Читать книгу From Good Guy To Groom - Tracy Madison - Страница 8

Chapter One

Afternoon sunlight, bright and bold, saturated the cerulean sky and cast a golden glow on Steamboat Springs, Colorado. Snuggled in a valley, with the majestic Rocky Mountains standing sentry, the pure beauty of the picturesque city should have, if nothing else, brought a smile to Andi’s lips. It didn’t. Traveling had left her far too exhausted to care.

She craved peace, though, and maybe...just maybe she’d be able to find a grain of that here, miles away from Warwick, Rhode Island, and Juliana Memorial Hospital. Here, in her aunt Margaret and uncle Paul Foster’s home, she hoped to regain everything she’d lost. Mobility in her leg, serenity in her heart, a full night’s sleep without being awakened by nightmares that echoed with the blast of a shotgun and screams of terror. Pleas for help.

Six months had elapsed since the tragedy that had taken four lives—including Hugh’s and the bereaved-husband-turned-crazy-gunman’s—and injured twelve others. One-hundred-and-eighty-odd days had passed since Andi had slipped into unconsciousness in trauma room four, mere minutes before help arrived. Due to the 911 operator, she’d been found quickly.

Surgeries were required to put her shattered bones back together, and an infection had set in, causing muscle damage. If she’d been a tad unluckier, she could have lost her leg. Reports to the police and hospital board were given when she could barely think let alone form the appropriate words. Newspaper, magazine and television reporters had called, asking—almost begging—for interviews. Add in the well-meaning but nonstop flood of family and friends and coworkers offering their love, shock and support...well, getting from one minute to the next had proved a herculean effort. So, yes, she was exhausted. To her very soul, even.

She needed to be somewhere she could heal, inside and out.

Oh, her parents and sister were terrific. Ken and Colleen Caputo were loving, devoted parents, and Andrea’s younger sister, Audrey, was just as wonderful. The Caputo family enjoyed a close relationship, but Andi had needed...space. They were all just trying too hard.

When Aunt Margaret—Andi’s mother’s sister—had called and offered respite in Steamboat Springs, the idea had soothed like a salve on a burn. Andi had accepted instantly, and after an early start this morning and two layovers, she’d finally arrived. Yet, she couldn’t summon the energy to enjoy the beauty of her surroundings. Tomorrow, maybe.

Her aunt had picked her up from the airport, hugged her close and kissed her cheek, and other than asking how she felt, how her flights were, she had stayed mercifully quiet during their drive. The radio, turned to an easy-listening station, played softly in the background. For the first portion of the drive, Andi had closed her eyes, breathed and tried to ignore the throbbing in her leg. The remaining portion, she’d just stared out the window.

Now, as they turned into the long, tree-lined driveway of the large mountain-cabin-style home that Andi had wonderful memories of from a childhood visit, her aunt said, “Here we are, safe and sound. I’ll have Paul get your luggage and take it to your room. Are you hungry?”

“I...guess I’m more tired than hungry,” Andi said, pressing her fingers against her temples. “But a headache seems to be building fast, so maybe—”

“What you need,” Margaret said, releasing the key from the ignition, “is a little food, a big glass of lemonade and a room with no one else in it. Maybe a nap. Don’t worry—” she reached over to pat Andi’s knee “—I’ve warned the rest of the family to stay away until Saturday to give you time to settle in and find your bearings. We’re having a cookout in your honor.”

Bless her aunt for the foresight of holding everyone off. That gave Andi four full days to get used to being here instead of at home. “Thank you. I’m excited, of course, to see my cousins and meet their families, but I’m... Yes, Saturday should be good.” And if it wasn’t, she’d have to make do. Recalling the email she’d received yesterday, she said, “Oh. The physical therapist I’ll be working with here, Ryan Bradshaw, wants to meet tomorrow. Can you give me a ride or...?”

Important, she knew, to get right back on the healing path, but she wouldn’t have minded twenty-four hours of just existing here before jumping back into rehabilitation. Hopefully, tomorrow’s meeting would be more of a question-and-answer session about her treatment up until now. Even though she’d made sure Ryan had received copies of her medical records, he’d have questions. They always did. Sometimes things were missed in the record keeping.

