Small-Town Dreams (26 page)

Through the terrace doors a few moments later, Jeff heard Manny call to her, but he couldn’t decipher what was said. Nor did he hear a reply. She’d left the draperies open, so he could see her when she got a few hundred feet from the house.

And she was still running.

He felt tears sting his eyes. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. Or maybe he had, but it didn’t feel anywhere near as good as he’d thought it would. Why were people nasty to one another if it made them feel this awful? How had his parents looked at themselves in the mirror every day?

Jeff kept watching Hope, wanting her to turn and come back so he could apologize, but she kept running. When she reached the pasture fence, he knew she was seeing what he was, his half-wild horse, Mr. March. But that sight meant something different to each of them. She saw in the stallion possibilities for the future ripe for the picking, and he saw his past hopes languishing on the vine.

The stallion he’d raised from a yearling and trained with Hope’s help prowled the pasture, clearly unhappy and tense from lack of exercise. Mr. March’s head stilled. He turned toward her, then thundered over to where she’d climbed the fence, tossing his head. He paced away restively, then back to her.

Suddenly, recklessly, considering Mr. March’s temperament, Hope grabbed the horse’s mane and leaped onto his bare back. Jeff’s heart pounded as the two flew across the field—a study in fury and freedom. And the heart he’d thought had hardened to stone cracked a little. Because there in that one scene were represented all his wishes and desires—past and present. Lost and yet to be achieved.

Mr. March represented the Olympic dream that had turned to dust, but he also stood for a more distant past when it was Jeff himself riding recklessly across the field, fleeing pain and seeking the joy and the freedom it gave him. Ironic to recognize that what he’d lost in the accident he’d really lost long ago. Joy. And now, as he discovered what he’d truly lost physically, he sat watching the treasure he’d lost that made everything else pale in comparison. For riding away and out of his life was Hope, his heart’s desire.

He hadn’t meant to hurt her. Just to make her want to go home—for her own good as well as his. Having her near was too painful for him. He would drag her into a world of disabilities where she didn’t belong. But he hadn’t wanted to make her cry.

“Sticks and stones, Hope. I guess we both forgot,” he whispered brokenly.

He’d forgotten how tender her heart was. He’d forgotten how words could injure. Just as he’d forgotten the way it felt to fly with the wind, not to perfect a technique or test his mount’s stamina, but to run from pain. To forget hurtful words. And to be free.

Free.

Hope needed to be free. Free of him. Free of the guilt he was sure tied her to him. Only then would she once again be able to go on with her life. But he’d tried cutting her out of his life, and that hadn’t done it. She’d moved in and taken over, saying she was going to make him get better. And in trying to get her to give up on him, he’d hurt her. He wasn’t strong enough to do that again. She was too precious to him.

Curt walked in, and Jeff looked up, remembering the things the younger man had said to him the evening before. There was only one way to free her. He had to do what she wanted him to do. He had to cooperate and try to make as much progress as he could. Then she’d see that he didn’t need her. What would a few exercises hurt, after all? It would at least relieve some of the boredom.

He’d do as Curt had said. He’d try—at least for today.

A
n hour after leaping on the stallion’s back, Hope slowed Mr. March as they approached the rose-brick stable. Manny pushed open the big arch-topped door and waved as she dropped to the ground off Mr. March’s back.

The purpose of the wild ride had been simple—to run from the hurt of the nasty scene in Jeff’s room. But once she’d managed to block out most of the pain and disillusionment of seeing Jeff become someone she scarcely recognized, she’d realized that he’d been pushing her buttons. And that she’d reacted just as he’d wanted. His rancor had been as much an act to drive her away as her tough stand was an attempt to make him care, and she’d let him get a rise out of her. That had been a mistake—a huge mistake.

But act or not, twice now she’d forced him to be cruel, something he’d never been to another person as long as she’d known him. When they were children, it had always been Cole telling her to bug off and Jeff saying he didn’t mind her tagging along. He’d lived his life with cruel, snide remarks flying between his parents and directed at him from both Carringtons. He’d never channeled his pain toward the people in his life. She could never remember him being mean to another person, let alone cruel.

The realization had her wondering if she’d misread the Lord’s will. Could her whole approach to helping Jeff be wrong? He wasn’t fighting her challenges with that I’ll-show-you attitude he’d always had when going after something he wanted. Instead, he was sinking further and further into a mean-spirited kind of existence that was poison to his soul and no life at all for someone like him. She knew Jeff’s heart, and he was hurting himself far more than he was hurting her. She had known from the start that her tough love stand could mean that even if she won her battle to get Jeff back on his feet she might lose him in the end. While she didn’t believe his claim that he felt only friendship for her, she was very much afraid she may have already pushed him too far and destroyed any possible future for them.

Trying not to show how at odds her thoughts were, Hope turned Mr. March over to one of the handlers for a nice rubdown and washing. It was the one part of being civilized the still half-wild animal loved.

