Love Inspired March 2015 - Box Set 1 of 2: A Wife for Jacob\The Forest Ranger's Rescue\Alaskan Homecoming (41 page)

“Please come.” She gripped the phone with all her might. She still felt light-headed from the pills. Even the impact of the tree hadn't been sufficient to eradicate the airy sensation in her limbs. She needed something to tether her to the ground, to keep her from floating away into oblivion. “Please.”

There was an excruciating beat of silence before he said, “Tell me where you are.”

“The big blue tree.”

He hung up without a word.

She returned to her car to wait for him, unable to bear the scrutiny of the cook, the hostess and the patrons enjoying their burgers and milk shakes. Logically, she knew no one in the diner could tell what she'd done. To them, she was still the town good girl. The perfect music-box ballerina, dancing to an endless tune. Never falling.

She didn't want Liam to meet her there. She wanted to stay that town good girl for as long as possible. More than that, she wanted Liam to see her intact, unharmed, before he had a chance to catch sight of that horrible tangle of metal wrapped around the tree.

The wait was excruciating.

He arrived in a rumble of thunder and stepped from his car into the rain with an umbrella in his hands, but he made no effort to avoid the puddles at his feet. Pale, visibly shaken, he sloshed through ankle-deep water without taking his eyes off the wreckage.

Posy ran to him, placing herself between him and the tree. As if she could block the sight of it, prevent him from seeing all the damage she'd done.

“Posy,” he whispered, as if it were the most melancholy word that had ever been spoken. Sadder than lonely, affliction and hopeless all put together.

Her name had never sounded that way falling from his lips. Hearing it frightened her just as bad as the accident had. Possibly even worse.

“I think I hydroplaned,” she said, unable to quite meet Liam's gaze.

She stood there beneath the shelter of his umbrella, heart pounding in fear. Since the moment her car had swerved off the road and crashed into the tree, she'd been unable to take in a full breath. She wasn't hurt. At least she didn't think so. She just couldn't breathe, as if she were in a perpetual state of panic.

But as she stood under that umbrella and finally fixed her gaze on Liam, her fear turned to shame.

He knew.

She saw it in his desolate blue eyes. Eyes that always looked at her with a combination of wonder and affection. Eyes that suddenly went as moody blue as the evergreen in the storm.

His hair was soaked, rain running down his face in angry rivulets. Washing away all the lies. Everything she'd tried so hard to hide.

She had the fierce urge to reach out and chase the drops with her fingertips as they ran down his cheeks. Heaven's tears. If she could just wipe them away, maybe all of this could be over. As if it had never happened.

“Let me see your purse,” he said in a tone that sent a chill coursing through her.

“Why?” she asked through chattering teeth.

“You know why.” His voice broke, and something inside Posy broke along with it. Not a bone, but something that would take far longer to heal. If it ever could.

“Liam, please.”

“Let me see it. Now.” The umbrella shook in Liam's hand, sending droplets of freezing rain skittering through the air. Dancing water, spinning into oblivion.

Her instinct was to grip her purse more tightly to her chest in case he tried to wrench it free. He never would do that, would he? Not Liam.

But the boy standing in front of her didn't quite look like Liam. She'd never seen that glint of fury in his eyes before. Not when she'd missed his eighteenth birthday party because she'd been in Portland auditioning for Oregon Ballet Theatre. Or when she'd missed the final baseball game of the season—the one where he'd scored the winning home run—because she'd had dance rehearsal. Or even when he'd walked in on her just that morning as she'd cradled a tiny blue capsule in her hand in the quiet, desperate moment before she tossed it back with a swallow of water.

She let the strap of her bag slide from her shoulder, down her arm, and held her purse limply toward him, praying he wouldn't take it. Hoping against hope he was bluffing.

He wasn't. He took her bag, exchanging it for the umbrella handle. It took him only moments to find what he was looking for. Three pill bottles, one of them empty, the other two half-full, jammed into the toes of the pointe shoes she never went anywhere without.

He shook them loose, until the bottles fell into his palm. Then he stared down at them, motionless, until his fist closed around the clear orange plastic. His knuckles went white, his grip so tight that it looked as though he were trying to crush them with his bare hands.