Before Margaret could answer, Paul stepped from the house, his smile wide and welcoming as he almost sprinted toward the car. More greetings. More hugs. More pretending she was normal before she could escape into the solitude she so, so needed right now. Inhaling a large breath, she reached into the backseat for her cane and opened the passenger-side door, forced herself from the car and plastered on her I’m-okay smile.

“Darling! It’s so good to see you!” Paul, a tall, lithe man said as he approached her, arms wide open. Ten seconds later, she was embraced in a tight hug. “Been far too long.”

“Yes,” she said faintly. “Too long. When you visited us in Rhode Island for my parents’ anniversary party, I was what...sixteen?”

“Something along those lines.” Retreating, he gave her a long look. Nodded. “Go on in. We gave you the guest bedroom on the first floor. Just follow the hallway to the end. Second door on the right. I’ll bring in your luggage and leave it outside the door for you to get when you’re ready to deal with unpacking. How’s that sound?”

“Perfect,” she said, again so grateful for the simple yet powerful understanding and acceptance of her aunt and uncle. “Absolutely perfect. I just need a few hours, I think, to—”

“You take as long as you need,” Paul said. “Go. Rest. We have all summer to catch up.”

Yes, yes they did. Three blissful months to finish repairing all of the damage dealt to her on that cold winter afternoon. Three months to wake up, smell the flowers, see the sun and feel the wind on her face. Three months to...start living again. To feel real again.

* * *

Steaming hot coffee, toasted everything bagel with butter and cream cheese and the breathtaking—often gut-kicking—view of the Rocky Mountains made for an excellent start to the day. Ryan Bradshaw stretched his legs and sipped his coffee, savored his bagel and congratulated himself on the wisdom of buying this particular property close to three years ago.

The decision to move to Steamboat Springs, Colorado, from Denver had been a surprisingly quick and firm one. His folks had already lived here for some time, and his visits to them had made him realize how he longed for a less hectic daily existence in a place exactly like Steamboat Springs. His thoughts then had been that he’d eventually relocate once he and Leah were married. Unfortunately, their engagement had come to an abrupt end.

The right choice for both of them, but without the glue of their relationship keeping Ryan in Denver, he felt the need to start over somewhere new. And thank God he had, because he had never loved life more. Everything about Steamboat Springs—the views, the people, the lifestyle, the skiing—fit him like a well-worn pair of jeans.

Even his zeal for his career had been revitalized, after too many years of fighting burnout. In Denver, he’d worked endless hours for the hospital, with a few private clients on the side when the opportunity presented itself. Here, he’d jumped into the deep end immediately by starting a private practice clinic in this gorgeous house he’d bought.

Due to some fortunate investing over the years, he had the funds to do so, and it hadn’t taken long to turn the lower level of the A-frame into a clean, functional therapy clinic. The upstairs of the house—including the deck he now sat at—was his personal living space, and he’d managed to successfully keep the two areas completely separate.

While he still worked more than he probably should, the struggle with becoming overextended had long since faded. A combination of the environment and being his own boss. Oh, he still put in ten to fifteen hours per week at the hospital’s rehabilitation unit, but that only made good sense. Doing so allowed him to be a larger part of the community that was now his, and his relationship there gave him access to services and equipment he couldn’t easily obtain on his own. A win-win, every way Ryan looked at it. Another plus? He loved what he did.

The mix of his clientele here was much the same as in Denver. Although he did have a greater percentage of folks rehabilitating from sports injuries—skiing, snowboarding, white-water rafting, you name it—he still had those coming out of one surgery or another, fighting illness or disease that had weakened their muscles, or had had an accident that wasn’t sports related. Back in Denver, though, his clients had also frequently included trauma survivors.

People who’d survived any type of a vicious, purposeful trauma—Ryan refused to call them victims—tended to require a different type of focus on his part. Sure, every person he worked with demanded his complete attention on their full selves—not just their bodies—but, on the other side of being hurt or almost killed by another’s hand, a certain type of shutting down often occurred. In the heart and soul. In the way the world is viewed.

In feeling safe.

Today—in just about an hour now—his first trauma-survivor client in Steamboat Springs would arrive. Andrea Caputo, from Warwick, Rhode Island. A trauma nurse, which could prove challenging on its own, as medical professionals tended to trust their experiences and training over Ryan’s, at least in the beginning stages of the relationship. She had witnessed a coworker being shot and killed, and had sustained two gunshot wounds to her upper and lower right leg.

