. “Move your fingers for me.”

And Darin did.

Thank God.

“Lift your hand.”

Grant stared. Willed the hand to move. And it did. Okay, not a lot. But the movement meant that Darin was capable, didn’t it? That there was no permanent damage to his brother’s motor skills resulting from the latest surgery?

They’d been through this before. Through worse surgeries. Like the one right after the accident when they’d had to go in to remove the barb the stingray had left in his brother’s brain. Grant had been a senior in college at the time. A mere boy.

Darin, once a force to be reckoned with in the business world, had been forever changed. He had his normal moments. And childlike ones. Stress made things worse. He couldn’t figure out basics, like monetary value.

But they’d survived. Made a fine life for themselves. Just the two of them. A satisfactory life. Other guys had wives. Kids. Grant had Darin.

“Can I speak with you in the hallway?” Dr. Zimmer’s request interrupted Grant’s silent pep talk. The look on the surgeon’s face put a blight on the positive outlook he’d been trying to create.

“I’ll be right back.” Grant squeezed Darin’s hand. “You get ready to spend an hour or two in that chair over there.” He nodded at the high-backed leather seat in the corner by the window. He knew the drill. Darin had to be up, able to walk and get to the bathroom before they’d release him. And it all started with the chair.

“I can’t lift my hand, Grant.” Darin’s voice was low. “Why can’t I lift my hand?”

“Because it’s asleep,” he said, keeping his tone light. Lightness was the last thing Grant felt as he uttered his asinine response and followed the doctor out the door.

CHAPTER TWO

“I’M PUTTING BUTTERFLIES on this, but it needs stitches,” Lynn Duncan said, her tone as matter-of-fact as she could make it while tending to the brutalized skin of the twenty-four-year-old brunette sitting on the table in one of the two small examination rooms at The Lemonade Stand Tuesday evening.

“I hate hospitals.” Regina Cooper wasn’t crying as she gave yet another reason she was refusing to allow herself to be stitched. Lynn almost wished Regina was sobbing, even though that would make her task more difficult. The younger woman’s voice was deadpan, her words slurred as she formed them through cut and swollen lips. Like the life had been beaten out of her.

“I can do it right here,” Lynn said. Technically she was off shift, but when you lived on the premises of one’s job, you tended to be on call 24/7. Not that Lynn minded.

At-risk women came to The Lemonade Stand in coastal Santa Raquel, California, to find shelter. Lynn had found her life’s purpose here, nursing them.

Tending to the third of three ugly cuts on the woman’s chin and neck—one the result of a knockout punch to her mouth and the other two gashes from the glass that broke when it had been thrown at her—she said, “These are going to scar, Ms. Cooper, if we don’t get them stitched properly.”

“I don’t care.” Regina hadn’t said much in the half hour since she’d arrived at The Lemonade Stand, partially, Lynn suspected, because it hurt too much to talk.

“You’re a beautiful young woman,” she said. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. And we need to get these taken care of properly.”

Sara Havens, one of the Stand’s counselors, was outside, waiting to take Regina under her wing. She’d know better what to say. But they didn’t have weeks, or even days, for counseling to change Regina’s mind about these cuts.

A member of the Stand’s small full-time security team was there, too, standing guard.

Lynn’s face was inches from the other woman’s as she gently worked the torn skin together as well as she could. Regina’s pretty blue eyes met hers. “You see where my beauty got me?” she asked in a near-whisper, her eyes growing moist but not enough for a tear to fall. “I can do without it.”

“You’ll remember him, and the beating you just took, every single time you look in the mirror if we don’t get these properly stitched,” she said.

“I’m going to remember anyway.”

“You want to wear his anger? To keep him with you every minute of every day for the rest of your life?” Nursing school had taught her how to tend to bodies. The year she’d spent in grad school after Kara’s birth had provided her with her advanced nursing midwifery certification. The two years she’d been living full-time at The Lemonade Stand had been a completely different education. “You want to let him mark you that way?”

Tears blurred the hurt-filled blue eyes. “I can’t afford stitches,” the woman said. “I don’t even know how I’m going to pay for the butterfly bandages. I can’t use my health insurance. It’s through his work and he’ll know where to find me....”

Stopping her work, Lynn studied the younger woman. “That’s why you won’t agree to stitches? Because of the cost?”

Regina nodded. “I went to the ATM as soon as I left, but he’d already drained our account. I’ve got a hundred bucks on me, this week’s grocery allowance, and that’s it.”

Regina spoke slowly, sounding as if she had marbles in her mouth, but she made herself understood.

Going for stitching supplies, Lynn pulled on a fresh pair of sterilized procedure gloves. “Your care here is free, Regina,” she said. “I thought you knew that.”

“Medical care, too?”

“Everything. For the first four weeks you’re here, you have access to all services, and pay only what you can afford to pay. If that’s nothing, then nothing is what you owe.” She smiled at the young woman. “Now, are you going to let me take proper care of you and get this stitched?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Regina’s mouth wouldn’t allow a smile, but the relieved look in her eyes spoke volumes.

And twenty minutes later, when Lynn turned over her newest patient to Sara Havens, who would see Regina through the admissions process and get her set up with clean clothes, toiletries and a safe place to sleep, she was fairly certain she’d managed to minimize the damage Regina’s husband’s brutality had inflicted.

At least on the surface.

* * *

“LYNN?” THIRTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD Maddie Estes, one of only a few permanent residents at The Lemonade Stand, looked upset as she hurried toward Lynn just after Sara escorted Regina out of the three-room health clinic located in the main house.

“What’s up, Maddie?” Lynn smiled at the pretty woman who was three years older than her by birth, but fifteen years younger in mental acuity. Maddie’s developmental challenges, present since a premature birth, caused the sweet, gentle woman to worry over small things.

But with regular weekly physical therapy sessions, Maddie’s motor skills, while slow, were finally within the normal range.

The woman’s hands were flailing as she moved.

“There’s a man here. He’s been waiting to see you for a long time. He looks like he might be getting mad. You know, walking back and forth and back and forth in the hallway and slapping his baseball cap against his hand.”

Maddie emulated the motion with jerky movements, her gaze meeting Lynn’s only for a brief stop as it traveled around the space they occupied—the empty waiting room at the clinic. Lynn held regular, well-check office hours. They’d long since passed on that particular Tuesday in February.

“A man?” Lynn frowned, more concerned by Maddie’s agitation than any visitor she might have. “Did he say who he was?”

After suffering for fourteen years at the hands of a man who’d once adored her but had grown to hate the sight of her, Maddie was extrasensitive to any sign of male aggression. And Lynn was particularly protective of Maddie.

“Grant...I can’t remember what. I’m sorry, Lynn. I know I should remember, but he’s just so upset, and your treatment light was on and I didn’t know what to do so I took him to the bench in the main hall and waited back here for you.”

“Grant Bishop!” Lynn said, remembering. She’d had an appointment with the man almost an hour ago. And had completely forgotten.

He’d called that morning, said he couldn’t get there until four-thirty. And if he had a woman in jeopardy, she’d just made them wait even longer.

“You know him, then? I’m sorry, Lynn, I probably made him mad, but―”

With one hand stilling Maddie’s twisting hands, Lynn looked the woman straight in the eye and said, “It’s okay, Maddie. You did the right thing.” Maddie’s fidgeting stilled instantly.

“And now, can you do a favor for me?”

“Of course!” Maddie smiled. She agitated easily, but she settled easily, too.

“Kara’s in the playroom,” Lynn said, picturing her curly-haired three-year-old with a crayon in her hand and her tongue sticking out of her mouth. “I was supposed to pick her up at six and it’s almost that now. Can you collect her and take her home for me? There’s some leftover macaroni and cheese in the fridge. I’ll be there as soon as I can be.”

