The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek Read online

  Yeah, he did. He might try but couldn’t lie to himself how much he enjoyed the kids. With the start of school, Willow had given them permission to visit him but they had to leave here at five, walk home for dinner, and do their homework. Because he’d taught them discipline, expected them to honor women, they didn’t dare leave a second late.

  He thought karma meant if he did good, he’d get good back. In his case, karma should mean if he followed the rules and got the boys ready to go home on time, he’d see Willow once in a while. Obviously it didn’t work that way for him. Sometimes life came back to bite you. No good deed goes unpunished.

  What other clichés could he think of to put off getting up?

  He now had thirty-five minutes to get dressed and eat and be ready for the van.

  The short period of preparation explained—mostly—why he looked scruffy. Not enough time to shave made his beard show dark. With only a few minutes to take a shower and no time to blow-dry his hair, it still dripped when he ambled into the therapy room on his cane. Clean, of course. Dirty wasn’t an option. Sadly, arriving hungover with a pounding headache and queasy stomach seemed to be.

  While several clients pulled on bands attached to hooks or lay on treatment beds lifting canes over their heads, he stood alone by the parallel bars.

  “You don’t look well, Captain.”

  Willow had appeared in front of him looking bright, smiling in her best professional manner. Her perkiness made his head hurt even more.

  “Tough night?” she asked.

  He’d shake his head if the movement didn’t cause pain to shoot up his neck and scramble his brain. “I’m fine.”

  “I need to observe you today.” She picked up a clipboard. “After that, I have to make some notes and do a few measurements for the prosthetist. I’ll send him a report today because he’s coming here to see you next week.”

  Sam pulled himself between the rails and attempted to walk as well as possible. Dumb. Not as if he needed to impress her with how little he limped.

  “Captain,” she said. “You’re slouching.” She placed her hand on the small of his back and pressed. “Straighten here.” Keeping the pressure on, she watched him take several steps. “Does that feel better?”

  It did. Took some strain off his leg, but he wondered how long he could maintain that position. He’d been surprised how much strength and muscle he’d lost over the months before he started rehab.

  She watched him, evaluating every movement. “Try not to swing your right leg so much. That’s hard on your hip. Use your muscles, not that rocking motion.”

  “Easy for you to say,” he mumbled.

  “Probably so, but if you over-rotate any part of your body, you’ll have trouble later.” She smiled, again professionally, as if he were a pitiful wretch she had to rehabilitate—which he was, of course.

  Women were seldom attracted to a pathetic shell of a man.

  After a few repetitions of the exercises, she said, “Captain, please come with me so I can take a few measurements.” She turned precisely and strode toward her office. Her posture cried, I’m a professional and not the least bit interested in you.

  If she wasn’t attracted, why the statement? Why the attitude?

  The tension in his neck decreased as he followed her, gorgeous even under the lab coat. He grinned and his headache lessened a little.

  “Please sit down, Captain.” She gestured to a chair as she settled behind her desk.

  With his cane, he pushed the door shut. Then he shoved the chair closer to her. She pushed it back and moved hers in the opposite direction. Unexpected. He’d never had a woman react like that.

  “Captain,” she said in an unruffled voice.

  One more thing he’d lost: his touch with women. The always successful Sam Peterson charm didn’t affect this woman, at least not now, not in her department. He knew it had a couple of times, but today Willow looked cheery and chipper, spunky and totally, obnoxiously in charge.

  She watched him coolly. “I need to make some measurements, but you’ll need to remove your prosthesis.”

  Another problem: Sam didn’t feel toward her as he should with a professional.

  “That means I’m going to have to take off my jeans,” he said stupidly. Obviously he’d have to unless she’d developed X-ray vision, a superpower he hadn’t noticed she possessed.

  As for taking off his jeans, he didn’t think that was a good idea. Although she didn’t seem to think of him as a man, he couldn’t forget she was a woman. Panic spread through him. “Why don’t you have Mike measure?”

