LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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