“Of course!” Maddie said again, hurrying away down the hall, but turning back before she got far. “Can I give her her bath, too?” Maddie asked.

Lynn liked to reserve bath time—and bedtime story reading—for herself. To keep some semblance of normal family and routine for the preschooler who was growing up so untraditionally in the arms of so many people who loved her.

“How about if we give her her bath together?” Lynn suggested, now conscious of the man waiting for her. Bath time was at eight, as delineated by the detailed schedule Lynn kept on her refrigerator. A schedule that Maddie followed religiously. “I’ll be home in plenty of time,” she assured the short but slender blonde woman.

“Okay, Lynn.” Maddie’s expression was serious. “And we’ll save some macaroni for you, too. You’ll get hungry if you don’t have dinner.”

Bless Maddie. She might struggle to understand the monetary value of coins and dollars, to connect the heating and lighting in her room with a bill that had to be paid, or to ascertain the nuances of human interaction, but she knew how to pay attention. To nurture.

And she was adamant about nurturing Lynn and Kara most of all.

They were lucky to be so loved.

* * *

FOR THE UMPTEENTH time Grant looked at his watch―and pulled his cell phone out of the holster on his belt, just to verify that the time he’d read on his wrist piece was accurate. He’d hoped to get to Darin by suppertime. To make certain that his brother ate. And did it sitting in his chair, not lying in bed.

The doctor had said Darin could get up as soon as he was ready. And he didn’t need his left hand to feed himself. Or to chew and swallow, either.

Almost as soon as he’d returned his phone to its holster, he felt it vibrate. Darin, wondering where he was?

Pulling the cell phone out, he was already answering when he saw the caller ID. Luke Stellar, his right-hand man.

“This is Grant,” he answered as he always did.

“Fountain’s in and running.”

A rock edifice he’d designed to the homeowner’s specification. “What was the problem?”

When he’d had to leave at four-thirty to make his appointment at The Lemonade Stand before getting back to Darin, they’d had a water flow issue.

“A twist in the main line as it came around the first bend.”

“The PVC track should have prevented that from happening.”

“Craig missed a piece of the track when he installed it.”

How did one miss a piece of a piping apparatus that fit together to make a whole?

“I’m not sure he’s going to work out.” And Grant didn’t have time to hire another new guy. Craig had been with them six months and Grant had had high hopes for the kid.

“He just found out his wife’s having a baby,” Luke told him.

Luke had two little kids. And he was late getting home to dinner with them. Again.

The guy never complained. And Grant had ridden both of his full-time employees hard that day.

“I should have known that,” he said aloud, keeping his voice down as he paced the empty hallway—a twenty-by-ten-foot tiled area that was clearly separate and apart from the mysterious inner sanctum of The Lemonade Stand’s main building. “I owe you, man,” he told Luke now.

“Buy me a beer sometime,” Luke shot back at him.

He’d have to make that a twelve-pack. At the very least. If Grant didn’t have Darin... If he’d been able to give the business all of the time and energy Luke brought to it, they could have grown Bishop Landscaping into a lucrative company instead of a highly sought-after, well-booked, small-time operation that supported three families instead of dozens.

Telling Luke that he’d be at the job site at five-thirty the next morning to sign off on the work that had been done and to lay out the next phase of the waterfall garden’s installation, Grant rang off. He paced, and then came to rest in front of the glass door leading out to a small, nondescript visitor parking lot that needed shrubbery around it, some perennials for color....

“Mr. Bishop?”

Turning, he recognized the woman approaching him at once. Her long hair was pulled back tightly from her face, but the warm glow in her eyes was just as he’d remembered.

He’d told himself he’d imagined the woman’s effect on him the last time Darin had been in the hospital—four years before.

She’d had a wedding ring on back then. She didn’t now.

“Lynn,” he said, because back then that’s all that had been written on her name tag—and that’s what he’d called her. She held out her hand. He took it.

And didn’t want to let go.

“You don’t remember me,” he said, quickly shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he faced her in the empty, fluorescent-lit hallway. He’d heard that The Lemonade Stand was beautiful, a haven, resortlike. The commercial beige tile and white walls didn’t give him that impression at all.

“I do, actually,” she said. “Now that I see you. I recognized your name when you called, but I wasn’t sure why. You’re the one with the brother. Darin, right?”

“I’m impressed.” Grant smiled, in spite of how late he was for his visit with Darin. How late she’d made him. “You were his nurse for one day of a three-day stay, and have to have had hundreds of patients in your years as a nurse. You’ve got a good memory.”

“Darin was memorable.”

She didn’t say why. He could guess. Darin’s brain was damaged, his body wasn’t. Grant’s older brother had had girls goo-goo eyed over him for as long as Grant could remember. Even after so many years since his accident, Darin’s facial expression didn’t show his lack of mental coherence. You didn’t get that until you’d talked to him for a few minutes and experienced some of his childlike thought processes. Which were interspersed with moments of complete lucidity.

“So what can I do for you?” Lynn asked, that not-quite smile he remembered curving her lips and hitting him where a guy only liked to be hit when he could do something about it. “You said you needed to speak with me in person.”

He’d thought maybe they’d be sitting in her office, not standing out in the hall.

He’d thought she’d remember him, too, and she had. But more important, she’d remembered his brother.

With enough affection to pull strings?

The Lemonade Stand was the only option he had. This had to work.

CHAPTER THREE

HE HAD TO GO.

Facing Grant Bishop in the only section of The Lemonade Stand that was accessible to anyone walking in off the street, she couldn’t believe it was him. The one man who, in all the years she’d been married, had ever tempted her to think about being unfaithful to Brandon.

Not that either man knew. Or would ever know.

But four years ago, just before she’d become pregnant with Kara, there’d been a bit of an attraction between them. At least, she’d been attracted. And she’d been as certain as she could be without verbal confirmation that he was aware of her, as well. There’d been a moment or two of recognition, of something that could’ve been interesting if she hadn’t been married. And if she hadn’t been his brother’s nurse.

The sexual feelings he’d aroused within her had scared her so badly she’d gone home and made love to her husband like she’d never made love before. Over and over again. For more than a month. Long after Darin Bishop had been discharged and the brothers had left her life forever.

Kara had been the result.

“My brother developed an infection around the portion of stingray barb still lodged in his brain,” Grant Bishop was saying.

He wasn’t there to see her personally.

Of course not.

“I’m no longer working at the hospital, Mr. Bishop.” She could have invited him back to her office. The anonymity of the front hall felt better.

“I know.”

He smiled. At her?

Or just to be polite?

“Dr. Zimmer told me this morning that you’ve been here full-time for the past couple of years. He said there’s a physical therapy program here that sometimes accepts nonresident patients. He also said The Lemonade Stand welcomes men into these programs whenever possible—after extensive background checks, of course. That it’s part of the overall therapy program for your residents. Something about women needing positive male influences in their environment because it helps build trust, and they’ll have to deal with men when they’re back in the outside world. Makes sense. I understand you’re the chief medical person in charge and thought that maybe, since Darin was once your patient, you might be able to help pave the way for us here. If there is a way.”

He wasn’t there because he’d remembered her.

Feeling like a bit of a fool, but a relieved one, Lynn kept her face schooled to polite calmness—a talent that she’d developed early on in her nursing career—and said, “Dr. Zimmer sent you?”

The surgeon had been one of her favorites. As busy as he’d been, he’d spent as much time with his patients as they’d needed—emotionally, not just physically. The bodies he worked on weren’t just the job. They were attached to people he’d seemed to genuinely care about.

“Darin had surgery yesterday morning to drain the infection. As a result he’s displaying partial paralysis on his left side.” The look in those brown eyes, a combination of strength and little-boy-lost, tugged at her in a way that was reminiscent of four years before.

No man was ever going to have power over her emotions again.

Her job as live-in certified nurse/midwife at a woman’s shelter generally precluded the chance.