Ryan had thoroughly studied her file. He understood her medical history, as well as her current status, as much as he possibly could from her records. What he didn’t know, what he wouldn’t know until she arrived and they spent some time together, was her mental and emotional state. This woman had already trekked an arduous road, but she had a hell of a long way to go. She’d need some fortitude, courage and a kick-ass positive attitude to get herself all the way back.

With every one of Ryan’s clients, that was always his end goal: to bring them completely back or, when that couldn’t happen for physical reasons, as close to complete as was within reach. He hoped, genuinely, this Andrea Caputo was prepared and had already found all the strength she would need. But if not, he’d get her there.

Because that was what he did.

* * *

Andi stared at her feet, unwilling to meet the direct gaze of her new physical therapist. Ryan Bradshaw’s dark brown eyes seemed able to see right through her skull and into her brain. She disliked the sensation immediately, even though she knew the feeling bordered on ludicrous. No one could read her thoughts. No one knew what really went on inside her head.

Even a man with penetrating eyes and a demeanor to match.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “It seems I’m more tired than I realized from yesterday’s travel. My...ah...mind isn’t functioning properly. Could you please repeat your question?”

“Sure can. I asked about your sleep,” Ryan said, his voice low and smooth. “Specifically, how many hours of solid, uninterrupted sleep you’re getting each night. Doesn’t have to be exact...just give me a ballpark figure.”

“Oh. I don’t know.” Shrugging, Andi lifted her chin and looked straight past the man, to the fluffy white clouds outside the window. “Maybe five? Six?”

The truth hovered closer to the three-hour mark, but her white lie should stop the “What’s keeping you awake?” question she preferred not to answer. Her nightmares were hers to battle with and had zilch to do with the physical recovery of her leg.

“Five to six, huh?” Again, that look. He didn’t argue, though, just scrawled something into her file. Probably that she wasn’t that great a liar. He went on to ask her a few questions about her diet, which she answered honestly, and then a more in-depth interview regarding her pain level, where she was at in her daily exercises and how she felt about both.

“How do you think I feel about almost constant throbbing pain and pushing myself to the point of exhaustion every day?” she snapped. She hadn’t meant to—not really, anyway—but she was tired of being asked how she felt. Not only in regards to her leg, but with everything.

What did it matter how she felt? What had happened, happened. She had two choices: push through and hope to find some semblance of her prior self, her prior life, or...what? Give up, stop fighting, accept this new, frightened version of herself? Never. Never.

“I don’t know,” he said patiently. Calmly. “That’s why I asked.”

Unshed tears burned behind her eyes. They wouldn’t fall, she knew. She hadn’t cried once since last December. But the weight, the fire and the ache of those tears remained. “I’m fine,” she said, going for brisk. “I have and will continue to do whatever needs to be done. I think that’s what counts, what you should be focused on, and not my feelings.”

Standing, Ryan closed her file. “That’s good to know, Andrea. But my focus is on anything that will help me help you regain strength and mobility. And, yes, in addition to your physical state, that focus includes your mental and emotional well-being. How you feel, what you think. How you’re sleeping, and if you’re not sleeping well...why?”

Of course. Attitude was a part of the deal. That whole-body-health idea, which Andi had always bought into. Still did, truth be told. But...her attitude wasn’t Ryan Bradshaw’s business. Or her family’s, or her friends’ or...anyone outside of her. She’d stuck to that line from day one, mostly because she found burdening others, leaning on others, challenging in the best of circumstances. And this did not fall into the “best of” in any category.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, using her hated cane for stability in order to stand. “I’ll discuss my physical rehabilitation with you, be here for our scheduled appointments on time and work my ass off. I’ll do whatever you ask as far as exercises and strength training go, and, if deemed necessary, will consult with additional physicians about my future prognosis.” Here, she stopped and dragged in a breath, straightened her shoulders and lifted her gaze to his. “But I won’t, now or ever, discuss my personal and private emotions or thoughts.”

Or her nightmares. Or how a loud noise—any loud noise—almost brought her to her knees. Or how she blamed herself for Hugh’s death. She should’ve gotten to him. Should’ve kept trying to get to him instead of scurrying her own hide to safety. Nicked artery or not.

“That’s totally your call, but I won’t stop asking.”

Obviously, this man had a stubborn streak. Good thing, she supposed, for the type of work he’d chosen. Some remorse crept in for the line she’d drawn so abruptly in the sand. Hell, they’d barely met. Smarter, though, to make sure Ryan understood her barriers from the get-go. They’d be working together twice a week for the entire summer.