“How long?” he asked, his voice barely audible above the pounding rain.

It was coming down in buckets then. Rain like Posy had never seen before. Like something out of a Shakespeare play.
The Tempest.

“Not long.” Posy tried to swallow, but she couldn't make her body work anymore. First her feet, now her throat. She knew her heart would be the next to rebel. “Only a few days.”

He closed his eyes, his eyelashes inky dark, dripping with rainwater against his ghostly face. “Don't lie to me, Posy.”

She needed him to look at her, to see that she was the same girl she'd always been. But that wasn't quite true, was it? The girl he loved didn't do things like this.

Everything started slipping from her grip. She held on so tightly—as tightly as Liam gripped those awful bottles of pills. But she still wasn't able to hang on. Her body was failing her just when she'd needed it most. Even the pills weren't working anymore. Not as well as they had in the beginning.

Every day it was harder and harder to dance. She was losing ballet. She felt it as surely as she felt the broken bone in her foot.

The thought of losing Liam too was inconceivable.

“Six weeks,” she whispered, knowing she couldn't lie. Not to him. “I've been taking them for six weeks. Only one a day at first.”

“More lately, though.”

“More, yes.” She prayed he wouldn't press for further details. It was too embarrassing. She wasn't even able to bring herself to think about it, much less say it out loud.

But he pressed on, insisting that she tell him how many she'd taken that day. How many and at what times. She answered his questions as honestly as she could, but it was difficult to concentrate. Her head was so fuzzy. So much of the day was nothing but a blur.

“Where did you get them?” he asked.

There was no use lying. The information was printed right there on the prescription labels.

“From my parents' medicine cabinet. They're left over from my dad's back surgery last year. I'll put them back. I promise. Just as soon as my auditions are over.” She reached for the pills with a tentative hand.

He closed his fist around the pill bottles and jerked his arm away from her. And in a moment of slow-motion agony that she would never forget, her ballet shoes tumbled from her bag.

Posy sank to her knees a moment too late. Her precious pointe shoes landed in a puddle, ribbons streaming in a rush of rainwater. Priceless pink satin. Ruined. As surely as her future. She gathered them to her chest. Crushed them against her breaking heart.

“Posy, darling. It's already over,” Liam whispered.

“No.” She shook her head, unable to hear what he was saying. “No, it's not.”

She still had one more audition left. The most important of them all—the Pacific Northwest Ballet in Seattle. The one closest to home.

“Yes, it is. You could have hurt someone tonight, Posy. You could have been killed.” Liam fixed his gaze on hers. Finally. And she realized he was right.

It was over. All of it. From the moment she'd hit that tree.

“Ballet.” He said it as if it were a dirty word. Something awful and vile. Something to be ashamed of. “It's not worth your life, Posy.”

But it is.

She very nearly said those words, but caught herself in time.

He never would understand. No one would. She didn't understand it herself. All she knew was that she'd dreamed of being a dancer for as long as she could remember. She couldn't conceive of doing anything else. The very idea of losing the thing she loved most in the world filled her with panic.

Truth be told, it still did.

Although she wasn't going to stoop to such desperate measures this time. This time, she was committed to doing things right. She would fly to Anchorage for her doctor's appointments. She'd rest. She'd elevate her foot at night. She'd stay away from pills that would do nothing but mask the pain and place her once again on that dangerous slope toward losing control.

This time, she would pray.

She squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to keep the memories at bay. She didn't want to remember. Not here. Not now, while Liam was less than twenty feet away.

But memory was an unrelenting dance partner.

She could close her eyes against the past, but she could still see herself standing, clutching her ruined ballet slippers to her heart, unable to let go of the dream. She could still feel the mud caked onto her knees, feel the frigid water dripping down her legs.

“You're going to tell my parents.” It was a statement rather than a question. The answer was written all over Liam's face.

“I have to, Posy. It's the only way I know to help you.” He stared at the muddy ballet shoes in a way that made her crush them more tightly to her chest.

“I thought you were on my side,” she protested.

