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She looked up to find him studying her, this time with a penetrating sadness that cut to the heart. “A terrible waste. I propose you come back on Thursday, and we’ll start over again.”
“I hate coming here.”
“I know, but once you settle into the routine, it will get easier.”
“Not here, with you. Here, in the hospital.”
His hospital, Brooke thought. A place that had been a huge part of his life. A place full of reminders of what he’d once had—a brilliant career.
Brooke certainly couldn’t blame him for being less than thrilled to return on a regular basis. She also couldn’t allow him to fall into complacency. Yet she wasn’t sure how to convince him that he needed to continue the therapy if he was frustrated by the hospital surroundings.
A sudden thought crossed her mind. A crazy thought, but just crazy enough to work.
“Dr. Granger, have you considered home therapy?”
His eyes narrowed. “You mean someone coming to my house instead of me coming here?”
“Yeah. It’s been done before.” Brooke had done it before, mostly with shut-ins. Never with a struggling, handsome doctor.
“You’d be willing to come to my home?” he asked, surprise in his tone.
“Well, yes. Or someone else, if you prefer.”
“No. I’d want it to be you.”
He seemed so adamant that she continue his therapy, Brooke was almost rendered speechless. “So you’d consider it?”
“Maybe.”
Brooke released the breath she’d been holding. “I’ll have to clear it with my supervisor, and we’ll need to talk with Dr. Kempner about changing the order.”
“He’ll do it.”
“So you’ll think about it?”
“We’ll see.” He limped down the corridor with a slump to his shoulders, all the pride seeming to have seeped from him in a matter of moments.
Somehow, some way, Brooke was determined to set things right, and if he agreed to the home therapy, that was a start.
If he allowed her the opportunity to aid in his recovery, hopefully when the time came, she would walk away from him knowing that she had helped him in some small way. Walk away and never look back. But deep down, Brooke worried that walking away from Jared Granger might be easier planned than done, especially if he didn’t get better.
Yet she had to walk away, and without any second thoughts. Becoming emotionally involved with a patient was not only taboo, but created a danger to Brooke’s emotional well-being. Leaving her heart wide open was not an option.
Yes, Dr. Jared Granger might need her, but she would never need another man again.
Jared Granger waited alone in Nick Kempner’s office, studying his rigid hand, his gnarled fingers. He hated sympathy of any kind, the pitying looks he received from colleagues and friends alike. Hated the fact that he was steeped in self-pity more often than not these days.
Never had he been posed with such a challenge. Even med school and multiple residencies hadn’t gotten him down like this. Might as well admit it, he was washed up as a surgeon. Not much better off as a man. At least not at the present.
Admitting it didn’t take away the pain, the anger. It only served to create more vile-tasting resentment that he couldn’t control.
He also couldn’t recall the last good day he’d had, even before the accident. Three weeks ago, getting away to his farm—a place he could always count on to regroup—hadn’t eased the piercing guilt over losing a special patient, the reason why he hadn’t been paying attention to the thin piece of wire caught in the tractor shredder. The reason he’d carelessly tried to manhandle it out of the blade, causing the backlash that had sent the metal slicing across his wrist, creating the deep laceration that damaged his median nerve, then the fall that had shattered his leg. All in a few short moments of stupidity, he had ruined a career years in the making.
He recalled twelve-year-old Kayla Brown’s death, why he’d gone to his weekend retreat in the first place. She’d been faced with rejection of her new heart and awaiting another when she’d finally given up after fighting the good fight. Jared hadn’t been able to save the young girl who had been a natural room brightener. A kid who always smiled no matter how much pain she endured or how constant the prospect of death.
His problems were minor compared to what she had faced. So what if it took him an hour longer to brush his teeth, dress himself, pour a glass of milk? So what if he could barely manage to clean himself? He’d be damned and desperate before he would admit that to anyone. No one would understand.
Brooke Lewis immediately came to mind—her wild, dark curls, big brown eyes, natural smile and die-hard attitude. As badly as he hated to admit it, he admired her grit as much as he admired her schoolgirl looks. She didn’t view him as anything other than a patient. He found that refreshing, since most people treated him as if he was some infallible being without a heart or feelings. No one knew the real Jared Granger, because he had never revealed much of himself; he feared that he could never live up to others’ expectations.
The door swung open and Nick Kempner strode in, the best orthopedic doc in the business, and Jared’s closest friend. “What’s up, Granger?”
“Not much.”
Nick slipped out of his lab coat and tossed it and several newspapers from his seat onto the nearby sofa before sinking into the office chair. “Sorry I’m late, but I had to take a call at the front desk.”