With a heavy heart and the smell of straw and horse sweat filling her nostrils and clinging to her clothes, Hope turned toward the big house on the hill. She was surprised to find Emily Roberts singing happily as she scooted around the kitchen.

“Hope! You’re an absolute miracle worker,” Emily cried, rushing toward her, a happy grin wreathing her face. “He’s coming down for breakfast, and Curt said he’s going to start therapy this morning. And it was Jeffrey’s idea. It’s wonderful. I just know he’s going to be fine now.”

Surprised by the sudden change, Hope prayed Emily was right.

The clatter of the wheelchair drew her attention and confirmed Emily’s claim. Jeff tried twice to negotiate the doorway, but the width of the chair made the task difficult for a beginner. She could see how frustrated he was but didn’t know if she should offer help.

“I’ve got you,” Curt said from behind before she decided what to do.

Jeff dropped his fisted hands in his lap. “How’s anyone supposed to get around in one of these contraptions?” he complained.

“There are more compact chairs. Once you get stronger, one of those will give you better mobility. After all, you don’t need the battery pack or the full arms to keep your seat. Hope, I’ll write down some model numbers for the kind I’m talking about and for some additional equipment I think Jeff would benefit from. Could you see about it? And maybe do something about a chairlift on the back stairs?” Curt asked.

Hope nodded and looked at Jeff, but he refused to meet her eyes. The sudden silence in the room was deafening, and the tension between them was clearly uncomfortable to the others. Thankfully, Hope had an excuse to leave.

“Uh, Emily, I was riding and I really need to shower and change. I’ll just grab something for myself later.”

“You’ll do no such thing. No one gets to skip meals in this house as long as I’m around. Go have your shower, and I’ll keep your breakfast warm.”

Hope blinked and stared at the usually docile Emily. Heavens, she’d created a second monster! Then she heard Jeff snicker and wiped the shocked expression off her face. Instead of protesting, she nodded to Emily, shot Jeff a killing glance and fled his presence for the second time that day.

But there was no fleeing when she returned half an hour later and found Jeff alone in the breakfast room. He was clearly waiting for her. She skidded to a halt two steps into the warm sunny room as he looked up from his nearly empty plate.

“Oh, uh, hi,” Jeff said and grimaced. He looked at his plate then at her. His gray eyes were wary and somber. He was dressed in a black sweat suit. He usually looked good in black, but it seemed to exaggerate how pale his skin had grown since February. He stared at her for a long uncomfortable minute, his apology already in his eyes before he said, “I’m sorry for the things I said.”

She shrugged. “’S okay.”

“No. No, it isn’t. I was way out of line.”

Hope stared at him. This was the old Jeff. Or at least a glimpse of him. “And I forgive you,” she told him.

He raked his hand through his hair and sighed. “I hate this. I feel so powerless. Helpless. Hopeless. And at the risk of another spiked dinner, worthless. I’m not good for anything anymore.”

Hope dropped into a chair near him. “Look, Jeff, God doesn’t make junk. Believe that. You’ve never been worthless a day in your life. That’s your father and your coach talking.”

“And it turns out they were right, after all. What can I do now?”

Hope was clueless for an answer. She knew what he was talking about, and it wasn’t what it would be with most men. What he didn’t mean was how did he go about making money? For Jeff that had never been a goal, or a problem, for that matter. He’d followed his father’s footsteps into trading on the stock market, but that was only to finance his Olympic aspirations and not for the money’s sake. Money was merely a means to an end, not an end result. So what he’d really asked was what was he supposed to replace the dream of a gold medal with? What was he supposed to strive for?

Because Hope had always believed that once he’d achieved his goal of Olympic gold, he would suddenly find his life empty, she had an answer ready. And it was an answer he wouldn’t want to hear. She put her hand over his where it lay fisted on the table between them. “Seek the Lord, Jeff. He knows what you need to do. Ask Him.”

Jeff shook his head. “You know how I feel about all that hocus-pocus.”

Hope rolled her eyes. “I have never said faith was magic. You don’t even try to understand.”

“No. I don’t. Because I don’t believe it. Come on, Hope. What kind of merciful God would let me get crippled this way? And what about my parents? And yours? Mine are dead. Your mother was killed by a crazed horse with your father and brother watching. Your father’s never recovered. Neither has Cole. It’s torn your family apart for years. And your aunt Meg? She’s still grieving for a guy who went off to war and never came home.”

“Because we have free will. And we make mistakes. You were hurt because I was careless.” She held up her hand to stop his protest. “No. I missed a badly worn girth. I still can’t believe I did something so stupid, but I did it. I finally know how my father felt all those years ago for not listening to Cole about that horse. But he didn’t listen, did he? It was his choice to ignore his son’s protests in the interest of getting Cole back in the saddle after the horse threw him. Unfortunately Dad set the incident that killed my mother into motion.

“Another person who was wrong was my mother. She didn’t have to step in between Cole and Dad that day. She didn’t have to prove the horse was safe.

