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Family Matters
Joan Kilby
From darkness to light…Marc Wilde once prided himself on living up to his last name. He was a respected foreign war correspondent and former champion snowboarder, but his life took a brutal twist when a bomb blast in the Middle East landed him in a wheelchair with only a tentative chance of recovery.Frustrated and back at home in Whistler, Marc finds himself turning to drink to obliterate his shattered reality. That is until Fiona Gordon–living with tragedy and responsibilities of her own–helps him understand his future is wide open, full of light…and even love.As hard as he tries, Marc finds it's impossible to remain cynical around Fiona. But as the reality of his life sinks in, Marc must decide to choose life–and overcome his greatest fear–or risk losing Fiona forever.
“You’re taking my plight awfully seriously. How about you help me?”
With a little laugh Fiona backed away. “I’m not qualified to do more than get you another coffee.”
“Have dinner with me,” Marc said.
“No. Thank you. I have other plans.”
Marc wheeled after her. “Tomorrow?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t.”
“Won’t, you mean,” Marc said bitterly. “Because I’m in a wheelchair.” In his heart he couldn’t blame her. What woman wanted to go out with a cripple?
“It’s not because your legs don’t work. Your real handicap is your attitude.”
Her challenging gaze held his until Fearless Marc Wilde had to look away.
Dear Reader,
Writing Family Matters required me to “take a giant step outside my mind,” as the saying goes. Timid ol’ me had to delve into the psyche of Marc Wilde, whose greatest thrill is meeting physical danger head-on. When Marc ends up in a wheelchair not knowing if he’ll ever walk again, once more I found myself in foreign territory, navigating by empathy, imagination and a lot of help from people who’d been there.
When I began writing this book I worried that a story about a hero in a wheelchair might be depressing to readers. Through my research I learned not only the hardships and difficulties paraplegics face, but about their ability to achieve rich, full lives. These men and women are true heroes whose stories are a triumph of the human spirit and a tribute to the joy of simple things.
Marc’s recovery is assisted by Fiona Gordon, whose combination of tough love and compassion raises his spirits and helps him find meaning in his new life. Ultimately Marc must face his demons alone and find the courage to let Fiona go to live the life she’s always longed for.
For me, Family Matters, the second book in THE WILDE MEN trilogy, became an uplifting story of moral courage and the healing power of love. Does Marc walk again? You’ll have to read the book to find out—no peeking at the final pages, please! I hope you’ll agree that by the end of Marc and Fiona’s story (which is really just the beginning) whether he walks or not truly is irrelevant. One thing we can always count on in a romance is a happy ending, and Family Matters is no exception.
I love to hear from my readers. Please write to me at P.O. Box 234, Point Roberts, WA 98281-0234, or e-mail me at www.joankilby.com.
Sincerely,
Joan Kilby
Family Matters
Joan Kilby
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
I would like to thank physiotherapist Clifford Leckning and Dr. David Brumley for their invaluable advice and information regarding the nature of spinal injuries and their treatment and recovery. Any errors are mine.
My thanks and admiration go to a certain paraplegic young man—who prefers to remain nameless—for his humor, courage and insight.
My thanks, also, to Sheena Gibbs for introducing me to her beautiful alpacas and telling me all about these fascinating creatures.
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 ONE
HE SOARED OFF THE JUMP on his snowboard, looping through the mountain air, the sky a brilliant blue against the diamond-white glacier. Legs braced, he landed with a satisfying crunch on the sparkling ice and, with a rush of adrenaline, whooshed at breakneck speed down Whistler Mountain….
“Another drink, buddy?” the barmaid asked.
Marc opened his eyes to find an empty glass clutched in his fingers and his dead legs draped uselessly over his wheelchair.
The Pemberton Hotel pub in midafternoon swam back into his consciousness—glasses clinking, pool balls clunking and football on the big-screen TV in the corner. Home after a month in a rehabilitation hospital in Israel, Marc spent most of his time either lying in bed staring at the ceiling or here at the pub. This vast room with its clientele of truckers, loggers and laid-off railway workers was preferable to the fancier drinking establishments in Whistler, frequented by skiers and mountain climbers who reminded him of everything he’d lost.
He swirled the ice cubes melting in a pool of diluted bourbon at the bottom of his glass. Fearless Marc Wilde they used to call him. Hah!
“I’ll have ’nother Jack on the rocks. Make it a double.” He could hear himself slurring his words but who gave a damn? Not him. He didn’t care about anything anymore except escaping the tedium of life in a wheelchair. His days of snowboarding and rock climbing were over and his career as a foreign-war correspondent at an end. What was left to live for?
“How about a coffee instead?” the barmaid suggested. “I put a fresh pot on.”
Marc peered up at her through bleary eyes. Her thick curling mass of strawberry-blond hair, tied loosely back, framed an oval face with the type of pale pink skin that blushed easily. She looked fresh and pretty, making him even more aware of his unwashed hair and dirty fingernails. At one time he’d taken pride in good grooming but what was the point when people he passed in the street averted their eyes and even his old friends avoided his company?
The barmaid’s voice might be soft but that steady gaze looked anything but timid. Just to test her, he repeated his order. “Jack on the rocks. Double.”
He lifted his hand to place his empty glass on her tray and missed. The glass fell to the floor with a quiet thud and the remaining liquid soaked into the carpet.
“No more booze for you,” she said firmly.
They bent simultaneously to retrieve his glass. The scent of roses wafted toward him, faint and delicate amid the stale odor of cigarette smoke and beer. His hand fumbled, hers grasped the tumbler securely. Coming up, they bumped heads.