“Sure. Ask away, but I won’t start answering.”

“Hmm. Again, whatever you choose to share is your call. I won’t push. But you should know that I’m a very patient man. I’m also very persistent. Especially,” he said as he walked toward his office door, “when I have a client’s best interest at heart.”

A thousand-and-one rebuttals flew to the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed them all. Patient and persistent and stubborn. Well, she’d meet them with her own brand of stubbornness, no problem. Because frankly, the only thing that kept her standing, kept her feeling even a modicum of safety, was keeping her demons to herself. Letting them out seemed dangerous.

Too dangerous. As if her nightmares, fears, inner panic would somehow morph into a two-headed, scaly, ready-to-eat-her-alive monster if she spoke so much as a syllable of them to another soul.

“I suppose we know where each other is coming from,” she said, following the path his long, muscular, functioning legs had just taken. “When should I be here tomorrow?”

“Same time, but we’re not done yet. Need to put those muscles to work before they forget what they’re there for.” A grin teased at the corners of his mouth, softening the firm line of his jaw and the steady, determined set of his eyes. “You missed yesterday and the day before. As I’m sure you know, forward motion is incredibly important.”

“Yes, but I assumed today would be limited to talking and going over a plan. I didn’t bring...wear...appropriate clothes and...tomorrow is good enough. One more day won’t make that much of a difference. I’m tired and...no. I can’t stay any longer today.”

She could. She just didn’t want to. Not when merely standing so close to this man—a stranger, for crying out loud—had her heart pumping in overdrive and sweat beading down the back of her neck. And a strange fluttering deep in her stomach. All uncomfortable. All unnecessary. By tomorrow, she’d have these reactions tucked away and under control. Hidden beneath the surface, where he wouldn’t notice.

“I have clothes you can use, and really, another day makes a huge difference.” Angling his arms across his chest, he waited for her to argue or agree. She did neither, just waited right along with him. “I can’t force you, Andrea. You have to want to get better.”

Damn it. She did want to get better.

She just wanted to start the process here in Steamboat Springs tomorrow. After a day of peace and quiet. She yearned to sit on her aunt and uncle’s porch and soak up the sun, read a book, get lost in something other than her thoughts, herself. Today, she didn’t want to spend another minute thinking about her leg or the long, long road that still lay ahead.

Today, she just wanted to...be normal. Even if she had to pretend.

So, she stuck out her chin and shook her head. “I have every intention of getting better, Mr. Bradshaw. The want is there, don’t you worry. But I can’t stay any longer this morning. I’m sorry.”

He stared at her, and she stared right back. Finally, he nodded and sharp disappointment crossed his features. Why did she hate that? She didn’t even know this man. “Okay, Andrea,” he said. “I’ll let you win this one, but not another. No more skipped days.”

“Call me Andi, please. Only my mother refers to me as Andrea, and, sure,” she said, hobbling past him, her goal the exit, “no more skipped days. See you tomorrow.”

He didn’t respond, which was for the better, so she kept at her slow and steady pace until she’d pushed through the door into the outside. Late-morning sun warmed the top of her head and her shoulders. She breathed in the bordering-on-cool air and tried to release the tension in her muscles, the slight ball of nausea circulating in her stomach, tried desperately to locate that seed of peace that would, once found, grow into a sturdy, towering oak.

No luck. Not yet, anyhow, but maybe tomorrow. Or the next day. Or, hell, in a month or two. She’d get there. She had to.

Sighing, Andi eased herself onto one of the high-seated wooden benches scattered along the smooth stone porch surrounding the lower level of the house and called her aunt, who had dropped her off a little over an hour ago. Margaret had decided to run some errands while Andi did her thing here. She’d offered her the use of her car, but, while Andi had driven once since being given the go-ahead to do so, she still wasn’t comfortable with the idea. Her weakened leg worried her, especially here, in a location where she hadn’t spent her entire life and did not know the roads, the landmarks or...anything, really.

Yet another goal, one more activity she used to take for granted. Add that to her past ability to sleep fully and soundly pretty much every night, her confidence in herself and, yes, even her place in the world.

Closing her eyes, she sighed again. Truth was, she now knew to never, ever again, take anything in life—from the simple to the complex—for granted.