Woodrose Mountain

“I’m assuming you aren’t here to discuss my ventilation issues, Brodie.”

He glanced out the window at the gathering dusk, his jaw tight, as if he were steeling himself for something particularly unpleasant, and her curiosity ratcheted up a notch.

“I want to pay for your services.”

O—kay. She blinked. The building that housed String Fever and her apartment above it had been a bordello in the town’s wilder days but she was almost positive Brodie didn’t mean that like it sounded.

She was also quite sure she should ignore the little quiver low in her belly as her imagination suddenly ran wild.

She sipped at her water again. “Did you want to commission some jewelry? Is it a gift for Taryn?”

“It’s for Taryn. But not jewelry.” Again, that hint of discomfort flashed in his expression and just as quickly, he blinked it away. “You haven’t talked to my mother, have you?”

“No. Not since before I left town Thursday.”

“Then you probably haven’t heard the news. Taryn is coming home.”

Some of her tension lifted, replaced by instant delight. “Oh, Brodie. That’s wonderful!”

She might heartily dislike the man but she could still rejoice at such terrific news, for Katherine’s sake if nothing else. “Isn’t this sudden, though? I’m stunned! Last week when your mother came into the store, she said Taryn would be at the rehab facility at least another couple of months. How wonderful for you that she’s so far ahead of schedule!”

“One would think.”

She frowned at his tone, his marked lack of excitement. “You don’t agree.”

“I would like to.”

“It’s been more than three months since the accident. Aren’t you overjoyed?”

“I’m happy my daughter is coming home. Of course I am.” His voice was clipped, his words as sharp as flat-nose pliers.

“But?”

He released a long breath and shifted his weight. “The rehab facility is basically kicking her out.”

“Kicking her out? Oh, surely not.”

“They don’t phrase it quite that bluntly. More a kindly worded suggestion that perhaps the time has come for us to seek different placement for Taryn.”

“Why on earth would they do that?”

“The rehab doctors and physical therapists at Birch Glen have reached the consensus that Taryn has reached a plateau there. She refuses to cooperate with them, to the point that she’s become unmanageable and refuses to even go to therapy anymore.”

“It’s their job to work around her plateau and take her treatment to the next level.” Nearly a decade as a physical therapist had proven that over and over. She couldn’t count the number of times she thought she had taken a patient as far as she could, had managed to push them to the limit of capability, only to discover a new exercise or stretch that made all the difference.

“Birch Glen is the most well-regarded rehabilitation facility in Colorado. As such, they have a lengthy waiting list of patients who actually want to be there and the staff would like to focus on people willing to be helped. It’s not malicious. Everyone is very sorry about the situation, blah-blah-blah. The director just gently suggested Birch Glen had helped Taryn as far as she would let them and perhaps staff members at a different facility might be better able to meet her needs at this time.”

Evie could understand that. Sometimes patients and therapists couldn’t gel, no matter how hard each side tried. “That must be aggravating for you—and especially for Taryn. I’m sorry, Brodie. I’ve heard of several excellent rehabilitation centers in the Denver area. Perhaps therapists with different personalities and techniques can find a way to challenge and motivate her.”

“We’re dealing with a fifteen-year-old girl who’s suffered a severe brain injury here. She’s not being rational.”

“Is she talking now?” Last she’d heard from Katherine, the girl was reluctant to say much since each word seemed to be a struggle.

“Her speech is coming along. Better than it used to be, anyway. Taryn has managed to communicate in her own determined way that she wants to come home. That’s it. Just come home.” He sighed. “She’s made it abundantly clear she won’t cooperate anywhere else—not even the best damn rehab unit in the country. All she wants is to come home to Hope’s Crossing.”

He showed such obvious frustration, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. Yes, she might dislike the man personally and, in general, find him arrogant and humorless. It was more than a little tough to reconcile those first—and second and third—impressions with the image of a devoted father who had dedicated all his resources to helping his daughter heal in the three months since the car accident that had severely injured her and killed another teen.

“Taryn’s basically throwing a temper tantrum like a three-year-old,” he went on.

“She’s been through hell.”

“Granted. And as much as I want to ignore her wishes and continue with the status quo or find her another rehab facility, I have to listen to what she’s telling us. She’s not progressing and a few of the members of her care team have suggested giving in to what she wants—bringing her home and starting a therapy program here.”

His words suddenly echoed through her mind. I want to hire your services, he had said. Suddenly, ominously, all the pieces began to click into place.

“And you’re here because?” she asked, still clinging to the fragile hope that she was far off the mark.

He looked as if he would rather be using those flat-nose pliers she’d thought of earlier to yank out his toenails than to find himself sitting in her living room, preparing to ask her a favor.

“It was my mother’s idea, actually. I’m sure you can imagine the level of care required if we truly want to bring Taryn home. For this kind of program, she’s going to need home nursing and an extensive program of rehab therapies—physical therapy, occupational therapy, speech. She still can’t—or won’t—take more than a step or two on her own and as a result of her injuries she has very limited use of her hands, especially her left one. Right now she struggles to even feed herself. Doctors aren’t sure what, if any, skills she might regain.”

Brain injuries could be cruel, capricious things. In an instant, a healthy, vibrant girl who loved snowboarding and hanging out with her friends and being on the cheerleading squad could be changed into someone else entirely, possibly forever.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “The people at Birch Glen are telling me I really need someone to coordinate Taryn’s care. Someone who can work with all the therapists and the home-nursing staff and make sure she’s receiving everything she needs.”

Evie braced herself for him to actually come out and say the words he had been talking around. She pictured another fragile girl and those raw, terrible weeks and months after she died and everything inside Evie cried out a resounding no to putting herself through that again.

“My mother immediately suggested you as the perfect person to coordinate her care. I’m here to ask if you’ll consider it. “

And there it was. She drew in a breath that seemed to snag somewhere around her solar plexus.

“I’m a beader now,” she said tersely.

“But you’re also a licensed rehab therapist. My mother told me you even maintained Colorado certification after you moved.”

And hadn’t that been one of her more stupid impulses? She’d tested mainly as a challenge to herself, to see if she could, but also in case anyone raised objections to her volunteer work at the local senior citizens’ center. Now she deeply regretted it.

“Simply because I’m capable of doing a thing doesn’t mean I’m willing.”

Good heavens, she sounded bitchy. Why did he bring out the worst in her?

His already cool eyes turned wintry. “Why not?”

A hundred reasons. A thousand. She thought of Cassie and those awful days after her death and the hard-fought serenity she now prized above everything else.

“I’m a beader now,” she repeated. “I’ve put my former career behind me. I’ve got commitments. Besides working for Claire at the store, I’ve got several commissioned projects I’ve agreed to make, not to mention another art fair over Labor Day weekend. What you’re asking is completely impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible. That’s not just a damn T-shirt slogan.”