  “Because, Captain, this is my job.”

  Her voice firm, she glared at him. Though he didn’t think it was possible, her posture became straighter and even more professional. He didn’t know how she did that because she’d sounded like a real medical badass only seconds earlier.

  “I’m the PT who works with the prosthetist, Captain. That’s my job, my specialty.”

  Great. He’d insulted Willow. Her words made him feel like a complete jerk. No, as the man who’d tried to be his counselor at the VA had told him a million times, he’d decided to act like a jerk. She’d just caught him at it.

  Why did this woman attract him? His usual choice in women was pretty and petite and adoring, cute and compliant. Those women didn’t glare at him, and they didn’t act like any kind of badass.

  No matter how educated and trained and competent she was, he wasn’t feeling patient-like enough toward her to drop his pants.

  She stood, opened a cabinet, and pulled out a gown. “Put this on.” She placed it on her desk only inches from him. “Take off your trousers. Now. I’ll be back to measure.”

  He hesitated.

  “Suck it up, Captain.” She glared at him. “If you want to get rid of the clunky old prosthesis, the one you hate, the one that rubs and doesn’t fit well, do this. I have to send Leland the information.” Then she raised one eyebrow. “I’m a trained professional.”

  He’d had measurements taken and been examined, prodded, and photographed by nurses and doctors and PTs in Hawaii and DC. It never bothered him before, but this…

  “Next time, wear shorts so you don’t have to change.” She swirled and stalked out of the office, closing the door behind her.

  He picked up the gown and studied it. A marine wouldn’t wear something like this. But he couldn’t have worn shorts, either. Everyone would see he was missing a leg. Everyone could see the prosthesis, if he wore shorts.

  Was he ashamed? No, but it was unsightly. He’d have to expose that ugliness and loss to the world, at least to the part of the world that lived in Butternut Creek.

  Why? Why should he feel that way? He’d lost that part of his leg when fighting for his country. It should be a badge of honor.

  It was a badge of honor, of service, not a disability to hide.

  That decided, he reached toward a pencil holder on Willow’s desk and pulled out a pair of scissors. With his thumb, he measured a few inches above his knee before he began to cut the leg of his jeans off.

  Finished, he examined his new semi-shorts. The right leg of the trousers hit mid-thigh. A little uneven but, all in all, it worked. He tossed the gown back on the desk, removed the prosthesis, and leaned back in the chair.

  Willow tapped on the door. “Ready?”

  “Come in.”

  She opened the door and stopped, looking not at his missing leg but at the new semi-shorts. “Very clever,” she said with a smile.

  He felt pretty proud.

  The measurements completed, she said, “Leland will be coming next week with a new prosthesis. You’re going to be surprised by how comfortable this one will be, how much you can do with it after you get used to it.”

  “Like playing basketball? Running?”

  “Don’t see why not.”

  “Dancing?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good, because I never could dance before.”

  She smiled. Nice of
her because he bet she’d heard that joke a thousand times. Her expression encouraged him to add, “I’m no prize, an amputee who drinks too much. I don’t have the slightest idea what I’m going to do when PT is over and I’m completely rehabilitated, at least physically.”

  “Perhaps—” She turned toward him with an expression of… well, interest. Not interest in him as a man but as her patient. “Perhaps I should set you up for vocational counseling.”

  “What I mean is that I find you very attractive but I don’t have much to offer.”

  “You sell yourself short, Captain. I’m sure many people find you personable.” She made a few more notes on his chart, added something on the computer, and kept busy for a few minutes.

  While she did, he watched her and mulled over the statement. Personable. Exactly what he’d been looking for. What did that word mean, really? Almost any other adjective, perhaps charming or handsome or sexy, would’ve made him happy. But personable?

  “Do you?” he asked. “Find me personable?”

