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“I just can’t.”
“Won’t, you mean,” he 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.” She closed the hinged length of bar, placing a physical barrier between herself and him. “Your real handicap is your attitude.”
Her challenging gaze held his until Fearless Marc Wilde had to look away.
FIONA SHUT THE BACK DOOR of the pub behind her at the end of her shift and breathed in a lungful of crisp September air. Free at last. For a brief interval between work and home she could pretend she had no responsibilities.
Dodging puddles in the gravel parking lot, she wove her way toward her one-and-only extravagance, a near-new Honda Prelude. Her “real” job as a substitute primary teacher took her anywhere from Squamish to Lillooet, both drives of over an hour, often through torrential rain or deep snow. Safe and reliable transport was a necessity not a luxury.
Unfortunately being a substitute teacher didn’t cover all the bills for her and her younger brother, Jason; hence the job at the pub. She’d enrolled in a correspondence course in early-childhood education, hopeful that the extra qualifications would help her get a full-time position; so far that hadn’t happened.
Two blocks took her out of town and onto a straight country road through flat pastureland nestled between fir-clad mountains rising steeply on three sides. The few deciduous trees dotting the lower slopes had taken on a yellow tinge, heralding the change of season.
Fiona turned in to the driveway of the modest white-and-brown timber home on half an acre she shared with Jason. In the field beside the house her three alpacas were crowded atop the mound of dirt she’d christened Machu Picchu. Their long necks swiveled toward the sound of her car.
Her brother’s wheelchair ramp zigzagging up to the front door reminded her of her encounter with Marc Wilde. Jason, confined to a wheelchair since he was eleven, had had seven years to get used to not being able to move freely and independently. Marc, she’d read in a magazine article, had been into extreme sports; being immobilized would be a lot harder for him.
He was lucky he had family to care for him because as surly as he was, who else would take him on? Before her shift ended, Bill, the bartender, had made a phone call and two men bearing a family resemblance to Marc had arrived to take him home.
Fiona walked through the barn and scooped up a handful of pellets from the barrel before going out to see the alpacas. Ebony, Snowdrop and Papa John walked daintily down the mound single file to greet her at the fence.
“How are my babies today?” she crooned to Ebony while Papa John sniffed at her hair and Snowdrop nudged her for treats. Holding her hand flat she fed them each a handful, smiling as their muzzles tickled her palm.
Some of the pellets fell into the grass and as Snowdrop dipped her head to nibble them, Fiona recalled how Marc had fallen out of his wheelchair. She cringed with embarrassment for him. Had he been joking about killing himself, or not? It didn’t make sense if he was assured of recovery, but he wouldn’t be the first paraplegic to suffer denial, especially shortly after injury. Maybe she should have spent more time with him.
No, she was not going to feel sorry for him.
“I don’t need another lost soul to care for, do I?” she asked Papa John. The cream-and-brown alpaca hummed softly and bobbed his head.
“Fiona!” Jason called from the open back door. From the low deck, another ramp slanted down to a concrete path that branched off to the driveway and the barn. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Coming.” She made sure the alpacas had water, tossed them each a flake of hay, then turned toward the house as the setting sun streaked the western sky with pink and orange above the mountains. As usual, a few minutes with the animals had turned into half an hour without her being aware of the passage of time.
The kitchen was full of light and warmth and the spicy aroma of beef burritos. Travel posters from Greece covered the walls with images of blue sky and whitewashed villas cascading with hot-red geraniums. Bilbo and Baggins, stray dogs of indeterminate parentage she’d rescued from the pound, came to greet her, tails wagging.
Jason was positioned before a section of benchtop specially constructed at a lower height, slicing lettuce and tomatoes. A long lock of fine straight hair the same hue as hers fell over his hazel eyes.
Fiona hugged him in greeting. “How was your day?”
“Pretty good.” Jason smiled up at her. “I linked the electronic circuitry of the sound system in my bedroom to a switch operated by the front door. When the door opens, music comes on. It’s my own invention.”
“Great. What do you call it?”
He looked at her pityingly. “A burglar alarm, of course. Oh, and I taped the noon movie for you. Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn.”
“Thanks, Jase.” She ruffled his hair. “You’re due for a cut. I’ll make you an appointment in the morning.”
Jason pushed the hair off his face. “I’m not totally helpless. I can make my own appointment.”
“Of course you can,” Fiona agreed. Except that it wouldn’t have occurred to him and they both knew it. “Just check with me about a time when I can drive you there.”
At just-turned eighteen, her brother was the same age she’d been when she’d become his carer. He was more than a boy but not yet a man. She, on the other hand, had had no choice but to grow up quickly, going from sister to surrogate mother overnight when their family car had collided with a logging truck, killing their parents outright and paralyzing Jason. Only she had come out of the accident unscathed. On the outside, at least.
Fiona shrugged out of her navy polar-fleece jacket and crossed the room to hang it on the hook beside the back door.
Jason spun his chair to face her. “Dave called today from Vancouver.”
