“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

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?”

“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.

Marc rubbed the back of his neck, sore from looking up at people all day. “Please. Sit. Down.”

His tension conveyed itself in his voice. Abruptly she sat. “Sorry. I should know better.”

“You probably think I should apologize for myself,” he went on with the lazy cynicism he fell into so easily these days. “I could tell you I’m not really such a jerk as I acted this afternoon but frankly, I’m not sure that bastard isn’t the new me.”

“I’m quite sure he isn’t.” Her bag started moving again. A tiny whimper came from within and Marc heard the sound of scrabbling claws against the straw. “I think underneath you’re a caring man who hasn’t yet come to terms with his disability.”

Marc winced at the word disability and his hands tightened their painful grip on the wheels of his chair. “You’re being a little naive, don’t you think?”

“I believe people are essentially good at heart,” she insisted over the sounds coming from her bag. “Sometimes though, they’re so unhappy the goodness doesn’t have a chance to shine through.”

“Forget the sermon, Pollyanna. Why don’t you show me what’s in your bag?”

He thought for a moment she might refuse but the matter was taken out of her hands, literally, when the top of the bag pushed open from within and a small wiry dog leaped out and into Marc’s lap.

“What the—!” Marc burst out.

“I’m sorry. He has no manners.” Fiona reached for the dog who squirmed out of her hands and tried to burrow under the hem of Marc’s sweater. He succeeded in hiding only his head, leaving his rump sticking out. She added hopefully, “Isn’t he adorable?”

“I’ve never seen a more miserable scrap of fur in my life.” And yet, when he lifted his sweater, the pooch’s woebegone expression made him smile, the first he’d cracked all day. He put a hand out and the puppy cowered away from him, his thin body trembling.

“He was found in a burlap sack by the river. I think he’s been abused,” Fiona told him. “He’s sweet natured, though. With a little TLC he’ll bounce right back.”

Marc noticed a dark patch begin to spread through the fabric of his blue jeans and his glimmer of good humor vanished. “He peed on me!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Fiona exclaimed. “He’s excited after being cooped up too long.” She snatched the puppy away, shoved him back in her bag then got the wet cloth sitting by the sink. “I’m really sorry,” she apologized again and started to scrub at the stain on Marc’s upper thigh.

“Stop!” He pushed her hands away. “Why did you bring the damn dog here, anyway?”

“I thought you might like to have him as a pet. He was abandoned and I can’t keep him. He doesn’t look like much I know but once he’s gained a bit of weight—”

The sound of the bag falling over cut her off. The puppy escaped, skittering across the floor to hide behind a large potted plant. Fiona picked him up and held him close to her chest to try to calm him.

“You thought I might like a pet,” Marc repeated incredulously. “Do I look like I run a lost dogs’ home?”

“Pets are good therapy for the elderly and disabled. It’s a well-known fact that dogs give patients a sense of well-being.” She cradled the puppy protectively against her chest. “Please consider taking him. If your aunt and uncle don’t mind, that is. I must confess I didn’t stop to consider them. It’s their house, after all.”

She’d lumped him in with the elderly and disabled. That alone was enough to make him refuse. That he hadn’t an ounce of physical or emotional energy to give another living creature, not even a half-dead hound, sealed the dog’s fate as far as Marc was concerned.

“They hate dogs,” he lied. “Especially rambunctious puppies.” He hoped she wouldn’t notice Rufus’s food bowl near the back sliding doors. Leone and Jim’s Irish setter slept outside but evidence of his existence was around. “Besides, once I’m walking again, I’ll be back at work. I travel constantly. I can’t take care of a dog. So if that’s all you came for—” Spinning the chair around, he started back to the front of the house “— I’ll see you out.”

Fiona’s heavy sigh rent the silence. “Poor little guy,” she crooned to the puppy. “I’ll have to take you to the pound.”

Marc glanced back at her. “The pound?”

She lifted her shoulders and let them fall in an exaggerated fashion. “Someone will adopt him. I hope.”

Marc’s eyes narrowed. He resumed his progress down the hall. “You’re just trying to guilt me into taking him.”

“Will it work?” Fiona followed with the puppy cradled in her arms.

“No. Too obvious.”

“It was worth a try. If you change your mind…”

“I won’t.”

They passed the living room. Jim glanced up from his newspaper and Leone put down her book to call out, “Leaving so soon?”

“I’m afraid so,” Fiona paused to reply. “It was nice to meet you.”

“Come again, anytime,” Leone said from her seat on the leather sofa. “What a sweet puppy. Look, Jim, isn’t he gorgeous? We just love dogs,” she confided to Fiona.

Groaning, Marc dropped his head into his hand.

“Who wouldn’t love a pup?” Fiona said without a trace of reproach in her soft voice.

Marc escorted her to the door. “So now you know I’m a liar as well as a lush,” he said. “Not a fit parent for an impressionable dog. But then, you lied, too. You said you wanted me to do you a favor when all the time you were trying to do me one.”

“Is that so bad?” she demanded. “Life is a lot easier if people help each other.”

Marc had nothing to say to that. Ever since he’d learned to tie his own shoelaces he’d pushed away all attempts to help him. Why should that change just because he was in a wheelchair?

Fiona dropped into a crouch in front of him and put her hand on his forearm. In a low voice not meant for Jim and Leone’s ears she said, “Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t really mean that about killing yourself.”

“I didn’t really mean that about killing myself,” he parroted back, deadpan.

With an exasperated sound, she rose, wincing slightly. Her feet probably hurt after being on them all day, Marc thought. He’d give anything to feel pain in his feet.

From the doorway he watched her walk back to her car and waited until she’d driven off before going back inside. The adrenaline buzz induced by her presence drained away and he wheeled slowly back to his room, brushing off his aunt’s suggestion to join them.

His room, virtually unchanged since he’d left home after high school, was plastered with posters of snowboarders soaring above snowy peaks and rock climbers moving like spiders up sheer rock faces and impossible-looking overhangs. The shelves of his bookcase were lined with sporting trophies instead of books and his closet teemed with specialized equipment and clothing he might never use again.

Going to his dresser he opened the middle drawer. Away at the back, beneath his socks and underwear he found the vials of pills he’d been saving since rehab. Pain pills, sleeping pills and God knows what else. They were his safety hatch for that hypothetical day when the doctors told him there was no hope. Without action, movement, adventure, his life would be unbearable.