“He’s going to need physical therapy several times a week over the next few months if he’s to have any hope of ever obtaining full mobility again.”

Like a flash of lightning, she saw where this was going. “Dr. Zimmer suggested you apply here for Darin’s therapy.”

“He also told me that The Lemonade Stand sometimes trades services for services.”

“For residents. Or previous residents,” she clarified. Many of the services offered at The Lemonade Stand were free to the Stand, donated by former clients. Or by current residents. Some by way of payment. And some just because.

“That’s what Dr. Zimmer said.” Grant Bishop nodded. “He also said that you have group therapy sessions when patients have similar needs and don’t require one-on-one physical touch, and those sessions are less expensive.” Grant shrugged as he added, “But he explained that male involvement in group therapy is a sensitive issue and has to be decided on a case-by-case basis.”

His hands were still in his pockets. Lynn was still distracted.

“The thing is, I can’t afford physical therapy sessions at all.”

“Darin’s on disability insurance, isn’t he?” She’d seen something about it on his paperwork—not that she paid attention or remembered such things about her former patients, but Darin and Grant...they’d been different.

Brothers who were all alone. Devoted. And acting as if their lives were perfect.

“It covers eighty percent of his costs. And I’m going to be tapped out for a while covering the other twenty percent of yesterday’s surgery.”

A craniotomy, which was the only way to do the drainage he’d spoken of, could run fifty thousand or more. Just for the procedure. Add in hospital and supply costs...

“I don’t know what―”

“Please...” the man interrupted her. “Dr. Zimmer thought you might be able to put a word in for me with Lila McDaniels. I understand she’s the managing director of The Lemonade Stand. I’m a landscaper,” he continued, almost as though if he didn’t stop for air he wouldn’t be able to hear the word no. “I own a small design business. Darin works with me and I employ a couple of other guys. I don’t know what you’re currently paying for yard care, but I can already see that that parking lot out there could benefit from some shrubbery.” He pointed to the small lot accessible to the public. “I suspect we could make improvements to the rest of the grounds, as well. We’d be willing to take it all on, for free, in exchange for Darin’s therapy. Dr. Zimmer said that if there’s a session for general motor skill exercise, he’d be fine there.”

“And afterward?” Lynn asked, going with the first objection she could voice. “We fire our landscapers, you take over for the couple of months that Darin needs therapy and then what happens?”

“We’ll continue to service the clinic indefinitely at a rate that’s ten percent less than you’re currently paying.”

“You don’t know what we’re currently paying,” she reminded him.

“My brother could be partially paralyzed for the rest of his life if I don’t get him this therapy.”

If she recommended him, Lila would pay attention. Angelica Morrison, the Stand’s physical therapist, would approve the decision, too. As long as both men passed background checks. The Stand’s founder was actually a man. A good man. The world was filled with good men. And the residents at The Lemonade Stand needed to be exposed to them.

Grant Bishop’s proposal completely fit with their mission statement. Lynn had nothing to do with the Stand’s finances, but she was privy to them. Their landscaping bill was exorbitant—and rising.

And landscaping was paramount to the overall healing atmosphere of their center.

“You do realize that the secondhand store and boutique out on the boulevard are part of our center? And the garage on the corner is ours, too,” she added. The Lemonade Stand owned a city block.

He’d be responsible for the exterior grounds of all of it.

“I didn’t, no. But it doesn’t matter. Darin will do what he can. And my boys and I will take care of the rest.”

“What about your other jobs?”

“I’ll handle them.” He was determined. She’d give him that. And she didn’t really know much about the landscape business. They took care of yards, she figured. Cleaning up, trimming, cutting grass. Planting. He’d said his business was small. And mentioned design.

Apparently, he was successful enough to support not only him and Darin, but two other men, as well.

“You haven’t seen the inner grounds.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I think you might change your mind,” she said, wishing it were light outside so she could give him a quick, escorted tour of the secured area of The Lemonade Stand—the area where their real work was done. Arms crossed in front of her, she said, “The philosophy here at The Lemonade Stand—when life gives you lemons you make lemonade—is taught by action, not by word.” She started in on a speech she’d heard many times before. The rote PR words that every senior staff member at the Stand knew by heart—because they were expected to live by them and up to them.

“We’re here to help abused women recover—and to make healthy choices for their futures,” she continued. “By nature of what they’ve come from—being mistreated by someone close to them, someone they trusted to love them—they’ve mostly learned, often subconsciously, that they don’t deserve the best. Abused women, by and large, have low self-concepts. Many of them believe that they’re somehow to blame for their abuse. Before they can fully believe in themselves and take charge of broken lives, they have to feel good about who they are. Environment is a huge part of that.”

Lynn was leading up to telling him about the grounds at the Stand. The mammoth undertaking that Grant Bishop was offering to absorb without realizing what he was getting himself into. But she stopped speaking for a second when she realized that the speech she was giving was similar to one any prospective employee of the Stand would receive. Like she’d already mentally employed him.

“I understand.” His brown-eyed gaze was soft. And she started to speak again.

“Our residents’ emotional and mental states are brought on by actions, and we believe that the only way to truly counteract the damage to their psyches is to counteract action with action.”

“Absolutely.”

“They’ve been treated horribly and they need to be treated well, not just be told that they deserve to be treated well.”

“You don’t have to worry about my boys. Luke and I have known each other since college. He’s married, has kids, is a great dad. And Craig’s wife is expecting their first child. But if you’d rather, I can make certain that only Darin and I service this facility.”

“The women live in bungalows,” she said. “Usually four women to a place.” Each one had four bedrooms with adjoining bathrooms. Each one was surrounded by beautiful landscaping. “Their living quarters are what they should be able to expect their homes to be—a place that cushions them from the challenges that life will inevitably hand them.”

“We’ll stay completely away from them.”

“First and foremost, these women need to be taught that they are worthy. We treat them like royalty. They are expected to treat one another like royalty and, through action, we hope to replace negative lessons with positive ones.”

Grant Bishop leaned forward. “Lynn, I understand. Do any background checks you need to do. I swear to you, your residents have absolutely nothing to fear from any of us, and most particularly not from Darin and me. We will keep our distance from residents at all times, and if we do happen to come into contact with anyone at any time we will show her nothing but respect. You have my word on that.”

He smiled. Her stomach flipped.

This was getting way too out of hand.

“Mr. Bishop, what I’m trying to tell you is that, inside the grounds, The Lemonade Stand is resortlike. We’re on the ocean, just like most of Santa Raquel. Our facilities, including our landscaping, rival any fine resort on the California coast. The Stand is a safe haven—a place women want to be. And the grounds reflect that.”

He blinked. Stared for a second, and said, “You’re telling me I’m in for a lot of hard work.”

“What I’m trying to tell you is that you can’t possibly do the job you’re promising to do. You have no idea what you’re letting yourself in for.”

“I will get the work done and do as good a job—or a better job—than the company currently providing the services.”

The man was determined.

A characteristic she admired. A lot.

“My brother’s quality of life depends on him having that therapy.” His gaze spoke directly to her heart.

He wasn’t getting it. She couldn’t have him around.

“There are only so many hours in a day and you’ll still have to earn a living.”

“Before he went in for surgery, Darin was experiencing serious bouts of depression,” he said. “They were growing increasingly worse, with times of moroseness similar to what we went through about a year after his accident. If he ends up paralyzed for life, I’m going to lose him.”

The man’s desperation was understandable.

“I’ll get the work done,” Grant Bishop said again, the words as firm as any promise she’d ever heard. “I generally do the design work and the guys do the physical labor, which leaves me evenings to focus completely on Darin. If I have to, I’ll spend the days out in the yards here, and do my design work at night. Darin needs this therapy more than he needs trips to baseball games with me. And I swear to you, your residents will have nothing to fear from either me or Darin. He’s like he is because he was protecting a woman.”