“Then there’s Cole,” she continued, ticking off the people he’d cited. “Cole could have reached out to my father sometime in the last fourteen years. And vice versa. Your parents didn’t have to leave that party with a friend who’d been drinking and let him drive.

“And Aunt Meg could have looked for love again after her fiancé was killed in Vietnam. She chose to stay alone.”

Hope covered his hand again. “All those things happened because we have free will. Because God gave us free will. What we do with our free will can bring joy or heartache into our lives or the lives of others.”

Jeff was shaking his head. “I’m not buying it. You’re just rationalizing.”

“You are so stubborn!”

He pulled his hand from hers. “No more so than you!”

They looked at each other. It was such a typical debate between them. The kind she missed. He smiled. She chuckled.

“Some things never change, do they?” he asked, still smiling.

“No. They don’t,” she replied and reached for what she assumed was the list of exercise equipment Curt had promised to leave for her.

Jeff practically snatched it out of her hand.

“Isn’t that the list Curt left for me?”

“I don’t need all this.”

“You heard Curt. He says you do.”

“I’m paying him enough. He can just improvise and earn his salary.”

Hope crossed her arms. “He’ll earn his salary by getting you on the road to recovery. What’s the real problem here? You aren’t lazy, Jeff. So it isn’t the work involved. You’ve never been cheap or stingy, so it isn’t the money that stuff will cost. What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid! I—I…” He slapped the list down between them. “Fine. Go spend my money. You’re right. I don’t care.”

Hope stood and smiled, then, on impulse, she leaned down and kissed his cheek. “Thanks. I will. How about we go see how that exercise room is coming?”

Jeff took a deep breath. Then fought to take another. Therapy? Why not just call it what is was?

Torture.

The inquisition.

He took another breath. Or tried. But the bunching muscles in his back and legs tightened, robbing him of what felt like his last thread of sanity. For the first time in his entire life, Jeffrey Carrington let someone else know he was in pain. He let out a howl loud enough to wake the dead.

And Curt Madden.

The supposedly hard-to-wake, four-cup-a-jump-start therapist arrived wide awake at his side in a nanosecond. “Spasms?” Madden asked.

In the grip of an even worse cramp than the previous one, Jeff managed to nod, then he buried his face in his pillow, letting it absorb the cold sweat and his humiliating tears. Then breathing seemed to lose its involuntary status. Jeff found himself fighting to suck air in around the pain and expel it to make room for the next breath. Then he felt Madden’s hands on his back and tensed even more.

“Try to relax,” Curt ordered. “Do you want medication?”

“Anything. My abs are starting to cramp now. I’m going to get sick. Do something. Lethal injection couldn’t be worse than this.”

Somehow the RN managed to get the medication into him, and Jeff managed to keep it down. He couldn’t remember when his mind started to clear of the excruciating agony that had awakened him out of the depth of sleep. Though it was now on a level he could handle, Jeff was still in considerable pain. Almost on cue, embarrassment crept into its place as Curt manipulated the protesting muscles.

“Try to relax and go with the pain. Let it wash over you like a wave but try not to react to it. Let sleep come back and…”

Jeff closed his eyes and listened to the hypnotic rhythm of Curt’s voice. It reminded him of the way Hope’s voice sounded when she was working with a particularly skittish horse. Calm. Reassuring. Restful. A voice you could trust, he thought some minutes later as he slipped into exhausted sleep.

The next thing he knew, a cool breeze flowed across his skin and soft sunlight kissed the air. He was still facedown on the bed. And it was morning. He’d made it through the night.

Jeff didn’t know how he was going to face therapy again that day knowing what the increased activity would do to him in the night. He’d noticed it early on. The more they moved him around for tests in the hospital, the worse his muscles had cramped in the night. The therapy wasn’t worth it. Why couldn’t they leave him alone?

He opened his eyes and saw Hope sitting on the floor by his bed. She wore a soft peach sweater and a matching skirt that draped over bent knees and flowed onto the floor covering all but the tips of her shoes. Her head rested on her arms which were wrapped around her upraised knees. Her position didn’t look very comfortable.

Guilt struck him.

He was about to disappoint her, but it couldn’t be helped. This wasn’t going to work. He’d rather die than suffer the shame again of screaming out in the night. He was thankful that with Hope sleeping in the homestead house, she couldn’t have heard him, but Curt had, and, no doubt, Mrs. R.

Hope must have felt him watching her because her eyes flew open and she blushed. “Oh. You’re awake! Hi.”

“Ditto,” he replied, his voice rough as sandpaper. Probably from that guttural scream he’d let out when the spasms had awakened him to a world of darkness and pain.

He tried to clear his throat. “Where’s super nurse this morning?” he asked.

“Curt should be right back. They needed him to check out the equipment that’s being delivered. And there’s a mirror installer down there putting mirrors on a couple walls. I heard you had a bad night.”