He opened one vial and let the tablets flow through his fingers. How many would be enough? Leone would know but he could hardly ask her.

Marc put the pills away and shut the drawer. He was feeling low but not that low. Yet.

Wheeling over to the window he watched the street-lights wink on in the growing dusk. His unlit room became darker and darker compared to the outside illumination, reflecting his thoughts. For weeks now he’d ricocheted between anger, self-pity and despair.

And worst of all, sheer excruciating boredom.

Imagine Fiona bringing him a puppy. It was a silly, impulsive thing to do. Damn cute little dog, though. He almost wished he’d had the guts to say yes.

Free: Jack Russell–cross puppy to a good home.

Call Fiona 555-6283.

Fiona got permission from Jason’s hairdresser to put a notice in the salon’s front window when she dropped Jason off for a haircut. She had a whole sheaf of them which she’d photocopied at the drugstore that morning and was now distributing around town. Her heart wasn’t in it—she was attached to the little dog already—but she didn’t see any other option.

“I’ll meet you back at the drugstore in half an hour,” she called to Jason who was draped in a black gown that hung down the sides of his wheelchair.

“Make it an hour,” he said, twisting to speak to her. “I want to go to the Electronics Shop for some components.”

Fiona paused at the door. “I noticed Jeff put an ad in the local paper for help wanted. Why don’t you ask him for an application form?”

Shaking his head, Jason turned back to the mirror. “See you later.”

Fiona dropped off notices at a half-dozen more stores then picked up a couple of take-out coffees from the café and continued to her friend Liz’s yarn shop. As well as handspun yarn and knitting accessories Liz sold sweaters, shawls and scarves she designed and knit herself. She’d made the brown-and-cream alpaca pullover Fiona wore over jeans.

Liz’s cropped dark curls were bent over her spinning wheel as her nimble fingers spun a fluffy mass of wool into a lengthening thread. At the sound of the door opening her foot stopped pumping and the wheel slowed.

“Coffee!” she exclaimed with a welcoming smile. “You read my mind. I’m glad you stopped by. I’ve been going crazy this morning trying to come up with a theme for Jilly’s birthday party. She wants to invite her whole kindergarten class. How am I going to entertain twenty six-year-olds?”

Fiona handed her a foam cup and sank onto an arm-less wooden rocker that Liz called her knitting chair. “That’s a tough one. I guess fairies won’t work two years in a row?”

Liz shook her head. “She’s over that and anyway, there’ll be boys at the party.”

“If I come up with any brainwaves I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, I’ve been pounding the pavement all morning putting up notices.” She handed one to Liz. “Can I tape this inside your front window?”

“Of course.” Liz sipped her coffee and scanned the paper. “You shouldn’t have any trouble finding a home for a Jack Russell—they’re so smart and cute.”

“This animal’s not a shining example of his breed, unfortunately. In fact, he looks like a drowned rat. I tried to give him away last night but he peed on the guy’s lap and that was that.”

“Bad luck.” Liz paused to pull on the wool in the basket so it fed evenly into the spindle. As she set the foot rocker in motion again, she said, “By the way, I sold the last of Snowdrop’s cria wool to a client in Whistler— Angela Wilde.”

“Angela Wilde?” Fiona repeated. “Is she any relation to Marc Wilde?”

“She’s married to his cousin, Nate. Why?”

“Marc is the guy I tried to give the dog to. He— Marc, that is—came into the pub yesterday and got stinking drunk.”

“I heard he’s in a wheelchair now. He was injured during a bomb explosion, I think Angela said.”

“Apparently he’s going to recover but in the meantime he’s not taking his loss of mobility well.” Fiona fingered a soft skein of dark blue wool, remembering the thinly veiled rage and despair in Marc’s eyes when he spoke of his injury.

Liz sipped her coffee. “From what Angela told me, those Wilde men live up to their name. Apparently Marc was the wildest of them all when it came to courting danger.”

So why had he asked her out? Fiona wondered. She was the tamest person she knew, mired in responsibilities she’d willingly taken on but with no life to call her own.

“He invited me to dinner,” she told Liz.

Liz’s eyebrows rose. “And you said…?”

“No, of course.” Fiona put down the skein of wool and rose to pace the narrow aisle between the shelves of yarn. “He was drunk. He probably didn’t even know what he was saying. Anyway he’s got a serious attitude problem. I don’t want that kind of negativity in my life. Plus, he’s not sticking around once he’s recovered.”

“One excuse would have been enough.” Liz smiled to herself as the thread slipped between her fingers. “Not because he’s in a wheelchair?”

It took Fiona a moment to answer. “No…” she said finally. “That would be pretty insensitive of me.”

“He’s got a fabulous voice,” Liz said. “Is he as attractive as he looks on TV?”

“In a cynical, world-weary sort of way.” With his dark gold hair and eyes the color of new denim he could have been very attractive if he hadn’t let himself get so scruffy. Fiona noticed Liz watching her closely and turned away to gaze out the front window. “Speak of the devil.”

On the raised wooden sidewalk Marc had stopped to read her notice. Seeing her, he motioned for her to come out. Fiona cast an uncertain glance at Liz.

“Go on,” Liz urged. “What are you waiting for?”

“I’ll see you later.” Fiona gathered up her notices and walked back outside under the shelter of the wooden awning that ran the length of the block. The morning clouds were breaking up and the afternoon promised more of the fine Indian-summer weather they’d been having lately.

“Hi,” she said to Marc. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

“What’s this?” he asked, pointing to her notice. His eyes looked even bluer in daylight and his hair glinted in the sun like gold threads. He was wearing a dark green track suit that showed off his broad shoulders. Marc was more attractive than he appeared on TV, somehow larger than life.

“I can’t keep the dog so I’ve got to do something,” she explained. “Giving him away is better than sending him to the pound.”

Marc shook his head, frowning. “You have no idea what kind of people he’ll end up with. They may say they’ll give him a good home but how do you know he won’t be mistreated again?”

“Whoever answers this ad will be someone who wants a pet,” she said mildly. “But it’s nice that you care.”

That brought him up short. His mouth clamped shut and he glanced away. “I don’t.”

Fiona wagged a playful finger at him. “I don’t believe you.”

One corner of his mouth twisted down as his hardened gaze swept back to her. “I don’t care what happens to the damn dog.”

A woman and a small boy about four years old approached, interrupting their discussion. Fiona stepped to the side, dodging a hanging flower basket, to let them pass and Marc maneuvered his wheelchair out of the way behind one of the chunky posts that supported the awning.