Jason’s best friend from high school. “How does he like the university scene?”
“He loves living on campus and his profs are great.” Jason paused. “He says the wheelchair facilities at UBC are excellent.”
Fiona, leafing through the mail, froze, her back to him. She and Jason had been having an ongoing “discussion” all summer over when he would start university and how. He wanted to study electrical engineering, but she didn’t think he was ready to make the adjustment from living at home to being on his own in a big city. Despite being a whiz at electronics he was young for his age and shy. She hated to think of him struggling with the pressures of university as well as those of a disabled student. And then there were the financial considerations.
“You’ll go someday, Jase,” she assured him. “Have you read those books I got you?” She’d bought secondhand text books for first-year math, chemistry and physics, as well as a third-year lab book titled Methods in Electronics, hoping they would help slake his thirst for knowledge.
“Yeah, they’re good,” he mumbled. “But it’s not the same as working toward a degree.”
“You could do courses by correspondence like I am, and work for a year. University costs money, you know.”
Never having been responsible for paying the bills, Jason was blithely ignorant of the cost of living, aside from the often expensive electronics bits and pieces she bought him. Maybe she shielded him too much but he was still so young and he’d been through a lot, losing his parents and the use of his legs at the same time.
“What about applying for a job at the Electronics Shop here in Pemberton?” she suggested. “You know Jeff, the owner, and I could drive you to work.”
“It’s a dead-end position and Pemberton is small potatoes compared to Vancouver.” Jason scooped the chopped lettuce into a bowl and sprinkled on the other salad ingredients. “I don’t want to get old before I start living.”
Like her, in other words, although she knew he hadn’t consciously meant it that way.
The pot of spiced beef bubbled on the stove, creating condensation which fogged the darkened windows and gave a homey atmosphere to the small cluttered kitchen. If only their parents hadn’t died. If only Jason hadn’t been paralyzed. If only she hadn’t had to give up her dreams of career and travel— Guilt abruptly put an end to these unproductive thoughts. She was alive and whole and she could never allow herself to forget that.
“I saw a funny thing on the way home from work,” Fiona said to change the subject. “You know that garden gnome at the corner house? Someone propped it behind the steering wheel of that old car in the driveway. It looks as though it’s trying to escape.”
Jason laughed and the tension was broken. As their chuckles faded, Fiona became aware of another noise—a whining from behind the closed door of the laundry room.
“What is that?” Fiona said, rising to her feet.
“I forgot to tell you.” Jason’s face became animated as he wheeled across to the laundry room. “Mrs. McTavish from across the road was walking by the river and she found a burlap sack. It was moving so she investigated. Inside she found—” Jason opened the door “—a puppy.”
A skinny white pup with brown markings cowered in the doorway, his ears flattened against his head and his fearful gaze darting from Jason to Fiona. Fiona dropped to the linoleum and held out a hand. The dog approached slowly, shivering and trembling all the way from his pointed muzzle to his docked tail.
“Poor thing,” Fiona murmured as the dog cautiously sniffed her fingers before retreating a few paces. “He’s so scared. I wonder if he was abused.”
“He’s half-starved, too,” Jason added. “You can see every one of his ribs.”
Fiona stayed in a crouch, waiting patiently while the dog gathered his courage to creep forward again. “He looks like a Jack Russell cross. How could anyone get rid of such a cute dog, especially in such a cruel way?”
“Can we keep him?” Jason asked eagerly, looking exactly like the kid he claimed he wasn’t. “He could be my dog. I’d take good care of him.”
“Oh, Jason, you know we can’t. We’ve already got more animals than we can afford to feed.” The dog came close and she picked him up, tucking him securely in the crook of her elbow. “We’ll just have to try to find him a good home. I don’t suppose Mrs. McTavish would take him?”
Jason shook his head. “She said she’s a cat person.”
Fiona scratched the puppy behind the ears. A small pink tongue emerged and began lapping at the base of her thumb. “Surely we know someone who would enjoy having this little rascal—” She broke off as a thought struck her, which she immediately dismissed. “Nah, forget it.”
“Who?”
“Do you remember that war correspondent who reported the latest conflict in the Middle East— Marc Wilde?”
“He grew up in Whistler. Mrs. McTavish told me last week she’d heard he’d been injured and flown home. I mentioned it at the time but you were working on an essay and weren’t listening. What about him?”
“He came into the pub today. He had a spinal-cord injury that left him in a wheelchair.”
Jason let out a low whistle and sat back. “I didn’t know that. Do you think he’d like a puppy?”
“He’d snarl at the mere suggestion, but I think it would be good for him.” Whether he would be good for the dog was another question but Fiona had a hunch Marc wasn’t quite as cynical as he made out.
Fiona put the dog in Jason’s lap then thumbed through the local phone book for the number of the Wilde residence. Chances were better than even Marc would be staying with his aunt and uncle. If he wasn’t, they would know where he was.
She dialed and as the phone began to ring she realized she had another motive for calling—to make sure Marc hadn’t done anything to harm himself.
