LITMIR.BIZ

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Documentary films weren’t made behind a desk, scouring the internet for video footage. To be a success she must embrace her father’s lifestyle and not settle for anything less. “I’ve settled into being a nomad.”

      “My husband never liked to travel.” Helen paused and held out her hand, curving her arm like a graceful ballerina. “I always wanted to dance through a field of heather or touch a red ginger flower in the wild or collect seashells along a white-sand beach.”

      Mia had dug more than her toes in the white sand in the Gulf of Mexico. She’d crawled across the beach on her stomach, filming the rare Kemp’s ridley hatchlings emerging from their nests to crawl home to the ocean. Sand stuck to places it never should’ve been weeks after they’d wrapped filming. She hadn’t exactly danced through the field of heather; more like trampled the purple flowers, tracking the sea eagles on the Isle of Skye. Yet the cloud of midges and her severe allergic reaction to the bites from the hundreds of tiny bugs downgraded the trip from cherished to agonizingly itchy. If only she hadn’t followed her father up the mountainside for a shot that had never made the final film cut.

      However, she could envision a younger version of Helen Reid sashaying through that same field, pausing to greet each flower like a garden fairy from the ancient myths. The images clicked through her mind, vivid stills of moments captured and preserved. But Mia wasn’t creating a memory book for Helen. “You could celebrate your full recovery by traveling to Scotland with Wyatt.”

      “He has other important commitments and I have my gardens. At least for now.” The steel in Helen’s tone gave the sadness in her quiet gaze a backbone.

      “Have your doctors restricted you from gardening when you get home?”

      “My doctors like to tell me I’ve a bionic hip now.” Helen patted her leg. “I may need to replace the other one so it can keep up with its new-and-improved partner.”

      “When will you be back to your gardens?” Mia asked.

      “As soon as I can convince my doctor to sign off on my get-out-of-jail paperwork.” Helen’s therapist guided her into the chair. After ensuring Helen’s comfort, the woman disappeared into another patient room. Helen shifted to look at Mia. “When do you get to leave?”

      “As soon as Dr. Hensen agrees to close my wound and any doctor signs my discharge papers.” Mia lowered herself into the chair beside Helen and swallowed her sigh of relief. She refused to look at Robyn, who scribbled across her paper notes before checking over Mia one last time and rushed off.

      Helen tugged her walker closer to rest her arm on. “We both need someone to recognize we’re more than capable of handling our own affairs and seeing to our own health.”

      “You’ll let me know when you’ve found that person, won’t you?” Mia tipped her head against the windowsill behind her and inhaled around the throbbing in her leg.

      “As long as you promise to do the same,” Helen said.

      “Wyatt must’ve noticed your progress,” Mia said. “Surely he wants you back home.”

      “My son is not the person we need,” Helen said. “He doesn’t believe I’m safe in my gardens.”

      “Wyatt wants you to give up your gardens?” Mia asked. Wyatt wanted Mia to give up on her film to focus on her recovery, as if she couldn’t do both successfully.

      “Insists I’m not safe in my own home now. Can you imagine? I’ve lived there longer than he’s been alive.” Helen shifted in her chair. “Wyatt doesn’t believe in anything he cannot control.”

      Like love. Wyatt had wanted Mia to stay in Africa to discover if there was something more than attraction between them. But that meant putting her work second. Something he hadn’t been willing to do himself. It also meant taking a chance on love.

      But she’d vowed years ago never to risk everything for love. Her mother had loved like that and had ended up alone with only her wedding ring as proof of her thirty-year marriage. Besides, she’d witnessed her father choose between his work and his wife. There hadn’t been enough love for both in his life. You have to be willing to sacrifice for your art, Mia. It’s the only way to build a legacy. Perhaps her father was right, except there was nothing for Mia to sacrifice if she never risked her heart.

      The elevator doors slid open and Wyatt stepped onto the floor, confidence and determination in every sure step down the hall toward them. Awareness fired across her nerves, straightening her spine and kicking up her pulse. He irritated her, nothing more than that. How could he take away his mother’s passion and crush her like that? How insensitive was he? Keeping her mom in the home she’d bought with Mia’s father on their first anniversary was Mia’s priority.

      But then Wyatt would’ve made Mia choose, too: between him and her art. Fortunately she’d fled with her heart intact and no regrets.

      Wyatt nodded at her and leaned down to press a soft kiss on his mother’s cheek. Mia clenched the chair arms to keep from touching her own cheek. Greetings from her ex-boyfriends had been absentminded and distant at best. Her father’s greetings had included a cold cup of coffee and instructions to keep the day on schedule. Annoyed that he made her miss something insignificant like a simple kiss, she frowned at Wyatt.

      “Wyatt, you never mentioned your friend was a patient here, too.” Helen tugged on her robe, adjusting the silk material around her legs. “But then you never mentioned Mia when you met her in Africa either.”

      “You never mentioned you’d become the welcoming committee for the third floor.” Disapproval thinned his mouth into a flat line.

      Which would’ve been more than acceptable if the urge to make him smile didn’t jolt Mia. Clearly, she needed a cup of her father’s cold coffee and a dose of reality. She stretched both legs out as if she’d just finished an hour of hot yoga, not struggled to walk the length of the hallway without slowing to catch her breath. She needed to concentrate on her recovery, not Wyatt’s lack of humor. “We’re between therapy sessions.”

      Helen reached over, patted Mia’s arm. Each tap made Mia’s grin broaden as Wyatt’s frown lengthened. His mom added, “There are no rules against patients visiting with each other.”

      But this wasn’t about two patients. This was about a mother and a former something—Mia wasn’t sure how to label what Wyatt and she had been in Africa. Still, she knew that hard gaze, that stiff stance from his taut shoulders to his tense hands on his hips. Wyatt had worn that same look every time Eddy had failed to follow his orders exactly. Now Wyatt leveled his displeasure on Mia and Helen. Except Mia wasn’t sure what Wyatt Reid rule the women had violated.

      “Was there a reason you were keeping Mia a secret?” Helen’s voice was mild, as if she didn’t care if she violated a rule or not.

      Mia was curious, too. “Maybe he thought we’d plan to escape together.”

      Helen laughed. “And fly to Scotland to stroll through the fields of heather that I’ve always wanted to feel under my bare feet.”

      Wyatt’s mouth opened, the smallest fraction that betrayed his surprise before he smashed his lips together.

      Mia eyed him, enjoying his discomfort. “There’s still more to learn about your mom.”

      “Wyatt is content with the mother he knows.” Resignation slipped through Helen’s voice.

      “Certainly, your son wouldn’t presume to know everything about you.” Mia kept her gaze fixed on Wyatt and her voice just a notch above scolding. He’d claimed to want to learn everything about Mia one time, too. But only if Mia fit conveniently into his work schedule with little disruption to his life. “People change and grow all the time.”

      Wyatt crossed his arms over his chest and kept his gaze fastened on hers, the challenge clear. “People also believe they need the approval of others to feel valuable and waste their entire lives seeking that approval, which they’re never going to get.”

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