The little boy’s unblinking gaze fixed on Marc. “Why’s that man in a wheelchair, Mommy?” he said in a loud voice.

“Shh, honey.” The mother flushed as she glanced at Marc and quickly away. “It’s not nice to stare.”

“But, Mommy, what’s wrong with him?” The boy tugged on his mother’s hand to slow her pace, craning his neck to look back at Marc.

Fiona saw Marc’s hands tighten on his wheels and felt herself tense up, too. The man was a time bomb waiting to explode. Definitely not ready to handle this.

“I had an accident,” he snarled. “What’s wrong with you?”

The boy burst into tears. His mother stared in shock for a split second before dragging her son away. “That wasn’t very nice, mister.”

“What a horrible thing to say to that poor kid!” Fiona exclaimed. Just when she was starting to think she’d judged Marc too harshly.

Marc shrugged. “Maybe he’ll think twice next time before making comments about strangers.”

“He’s just a little boy.” She shook her head in dismay. “I can’t believe you could be so mean. And on such a beautiful day, too.”

“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”

Fiona remembered the notices in her hand and gratefully seized the excuse to leave. “I’ve got to take these around.” She started to walk up the street.

Marc set his wheelchair in motion, following her. She glared at him and he said gruffly, “Can I help it if I’m going in the same direction?”

Fiona continued in silence, leaving as much space between her and Marc as possible on the wooden sidewalk.

“Are you working today?” Marc asked.

“No,” she replied, wishing she was rude enough to ignore him. “I’m off to Vancouver after I finish putting up the notices.”

“What for?” he wanted to know.

She threw him an exasperated look. Couldn’t he see she wasn’t interested in talking to him? Maybe if she explained he would go away. “I take a class by correspondence and once in a while I go to the university for a tutorial or to use the library.”

“What are you studying?”

“Early-childhood education.”

“Ah,” he said knowingly, “you want to brainwash the little brats before they lose their innocence.”

“I’m a primary-school teacher upgrading my qualifications. I only work at the pub because I can’t get a full-time teaching job.” Speaking of the pub, he was heading in the opposite direction. She hesitated, not wanting him to think she was interested in him but curiosity got the better of her. “Where are you off to?”

“An hour of torture, misery and pain.” When she raised her eyebrows, he added, “My physiotherapy appointment.”

“Why come to Pemberton when Whistler has so many highly trained physios?”

“Val was recommended by my physiatrist in Vancouver. Plus she’s conveniently located close to my favorite drinking establishment.”

“Why am I not surprised that would figure in your motivation?” she said. Fiona paused to pin one of her advertisements to a public notice board outside the grocery store. Marc waited while she accomplished her task.

“Maybe you could ask your therapist to put a notice in her clinic window,” she said, handing him one.

He scanned the contents then let the flyer drop onto his lap. “What happens if no one wants the mutt?”

“Someone will.”

“And if they don’t?”

The wooden sidewalk slanted down to the pavement as they crossed a side street. Fiona walked a little ahead. “I’ll wait till the end of the week then if no one comes forward I’ll have to take him to the pound—”

“Damn!”

At first she thought his expletive was a reaction to her plan to take the dog to the pound, but when he gave vent to more muttered curses she turned around. His back wheel had hit a crack in the pavement and swiveled, sending him shooting toward the road. He managed to stop before falling into the path of an on-coming pickup truck but at a cost to the raw, red skin on his hands.

Fiona hurried over. “Are you all right?”

Marc waved her away with a sharp gesture, swearing again under his breath in his efforts to get his wheelchair back on level ground. “Why me?” he muttered fiercely to himself. “Why the hell did this have to happen to me? I’ve got a life to live, dammit!”

She knew he wasn’t referring to hitting a bit of uneven pavement. There was no satisfactory response to his demand, as he would learn eventually. Why anybody? Why not him? She’d been through the whole litany of questions-with-no-answers, the outbursts of rage, with Jason.

“Everything happens for a reason,” she told him.

He uttered a scornful grunt. “Bull.”

“The reason might not be obvious right away but if you search for meaning in life something good will come from even the worst events.”

“Thanks a lot for your comforting words,” he drawled derisively. “Probably I’m the butt of some huge cosmic joke and the gods are having a good laugh as we speak.”

He must think her impossibly ingenuous and unsophisticated. He couldn’t know she had her own demons to face and that her determined hopefulness was how she’d learned to cope with the events of her life. “Give yourself time. Things will get better—”

“Oh, please. Spare me your wide-eyed optimism. I need a drink.” Laboriously he turned his chair around.

“Wait, Marc—”

“Go back to your swings and dolls, Pollyanna.” He cut her off with the back of a sharply upraised hand as he headed in the opposite direction.

Pushed too far, Fiona ran after him and yanked his chair to a halt. His startled glare didn’t stop her anger from pouring out. “Don’t be a jerk! Instead of drinking yourself into oblivion you should be glad you’re alive. There are a lot of people worse off than you. You know that better than anyone, the places you’ve been. When someone tries to help you could at least be gracious if you can’t be grateful.”

“How dare you?” he growled when she paused for breath. “You have no idea what I’m going through.”

“Yes, I do. Not firsthand but—”

“Then you don’t know. You, who can run and walk, dance and jog, don’t have any idea what it’s like to be conquering mountains one day and having someone wipe your ass the next.”

“Oh, you…” she sputtered, fists clenched at her sides. “Why don’t you stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something to help someone else?”

“Yeah, right. How can I help anyone in my condition?”

“Use your imagination. You’ve got plenty of time to think. Or is your brain disabled, too?”

At Marc’s stunned expression Fiona’s anger subsided. Oh, dear, that was so mean. “I’m sorry,” she said, aghast at herself. “That was totally unlike me. You made me so mad I didn’t know what I was saying.”

“The truth according to Pollyanna, apparently,” he said. His rage seemed to have vanished, replaced by sudden interest. “Anything else you want to say to me?”

She started to back away. The intense curiosity in his gaze was unnerving. “Er… Have a nice day?”

CHAPTER THREE

MILDLY SHOCKED but definitely intrigued, Marc watched Fiona walk away. That sweet nurturing woman had a hidden streak of spit and vinegar. She was completely wrong, of course, but at least she didn’t hesitate to say what she thought.