The cause of Darin’s condition, the stingray barb lodged in his brain, had been in his file. The circumstances that had caused that barb to be there were not.

She couldn’t help herself. “What happened?” she asked.

Boundaries! The word screamed in her brain. Vital rule of health care—keep your boundaries.

But things were different at the Stand.

“He and his wife were scuba diving. She got tangled in her line and was losing all of her air. He got her untangled but was attacked by the stingray during the process so it took him longer than it should have. Badly bleeding and half out of his mind, he still got her up to the surface.”

“Darin’s married?”

“Was.”

“She left him? After he saved her life?” Because he was brain damaged. Some people were that selfish.

“She died. She was gone by the time they got her out of the water.”

“After he went through all that she didn’t make it?”

Grant swallowed, and that told her more than any words he could have said.

“If there was anywhere else I could afford to get the quality of therapy he needs, I’d be pounding on their door, too.” Grant Bishop’s quiet words fell into the silence. “Dr. Zimmer said that The Lemonade Stand is Darin’s best hope. Apparently, your therapist has a group session for the mentally handicapped.”

“Yes,” Lynn said. “She specializes in working with emotionally—and mentally—handicapped patients who are also physically injured.” The group session for the mentally handicapped had only one patient at the moment.

“Dr. Zimmer indicated that she’s good at encouraging the hopeless to find hope,” Grant Bishop said, looking her straight in the eye.

They were her own words to Dr. Zimmer the last time she’d seen him.

Grant said Darin had been suffering from depression even before the surgery. Lynn surmised that without sensitivity to Darin’s emotional issues, physical therapy might do him no good at all.

The Lemonade Stand, founded by a young man who’d grown up in an abusive household, existed to help save and protect human life. In a very real sense, Darin’s life depended on them. If the landscaping work was too much for Grant’s small company, they could hire out half of the landscaping, help Darin and still save the Stand some money.

“I’ll make a recommendation,” Lynn told the man. “Talk to your brother to make certain that you’ll have his cooperation with your plan, and call me in the morning.”

Call me in the morning. The words were a medical cliché, and in this case, they were a promise, too.

CHAPTER FOUR

“TELL ME AGAIN what this woman’s name is.” Sitting straight up, looking as handsome as ever in jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to just beneath his elbows, Darin spoke with the authority of one who was in complete control. He was using his “normal” voice, as Grant had somewhere along the way begun to catalog it. “Normal” as opposed to his “child” voice—the one that was a repercussion of the brain damage he’d received during his attempt to save his wife’s life.

“Lynn Duncan.”

“And she was my nurse.”

“Four years ago, yes.”

“I don’t remember her.”

“You might when you see her.”

With his chin jutting slightly forward, Darin nodded, his gaze toward the highway visible through the front windshield.

“You know what I miss most?” Darin asked.

“Besides your memory, you mean?” Grant quipped lightly. Because that was what the brothers did in these moments when Darin could focus clearly.

“I miss driving,” Darin said. “How come you don’t ever let me drive, Grant?”

Just like that, the child was back, the last words ending on a near-whine.

“You can drive sometime,” Grant said just as easily as he’d named the nurse they were on their way to see. “I’ll take you out to the desert this weekend.”

To the vast expanse of land they visited on occasion, just to let Darin get behind the wheel of a vehicle again.

His older brother turned to stare at him. “You promise?”

He’d hoped to have the weekend to tend to landscaping at the women’s shelter. Hoped to be able to do the job in his spare time. To spare Luke and Craig any additional work. “Yeah, I promise,” he said, because he had to.

And because he hadn’t even seen the women’s shelter landscaping. Maybe Lynn had been exaggerating. Seeing the job from a layman’s eyes. He and his guys had designed and installed a block’s worth of new landscaping in a day. Surely it couldn’t take Darin and Grant more than that to keep it up.

“But today is only Monday so we have to get a week’s worth of work done first,” he said now as they pulled into the parking lot outside the The Lemonade Stand.

“They make lemonade here?” Darin asked. “I like lemonade. Do you think they’ll let me have some?”

“There’s a cafeteria,” Grant said, information gleaned from his recent conversation with Lynn, Angelica and Lila McDaniels to finalize their plans and schedule Darin’s first therapy session. “We’ll see if they have lemonade. And you remember what I told you about the ladies, right?”

They’d been over this every day for the past week. Morning and night.

“They’ve been hurt and need me to stay away.”

It was the childish version, but at least the message was clear.

“That’s right.”

“I’ve never hurt anyone, have I, Grant?”

“Nope. As long as you don’t count those times you got me in a headlock and knuckle brushed my head.”

“Yeah,” Darin snorted as he grinned. “But you deserved it.”

“What did I ever do to deserve that? It hurt like hell.”

“One time you put my leather baseball glove in the bathtub.”

“It was dirty. I wanted to clean it for you.”

“You ruined it, Grant.”

“I know.” But he hadn’t meant to. He’d been four at the time.

“It was my first real glove and Mom and Dad didn’t have the money to buy me another one.”

Funny how things worked. Darin had damaged crucial parts of his brain attempting to save his wife. But he could still remember an event like this, which had happened more than thirty years before, as if it’d been yesterday.

“I’m sorry.”

Darin nodded. And gazed out at the nondescript parking lot.

“I’m afraid, Grant.” His tone was back to preaccident Darin. The admission was nothing he’d ever have expected to hear from his big brother.

“What if therapy doesn’t work?” he went on. “What if I never get the use of my arm back? I’m burden enough to you.”

Shoving the truck’s automatic gearshift into Park, Grant gave Darin a light punch on the shoulder. “It’s going to work, bro. And in the meantime, you’re going to be pushing a lawn mower with one hand. Just be glad it’s your right one that works.”

With one capable movement, Darin unfastened his seat belt and opened the door to the truck. Grant read the tension in the stiffness of his brother’s upper lip.

“Hey,” he said, a hand on Darin’s paralyzed limb. “We’re in this together, right?”

As long as Darin believed that, they’d be fine. Because Grant wasn’t going to let go. Or give up. Ever.

Darin took a long moment to answer. Grant waited.

“Right.” The answer finally came.

With that, Grant led his slightly taller and broader brother into the front hallway of The Lemonade Stand.

* * *

“LYNN!” THE CRY was a harried whisper. “That man is back.”

Sitting in her office close to the public access door at the Stand, Lynn glanced up from charting a twenty-eight-year-old pregnant woman who’d just been in for a checkup to see Maddie hovering in the doorway.

She frowned. “What man?”

A lot of men wanted access to their residents. The Stand’s job was to keep them away.

“The one who was here before, the baseball-cap-slapping-when-he-walked-in-the-hallway one.”

Ah. Grant Bishop. He was fifteen minutes early.

“It’s okay, Maddie, we’re expecting him. Lila was supposed to tell you.”

Lila McDaniels, The Lemonade Stand’s managing director, made it a point to give Maddie her duties every single morning.

“Oh, that’s right. I just saw that baseball cap and freaked out, didn’t I?” the woman said. “And he’s got someone with him, too. Lynn, is that okay? Does Lila know about him?”

Standing, Lynn wrapped an arm around the pretty woman’s slim shoulders; this morning Maddie wore a yellow Lemonade Stand oxford shirt with their white logo stitched above the breast pocket. “His name’s Darin,” Lynn said as she led the woman out to the hallway. “He’s going to be doing therapy with you during your session and...he’s...special, Maddie. I was hoping you’d spin some of your Maddie magic on him and help him feel welcome.”

“I just like to be around women.”

“I know, but he’s a nice man. He’s been approved to be here, and I’m asking as a special favor,” Lynn said, praying that her assessment of Darin hadn’t been wrong four years before. And that it wasn’t wrong to trust that assessment a little bit now. “You won’t have to be alone with him at all, and if he makes you afraid, you’re to stop Angelica immediately and she’ll get you out of there.”

