Healing Hearts (The Challenge Series)
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Healing Hearts
Copyright © 2013 by Liz Crowe
ISBN: 978-1-61333-445-4
Cover art by Mina Carter
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
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Healing Hearts
The Challenge Series
By
Liz Crowe
Chapter One
The tall, handsome man took his double skim latte from Abby without meeting her eyes and sat, staring out the window, for at least an hour while the expensive coffee got cold. It was the seventh time in two weeks he’d done the same thing. He had a newspaper open on the table in front of him. But he neither drank nor read. His eyes stayed locked on the Traverse City street scene through the large window. Then he got up, threw both the full cup and the newspaper in the wastebasket, dropped a five-dollar bill into her tip jar, and left without a word.
“What is up with that guy?” Lynn leaned across her to grab the chocolate syrup. “Seriously. Freak job much? At least he tips. And he’s cute.” Abby’s fellow barista and best friend for the last fifteen years elbowed her in the side, breaking her reverie. “Yo, snap out of it. Tall, Blond, and Creepy is gone for the day. Customers.” Lynn nodded toward the line that had formed in typical post-lunch fashion at the Cuppa Jane coffee house.
Abigail took orders on autopilot the rest of the long afternoon, managing to get through yet another boring shift before heading home to her dumpy apartment. She sipped a beer and sat, ignoring the mess in the kitchen, the piles of overdue credit card bills on the counter, and all the schoolwork she still had to do after an eight-hour shift on her feet.
She could not shake the guy from her memory banks. His bright blue eyes and perfectly chiseled face kept wafting across her vision. The thick, blond, sometimes wet hair was eye catching until you got a load of the broad, polo shirt clad shoulders, and long legs always covered with dark jeans. His hands were large, calloused looking at least from her vantage point taking money from him, and sans a wedding ring. And he never said a single word to anyone, merely nodding his thanks and sitting alone for hours at a time. He was model-gorgeous, and yet a tragic aura surrounded him like a black thundercloud. Abigail was one hundred percent smitten. She’d even agreed to pick up two extra shifts the next week, justifying it by reminding herself she could actually pay both the credit card and the electric bill that way, so why not? But she did it for another reason—she had to see him again.
The weekend away from the coffee shop was long but Abby kept busy catching up on community college homework, cleaning her apartment, anything to take her mind off the compulsion to drop by and see if he’d done the same. But after listening to her mother’s drunken for an hour on Sunday, she became so frustrated by her own silly obsession over some mystery dude who was probably a tourist anyway, she strapped on her running shoes and headed out. Determined to drive thoughts of her alcoholic mother and the tall man out of her head, she took a solid five-mile run at a brisk stride then limped home and collapsed on the couch. Annoying tears burned the back of her eyes. But she forced them down, took a shower, and tackled the last of her science assignment.
Abigail Powers had a goal. One that only a few years ago had seemed utterly ridiculous, but now lay in her crosshairs. She’d applied to the University of Michigan nursing school, later in life than some, granted, but with the grades and stamina to make it work. After one failed marriage, and carrying a pile of debt she was bound and determined to make this thing happen for herself. She was expecting the answer any day now, and by the sheer force of her will had decided it would be an acceptance.
Her phone buzzed. But she saw it was yet another creditor, so she turned it off and fell asleep on the threadbare couch, her dreams awash with visions of the blond man, his full lips, large hands, broad shoulders, and sad eyes.
Chapter Two
Jay Longmire hit the seventh mile of his morning run with a vengeance. Feet pounded on the pavement, sweat rolled down his face and torso, and his heart beat loud in his ears, filling the yawning empty space in his chest with as much distracting physical pain as he could manage. He ignored fellow runners, pedestrians, dog walkers, stroller pushers, and everything but the horizon ahead of him. As typically happened at this point of the longer and longer runs he’d been taking, his eyes burned. But he had no tears left. He was a dried-out husk, a cored apple, an empty shell. And he had nothing but the right-now, the agony in his knees and lower back, and the cacophony of his brain reminding him of what he’d lost.
By the time he circled back toward his small cabin perched on the edge of Silver Lake, his breathing was harsh and his entire body screamed for a break. So he slowed to a jog, then a walk, and then stood, hands on his hips, glaring at the knots of happy families flittering around doing whatever it was normal families did in a tourist town in late summer. Fury rose in his gut. He clenched his hands into fists and dropped down to rest against his heels. The last time he’d gotten this angry, the migraine had struck hard, sinking its claws into his skull for a solid week.