Remembering his physio appointment, he turned around just in time to see Fiona go into another store with her damn notices. He didn’t care about the dog but for some stupid reason he felt responsible for the animal’s plight. And although he hated to admit it, Fiona’s comments had stung. The sooner he became mobile enough to get out of town, the better.

The automatic doors to the clinic opened and he wheeled in to find his physiotherapist, Val, at the front desk reading through a patient’s file. “Hey, Marc,” she said, glancing up. “What’s up with you today?”

With her butch haircut and muscular forearms, Val could have belonged to an eastern European shot-put team. Marc valued her because she was the only female he knew who didn’t smother him with platitudes and sympathy.

“Nothing,” he muttered, trying to rub away the furrows between his eyebrows. There was no way to explain how rotten he felt, and not just physically. He used to be a decent guy who got along with everyone. Now he seemed to snap a dozen times a day.

“Just your usual generic mad at the whole world, is that it? Never mind, it comes with the territory.” Val put down the file and motioned Marc through the wide doorway into the workout room. “Come into my parlor. I’ll give you something to complain about.”

Val was also the only person he allowed to help him move around. With her assistance he transferred to a narrow, padded massage table and lay on his back, hands gripping the sides against the inevitable pain.

“Are you experiencing much cramping?” she asked, raising his straight leg and stretching out the hamstring.

“Occasionally at night I get muscle spasms right down my legs.” He grunted as she bent his leg at the knee and pushed it into his chest. “How come the nerves work enough to make me feel pain but not to walk?”

“There are a lot of theories but no definitive answers,” she told him. “When the spinal cord is injured, nerve messages get mixed up. Soft muscle tissue is bombarded by stray electrical impulses which can be experienced as pain. Or, you could be feeling referred pain from an injury or sickness somewhere else in your body. You need to do something about those hands, by the way. Leather gloves are essential if you’re going to be active.” She manipulated his ankle and then his knee to keep the joints mobile. “Any burning or tingling sensations in your legs? Pins and needles?”

Marc thought for a moment. “Yeah, once in a while. It’s a pain. No pun intended.”

Val let his leg down and picked up the other one. “That could be good. Pins and needles are often an indication of nerve function returning. Not always, though.”

“When can I expect to recover nerve function?” Marc asked, ignoring her caution.

Val shrugged. “Spinal-cord injuries are individual and unpredictable. It could be weeks, or months, but Marc, you’ve got to be realistic—you may never get function back in your legs.”

Marc didn’t reply. He simply couldn’t accept what she was saying. Only at night, when his defenses were low did he fully acknowledge the reality of his situation.

Val finished stretching and manipulating his other leg and came around the table to position his chair where he could get into it. “Time for the race.”

“Talk about a misnomer,” Marc grumbled as he shed his tracksuit jacket.

Attempting to move his legs while supporting himself inside the “race” or parallel bars was the most frustrating exercise of all, highlighting as it did his inability to control his body in ways he’d always taken for granted.

“Put some weight on those legs,” Val barked as she walked slowly along beside him, monitoring his progress. “The nerves in your lower limbs need feedback about what’s happening. Don’t let your arms do all the work.”

Marc clamped his jaw down hard to bite off a sarcastic retort. If he could get his legs to help out, didn’t she think he would? No matter how hard he concentrated all his will on making his legs move he ended up dragging them along. He felt like a marionette who’d had the strings controlling his feet cut for the amusement of a cruel puppet master. If this was a cosmic practical joke, he didn’t find it very funny.

Despite the pain and frustration he forced himself to think about his goal. Normal life. Work and travel. No one feeling sorry for him. Ever. By the time Val suggested he quit for the day, sweat was pouring off his forehead and trickling down his back, soaking his T-shirt. Marc insisted on doing another four lengths before he collapsed, arms sagging against the bars while he waited for her to bring his chair over.

He got back on the massage table, stomach down. Marc gazed through the face hole in the padded table at the stain on the gray indoor-outdoor carpet immediately below. Sweat? Blood? Tears? Maybe all three.

Val squirted peppermint-scented oil onto her hands and began kneading his calf muscles. At least he assumed that’s what she was doing; he couldn’t feel a thing.

“Do you know a woman here in town called Fiona?” he asked, thinking to do a bit of journalistic probing into her background.

“Fiona Gordon? Not personally. I moved here only a few months ago. Her friend Liz, who owns the yarn shop, has a daughter in the same kindergarten class as my boy, Andy. Why do you ask—because of her brother, Jason?”

“I didn’t know she had a brother.” Nor did he particularly care. “What’s she like?”

“She’s nice. Had a tough go of it when her parents died and she was left to care for Jason who was still in primary school. From what Liz tells me she’s a sucker for animals and kids.” Val moved to the other side of the table and her voice became teasing. “Why, are you interested in her?”

Marc maintained a neutral tone. “I hang out at the pub where she works as a barmaid. She tried to get me to adopt an abandoned puppy. I told her no, of course.”

Val paused to apply more massage lotion. Marc heard it squirt from the bottle and imagined he could feel the cool liquid splash onto the back of his thigh.

“A puppy would be just the thing for you,” Val said. “Why don’t you go for it?”

“I haven’t got time for a dog. Once you whip me into shape my producer wants me back on the beat.”

“Marc,” Val said, a warning in her voice.

“Val,” Marc warned her right back. The last thing he wanted was another lecture.

“Okay, okay. Just don’t go buying season tickets for the ski lift.”

“Does she have a boyfriend?”

“Fiona? Not that I know of.”

Val finished the massage, gave him a shot of cortisone next to his spinal cord and sent him back to the front desk to get Cindy to make him an appointment for hydrotherapy at the Meadow Park Sports Centre.

It was only later, after Jim had taken time out of his lunch break to pick Marc up and drive him back to the house that Marc remembered he hadn’t asked Val to put Fiona’s notice in the window. He pulled the folded sheet from his breast pocket and started to toss it into the recycling bin. He hesitated a moment and for no reason he could think of, tucked it back into his pocket.

Then, ignoring the golden autumn sunshine pouring onto the backyard patio, he wheeled into his room, drew the curtains and shut the door. His energy had drained away and he was left feeling exhausted and depressed. Immobility was easier to handle without the beckoning mountains in sight.

Perversely, he shut his eyes and relived in minute-by-minute detail the last rock climb he’d done on Stawamus Chief with Nate and Aidan two months ago, before he’d left for the Middle East and his date with destiny. With his near-photographic memory he could visualize every detail. He’d just handjammed an exposed corner crack and was heading up a small chimney when Fiona’s trite phrase popped into his mind.