She could have told Maddie about the newest patient in what was scheduled as a group therapy session but most often consisted of just Maddie. But she hadn’t wanted her to fret—and blow the situation so far out of proportion that she wouldn’t be capable of trying.

Lynn, stopping on the private side of the door leading out to the lobby, put both her hands on Maddie’s shoulders. “You know we’ve all talked about the fact that you don’t want to live your whole life afraid of men,” she said.

Maddie nodded.

“You and Sara have talked about this a lot and you told her that you understood and would try.”

Maddie was frowning. “But I didn’t know it meant now, Lynn,” she said, her voice trembling. “Sara didn’t say it was now. Does Lila know?”

“Yes.” Maddie’s cooperation wasn’t critical to Darin’s opportunity at the Stand, but it was vital to Maddie’s mental and emotional health. “I believe what Sara explained to you was that you can’t continue to live here forever if you don’t try your best to be healthy. We aren’t a hideout, Maddie, and we don’t want the women who come to us to think that we are. As a resident here, you’re an example to them, so you can’t be hiding out, either. That means you have to be able to be around men occasionally.”

“I know, but―”

“Maddie? Look at me.” Lynn waited.

The pretty blue eyes eventually focused on her. “What Alan did, I don’t want that anymore, Lynn,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “And I...you know...I’m...well...I wasn’t smart enough to stop him.”

All the air left Lynn’s lungs. She’d never heard Maddie acknowledge her challenges. Wasn’t even sure how much she was aware of them.

“Alan abused you because he was a bad person, Maddie, and for no other reason. You stayed because you loved him. Just like lots of the other women here. Think of Jennifer. She’s practically a genius and she stayed.”

“She’s an animal doctor.”

“I know,” Lynn said. “I’ve met Darin, Maddie. He’s a good person, I promise.”

Maddie nodded, but looked at the door in front of them as though she was facing a guillotine.

Grant Bishop had signed all of the necessary waivers on Darin’s behalf, allowing those within the shelter to share his information.

“Darin had a brain injury, Maddie. He...struggles.”

The slender woman’s brows drew farther together as she alternated between biting and licking her lower lip. “Is he retarded?”

“No. And you know we don’t like that word. But sometimes things don’t come together for him like they used to.”

“He’s dumb like me?”

What was this? She’d never heard Maddie sound so derogatory about herself. But then, they’d only been close for a little over a year.

“You aren’t dumb, Maddie.”

“I am, too, Lynn. And Sara says that I have to be strong and face my life, not run from it.”

“Did you tell Sara you were dumb?” There was no way the counselor would have promoted such thinking. Or allowed it if she could help put a stop to it.

Maddie looked down.

And Lynn got a sick feeling. “Who told you you were dumb?”

Maddie shrugged. And mumbled, “No one.”

With a finger under the woman’s chin, Lynn lifted Maddie’s face until she looked her straight in the eye.

“Maddie? You know my rule. It’s okay if you make a million mistakes a day, you just don’t lie to me.”

Her eyes widening in horror, Maddie said, “I don’t, Lynn, I swear I don’t and―”

“It’s okay, I know you don’t.” Lynn gave Maddie’s shoulders a squeeze. “And I need you to tell me who told you you were dumb.”

“I don’t want to get anybody in trouble, and besides, she didn’t tell me.”

“Who did she tell?”

“Regina Cooper with the stitches in her face.”

“And what did Regina say?”

“She told her to shut up because she saw me standing there.”

“She told her not to talk like that because it’s not true,” Lynn said now, letting Maddie off the hook, while making a mental note to prepare Sara for her next session with Maddie. And to mention the incident at their staff meeting later that morning, too.

They’d know who was talking to Regina about Maddie by the end of the day. And if it happened again, the mystery woman would be asked to leave.

“Maddie? Darin Bishop got hurt trying to save his wife,” she said. “I’m trusting you with that information because I know you’re smart enough to know what to do with it.”

Maddie stared at her, blinking a couple of times while she chewed her lip, and then took Lynn’s hand from off her shoulder and clutched it tightly. “Okay, Lynn, let’s go. I’ll be friends with him,” she said.

And for Maddie, that appeared to be that.

In that moment, as she pushed through the door to greet Grant and Darin Bishop, Lynn almost envied the other woman’s simplicity.

CHAPTER FIVE

“I REMEMBER YOU.” Darin’s wide-faced grin matched his five-year-old tone and Grant stiffened, a natural reaction to exposing his older brother to people who might not expect to hear near–baby talk coming from a grown man.

Because if they reacted adversely, Darin would be able to tell and it would upset him.

“You do?” Lynn’s smile appeared genuine as she approached, her gaze meeting Darin’s. She held out her hand. “I’m glad because I’ve never forgotten you.”

“I’m pretty memorable.” Darin shook Lynn’s hand as his voice reverted to that of a grown man. A completely harmless, charming grown man.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m going to work hard because I want to use my arm and because I promised Grant. Who’s that?” Like Grant, Darin had noticed the slender blonde woman in jeans and a staff blouse who was hovering behind Lynn.

Unlike Grant, his older brother had the tact of a child.

“Darin, Grant, this is Maddie,” Lynn said, turning to take the other woman’s hand and pull her forward.

“You’re pretty.” Darin smiled the killer smile that had been unwittingly stealing hearts from good men for most of his life.

“It’s good to meet you,” Maddie said, her words a tad slow and thick sounding. After a quick glance at each of them, her gaze returned to the floor.

“Do you see a spider?” Darin asked. “I could kill it for you. I can step on him. Both of my feet still work.”

“I don’t see a spider.” With a sideways glance, Maddie seemed to send Lynn some kind of message.

“Maddie’s in physical therapy, too,” Lynn said. “She and Darin will be sharing this morning’s session.”

“And maybe more,” Maddie said. “Angelica mostly works with groups unless someone needs her to stand right there next to them the whole time. I don’t need that. I know my exercises and don’t need help with the machines anymore. She just has to check and make sure that I’m using my muscles right.”

Grant studied the other woman. She was...way above average in the looks department. Her blue gaze was clear. And yet...she reminded him of Darin. Postaccident Darin.

“Maddie works here,” Lynn told the two men.

“I’m a good Friday.”

“A girl Friday,” Lynn said quickly, and Grant took a mental step back. He’d been so busy taking care of his own business and finding help for Darin that he hadn’t really considered the day-to-day business of The Lemonade Stand.

Lynn had mentioned residents. She’d been referring to abused and battered women.

Like Maddie?

Was she in therapy to recover from injuries caused by physical abuse?

Had she been hit in the head?

“I saw a movie called His Girl Friday,” Darin inserted into the conversation. “It’s a Cary Grant film that’s part of the National Film Registry’s catalog and ranks number nineteen on the American Film Institute’s 100 Years...100 Laughs,” the man who’d once been headed toward a top position on Wall Street finished.

“That was a funny movie,” Maddie said. “That guy kept getting arrested. But I didn’t like it that the main guy yelled all the time. If you’d like to come with me, I’ll show you where we do therapy....”

Darin stepped forward, took Maddie’s elbow and Lynn started. She looked as though she was going to step in.

“Okay, but I’m a little scared.” Darin’s childlike voice could be heard as the two walked through the door that Darin opened after letting go of Maddie while she typed a code into the box on the wall. “I can’t use my left arm at all, you know....”

Lynn followed, looking like a mother hen as her gaze darted back and forth between Maddie and Darin.

“He won’t hurt her,” Grant whispered, leaning in close as he fell into step beside her.

Lynn put visible and immediate distance between them, saying nothing. And Grant cursed himself silently for not being more aware, more in tune, with the fact that he and his brother had just entered a very sensitive culture.