“I am. We all are. Can't you see that?”

“Please, Liam. Please. Don't. I'm begging you. Please.” She shook from head to toe. Frozen. Wet. Panicked.

In another place, in another time, Liam would wrap his arms around her to warm her. He would give her his coat and hold her until the trembling stopped.

He'd always been protective of her. He always carried her schoolbooks, offered her his letter jacket, held her hand when they skated.

He was protecting her then, too. But somehow it still felt like an unimaginable betrayal.

“If you tell them, I'll never speak to you again. Never.” She didn't mean it. It was just something to say. Something to stop him.

She hadn't meant it. She hadn't.

But in the end, it had been the one and only promise to him that she'd kept.

Chapter Six

L
iam wasn't interested in chivalry.

He really wasn't. He was simply doing his job.

He ignored Posy's protests and continued lining up all the chairs that his dog had knocked over. If it made her angry, that was just too bad. Let her stew. He might not have signed on as her babysitter, but it would have been silly to let her do it herself. He could get it done in a fraction of the time, seeing as he was able-bodied and she was injured.

Plus he just wanted her to stay put. He couldn't stand watching her move around on those crutches. She reminded him of a wobbly baby giraffe trying to take its first steps. It was an image in such striking opposition to her usual grace and poise that it caused an uncomfortable ache in his chest. An ache that felt oddly like pity.

He didn't want to feel pity for Posy...for
Josephine
. He didn't want to feel anything for her.

He set the final chair in its place, frowned and moved it a fraction of an inch so that it stood perfectly in line with the rest of the row. He clenched his fists at his sides. Every cell in his body longed to pick up that chair and heave it out the closest window. Having Posy around was even more difficult than he'd imagined. But he wasn't about to let the chaos of his emotions show.

It's only temporary. Just grin and bear it. Before long, this will all be over. She'll dance right out of Alaska...again.

He took a measured inhalation and spun around to face her. “All right. Looks like you're set to go.”

“You didn't have to do that.” Her tone was crisp, and she kept her eyes glued to her iPod. “But...thank you.”

“You're welcome.” He crossed his arms.

Now what?

“Are those bears for the girls?” He nodded at the teddy bears she'd lined up against the wall.

“Yes. I thought they might like them. Those silly bears were still lining the shelves of my bedroom. Can you imagine? After all this time.” She shook her head. “Nothing changes around here, does it?”

She smiled brightly. A perfectly staged grin. But he could see a hint of uncertain melancholy in those familiar eyes. Things had changed.
Everything
had changed
.
She knew that just as well as he did.

He shook his head. “Nope. I suppose not.”

Why did he get the sense that they were dancing together in a broken time capsule every time they looked at one another? And when would it stop?

“I should probably finish getting ready.” She gestured with her iPod toward a bag overflowing with pale pink ballet shoes.

He had to give her credit. She'd come prepared. She was obviously taking the job seriously. More seriously than he would have guessed. But honestly, how serious could she be when she had no intention of sticking around once she could dance again?

“About the music...and the bears...” He jammed his hand through his hair.

She bristled. The delicate gossamer thread of connection that had found its way between them tore as easily as a spiderweb. “What about them?”

He wanted to tell her to rethink the music because that
Peter and the Wolf
selection wasn't going to go over well at all. He had his suspicions about the teddy bears, as well. Bears in ballet shoes.

“I appreciate the effort, but...”

“It's for the girls. Not you.” She wrapped her arms around her slender form. She was dressed in long black leggings and thick-knit leg warmers up to her thighs, paired with a leotard layered with a pale pink wraparound sweater, and still she shivered. She'd always been that way. Hands cold to the touch, forever seeking warmth. Perhaps it was best she'd left Alaska after all. “The effort, I mean. I know you don't want me here. You tried to get me fired.”

“Not fired. Unhired.” He cleared his throat. “Technically.”

The way she put it made it sound so awful. In retrospect, perhaps it was. Still, she couldn't possibly feel any more comfortable with the situation than he did.

“Same thing. So I think it's best if you do your job and I do mine.” She turned her back, effectively dismissing him.