Everything happens for a reason.

Logically, that would include hanging on to her notice about the dog. Had he done that because he was actually considering adopting the pet? Taking on the scrawny mutt seemed somehow like admitting he was as pitiful and needy as the dog.

Or had he kept the notice because he wanted Fiona’s phone number? That, he dismissed immediately. There was no point in even thinking about Fiona; as long as he was in this wheelchair he had nothing to offer a woman.

So why did he have this maddening urge to prove he did? He couldn’t make love. His future was uncertain. He was a miserable son of a bitch to be around. Even he didn’t like himself these days.

He’d mulled this over for a full five minutes before a crow cawing loudly in the pine tree outside his window snapped him out of his melancholic brooding. Fiona was right; he did have too much time to think.

But what else did he have to do? At first he’d watched CNN compulsively until he couldn’t stand it anymore because it reminded him too much of the life he’d lost. The radio was full of sappy love songs. He got bored surfing the Internet. Books weren’t the answer; he’d never been one for reading when he could be out doing something.

Frustrated, he left his bedroom and wheeled through the house. Restless with an energy he couldn’t expend, he rolled down the long hallway to the kitchen, turned around and rolled back again. He wished he could call someone but his cousins were both working; Nate at his bike shop and Aidan in the ski patrol on Whistler Mountain. As for friends, Marc had lost contact with most of his old buddies over the years and wasn’t keen on making new ones in his present state.

He’d told himself he would stay away from the pub, that drinking every day wasn’t good for him. But the empty silence of the house began to close in. Before another ten minutes passed he was summoning the taxi for the disabled.

Fifteen minutes later the taxi with the high cab at the back pulled up to the house and a young driver he hadn’t had before got out.

“I’m Brent,” the driver said with a wide smile as he went around to open the sliding passenger door and lower the motorized lift that always made Marc feel like cargo being loaded onto a truck. “Where are you off to on this glorious fall day?”

Oh, great, someone high on life. Marc could tell right now this was going to be a long trip even though the drive took only half an hour. “Pemberton Hotel.”

Brent slid the door shut, got in and started to back out. “What’s your name?”

“Marc.” He stared out the window and pretended not to hear the driver’s friendly chatter as they sped up the highway. How many trees in these forests? Millions? Billions?

“Here you are,” Brent announced as he pulled up in front of the pub. He jumped out and lowered the ramp for Marc to roll down. “Enjoy your day.”

“Oh, I plan to have a wonderful time.” Marc handed him a couple of big bills, overtipping to compensate for his lack of grace.

Inside he went straight to the table in the far corner where he always sat. The big room seemed even emptier without Fiona but sitting at a table listening to the jukebox gave him the illusion he was doing something.

After a couple of drinks his conscience started to work on him. He couldn’t stop thinking about that damn dog, imagining the undernourished mutt sitting on a cold concrete floor at the pound, cringing and snarling every time someone walked by. That’s no way to find an owner, he wanted to shout at it. Wag your tail, look happy to see folks, muster up a little warmth and puppy charm.

He was on his fifth, or maybe it was his sixth, bourbon, his mind flipping back and forth between the dog and his last day in Damascus, when the two images merged. He heard a whimper and instead of an injured boy, he was carrying the abandoned pup through mortar blasts and crossfire. Up ahead was the brick building. If he hurried, he’d make it—

A hand gripped his shoulder. “Wha’ the—?” he said, startled into flinging his head up and back.

A familiar chestnut-haired figure in a blue corduroy shirt and jeans stood beside him. Aidan. Marc slumped down in his wheelchair. “You mus’ come here ’lot,” he joked feebly. “This’s the sec’nd time this week you been in the pub.”

His cousin took the glass from his hand and set it on the table. “I’m tired of rescuing you from yourself, bud. It’s time you found another form of entertainment.”

“Stay ’n have a drink,” Marc said when Aidan took hold of the hand grips at the back of the chair and pulled him away from the table.

“Can’t. Emily’s waiting in the car.” Aidan waved to the bartender and started for the exit.

“I can push myself,” Marc protested but Aidan was walking too fast for Marc to get hold of the turning wheels. He twisted in his chair and squinted up at his cousin. “You’re not mad, are you?”

“I’ll be mad if you drink yourself to death after surviving that bomb blast.” He started to help Marc into the truck and without the coordination to transfer himself, Marc was forced to accept.

Emily, Aidan’s six-year-old daughter stared at Marc. “What’s wrong with Marc, Daddy?”

“He’s drunk,” Aidan said bluntly.

Marc winced and turned away from the little girl’s expression of pity and distaste. Once upon a time she’d begged for piggyback rides, shrieking with laughter as he galloped her around the yard. Now, God help him, even the child could see he was sinking.

He stayed away from the pub the next day, and every day that week. But although the hangover wore off, he found he was still thinking about the pup. On Friday after his physiotherapy he checked and discovered that Fiona’s notices were still up in store windows. That meant she hadn’t found a home for the pooch. Marc tried to reason with himself—it was just a dog, for goodness’ sake—but by four o’clock the unfairness of the animal’s fate had him agitated.

“You’re going to wear holes in my carpet wheeling back and forth like that,” Leone complained. She’d just walked in the door after making her rounds as a public-health nurse and was still in her navy blue skirt and jacket. “What’s wrong with you?”

Marc stopped suddenly, blocking her way. “Would you object to me getting a puppy?”

“Do you mean that poor creature your friend Fiona brought over? Of course not. He would be a companion for Rufus with Jim and I both working full-time.”

“Great. I’ll go get him right now. Otherwise Fiona’ll take him to the pound.”

“Give me a minute to change and I’ll drive you,” Leone said. “There’s a special on rump steak at the Pemberton market.” Marc’s eyebrows rose and she added, “Not for the dog!”

A short time later Leone was pulling onto the highway to Pemberton. “What’s her address?”

Marc could have kicked himself—metaphorically speaking. He’d never asked her where she lived and of course she’d never volunteered such information. Then he remembered the notice—which he’d left sitting on top of his dresser in his hurry to be off.

“Let me think.” Shutting his eyes, he visualized the sheet of paper. Free to a good home: Jack Russell–cross puppy. Call Fiona 555-6283. With the image of the numbers imprinted on the back of his eyelids, Marc felt in his pocket for his cell phone and dialed.

A young man answered and said Fiona was out in the barn and could he get her to call him back?