It wasn’t going to be enough just to make certain that he and Darin didn’t do anything to hurt these women; they were going to have to be aware that every move they made, every look they gave, every sentence they spoke, could potentially scare any one of them.

Lynn Duncan included—apparently.

* * *

“WE CAN WATCH through here.” Avoiding eye contact with the man she’d been schooling herself not to think about for a week now, Lynn walked toward the large window in the hallway outside the physical therapy room where Maddie had led Darrin. “Angelica keeps the blinds closed when she has to, but if she can keep them open, she does. A lot of battered women suffer from PTSD―post-traumatic stress disorder―and often that’s accompanied by bouts of claustrophobia.” Keeping it professional. Aside from the warmth that suffused her body as it came, once again, in close contact with Grant Bishop.

What in the hell was the matter with her?

Darin looked up, saw them and waved. With a tap on his shoulder, Angelica called his attention back to her and the bar she’d placed within his brother’s left grasp.

“If you want to hand me over to whoever’s going to show me the grounds, we can move on,” Grant said. “He’ll do better if I’m not here distracting him.”

“Lila, our managing director, was going to go over things with you, but she’s...busy...this morning.” Their newest resident, a middle-aged woman named Melanie Zoyne, had appeared on the doorstep in the middle of the night with no broken bones or cuts that needed stitching, but bruising on every bruisable part of her body. “My next appointment isn’t until after lunch, so as long as there aren’t any emergencies, I’ve been elected to do the honors.”

She’d been up with Melanie since three—thankfully there’d been no indication of internal injuries to accompany the varying stages of bruising the woman’s brother had left in his wake—and was running on adrenaline.

Which might explain the weakened state that was allowing for inappropriate reactions to the jeans-clad man standing beside her.

He was just a man. Like any other.

“Darin’s eager to please you.” It was one of the things she’d noticed about the brothers four years before. Rather than being cantankerous or resentful, as many injury patients were, Darin just seemed to want to keep his brother happy.

Did Grant have that effect on everyone?

“He’s eager to get the use of his arm back,” the man at her side said, his gaze trained on his brother. And then he glanced at her. “Dr. Zimmer says that the location of the injury, the part of the brain affected by the surgery, is retrainable. With hard work Darin will be as good as new.”

As good as he’d ever be with an incurable brain injury. Grant was still watching her. Waiting?

“I know, he told me,” she said. “And while I’m not a surgeon, I dealt with a lot of brain injury patients during my years on the neurosurgery ward, and from everything I’ve studied, seen and learned, I completely believe that Darin can recover from this latest setback.” She sounded like the consummate professional. With a last glance in the therapy room, not at Grant’s brother, but to make certain that Maddie was fine, Lynn headed down the wide hallway, stopping to straighten a magazine on one of the cherrywood end tables in one of the conversation nooks stationed along the wall.

She’d take him to Lila’s outer office. Show him the large map of the grounds on the wall across from Lila’s desk. Take him out to the garage that housed the lawn equipment and fertilizer they already owned—collected through donations. Then give him a brief tour of the private beach and the bungalows because he couldn’t explore those unescorted—and finally get back to real life.

Lunch with Kara, whom she hadn’t seen since Maddie had brought the little girl to her office on the way to the preschool housed on the property. This was the private preschool for residents at the Stand, not the preschool run by current and former residents that was attended by neighboring children and—like the other businesses—helped support the Stand.

She’d get through these next moments and then get her mind back on the things that mattered most.

* * *

“YOU AND DARIN have the biggest part of the battle won,” Lynn Duncan said as she guided him through a maze of hallways that were wide enough to be rooms. “He’s willing to work hard.”

“Darin’s always been willing to go the extra mile.”

“But his attitude is good,” she said, turning another corner closely enough that he bumped into her.

And moved away immediately.

“After what you said about his depression, I expected him to be at least minimally resistant. In my experience, patients with a brain injury like his, one that allows moments of complete lucidity, tend to battle with frustration, resentment and even bitterness as they experience awareness of their loss again and again.”

She didn’t seem bothered by his accidental touch. Grant filed the knowledge away. Yet she’d shied away earlier, when he leaned in too close. He’d never dealt firsthand with a battered woman before, and while he’d assured the gorgeous nurse that he and Darin would behave with impeccable decorum, while his brother’s future depended on them doing so, he’d just realized that he had no idea what that decorum required.

“Darin has his moments, but overall he handles his situation with the dignity and class that I’ve always associated with him,” he said, keeping his voice level down, his tone easy.

One hall led to another and they entered a large, upscale lobby complete with a shiny black baby grand piano set on a dais that dominated about a quarter of the room.

“It’s great when situations like these bring out the best in people. It could just as easily have brought out the worst.” Lynn sounded like a doctor on rounds with med students. Or at least what Grant imagined one would sound like.

“I can’t honestly tell you what Darin’s worst is. Except maybe taking too much on himself. Which, I’m told, brings on the depression. He can’t stand being a burden to me. Or anyone.”

The look she gave him was a bit unsettling, as though she was reading more into his words than he’d put there.

“So you take him to work with you so he feels like he’s contributing,” she said. “That can’t be easy, trying to run a business and watching out for Darin at the same time.”

He didn’t like the way her statement made him feel. As if he had a problem. “Darin’s a big help.” He set her straight on that one. “Even in his childlike moments he can perform the simple tasks accurately.”

As he spoke, his voice rose a bit, and Grant noticed the women milling in the areas around them. Some stared. A couple bowed their heads. One faded away down a hall, giving real meaning to the phrase “fading into the woodwork.”

“I’m sorry,” he said more softly. “Was I too loud?”

“You’re fine.” Her smile made him uncomfortable again. In an entirely different fashion. Grant didn’t have a lot of opportunity for sex in his life, or women in general. But he liked them.

And he liked this particular woman a lot.

“You’re with me,” she said, as though that explained everything.

Maybe it did. These women trusted her.

“That’s why we’re walking all these hallways, isn’t it?” he asked, eyeing her with new respect. “You’re showing them that I’m trustworthy.”

“Yes. But that doesn’t mean they won’t be afraid.”

He nodded. And frowned, too, feeling as if he should be able to do something to help.

He was there to do landscaping. Nothing more.

“I’ll keep my distance,” he assured his companion as they entered yet another hallway, this one a bit narrower but still oversized, with closed doors lining both sides.

Lynn stopped before one and knocked. “It’s okay to talk to anyone here,” she told him. “As long as they speak with you first. Our residents need to feel safe, but they also need to be able to interact with men. The world they’ll be going back to is full of them.”

She smiled and, when her knock wasn’t answered, opened the door.

“You know we did background checks on you and your brother this week,” she was saying, reminding him of the permission he’d granted several days before when he’d stopped in to finalize details and paperwork for the day’s appointments. “And Dr. Zimmer vouched for you, as well. You wouldn’t be here if the staff had concerns about our residents being exposed to either one of you. We have four full-time security guards, all women, and three part-timers, two of whom are men. So there’s someone here twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The bungalows all have panic buttons in them and everyone has Security on their speed dial.”

Made sense.

They were in an office—of sorts. There was a desk in one section, but it didn’t dominate the room.

“This is Lila’s office,” Lynn said, brushing a strand of hair back over her shoulder in a movement that was completely feminine—and drew his attention to her...womanliness.

The rest of the place looked like a formal living room in a wonderfully kept, warm and inviting home, with off-white couches, maroon pillows, a vase of roses on the glass coffee table and mirrors with gilded accents on the walls.

Grant was wearing leather work boots and the jeans he’d had on when he’d dug holes at six that morning to mark where a brick fence would be going.

If she was planning to ask him to have a seat, he’d have to come up with a tactful way to decline.

She turned to face the wall, holding the door they’d come through. “This map shows you The Lemonade Stand premises in its entirety,” she said, walking up to a framed three-dimensional aerial photograph that was taller than he was and almost the width of the office.