“No problem.” And it wasn’t. Jared had nowhere to be at the moment. Nowhere to be most days in recent history, except doctor appointments and dreaded therapy sessions.
Nick folded his hands in front of him and brought out his all-business face. “The call was from your latest therapist.”
Jared braced for another lecture. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. She told me that although you were, and I quote ‘a bit uncooperative,’ she would work around it. She mentioned maybe home therapy. What do you think about that?”
The woman was as persistent as a moth on a porch light. “Therapy isn’t doing me a helluva lot of good.”
“That’s because you’re not giving it a chance.”
“She looks too young to know what she’s doing.” And too pretty to ignore, as much as Jared hated to admit that.
“She’s not a kid, Granger. She’s got a master’s degree, and she’s been working here for several years. In fact, she’s at least twenty-five. Probably older.”
“In my book that’s still a kid.”
“To hear you talk, you’re sixty, not thirty-six.”
“I feel like I’m eighty.”
Nick forked a hand through his dark hair. “Look, Brooke Lewis is one of the best therapists around. If you give her the opportunity, she can help you with those tendons. It’s just going to take some time and hard work on your part.”
If Jared could ball his fist, he’d punch the wall. He could do that with his left hand, but considering his recent misfortune, he’d probably ruin it, too. “What you’re saying is that I might never operate again.”
Nick let go a frustrated sigh. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Jared. I’m saying you need to give the therapy a shot, and the best place to start is with Brooke.” He grinned. “And you’ve got to admit, she’s pretty nice to look at. Can’t imagine you’d mind having her touching you twice a week—wherever she wanted.”
Jared refused to admit that the thought had crossed his mind, too. He’d immediately been aware of her finer points. When she’d touched him, his immediate reaction had taken him back, the reason why he’d been so tough on her. He didn’t need an attraction to a woman, especially a therapist. Not that he could easily stop it. At least that part of him wasn’t exactly dead. Not by a long shot. Brooke Lewis had proven that. But at the moment, he had other more pressing problems, like getting his hand to function again.
“If you think she’s so great, then you make an appointment with her for some hands-on therapy,” Jared said.
Nick shook his head. “No way. I’ve sworn off women since the divorce.”
“Sure, Kempner. Tell me another one.”
“I’m dead serious. Not worth the hassle.”
“Speaking of women, how’s it going with your ex?”
Nick grabbed up a pen and drummed it on the desktop. “Not great. I only have to see her when I pick up Kelsey on the weekends that I’m not on call. We barely speak, which is probably a good thing. Fighting in front of a four-year-old isn’t a great idea.”
Jared hated the pain in his friend’s voice. Pain over limited time with his daughter all because of marrying the wrong woman. But how could anyone know if they’d found the right one?
Nick had a point, Jared decided. Sometimes women weren’t worth the hassle. Marriage definitely wasn’t, exactly why Jared had avoided it, especially with the demands of a doctor’s career. Not that he’d had to worry about that lately.
Nick tossed the pen aside and leaned back in his chair. “Jared, I know you’re having a tough time with this whole thing. If you want someone to talk to, I have the name of—”
“I’m not depressed, dammit. I’m just ticked off.” God, he resented this attitude. Resented that people were always trying to second-guess his feelings, when in reality they didn’t know him at all.
Nick put up his hands, palms first. “Okay, bad idea. But I really think you need to concentrate on physical therapy. You could do a lot worse than Brooke Lewis.”
He could do a lot better if he could just crawl in a hole somewhere and lick his wounds. But that wasn’t reality. He had to deal with this somehow. And maybe the hell-on-wheels therapist with the killer smile and dynamite eyes was the answer, at least temporarily. Maybe Brooke Lewis’s offer wasn’t such a bad idea.
Jared stared at the ceiling for a long moment, sensing Nick’s gaze on him while awaiting an answer. “Okay. Set up the home therapy. I’m not making any promises, but I guess I’ll take on Brooke Lewis.”
Nick laughed. “I think that’s the other way around.”
If his instincts were correct, Jared knew in his gut that working with Brooke Lewis could be like facing a pit full of vipers. But before the accident he’d never backed down to a challenge. Not true since the accident, though. Could he handle this one, especially with a woman who had sparked his interest, among other things? Did he really have a choice?
“One more thing,” Nick said. “She told me that next time you can count on her to use putty to work your hand instead of the ball, since it doesn’t bounce. Any idea what that means?”
Jared allowed his first real smile in weeks. “Yeah, it means I’ve probably met my match.”
Two
“Rural” was an understatement.