“Has she found a home for the puppy?” Marc demanded. “She hasn’t taken it to the pound, has she?”

“No, the little fella’s right here, snoozing on my lap. I think she’s planning on taking him to the pound when she comes in.” The young man added hopefully, “Why? Do you want him?”

“Yes. I’m on my way now. What’s your address?”

Marc found pen and paper in the glove compartment and wrote down the address, repeating it aloud as he did so. Half an hour later they were pulling into the gravel driveway of an older-style home set on a large property outside town. Alpacas grazed in the field next to a red barn. Late roses bloomed along the footpath and red-and-gold dahlias were staked up in a garden bed under the windows.

But what drew Marc’s attention was the wheelchair ramp that zigzagged from the path to the front door.

The absurd thought struck him that she’d been expecting him. Ridiculous. The ramp was weathered and worn, obviously in use for many years.

“At least you won’t have a problem getting inside,” Leone commented pragmatically. “Did you want me to come in? Because if not, I’ll run down to the grocery store and pick up a few things for dinner.”

“Go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

Leone got his wheelchair out of the car and tried to help him into it but Marc waved her off. The feeling of helplessness, of having to rely on others, was the part he hated the most. If he was forced to spend more than a few months in this contraption he’d be looking into a car with hand controls. But of course, it wouldn’t come to that.

Leone stood back while he got himself settled and wheeled over to the footpath. “Shall I push you?”

“I’m fine.” He softened his curt tone. “Thanks for the ride.”

Leone got back into the car with a promise to return in twenty minutes. Marc started up the long ramp.

IN THE BARN, FIONA RAN the brush over Snowdrop’s soft white wool and wondered what Angela Wilde was knitting with the animal’s cria fleece. Something special, she hoped. She could ask Liz to find out…

What was her interest here, she asked herself sharply— Angela and the fleece, or Angela’s connection to the Wilde family? Bill had told her he’d had to call Marc’s cousin again to pick Marc up the afternoon she’d gone to UBC Marc hadn’t been in the pub since. Had he finally found more worthwhile pursuits? For his sake, she hoped so.

She glanced at her watch and reluctantly put the brush away. No one had called about the dog. It was time to take him to the pound. With a heavy heart she walked back to the house, trailed by Bilbo and Baggins who’d waited faithfully at the barn door for her.

Jason greeted her at the door, cradling the dog. “A man called who wants to adopt the puppy. He should be here any minute.”

“Wonderful!” The relief made her smile. “Who is he?”

“He didn’t give his name but he sounded vaguely familiar,” Jason said.

Just then, the puppy in his lap lifted his head, ears pricked. A second later they heard the sound of a car drive up.

Fiona handed Jason the dog brush so he could quickly groom the puppy. The animal didn’t look quite so scrawny as when they’d first got him, but he still cowered whenever anyone put out a hand to pat him. She hoped whoever was at the door wouldn’t be put off by that but instead treated the dog with compassion and kindness.

There was a knock and she went through the living room to answer it. Opening the door set off a burst of heavy-metal rock music pitched at deafening volume. Fiona, who ordinarily used the back door, remembered too late Jason’s latest “invention.” Marc looked as startled at the sound as she was to see him.

“You!” Fiona exclaimed but the sound of her voice was drowned out by the ear-piercing twang of electronic guitar. “Come in,” she yelled, motioning him over the threshold. She shut the door and blessed silence reigned. “Sorry about that. My brother is an electronics nut.”

Marc’s hands gripped his wheels. “I’ve decided to take the dog, after all.”

Fiona crossed her arms over her chest. Secretly she was delighted but after the things he’d said she was going to make him work for this. “Are you sure you can take care of him?”

Marc glowered at her. “I can do a lot more in this chair than most people can on two legs.”

“What will you do with the dog when you take off into the wild blue yonder?” she demanded, flinging an arm skyward.

“Not a problem,” Marc assured her. “My aunt and uncle will be happy to keep him. If they fall through, I’ve got two cousins. Between us we’ll make sure he has a home.”

Fiona tapped her foot, pretending to be debating the issue. “Why did you change your mind?”

“What difference does it make as long as the mutt has a home?”

“Admit it, you fell in love with him at first sight.”

He glanced at his watch. “My aunt will be back in twenty minutes at which time I’m leaving, with or without the dog.”

With a sigh, Fiona stepped aside and let him pass. “Go straight ahead. He’s in the kitchen at the back with my brother.”

Jason, his wheelchair parked beside the table, was still brushing the puppy. “Hi.”

Marc came to an abrupt halt on the threshold of the kitchen and threw her an odd look.

“This is my brother, Jason,” she said. “Jason, this is Marc Wilde.”

“No wonder your voice sounded familiar on the telephone!” Jason exclaimed. “Wow! I can’t believe you’re actually in our kitchen. The last time I saw you on TV you were in Damascus with bombs going off….” Jason’s voice trailed away as he realized what he was saying. “Gosh, Mr. Wilde, I’m sorry. About what happened, I mean.”

“Forget it. Call me Marc.” Marc wheeled closer to peer at the dog. “How’s the pup?”

“He’s coming along,” Fiona said. “I took him to the vet for his shots and a microchip in his ear for identification.” She paused. “The vet estimated he’s about eight weeks old. He’ll be the right age to be neutered in four months. You will do the right thing, won’t you?”

“Don’t worry— I’m not in the habit of leaving progeny scattered in my wake and neither will my dog.”

He’d spoken absently and without even looking her way, yet Fiona felt heat creep into her cheeks. Good grief, anyone would think she was someone’s maiden aunt. She moved to the other side of the island benchtop to get out the bag of dry puppy food. He’s here for the dog, she reminded herself.

“You can take this to get you started,” she said, setting the bag by the door. “Be sure to give him plenty of water.”

“I’ve owned a dog before.” Marc reached out for the puppy and Jason handed him over. Immediately the dog began trembling.

“He’ll get used to you before long,” Fiona assured him, worried Marc might change his mind even now.

Marc held the puppy and stroked it for a few minutes. The trembling increased. He put the dog on the floor where it huddled instead of running around and exploring. “Is he sick?”

“Just scared,” Fiona said. “The vet checked him out thoroughly.”

“Does he ever bark?” Marc asked.

Fiona glanced at Jason. “We’ve never heard him.”

“Has he got a name?”

“I’ve held off calling him anything because I thought his new owner should name him.”