Grant studied the scaled-to-size model of a complex that was twice as massive as he’d imagined.

And exquisitely laid out.

At one time, he’d had dreams of designing properties just like this one, and he was kind of jazzed at the thought of working on one again. Getting his hands dirty.

And maybe updating and making improvements, too, if...

He was getting ahead of himself. He mentioned flower beds, underground irrigation, fruit trees, all things that he imagined he was looking at but couldn’t be sure.

“I’m sorry, I―”

“It’s not a problem,” Grant assured her, realizing that while Lynn understood the aesthetics of the grounds, she knew absolutely nothing about the technicalities of the job he had in store for him. “All I need is a walk around the place and I’ll find my answers.” He felt like grinning when the frown cleared from her brow.

She wasn’t wearing any makeup.

He couldn’t remember if she’d had makeup on the day he’d spent with her in the hospital four years before. But he thought so.

Her hair had been curled then, too, now that he thought about it. Gathered loosely in the back by some kind of clip. Darin had pulled on a curl, laughing when it sprang back, and Grant had stepped up, preparing to take accountability for his brother if the nurse had been offended. Instead, she’d let Darin pull the curl again and laughed with him this time.

Today her hair was as it had been when he’d seen her the week before. Pulled back tight into a ponytail, with the exception of that one small piece that had escaped and kept falling over her shoulder.

The change, between four years ago and now, made him curious, but no less attracted to her.

CHAPTER SIX

“DADDY GIVED ME this and I named him Sammy and then Daddy taked me to see el’phants but he spit and I got scared and Daddy picked me up and then he sucked water up his nooosse....” Kara’s sweet little voice erupted in giggles. It was the following Saturday afternoon, almost a week since Darin and Grant Bishop had descended on The Lemonade Stand with their charm and kindness. A long week.

Brandon’s gaze met Lynn’s as she took the teddy bear her daughter handed her and stood back to let the two inside the bungalow Kara and Lynn shared. She looked away first. Quickly.

She’d just gotten off the phone with her folks, who lived in Denver to be close to Katie and her kids. Her mom didn’t blame Brandon for his sexual preferences but didn’t understand why he’d chosen to leave his family rather than ignore his gay tendencies. She’d been after Lynn to start dating again.

It was a continuous go-nowhere conversation.

“I took her to the zoo,” Brandon said.

“You said you were going to the beach. She was dressed for the beach and had flip-flops instead of tennis shoes.”

“Can I take Sammy to show him our room?” The lispy voice piped up between them.

“Of course you can.” Lynn smiled at her daughter and, bending down, added, “as soon as you give Mama a hug. I missed you, squirt.”

“I miss you, too, Mama,” Kara said, her pudgy little mouth pouty for a second as she leaned forward to give Lynn a wet kiss. Then, grabbing Sammy from Lynn’s fingers, she tripped over her feet as she ran through the little living area toward her bedroom, stopping before she left them. “Bye, Daddy, see you soon I love you,” she said, the words slurring together in a rush of baby talk that was their rote goodbye phrase, and was gone.

Lynn stood and took the day bag she’d packed that morning from Brandon’s outstretched hand, avoiding eye contact. “You said you were taking her to the beach.”

She sounded petulant. And hated that.

“Lynnie.” Brandon took hold of her shoulders, turning her to face him. “I’m sorry,” he said when, by rights, he could have been telling her to mind her own damned business. While she had full custody and he paid child support, Brandon also had full visiting privileges and didn’t have to tell her anything about his time with Kara. Just like she didn’t have to report to him every time she did something with her daughter.

He also didn’t have to travel to Santa Raquel for every visit. He would be well within his rights to take the child to San Francisco where he’d moved after the divorce.

“I should have called.”

She nodded. “Where’s Douglas?”

“He had to work and couldn’t make it down with me, which is why we didn’t go to the beach. I couldn’t prepare the picnic and keep an eagle eye on her by the water at the same time.”

“I take her to the beach by myself.”

“And you live with her, too. You know every move she’s going to make practically before she makes it. I don’t. I have to rely on my eyes and ears and I’m not going to risk her life on the chance that they’d fail me.”

She was making a big deal out of nothing. And...

“It’s just...her life is so unusual,” she said. “It’s not a bad thing, but because she doesn’t have a traditional home I think it’s important that she is at least able to rely on us to do what we say we’re going to do.”

“I know.” His hand was on her arm again. Rubbing gently. Like he’d done countless times in the past. The touch used to remind her of the physical bond they shared.

Now it just offered support.

She covered his hand with hers and squeezed. “Thank you,” she said, glancing up at him. “I know I’m being an idiot. You couldn’t help your change of plans, and obviously you told Kara about them.”

“You’re not an idiot, my dear. Anything but. And as soon as I knew that plans had changed I should have called you and let you know. If anything had happened to us, you wouldn’t have known where to tell people to start looking.”

Their gazes met and she relaxed. Again. With a smile she asked, “So you had a good time?”

She invited Brandon to stay for dinner, but he had to get to the airport to catch his flight back to San Francisco. He and Douglas had tickets to a jazz festival the next afternoon.

And Lynn had a couple of women to see. One who’d checked in the day before with a concussion, and a twenty-seven weeks pregnant woman, Missy, who’d been spotting earlier in the week.

Knowing that Maddie was due over to feed Kara as soon as Maddie finished her afternoon therapy session, Lynn said goodbye to her ex-husband―but still best friend―and went in to spend a few minutes of quality time with her little girl.

* * *

BY FIVE-THIRTY MONDAY EVENING, Darin’s therapy was done for the day. Grant’s job wasn’t. Finishing up a weeklong venture of trimming, shaping and adjusting irrigation spray heads, he still had piles to load into the trailer hitched to the back of his truck.

“I can’t do my job,” Darin’s little-boy voice came from just behind him. “Not until four more weeks.”

“That’s right.” Grunting, Grant lifted a rake full of thorn-filled branches and, with thick-gloved hands, carried it over to the already heaping trailer.

“No lifting and bending,” Darin said, following at his heels. “I told Angelica, but she already knew.”

“She’s in touch with Dr. Zimmer,” Grant reminded him. “That’s how she knows how to help you.”

“Yeah...” Darin’s voice trailed off. And then he said, “I’d like to go for a little walk, Grant. Not far, just over to the park area. I won’t disturb any of the women, I promise.”

“I’ll bet one or two of them’ll notice your good looks, though, bro,” Grant said, standing to grin at his big brother. “You could’ve shared a little of that charisma with me, you know.”

“Right.” Hands in his pockets, Darin gave him a teasing smirk. “I almost missed my physics final my senior year in college because I was busy rescuing you from a bunch of beauties.”

Darin was teasing. And there was truth in his words, too. Grant, an orphan at seventeen, had given his brother some rough nights.

“Anyway, can I go for a walk?”

Grant studied the other man, thrilled, and a bit cautious, too. Darin almost never left his sight—by choice. If being in therapy, being at the Stand, was going to have this kind of effect on him, the grueling hours were worth every single minute.

Reaching for another pile of brush, he scooped it up between his hands and stood. “Show me which direction you want to go.”

“Over there.” Darin pointed. With his right hand.

“I’m not looking at your right hand, bro.”

Frowning, the older man turned his left side toward the direction he’d been pointing. His tongue rolled inward while the rest of his body remained still. Grant stood, holding the brush. One minute. Two. Sweat beaded on Darin’s upper lip. The injured man’s brow was creased and his gaze trained on his left arm. He took a couple of deep breaths.

And the arm moved. Just like that. Not much. An inch at most. But...

Throwing the brush up in the air, Grant said, “You did it!” and rushed over to grab Darin’s arms. “You did it, bro!”

Darin smiled, but looked off to the distance. “Can I go for my walk now?” he asked, seemingly more harried than happy.