Liam stayed put for a moment, transfixed by the back of her willowy neck, exposed by her upswept copper hair.

“About the music, though,” he said, giving it one last try.

She didn't say a word, didn't turn around, just kept moving in that graceful way she always had. It was then, when he could watch her, really look at her unobserved, that he realized how much he'd missed the way the simple turn of a sinuous wrist could make his breath catch in his throat.

He closed his eyes. His head hurt all of a sudden. “Never mind. School lets out in ten minutes. I'll be outside with the boys if you need anything.” He nodded in the direction of the field beside the church, which in his tenure as youth pastor had served as a baseball diamond, summer fairground, soccer field, football practice lawn and now site of the impending snowball battle.

“Okay. Thanks.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. Just for a moment.

He promptly looked away. “See you later, then.”

Mature. Really mature.

He shook his head as he grabbed his parka and headed outside. This was ridiculous. They were acting like teenagers, nearly as ridiculous as Ronnie and Melody. What a fine example they'd set for the kids.

Lord, where are You in all this?

Silence.

He pushed through the church's heavy double doors, out into the cold. The temperature had dipped even lower than expected. The icy wind bit at his face and sent a sharp icicle breeze through his hair. He dragged a skullcap from the pocket of his parka and pulled it on.

“Nothing?” His gaze shot skyward. Dove-gray clouds, heavy with snow, were draped so low that it almost felt as though they were pressing down on him, barely skimming the top of his head. Afternoons were never particularly bright this time of year in Aurora, as the sun typically set early. Sometimes as early as four o'clock. But this sky was different. Swollen with secrets. A storm waiting to happen. “Because now would be a great time for a sign, no matter how small. Anything to let me know You're aware of what's going on down here.”

He waited a beat, then blew out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. It hung in the air, suspended in a cloud of icy vapor.

Grow up. The world is full of problems far bigger than yours.

He dropped his gaze from the sky.

And was promptly hit square in the face with a wet, sloppy snowball.

He was stunned for a moment, frozen in place. He hadn't seen it coming. Aside from a painfully throbbing nose, his face had gone numb from the cold. Snow was everywhere. In his eyes, his nose, his mouth. If he hadn't just put on his hat, he would have had two earfuls of it, as well.

You asked for a sign, and everybody knows the Lord works in mysterious ways.

He swallowed a mouthful of slush and wiped the mess from his eyes. He blinked a few times and found seven familiar faces staring back at him, wearing expressions of amusement mixed with the smallest possible dash of sympathy.

“Heads up, Pastor.” Ronnie, the perpetual leader of the pack, grinned and tossed another snowball back and forth between his hands.

Liam reached for it, snatching it midair.

“
Now
you give me a heads-up?” He reminded himself that he loved these teenagers. Every last snowball-wielding one of them. “Shouldn't that have come a minute or two earlier?”

“All's fair in love and war, right, Pastor?” Ethan Locklear, the gangliest of the bunch at six feet tall and one hundred forty-five pounds soaking wet, shrugged. “And this snowball business is war, right?”

All's fair in love and war.
Since when did the boys quote sixteenth-century English writers?

Ronnie rolled his eyes. “We're studying poetry at school.”

That explained things.

All's fair in love and war.

Love.

War.

He preferred the latter. Less dangerous.

* * *

Posy heard her new ballet students before she had a chance to get a glimpse of them. How could she not? Their footsteps echoed in the hallway with all the grace of a herd of wild musk oxen. Giggles bounced off the walls. And yelling. So much yelling.

Posy swallowed. She couldn't remember any of Madame Sylvie's classes being anywhere near this noisy. Then again, maybe she wasn't remembering things all that accurately. She'd been a little girl herself when she'd first stepped into a ballet studio. Five years old. Barely more than a baby. Maybe kids were always this loud.

The commotion grew closer. An approaching blizzard.

Posy's throat went dry. Her heartbeat kicked up a notch like it always did in the final moments before the red velvet curtain was lifted. She felt the same way she had so many times before, suspended in those enchanting seconds of darkness, bathed in shadows, waiting in breathless anticipation for the warm glow of the spotlight. Mere seconds that inevitably lasted a lifetime.