Fiona stood between Marc and Jason and the three of them stared at the cowering pup. He really wasn’t the most prepossessing animal.

“I’ll call him Rowdy,” Marc said at last. “Give him something to live up to.”

Fiona couldn’t help but smile. “I’m sure he will in time.”

“Can you stay for dinner?” Jason blurted out. “I made minestrone soup. It’ll give Rowdy time to get to know you before you take him away. And,” he added shyly, “I’d love to hear about your experiences in the Middle East.”

Marc looked surprised at the unexpected invitation. “Thanks, Jason—”

Fearing he was about to add a “but…” Fiona jumped in. “It’s awfully short notice, Jase. I’m sure Marc has other things to do. Plus his aunt is coming back for him.”

Marc glanced at her. “I could always call Leone on her cell phone and ask her to come later.”

“Great!” Jason said. “I’ll heat up some garlic bread.”

“Fine,” Fiona said wondering why she was reluctant for Marc to stay. Jason needed more male company, especially now that high school was over and his friends had gone off to college and new jobs. But not Marc. Instinctively she felt he would be a disturbing influence, infecting Jason with his discontent.

Marc’s presence made the kitchen seem crowded and it wasn’t just because his wheelchair took up extra space. Fiona moved nervously around the room, pulling out the table, setting an extra place, aware of Marc’s gaze on her as he petted the dog.

“I gather you like Greece,” he said, nodding at the posters.

“I’ve never been,” Fiona admitted. “But I’d like to.” She paused to gaze at one of the posters. “Something about the light and the blueness of the water and sky attracts me.”

“You’ll go someday.”

She uttered a short laugh. “In my dreams.”

Fiona carried the food to the table and they seated themselves. She bowed her head to say a few words of thanksgiving and then handed around bowls of Jason’s steaming savory soup and hunks of buttery garlic bread sprinkled with fresh herbs from the pots she grew outside the back door.

In response to Jason’s prodding, Marc told them tales of his travels through war-torn countries. She noticed he didn’t embellish his own role or glorify war, concentrating instead on the bravery and fortitude of the local people who survived in near-impossible conditions. A different side to him shone through, one she admired.

“You’ve got a knack for bringing their stories to life,” Fiona said. “Yasmina, the schoolteacher, seems as real as, well, me.”

“People aren’t that different the world over, not where it counts,” Marc said with a shrug. “Jason, this soup is delicious.”

Jason blushed to the roots of his hair. “Thanks.”

“How old are you, seventeen, eighteen?”

“I turned eighteen last month.”

“Then you’ve finished high school,” Marc said. Jason nodded. “What are your plans for the future?”

“I want to go to university—” Jason began.

“Good plan,” Marc said. “Education opens doors.”

“—but Fiona won’t let me,” Jason finished.

Shocked her brother would say that in front of a stranger, Fiona froze as Marc turned to look in her direction.

CHAPTER FOUR

MARC’S GAZE FLICKERED from Jason to Fiona, trying to fathom the undercurrents of tension that had suddenly risen to the surface between brother and sister.

“That’s not strictly true, Jase,” Fiona said tightly. To Marc she added, “We’re exploring his options.”

Jason pulled apart the crust of his bread. “We’ve explored my options so long the fall term’s begun and it’s too late to enroll.”

“Have you checked to see if you can put in a late application?” Marc suggested carefully.

“What’s the use?” Jason muttered. “We can’t afford for me to go to school.”

“There are loans, bursaries, possibly even scholarships if Jason’s marks are good enough,” Marc said.

“His options include working for a year to save money for tuition,” Fiona said.

“I’ve read the textbooks. I can do the work,” Jason replied. “Why should I wait?”

Fiona cast a meaningful glance at her brother that said as clearly as words, enough, then turned to Marc. “Would you like some more soup?”

“No, thank you.” Marc laid down his spoon beside his empty bowl.

An awkward silence descended over the dinner table.

Fiona rose and gathered up the empty dishes. “I’ll get Rowdy’s bed and then drive you home,” she said to Marc. “I hate to rush you but I have studying to do. Jason, can you please disconnect that so-called music before we open the door?”

While Jason disappeared to another part of the house Fiona went to the laundry room and came back holding a cardboard box with one side cut down and packed with an old blanket. She put the box on Marc’s lap and the puppy and his bag of food inside. “I’ll go bring the car around.”

Jason returned and wheeled as far as the front door with Marc. “Sorry things got a little uncomfortable.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Marc hesitated, wishing he could say something more. Jason was a nice kid who deserved a break. But what could Marc do to help him? “Good luck with your studies.” He made his way slowly down the ramp, careful not to tip Rowdy out of his box.

Fiona was waiting with the passenger door open and the trunk up. Marc transferred to her car and stroked the shivering dog while she loaded his chair.

“You shouldn’t hold him back,” Marc said when they were heading down the dark country road that led through Pemberton to the highway to Whistler.

She stared straight ahead, her hands gripping the wheel at the regulation ten and two o’clock positions. “I know how to take care of my brother.”

“I’m sure you do. But if he’s eager for a career why not do what you can to help him get one?”

“What goes on between Jason and me is none of your business.”

“What if something happens to you? Who’ll look after him if he doesn’t have some way to provide for himself?”

She slowed to a halt at a four-way stop and swiveled in her seat to face him. “Do you think I haven’t thought of that? I’ve got a plan. I’ve worked out our future. The problem is, Jason’s young and wants everything right now.”

“Fine. No need to get defensive.”

“I’m not being defensive,” she said, moving through the intersection. “You’re interfering.”

“I only said—”

“Don’t!”

He held up his hands in silent surrender. She was right; it was none of his business. “How long has Jason been in a wheelchair?”

“Since he was eleven.” Tension still gripped her voice; if anything it had increased. “His spinal cord was severed in the same car accident that killed our parents.”

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Were you also in the car?”

“Yes.” She hesitated. “I walked away with a broken arm.”

“My mother was killed in a car accident when I was five,” Marc told her.

“And your father?”

“He’s been gone for fifteen years now.”

She glanced sideways and in the dim light of the dashboard Marc caught an expression of understanding. “We have something in common,” she said. “We’re both orphans.”

For all intents and purposes, that was true. “I was lucky. My aunt and uncle were like parents to me and Nate and Aidan, like brothers. How old were you when you lost your folks?”

“Eighteen. I’d just started university. I was home for the weekend when the accident happened. I never went back to school.”