“Sorry.” Rubbing his temple with one hand he stretched shaky fingers toward her smooth forehead.
Before he could touch her, she pulled away, her eyes filled with disgust. “I’ll get you that coffee.”
Swiveling on her low heels she was gone, leaving him with a back view of well-toned legs in a short black skirt. Her fitted white blouse with three-quarter sleeves emphasized a slender waist. Once upon a time he’d had his pick of diplomats’ daughters and foreign beauties. Now not even a small-town barmaid wanted to know him.
Weeks of frustration exploded inside his booze-addled brain. If he wanted to walk badly enough, he ought to be able to do it. He planted his hands on the arms of his chair and pushed with all of his strength. The effort propelled him forward only to send him sprawling facedown on the carpet, his cheek in the wet patch where his drink had spilled. He closed his eyes as a wave of self-loathing engulfed him in blackness.
Dimly he heard the clatter of a coffee cup as the barmaid set a tray on the table. Small hands reddened by hot water crept under his armpits and tugged. She was surprisingly strong but not strong enough to lift his dead weight.
Marc struggled to push himself up, cursing his useless legs. The barmaid gave up trying to lift him and held the wheelchair steady while he dragged his sorry carcass back into a sitting position with the help of a burly logger from the neighboring table. Behind the bar, the sandy-haired bartender polished glasses and kept a wary eye on him.
Too ashamed to look at the barmaid, Marc reached for his coffee with a mumbled thanks, hoping she’d just go away.
No such luck. Sitting down at his table, she said, “Aren’t you Marc Wilde?”
“Used to be.”
“I recognize you from TV,” she went on. “You were reporting from a war zone in the Middle East. Bullets were flying past your ears, buildings blowing up behind you. I thought you were so brave.”
Marc squinted in her direction. Her delicate features, so sweet and lively, made him feel one hundred years old. He recognized her expression, having experienced it a thousand times in the past month. Pity.
“Your point?” he demanded. He hated pity even more than he hated the wheelchair.
She tilted her head forward and a mass of glowing hair spilled over her shoulder. “You’ve got guts. You’re not the type to waste your life in a bar.”
“You don’t know the first thing about me.” Marc sucked back the coffee, burning his tongue and not caring. Pain felt good. At least some part of his body was alive.
“What happened out there?” she asked.
“Bomb explosion threw me against a brick wall,” he said mechanically, weary of repeating the same information to everyone he met. “I fractured two vertebrae and my spinal cord was compressed from the inflammation.”
Once upon a time he’d believed in the adage “live hard, die young.” No one had told him he’d one day find himself in the devil’s waiting room, trapped in an existence that was neither life nor death.
“I’m so sorry. What’s the prognosis?”
The compassion in her voice was seductive but he did have guts and he was strong enough to resist. He hadn’t forgotten the disgust she’d displayed moments ago. That was real, not the compassion, and at least he knew how to deal with it.
“Another month ’n I’ll be walking,” he blustered. “Hell, I’ll be running. Straight onto the next plane outta here.”
“That’s wonderful,” she said, nodding. “You’ll be one of the lucky ones.”
“Right,” he snorted. “Lucky is my middle name.”
The doctors hadn’t guaranteed he’d get his life as he knew it back. They weren’t guaranteeing him anything. If cortisone, physiotherapy and the most maddening treatment of all—time—proved successful, he would eventually be back on his feet. Big if. As much as he tried not to think about it, the possibility he might never walk again constantly occupied his tortured mind.
“If you were going to kill yourself how would you do it?” he mused, rubbing his unshaven jaw. Some perverse core of him wanted to shock her.
She eyed him, an uncertain smile pulling at her lips, then apparently decided he was joking. “You could always drink yourself to death.”
“Nah, it’d take too long. Pills, slit wrists, a bullet to the temple… What do you reckon would be easiest? I’m serious.” He was taunting himself as much as her. In many ways it would have been better if he’d died in that bomb blast.
“Don’t talk like that.” She rose abruptly and wiped the table with jerky movements. “You said the doctors gave you a good prognosis.”
He’d said nothing of the kind but he couldn’t be bothered arguing.
“A man with your talent and experience has so much to contribute to the world,” she went on.
“Another lecture,” he groaned. “I get enough of those from my physiotherapist.”
“Life is too precious to squander,” she persisted. “Think of your friends and family…” She paused, the empty tray balanced on her cocked hip. “There’s a Wilde Construction company in town that makes log homes. Any relation?”
“Jim Wilde is my uncle.” Jim and Leone had raised him and the thought of them suffering over his suicide was enough to make him think twice. His cousins, Nate and Aidan, whom he regarded as brothers, would kill him if he tried to pull such a stunt. He spared a chuckle for his own dark humor. Who knows, even his father might be upset, although Marc wouldn’t know since he hadn’t seen his dad on more than a handful of occasions in the past fifteen years.
“Don’t you have a counselor or psychiatrist on your rehab team you can talk to, help you come to terms with your changed situation?” the barmaid asked.
“Nurses, shrinks, doctors, they all try hard but they don’t understand.” His gaze slid down her smooth legs and the tendency to flirt that used to be second nature to him surfaced, “You’re taking my plight awfully seriously. How about you help me?”
With a little laugh she backed away. “I’m not qualified to do more than get you another coffee.”
“Don’t go. What’s your name?”
She hesitated. “Fiona.”
“Fiona.” Her name slipped off his tongue like a breath of spring air. “Have dinner with me, Fiona.”
“No. Thank you. I have other plans.” She started walking toward the bar.
Marc wheeled after her. “Tomorrow?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