The phone picked up. A woman answered and Fiona said, “Hello— Mrs. Wilde? I’m Fiona Gordon. May I talk to Marc if he’s available?”
A moment later, Marc’s distinctive, deep voice made raspy by alcohol spoke into her ear. A sudden attack of nerves set her to pacing the floor. “This is Fiona. From the pub. Can I come and see you tonight?”
“I thought you were busy.”
Shoot! The essay that was due tomorrow. “I— I am. I meant just for a few minutes.”
“I don’t know. I’ve got a hell of a headache—”
“The thing is, I need to ask you a favor.”
“What is it?”
He would undoubtedly say no to giving a home to a stray dog over the phone but if he saw the puppy, surely his heart would melt just as hers had. “I have to ask you in person.”
There was a long silence. At last, he said, “All right. When?”
She needed time for a quick bite to eat and to bathe the dog. “I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”
CHAPTER TWO
“FIONA’S COMING OVER,” Marc announced as he hung up the phone.
A favor, she’d said. What could he possibly do for her?
Leone smoothed back a curving lock of chin-length auburn hair and glanced up from her book. “Is she a friend of yours? You’ve never mentioned her.”
Marc wheeled into the space created for his wheelchair between Leone’s new ivory-colored sectional sofa and Jim’s worn Naugahyde recliner, angled for a good view of the TV. The yellow cedar of the log home made a dramatic backdrop to the stone fireplace and Jim’s collection of Haida masks.
“She’s a barmaid at the Pemberton Hotel.” He was curious to know if she would seem as captivating when he was sober as she had when he was drunk.
Jim and Leone exchanged glances, a fact not lost on Marc. “Was there any trouble?” Jim asked.
“No.” Embarrassed at the memory of his drunken behavior he spun away, moving his hands too roughly against the wheels. He winced as the hard rubber chafed the broken blisters on his fingers and palms. He’d racked up a lot of miles in the weeks since he’d been getting around in the chair and had yet to develop protective calluses.
Leone saw his grimace and hurried across the room to turn over his hand. “Let me put some dressings on those blisters. You don’t want to get them infected. Goodness knows what muck you go rolling through in those pubs.”
“I’m all right,” Marc said irritably and pulled his hand away. “I’ll put some Band-Aids on later.”
“Now, Marc, I’m a qualified nurse—”
“Don’t fuss over him.” Jim rattled his newspaper open. His dark hair sprinkled with silver could just be seen over the sports section.
Leone withdrew, smoothing down her cardigan and slacks in lieu of her ruffled feelings. “I was only trying to help.”
“I’m fine. Thanks anyway,” Marc told her in a milder tone. Leone and Jim had taken him in at the age of five after his mother died and his father resumed his pursuit of glory on the pro-skiing circuit. Marc was grateful and loved them dearly; it just rankled that after ten years on his own he was living at home, dependent on them.
He picked up the local newspaper and skimmed through the articles. More controversy over parking in Whistler Village, municipal elections coming up, the rising cost of real estate…. Ho hum.
The doorbell rang. Before he could react, Leone went to answer it.
Marc ran a hand through his hair, still slightly damp from the shower. After he’d sobered up, he’d cleaned up, but he knew he looked far from his best. Giving himself a push he rolled across the polished hardwood to the tiled floor of the entrance hall.
“Come in,” his aunt invited Fiona with her customary warmth. “I’m Leone. We spoke on the phone.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Fiona replied, stepping inside. “I apologize for dropping in on you on such short notice.”
“Marc’s friends are always welcome,” Leone assured her. “Especially now that he’s limited in his mobility, it’s nice for him to have people over.”
Gritting his teeth over his aunt’s effusiveness, Marc nodded to Fiona. She had on the same skirt and blouse she’d worn to work, her hair hadn’t been combed for some time and her lipstick had long worn off. But there was a sparkle in her eyes, which suggested that whatever had changed her priorities for tonight held some degree of excitement. Over her shoulder, tucked tightly under her arm, she carried a large woven straw bag.
Jim put down his newspaper and rose, his large callused hand extended in greeting. In his early fifties, he kept trim and fit through physical labor. “I’m Jim, Marc’s uncle. Can I get you a drink?”
“Thank you, no.” She glanced around the living room then said to Marc, “Maybe we should go into the kitchen to talk.”
“They want to be alone,” Leone murmured to Jim, nudging him back to his recliner.
Cringing inwardly Marc led Fiona down the hall to the kitchen/family room. It was his favorite part of the house, informal and comfortable, with colorful rugs scattered over polished floorboards and dried grasses arranged in large earthenware pots.
“Sorry about my aunt,” he said when they were out of earshot of the living room. “She means well but she tends to fuss.”
“Your aunt is lovely. Please don’t apologize for her.” Fiona’s straw bag moved suddenly and a bulge appeared in the side. She gripped the bag more tightly.
Marc gestured to one of several cushioned wicker chairs grouped around a glass coffee table. “Sit down.”
“I really can’t stay long,” Fiona replied, not complying. Her bag had gone still.