“How did you get your teaching degree then?”

“Correspondence courses while I worked at the pub. It took me six years.” She sounded more resigned than bitter.

“It would be understandable if you were reluctant to let your brother get easily what you worked so hard to achieve.” Marc chose his next words carefully.

“You’re wrong,” she interjected, shooting him an indecipherable look. “I don’t begrudge Jason anything.”

She denied it so quickly, so vehemently, Marc wondered if it were strictly true. “Still, caring for your brother under those circumstances would have been hard enough but with Jason also in a wheelchair… You’re a mother to your brother and a savior to lost dogs.” Marc regarded her thoughtfully. “Who takes care of Fiona?”

She flinched, just a tightening of her hands gripping the wheel but he knew he’d hit a nerve.

“I take care of myself, thank you very much,” she said with a hint of the steel that must have supported her all these years.

She turned off the highway and onto the road that led to Tapley’s Estate. Marc studied her in the street-light. Something else had surfaced just then, too, a wistfulness, as if she wouldn’t mind, just once, being taken care of herself.

A few minutes later Fiona pulled into Jim and Leone’s driveway and parked the car. With proficiency born of practice she unloaded Marc’s chair and held it while he transferred into it.

Rowdy’s sniffing nose poked timidly above the lip of the cardboard box. She leaned over to stroke the puppy’s head. “Bye sweetie,” she crooned. “I’ll miss you.” To Marc she said, “Take good care of Rowdy. If you have any questions or problems just give me a call.”

As she pulled out of the driveway, Marc wondered aloud, “Does it have to be about the dog?”

“SIT, ROWDY. NOW, STAY. Staaay….” Marc wheeled a few feet away then glanced over his shoulder. Rowdy was creeping hesitantly after him.

“No, no, no,” Marc chided. With a combination of pushing on Rowdy’s rump and pulling up on his lead Marc got him back into a sitting position. “Sit. Stay.”

This time he wheeled backward down the driveway, keeping a stern eye on the dog. After a moment’s hesitation, Rowdy started inching forward on his belly, ears flattened, wagging his tail in a submissive posture.

They were out in the front yard because Leone had complained about the dog’s nails scratching her hardwood floors. But with all the distracting scents and sounds of the outdoors Rowdy was finding it hard to stay focused.

“Okay, boy, we’ll try it once more.”

He maneuvered Rowdy back into position. The dog sat for all of thirty seconds until a crow flew out of the spruce tree at the side of the house. Rowdy darted after it, barking loudly.

“So you’ve got a voice. Hurrah,” Marc said wearily. “Come, Rowdy.”

The dog ignored him. When the crow flapped his wings lazily and flew to a pine across the road, Rowdy charged after it, and was narrowly missed by an approaching car.

“Rowdy! Come!” Marc called, wheeling to the end of the driveway.

Rowdy looked over his shoulder at Marc as if to say, “are you kidding?” With more spunk than he’d shown thus far, he barked and continued to chase the bird. Marc called insistently, alternating between an angry and an encouraging tone. Nothing worked.

He was forced to follow the dog down the road, finally cornering Rowdy in a driveway where he was playfully barking at a beagle behind a gate.

Marc dragged Rowdy back to his own yard, scolding, “I can’t run after you if you take off. What if you get hit by a car, or someone even more bad tempered than me dognaps you?”

Rowdy stretched his long body out on the grass and rested his muzzle on his paws, gazing up at Marc with wrinkled eyebrows as if he was as perplexed as Marc about how to solve the problem.

“I should never have agreed to take you,” Marc told him. “It’s all Fiona’s fault for guilting me into it. No, don’t look at me with those puppy-dog eyes. I can’t train you properly and once I’m out of the chair I won’t be around to look after you. I ought to take you to the pound right now.”

Rowdy crawled forward on his belly and lovingly and thoroughly began laving Marc’s bare foot with long flat swipes of his tongue. Marc’s first instinct was to push him away but a second glance stopped him. Rowdy was concentrating his efforts on a scabbed over scrape he’d gotten when he’d bumped into a sharp corner after a shower and not felt it.

The dog was cleaning his wound with intense doggy devotion. It gave him the oddest feeling.

“Come on, then, mutt. We’ll find an obedience class.” Marc wheeled up the sheet of plywood Jim had put in place as a makeshift ramp and into the house. Rowdy trotted along on his short legs, apparently quite happy to obey when he agreed with the directive.

Marc spent half an hour on the phone trying to find a class but the one in Whistler was full and not accepting new members. Another class was starting in Squamish in two weeks but Marc didn’t want to ask Leone or Jim to drive an hour each way.

“There’s always the library,” Marc told Rowdy then caught himself. He was talking to a dog.

“Did I hear you say you were going to the library?” Leone came into the room dressed to go out in black slacks and a dark green blazer with an autumn-colored silk scarf. It was Wednesday, her day off. “I can drop you there on my way to the hairdresser.”

“Thanks.” Marc put Rowdy in the fenced backyard with a bone and a squeaky toy, telling him, “I won’t be long.”

Built on the model of an alpine village, Whistler sparkled in the autumn sun beneath the glistening peaks of Whistler and Blackcomb Mountains. Tourists from all over the world strolled along the pedestrian-only lanes and squares, browsing the well-kept shops and restaurants. Sports enthusiasts, from mountain bikers in padded shorts and body armor to glacier skiers in long nylon pants and dark goggles rode or strode purposefully toward their individual pursuits, many heading for the chairlifts at the edge of town.

Leone pulled into the handicapped zone in the library parking lot. “How long do you think you’ll be?”

“I’m not sure,” Marc said. “I might go to the pub afterward. I’ll get a taxi back.” He could let Fiona know how the dog was doing. After a week’s abstinence he had a thirst but it wasn’t for bourbon.

Leone fingered the ends of her scarf, her expression troubled. “Marc, honey…”

“I know what you’re going to say,” he forestalled her before she could lecture him on his drinking. “But I’m a big boy. Don’t worry about me.”

“Jim and I do worry. You’ve never drunk too much before, not even when you first came of legal drinking age. Excess alcohol isn’t good for your health and it might even affect your recovery.”

“I know,” Marc said, smoothing out the curling ends of the Band-Aids covering the blistered pads of his palms.

Leone noticed and heaved an exasperated sigh. “When are you going to do something about your hands? All it takes is a phone call to Nate and he’ll bring you a pair of leather cycling gloves. I’ll do it for you.”

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