LITMIR.BIZ

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got permission from Jason’s hairdresser to put a notice in the salon’s front window when she dropped Jason off for a haircut. She had a whole sheaf of them which she’d photocopied at the drugstore that morning and was now distributing around town. Her heart wasn’t in it—she was attached to the little dog already—but she didn’t see any other option.

      “I’ll meet you back at the drugstore in half an hour,” she called to Jason who was draped in a black gown that hung down the sides of his wheelchair.

      “Make it an hour,” he said, twisting to speak to her. “I want to go to the Electronics Shop for some components.”

      Fiona paused at the door. “I noticed Jeff put an ad in the local paper for help wanted. Why don’t you ask him for an application form?”

      Shaking his head, Jason turned back to the mirror. “See you later.”

      Fiona dropped off notices at a half-dozen more stores then picked up a couple of take-out coffees from the café and continued to her friend Liz’s yarn shop. As well as handspun yarn and knitting accessories Liz sold sweaters, shawls and scarves she designed and knit herself. She’d made the brown-and-cream alpaca pullover Fiona wore over jeans.

      Liz’s cropped dark curls were bent over her spinning wheel as her nimble fingers spun a fluffy mass of wool into a lengthening thread. At the sound of the door opening her foot stopped pumping and the wheel slowed.

      “Coffee!” she exclaimed with a welcoming smile. “You read my mind. I’m glad you stopped by. I’ve been going crazy this morning trying to come up with a theme for Jilly’s birthday party. She wants to invite her whole kindergarten class. How am I going to entertain twenty six-year-olds?”

      Fiona handed her a foam cup and sank onto an arm-less wooden rocker that Liz called her knitting chair. “That’s a tough one. I guess fairies won’t work two years in a row?”

      Liz shook her head. “She’s over that and anyway, there’ll be boys at the party.”

      “If I come up with any brainwaves I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, I’ve been pounding the pavement all morning putting up notices.” She handed one to Liz. “Can I tape this inside your front window?”

      “Of course.” Liz sipped her coffee and scanned the paper. “You shouldn’t have any trouble finding a home for a Jack Russell—they’re so smart and cute.”

      “This animal’s not a shining example of his breed, unfortunately. In fact, he looks like a drowned rat. I tried to give him away last night but he peed on the guy’s lap and that was that.”

      “Bad luck.” Liz paused to pull on the wool in the basket so it fed evenly into the spindle. As she set the foot rocker in motion again, she said, “By the way, I sold the last of Snowdrop’s cria wool to a client in Whistler— Angela Wilde.”

      “Angela Wilde?” Fiona repeated. “Is she any relation to Marc Wilde?”

      “She’s married to his cousin, Nate. Why?”

      “Marc is the guy I tried to give the dog to. He— Marc, that is—came into the pub yesterday and got stinking drunk.”

      “I heard he’s in a wheelchair now. He was injured during a bomb explosion, I think Angela said.”

      “Apparently he’s going to recover but in the meantime he’s not taking his loss of mobility well.” Fiona fingered a soft skein of dark blue wool, remembering the thinly veiled rage and despair in Marc’s eyes when he spoke of his injury.

      Liz sipped her coffee. “From what Angela told me, those Wilde men live up to their name. Apparently Marc was the wildest of them all when it came to courting danger.”

      So why had he asked her out? Fiona wondered. She was the tamest person she knew, mired in responsibilities she’d willingly taken on but with no life to call her own.

      “He invited me to dinner,” she told Liz.

      Liz’s eyebrows rose. “And you said…?”

      “No, of course.” Fiona put down the skein of wool and rose to pace the narrow aisle between the shelves of yarn. “He was drunk. He probably didn’t even know what he was saying. Anyway he’s got a serious attitude problem. I don’t want that kind of negativity in my life. Plus, he’s not sticking around once he’s recovered.”

      “One excuse would have been enough.” Liz smiled to herself as the thread slipped between her fingers. “Not because he’s in a wheelchair?”

      It took Fiona a moment to answer. “No…” she said finally. “That would be pretty insensitive of me.”

      “He’s got a fabulous voice,” Liz said. “Is he as attractive as he looks on TV?”

      “In a cynical, world-weary sort of way.” With his dark gold hair and eyes the color of new denim he could have been very attractive if he hadn’t let himself get so scruffy. Fiona noticed Liz watching her closely and turned away to gaze out the front window. “Speak of the devil.”

      On the raised wooden sidewalk Marc had stopped to read her notice. Seeing her, he motioned for her to come out. Fiona cast an uncertain glance at Liz.

      “Go on,” Liz urged. “What are you waiting for?”

      “I’ll see you later.” Fiona gathered up her notices and walked back outside under the shelter of the wooden awning that ran the length of the block. The morning clouds were breaking up and the afternoon promised more of the fine Indian-summer weather they’d been having lately.

      “Hi,” she said to Marc. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

      “What’s this?” he asked, pointing to her notice. His eyes looked even bluer in daylight and his hair glinted in the sun like gold threads. He was wearing a dark green track suit that showed off his broad shoulders. Marc was more attractive than he appeared on TV, somehow larger than life.

      “I can’t keep the dog so I’ve got to do something,” she explained. “Giving him away is better than sending him to the pound.”

      Marc shook his head, frowning. “You have no idea what kind of people he’ll end up with. They may say they’ll give him a good home but how do you know he won’t be mistreated again?”

      “Whoever answers this ad will be someone who wants a pet,” she said mildly. “But it’s nice that you care.”

      That brought him up short. His mouth clamped shut and he glanced away. “I don’t.”

      Fiona wagged a playful finger at him. “I don’t believe you.”

      One corner of his mouth twisted down as his hardened gaze swept back to her. “I don’t care what happens to the damn dog.”

      A woman and a small boy about four years old approached, interrupting their discussion. Fiona stepped to the side, dodging a hanging flower basket, to let them pass and Marc maneuvered his wheelchair out of the way behind one of the chunky posts that supported the awning.

      The little boy’s unblinking gaze fixed on Marc. “Why’s that man in a wheelchair, Mommy?” he said in a loud voice.

      “Shh, honey.” The mother flushed as she glanced at Marc and quickly away. “It’s not nice to stare.”

      “But, Mommy, what’s wrong with him?” The boy tugged on his mother’s hand to slow her pace, craning his neck to look back at Marc.

      Fiona saw Marc’s hands tighten on his wheels and felt herself tense up, too. The man was a time bomb waiting to explode. Definitely not ready to handle this.

      “I had an accident,” he snarled. “What’s wrong with you?”

      The boy burst into tears. His mother stared in shock for a split second before dragging her son away. “That wasn’t very nice, mister.”

      “What a horrible thing to say

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