  “Of course. What woman wouldn’t?” She turned toward him. In that softer voice, she added, “Captain, please remember, I am a professional, at least trying to be. For a moment I forgot that. I should never have kissed you.” She shook her head. “Never. As your therapist, I can’t let that happen again.” Her expression softened and she looked a little bit regretful.

  With that small amount of encouragement, he attempted to take her hand.

  Did he never learn?

  “Don’t you listen to anything I say?” She scooted away from him.

  From her determined expression—eyes narrowed and chin forward—he knew she wanted him to leave. She was on the job so she didn’t feel open to a bit of flirting. He had to remind himself she was like no other woman he’d dated, pursued, flirted with, or lusted after. He had to learn to back off, to give her room. He had no experience doing that. Until his leg was blown off, he’d always gone straight forward, regardless of the torpedoes.

  Now he had to adjust to too many things in his life, and changing in any way had become harder than he’d ever thought. Nevertheless, with Willow he had to rein himself in. He forced himself to change the subject.

  “Tomorrow night the boys are staying for dinner. Pizza. Join them?”

  “Oh, that’s right. They did mention that. I’d forgotten.”

  “Would you like to join us?” he repeated courteously, in a friendly way, not a bit pushy.

  “Captain, I can’t.”

  With tremendous effort not to crowd her, he didn’t say a word, but he worried. She wouldn’t take the boys away from him and his evil influence, would she? Stupid thought. The boys weren’t his but he had to know. “Can Leo and Nick still come?” He pushed himself to his feet as he waited for her answer.

  “Of course. They’d be really disappointed if they couldn’t.” She smiled—slightly—at him. “They look up to you. I’d never interfere with that. I’ll pick them up at seven. They have some chores to do at home.”

  As he opened the door, she added, “You’ll be sober.”

  He turned to face her. “Of course I will. I’d never hurt them.” No, he wouldn’t—except, of course, wanting to have a couple of shots of vodka before he took the kids to school, but she didn’t know about that and he hadn’t done it.

  “Wait, we—” she began at exactly the same time the phone rang.

  Christine knocked on the door and shouted, “Willow, we need you.”

  He opened the door and pushed past the aide.

  “Captain, we need to talk,” Willow said as Christine entered.

  He left the department, walked down the corridor and outside, where he settled on the bench to wait for his ride home.

  As he sat there, he worried. The you’ll-be-sober question hurt, but the we-need-to-talk statement scared the crap out of him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nervous didn’t even begin to describe how Sam felt that Saturday night. He’d enjoyed the ladies but had never found one he couldn’t easily replace with another.

  Until now. That scared him.

  He’d thought Willow felt the chemistry, too, but if she had she was ignoring it. Oh, sure, she’d agreed to let the boys come for dinner. She’d pick them up in a few minutes. He might not even see her. She might honk and the two would run out.

  He checked the kitchen clock. A few minutes before seven. While they waited for their mother, Nick and Leo had run out to the backyard to look at the rickety fence that was their next project together. The dirty forks and glasses sat in the sink, and the boys had torn up the pizza box and put it in the recycle bin. He looked at his watch, then remembered he didn’t wear it anymore because Morty had given it to him. It hurt too much to wear it.

  Besides, he bet the time hadn’t changed since he’d looked at the clock only seconds earlier.

  To waste a few minutes, he went into the bathroom, moving smoothly and without a cane. He still had one but seldom used it. The PT had helped incredibly; the Thomas family, even more.

  Once there, he picked up a comb and pulled it through his hair. It was getting too long. Too much bother to wash and dry, but he had to keep it, at least until the general arrived. The man hated long hair. A lot.

  Wasn’t he too old to enjoy tweaking the general? He considered the subject. No, he wasn’t. It was still fun.

  When the doorbell rang, he turned and hurried down the hall. Opening the door, he saw Willow holding a pitcher.

  “I brought you something.” She smiled.

  A smile and a gift—that was good, right?

  “The boys are in the backyard.” He walked toward the slider and pulled it open. “Nick, Leo, your mother’s here.”