“Of course. No farther than the park, though, okay?”

“Just the park,” Darin said, his voice lifting a bit as he strode off.

And Grant wondered if this was what it felt like when a man sent his kid off for his first campout without him.

* * *

HER CONCUSSION PATIENT was progressing nicely. Not even a headache to speak of. Lynn had a call just before she’d left the office on Monday saying that the woman had attended her first group counseling session and, it was discovered, was an incredible seamstress. She was already at work stitching up some tank-style summer dresses from patterns and fabric that had been donated to the Stand.

Missy, the twenty-seven weeks pregnant resident whose husband had thought a wedding ring gave him the right to take his panic and frustration out on his wife’s body, was doing better, as well. No more signs of spotting. And an examination showed that everything was as it should be. She’d released Missy to normal activity and was eager to get home to Kara. It had been a long day.

She heard the squeal and recognized her daughter’s voice before she saw them. Maddie was sliding down the slide at the park with Kara settled securely between her knees. The playground had been designed for the underage residents at the Stand, most of whom were there with their mothers, many of whom had suffered physical abuse as well as the trauma of living in a fear-based home. “Again!” The curly-haired charmer clapped when they reached the bottom.

Just as Lynn was about to approach, to put an end to the day’s fun and get her little one home for her bath and a quick story before bed, she noticed the man who appeared from the other side of the slide.

“I’ll take her over to you again,” the voice said, a strange combination of masculine capability and little-boy tone. Darin Bishop. The man held Maddie’s hand with his good one, and walked her to the back of the slide. He waited while Maddie climbed the steps and sat. Then he stood with his hands an inch from Kara as she climbed up to where Maddie could reach her.

Ducking behind a tree, Lynn watched for another couple of seconds. She could go back to her house, meet Maddie there as planned.

“You should count.” Darin’s voice carried easily. “One...two...three...go!”

“One...two...three...go!” Maddie repeated, and Kara squealed.

The same sound that had attracted Lynn’s attention in the first place. She wasn’t needed here. Which left her with a rare few moments to herself.

Heading toward her bungalow about a block away across perfectly manicured grounds, Lynn walked the sidewalk that trailed through the grounds, saying hello as she passed a couple of residents, waving to a mother and her two children who’d checked in the week before and thanking the fates that had allowed her to meet a man like Brandon—one who was still kind and protective, even after they were no longer a couple.

Her sister, Katie, her aunt Evelyn, who’d been killed by an abusive husband before Lynn had been born...they hadn’t been so lucky.

And they were the reason Lynn had originally begun volunteering at the Stand. Dr. Zimmer had told her about the place after she’d taken personal leave to fly to Denver and help her mom and dad move Katie’s things out of the five-bedroom home her sister had owned with her ex-husband.

Brandon had been the exact opposite of her brother-in-law. Instead of looking to Lynn for what she could do for him, he’d given her everything that he could give. He’d given her Kara. And the chance to go to grad school and get her certified midwife certificate so she could spend her life exactly as she wanted to spend it—giving to others.

It wasn’t his fault that she’d lost her sexual allure where he was concerned....

“Hey! I was beginning to wonder if you’d left the planet!”

Spinning around, her heart beating a rapid tattoo, Lynn faced the man she’d been trying not to think about. She’d been succeeding, too.

Sort of.

“Grant!” she said, waiting for him to catch up to her. “I just saw Darin over at the park. I wondered where you were.” Or rather, had avoided letting herself wonder by focusing on what mattered. Kara. Their good luck. Their lives.

“Just finished my first round of the grounds,” he said, facing her on the sidewalk as he motioned toward the trailer in the grass, barely visible through the island of trees just behind him. “I’ve got to haul that stuff to the dump still tonight, but was waiting for Darin to show up. He went for a walk.”

“He’s over at the park,” she said. “With Maddie and Kara. I can take you there....”

“I know where the park is,” Grant said, grinning at her. “I spent two days this week getting to know it intimately.”

Was that innuendo intentional? “Of course,” she said, choosing to avoid any possible flirtation. “I’m sorry, I... I’ve been busy,” she improvised. Busy avoiding him.

“It’s certainly busy around here,” he said, his gloves in one hand tapping against his leg. “I had no idea.”

“Most people don’t.” Lynn glanced around them, looking for escape.

“If you’ve got a minute, I’d like to tell you about an idea I had for the Garden of Renewal.”

Maddie and Kara were still playing, enjoying themselves, thinking she’d be with her patients a while longer. Even if they went back to the house, Maddie would stay with Kara until Lynn got home. And if it was past her bedtime, she’d call to make sure someone else was with them. Maddie didn’t spend the night unsupervised. Meanwhile, Grant was talking about removing the gazebo from the Garden of Renewal and replacing it with benches interspersed throughout the three-acre haven of beautiful growth.

“That way women can have alone time if they need to find renewal from within, or have more personal one-on-one conversations if they’re there with someone else.”

She stared at him. He’d only been there a week. And he understood.

“I never liked the gazebo,” she said. But it had been donated. And there before she’d arrived.

“I think it would be put to better use in the park area,” he said. “That’s a more public gathering place. Unless I’ve misunderstood. But the garden area, it seems to be more of a place to find peace, quiet. Not to gather socially.”

“That’s right.”

He started toward the area visible across the grassy commons. She walked with him—and noticed the perusal he gave her. Which she then told herself she’d imagined.

She spent the next five minutes listening as he talked about a large rock fountain in the center of the garden in place of the gazebo. About flowering shrubs and blooms that would appear at different times throughout the year, giving the garden a sense of new life year-round. Endings and new beginnings, no matter what time of year it was.

She was trying not to think about a new beginning for herself. With him in the picture somewhere.

“What?” He was smiling at her again, but it was a more personal smile.

“What, what?”

“I don’t know. You just looked like you had something to say.”

They weren’t talking about flowers. And she wasn’t imagining anything.

“I appreciate what you’re doing here,” she said, opting for what she knew to be true, not hoping for what couldn’t be. “You’ve captured the essence of what we’re trying to create and devised a plan that would bring it to life much better than anything we’ve accomplished so far.”

He paused, watched her for a moment and then said, “It’s my business.”

“Our agreement only requires you to keep up the premises, not enhance it.”

“Do you always only give what’s expected of you? What you’re required to give?”

They weren’t talking about landscaping. Or jobs.

“Of course not.”

“I didn’t think so.” His expression serious, he moved farther into the garden, with occasional glances back toward where they’d come.

“You can go get him,” Lynn said, understanding the burden of being solely responsible for the welfare of another human being—the senses that had to be tuned in every hour of every day, whether you were physically with that person or not.

Grant shook his head. “No, as much as I’d like to, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“For the first time in longer than I can remember, Darin reached out for freedom today. It makes me nervous, but from what I’m told, he has to form some kind of life for himself or risk falling into a depression that could eventually kill him.”

And she only had to watch over Kara while she grew up and could take responsibility for herself....

“He moved his arm a little bit ago.” Grant’s tone reminded her of Brandon when he’d called her in between her university classes to tell her he’d seen Kara take her first step. “He’s only had six days of therapy and already there’s improvement.”

“That’s great!” she said, meaning it. “I expected it to take a couple of weeks, at least, before there was any noticeable change.”

“Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t much. Just an inch or so. But I saw it with my own eyes. He moved his arm.”

“I’m not surprised, Grant,” she said when he started to sound defensive. “Darin’s determined. And the damage the surgery did was to a portion of the brain that is retrainable, as you know. I’m just surprised at the speed with which we’ve seen progress!”

“That’s my brother for you. Once he’s made his mind up about something, there’s no going back.”

The way he was looking at her seemed to be sending some kind of personal message—beyond the perfectly circumspect conversation they were having. Had Grant made up his mind about something, too?

Something to do with her?

And him?

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