Stage fright.

What had she gotten herself into? She knew plenty about ballet. She knew
everything
about ballet. But what did she really know about teaching? Or children?

Nothing.

She had the sudden urge to grab one of the teddy bears she'd brought for the girls and curl up on the floor in the fetal position.

Don't be ridiculous. You can do this. Little girls love anything to do with ballet. Piece of cake.

Posy squared her shoulders and adopted her onstage posture—chin lifted ever so slightly, ramrod-straight spine. She reminded herself, once again, that this was only temporary. What was the worst that could happen?

The door from the hallway flew open, and in walked her students. But wait...they weren't her students after all. They were adults.

Or were they?

“Hi,” the tiniest one said. She had the slim, delicate build of a dancer. Posy could see it, even beneath the layers of winter clothing. A backpack bursting at the seams with the solid square shapes of books slid from her shoulders and landed on the floor with a thud.

The metal folding chairs Liam had so carefully arranged jumped in place.

“Are you the ballet teacher?” another one of them asked, her skeptical gaze skipping over Posy's dance clothes and zeroing in on her injured foot.

And then the questions came at her from every direction. All at once, with the dizzying speed of a fouetté turn. So fast and furious that Posy couldn't keep track of them all.

“What happened to your leg?”

“Are you hurt?”

“Did that happen doing ballet?”

“Are those
teddy bears
?”

“Can you even dance with that cast on your foot?”

“Is ballet dangerous?”

That last one she'd heard. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks that Liam was outside somewhere throwing snowballs and hadn't been around to hear it, too.

“What is this crazy music?” the small one with the two-ton backpack asked, prompting the others to erupt in a fit of giggles.

Posy stumbled toward her iPod docking station, forgoing the crutches altogether and simply dragging her plaster foot behind her. She managed to slam the power button just as Peter was about to encounter the lilting, whimsical clarinet tune of the cat.

The laughter died along with Prokofiev.

Posy cleared her throat. “That was
Peter and the Wolf
. It's a classic, actually. But never mind about that.”

Two of the girls dragged a couple of folding chairs closer and slumped into them. So much for Posy's makeshift ballet barre.

She pasted on a smile. “Great idea. Why don't we all sit down? We can have a little chat and get acquainted.”

She took a seat in the chair she'd intended to use as her instructional barre, hating the way her leg looked sticking out straight in front of her in its cast. Foot immobile. Permanently flexed. It pained her not to be able to point her toes.

But she had more important things to think about at the moment. She needed to regroup.
Obviously.
These weren't children at all. These were teenagers.

Posy cleared her throat and tried to wrap her mind around the current state of affairs. She'd made a mistake. An assumption. But it wasn't the end of the world. She would just have to regroup, that was all.

“So...” She pasted on a smile. “My name is Josephine Sutton, but you can call me Posy.”

She'd planned on asking them to call her Madame Josephine in the spirit of her old ballet teacher. But that sounded ridiculous spinning around in her imagination right now, faced with a roomful of adolescent girls. Adolescent girls dressed in street clothes—jeans, heavy sweaters and snow boots. Not a leotard in sight.

Posy's pink-and-black ensemble seemed silly and presumptuous all of a sudden. “I'm a dancer with the West Coast Arts Ballet Company in San Francisco. A soloist.” Soon-to-be principal dancer.
Please, God.
“But for now, I'm here in Aurora to teach ballet.”

“Why?” one of the girls asked.

“Why?” Posy repeated, stalling while she tossed different answers around in her head.

Because I have nowhere else to go. Because I can't spend entire days at my parents' house with my mother watching me as if I might shatter and break into a million pieces. Because without dance, I'm lost.

“Because I love ballet, and I want to share that love with you.” There. That sounded good, and it was the truth.

Mostly. The rest of the story was far too complicated to explain to a group of strangers. Particularly strangers who were beginning to look as bored as if they were listening to a Mahler score. The girl with the enormous backpack seemed to be the only one paying attention.

She appeared to be studying Posy with unusual intensity. “I meant, why here? Why Aurora?”