  “Mom, we saved you dessert,” Nick said. He ran in and, after a glance at Sam, took the pitcher from his mother.

  “The pizza came with brownies,” Leo chimed in. “We know how you like them.”

  As the boys raced into the kitchen, Willow glanced at him.

  “Your sons tell me you love chocolate.” He held his hands up in front of him and shook his head. “This was all their idea, not mine. You are my PT and a professional who isn’t interested in kissing me ever again. I’d never attempt to bribe a professional with chocolate. They insisted on saving the brownies until you got here.”

  She looked perplexed, as if she had no idea how to answer.

  “Mom, come on,” Leo shouted.

  “Sir, what would you like to drink?” Nick asked as the adults entered the kitchen. “Mom makes the best peach tea in the world.” He paused to consider that statement. “You know, if tea was really important to us men.”

  “Tea sounds great,” he said. “You guys know where the ice is. I hide it in the freezer.”

  Sam lifted his gaze to Willow but she seemed busy, intent on taking glasses from the cupboard. He leaned against the doorjamb and, with pleasure, watched her move through the small area with such purpose.

  Maybe they’d leave after they finished. He hoped so because the thought of the little talk Willow had mentioned terrified him more than facing a dozen rocket launchers aimed straight at him.

  Willow studied the table but not the captain. No, she kept her gaze away from him, as if she didn’t notice him sitting there. She attempted not to act really obvious in her effort to pretend he didn’t exist.

  With the glasses filled, napkins on the table, and the tiny box of brownies set in the middle, they all settled in. The boys chattered and asked questions about the marines, which Sam answered. Other than “Do you need more tea?” Willow said nothing.

  When Sam glanced at her, she thought he looked perfectly friendly but, perhaps, a little worried. Why had she mentioned she wanted to talk to him? Guilt, of course.

  When they were finished, Willow had the boys clear and wipe down the table while she started to wash the dishes. Considering they’d used three forks for dinner and a total of seven glasses, it wouldn’t take long.

  “I can do that later.” Sam s
tood before he added in a casual voice, “Did you want to talk about something?”

  She turned toward him, but her eyes shifted, not making contact with his because she really didn’t want to talk to him. Why had she said she needed to? “I’m afraid we can’t, Captain. We have to leave. We’re going to church in the morning.”

  “It’s not even eight o’clock yet. Do you think thirteen hours is enough time to get ready for church?” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He grinned because now he was enjoying her obvious discomfort. “Or have you lost your nerve? About our chat?”

  Well, she wasn’t going to let him get by with that implication.

  “Boys,” she said, “I need to talk to the captain. Go in the living room and watch television for a few minutes.”

  Aware of the no-nonsense tone of her voice, the boys ran from the kitchen.

  “Guys, I have a new war movie on the DVR,” Sam called after them. “Go ahead and watch it.”

  “Thank you, sir,” they said in unison.

  “What’s up?” He leaned against the counter only a few feet from the sink.

  “I sometimes overthink things, Sam… Captain.” Was that ever an understatement, she thought as she put the last glass in the drainer.

  Sam waited for her to go on.

  “Yesterday, as you were leaving my office, I realized I had to clarify that terrible question I asked.” She glanced up, her voice sincere and urgent. “I took additional training in prosthetics. That’s why I was hired here. I’m the person, the best person, in the department to help you with your rehabilitation.”

  “Okay.” He shrugged. “I’m good with that. In fact, I’m grateful that you have that training and expertise. I understood that before I left.”

  “I know. I probably don’t need to reiterate that.”

  “You can iterate and reiterate all you want, but I did catch your meaning.”

  “I know.” She paused and cleared her throat. “I also need to apologize for my rudeness, for telling you not to drink. That’s none of my business. I was flustered and confused.” She grimaced. “You do that to me. I wish you didn’t because I hate to feel uncertain and fluttery.”