Brooke climbed out of her car and trudged toward the door after driving an hour in the dark to reach her destination. She’d checked the address at the mailbox just to be sure she was in the right place. And she was, but the place wasn’t at all what she had envisioned—a small white house that could use a good coat of paint as best she could tell from the lone porch light. A simple dwelling to match the aged blue pickup that sat in the drive and the weathered plank porch beneath her feet.
She’d imagined a grand home fit for a physician, not a cracker box dwelling that reminded her of her grandparent’s farm. Once again Dr. Jared Granger had surprised her, and she wondered what else might be in store for her this evening.
But at least he had agreed to home therapy, something that both surprised and pleased her. And made her a tiny bit leery. Facing him in unfamiliar surroundings—his territory—caused her to question the wisdom of her offer. She certainly couldn’t worry about that now.
Brooke bolstered her courage and rapped on the door, primed for whatever she would have to face. She waited for a time, glad the weather had turned warm again, although it still rained on and off. So typical of fall in Texas.
She heard a shuffling sound, and the door opened to Dr. Jared Granger dressed in ragged T-shirt, faded jeans, his dark-blond hair mussed as if he’d just crawled out of bed.
“You found me,” he said with more welcome in his tone than she’d expected. Or perhaps she was simply engaging in wishful thinking.
“Yeah,” she said. “Dr. Kempner gives good directions.”
He opened the squeaky screen and allowed her entry. Brooke stepped inside and found the place to be warm and dry—and a total disaster. Her gaze roamed around the small living room where she zeroed in on the coffee table cluttered with newspapers and an assortment of paper cups. A pair of discarded work boots sat near an opening at one end of the room, clothes tossed about as if a tornado had swept through the area. Several times. Quite a contrast to her immaculate apartment.
Taking a few guarded steps, Brooke met his gaze and offered a polite, noncommittal smile. “Well, this is certainly a comfortable home.”
He shrugged. “Suits me fine.”
She shifted her canvas bag from one arm to the other. “Where would you like me to set up?”
“In here.” He leaned heavily on his crutch as he struggled toward the entrance that opened into the small kitchen.
Brooke followed silently behind him, trying hard not to notice the tear beneath his back pocket where she caught a glimpse of flesh when he moved. No need to look there again, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.
Once in the kitchen Brooke found more mess to garner her attention. More discarded food containers, more newspapers, more chaos.
He pointed to the small dinette. “Will this work?”
She couldn’t see anything at all because of the debris. “Is there a table under there?”
“Yeah. Somewhere.”
He looked up at her, and she noted a bit of self-consciousness in his expression. With one arm braced on his crutch, he began to sweep the mess away with his free forearm, onto chairs, the floor, wherever it happened to land. If only Brooke’s mother could witness this act. She’d faint.
“Look,” Brooke said. “Find a chair, have a seat, and let me pick up some of this.”
He pinned her with an irritated glare. “I didn’t hire you to be my maid.”
“And I didn’t sign on to be one. But if we’re going to make any progress, I need some room. It’ll only take a minute if you’ll point me to the trash bags.”
He indicated a cabinet underneath the sink. “Right there. If you insist.”
“I insist.” Setting her tote bag on the hardwood floor, she made her way to the cabinet and opened the door to find an overflowing trashcan. “You’ve obviously given your housekeeper the year off.”
“She’s at my house in town.”
She regarded him over one shoulder. “You have a house in town? Then why aren’t you living there?”
“I like it here. More secluded.”
“You can say that again,” Brooke muttered as she bent over to tug a black bag from the cardboard dispenser. She turned to face him and shook the bag out, surprised to find an indescribable darkness in his normally light eyes. “Maybe you could get your housekeeper out here for some spring cleaning.”
“It’s fall, and I don’t want her here.” His tone was harsh, and Brooke got the feeling he didn’t want her there, either. Back to square one.
His resistance only fueled her tenacity. Made her want to try a little harder to gain his respect, or at least his cooperation. “Well, I’m no domestic goddess, but I can handle the trash.” Her mother fit the prima housekeeper role perfectly, and there was only room for one of those in the family. Neither she nor her sister, Michelle, had ever embraced domestic bliss. Right now she had little choice in the matter.
Brooke stared at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink and wondered how long they’d been there. A long time from the looks of the caked-on food, at least since the accident. Turning back to the table, she began slipping cartons of every shape and size, paper cups, a few discarded newspapers and myriad pizza boxes, into the bag.
After that was done, and she could actually see the scuffed wooden table, she gathered up her bag, took out her pen and forms to note his progress and sat facing him. “Have you started doing your home therapy as prescribed?”
“Some.”
She looked up from her charting. “Explain ‘some.’”