He took deep breaths, counted backward from fifty, pictured himself happy…all the stupid shit the hordes of therapists had thrown at him for the last year and a half. None of it worked. But he did it anyway. Because Jefferson Taylor Longmire was a rule follower, he did as he was told, hoping for a small measure of relief from the agony. He sucked in a deep breath, alarmed when he heard crying, until he realized it was coming from him, again. A little boy looked around, startled, then watched the grown, sweaty man on his hands and knees, sob like an escapee from the mental ward. He tried to stop, but knew from a fair bit of practice that once he got going, he had to ride it out.
He sat, rested against a tree, and let the tears flow. “Christy,” he croaked out, his fingers digging into his thighs. “I’m so sorry, baby.” Another thing one of the less annoying psychiatrists had advised him—own the guilt, let yourself have it because if you deny it you’ll be more miserable down the road. So, all he owned was guilt anymore, and all he felt was reamed out, and he was so fucking sick of himself he cried even more tears of self pity while the world full of happy families ebbed and flowed. All of them gave the crazy, crying man under the tree a very wide berth.
***
Exercise, home, shower, nutrition, sleep—those were the five tenants of Jay’s existence and had been for the year since he’d fled Ann Arbor. Time spent at his parents’ old cabin to “recuperate” and “recover” and “reenergize” and whatever “re-joining the world” kind of crap was necessary had been a self-administered regimen. Because frankly, living in Ann Arbor where his life as a successful businessman and happy husband and father had begun and ended was agonizing. So he left, bringing only a suitcase, a credit card, and a laptop for crucial communications. He’d even left his smart phone behind, relying on the cabin’s clunky landline for the few calls he made of necessity to the east side of the state.
After the breakdown in the lakeside park, he’d dragged himself home, showered for an hour, and now sat, glaring at the small laptop. He put a hand on the smooth silver lid, ran a finger over the bitten apple icon but didn’t open it. Knowing damn good and well there were a couple of crucial emails waiting from the courts and attorneys back home, he kept stroking the lid, unable to make his brain click into focus.
Christy. Jason
.
He struggled to breathe as the poisonous visions sidled back into the room, winking at him, willing him to open up and remember. “Leave me alone,” he warned, looking at nothing in the middle distance. The smarmy asshole of memory faded, but promised to return, later, after dark—its preferred visitation time.
Jay startled when a wet canine nose shoved under the hand resting on his leg. “Shit.” He sighed, but rubbed the dog’s head, reassuring the poor creature he was still here, able to fill bowls with food and water. He opened the laptop, wincing at the loud noise of boot up and the bright, retina-piercing light from the screen. The headache threatened, muttering and mumbling in the back of his skull. But he opened the email, one hand rolling the dog’s velvety ear between his fingertips.
And there they were, the commands back to the real world. To the courthouse where four of his former employees were on trial for the rape and murder of his wife, the murder of his five-year-old son, the attempted murder of himself and his daughter, and the destruction of his house by fire.
And the email from his sister, containing photos of his daughter, who’d been raped that day and left for dead. He touched the screen then withdrew as if burned. She was only twelve, and in a coma, only alive because he didn’t have the balls to let her go in peace. She’d turned eleven the day before she’d been horrifically violated on her bedroom floor, right over his useless head.
He rose, the small amount of food he’d managed to eat that day suddenly knocking against the back of his throat demanding an encore. The dog followed him as he barely made it to the bathroom in time to puke, dry heave for fifteen minutes, then sit, seriously contemplating suicide for the millionth time since waking up eighteen months ago from a two-month coma to his new reality.
Chapter Three
“Abigail Powers, you are insane,” Lynn declared, hands on her hips.
Abby shrugged, and turned away to hide the flush creeping up her neck to her face. “I need the hours,” she muttered, as she fiddled with the syrup bottles.
“No, you are obsessed with the supermodel, super creep. I know you better than you know yourself.”
“Whatever. Leave me alone. I need the money. The Michigan nursing school acceptances have gone out, but I haven’t gotten anything. And yeah, I’d like to lay eyes on that guy again. He’s hot. Sue me.”
Her friend laughed and took off her apron. “You are hard up, girlfriend. You should go out with me and—”
“I can’t afford to ‘go out’ and you know it. Jesus.”