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Did she dare to hope…?
Yell all you want, she told him silently. I’m not giving up on you, Luke Marino. I’m going to help you whether you want it or not.
“Hey, M.K., catch.”
Hearing her brother Gabe’s voice, Mary Kate turned to see a bright blue exercise ball heading toward her. Off-balance, she grabbed for it, missing and stumbling toward the wheelchair. Before she could hit it, Luke grabbed her, his strong hands steadying her.
“Sorry,” she muttered, straightening herself. “My brother’s an idiot at times. I didn’t mean to run into you.”
“It’s okay.” His hand still encircled her wrist, his fingers warm and strong. She glanced at him, aware of how close they were, of how dark those smoky eyes of his were. That emotion seemed to dance between them, and she felt sixteen again.
MARTA PERRY
has written everything, including Sunday school curriculum, travel articles and magazine stories in her twenty years of writing, but she feels she’s found her home in the stories she writes for the Love Inspired Line.
Marta lives in rural Pennsylvania, but she and her husband spend part of each year at their second home in South Carolina. When she’s not writing, she’s probably visiting her children and her beautiful grandchildren, traveling or relaxing with a good book.
Marta loves hearing from readers, and she’ll write back with a signed bookplate or bookmark. Write to her c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279; e-mail her at [email protected] or visit her on the Web at www.martaperry.com.
A Soldier’s Heart
Marta Perry
MILLS & BOON
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The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me to preach good tidings to the poor; He has sent me to heal the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound; to proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all who mourn, to console those who mourn in Zion, to give them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they may be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that He may be glorified.
—Isaiah 61:1–3
This story is dedicated to my granddaughter,
Georgia Lynn Stewart, with much love
from Grammy. And, as always, to Brian.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Questions for Discussion
Chapter One
She was keeping an appointment with a new client, not revisiting a high school crush. Mary Kate Donnelly opened her car door, grabbed the bag that held the physical therapy assessment forms and tried to still the butterflies that seemed to be doing the polka in her midsection.
What were the odds that her first client for the Suffolk Physical Therapy Clinic would be Luke Marino, newly released from the army hospital where he’d been treated since his injury in Iraq? And would the fact of their short-lived romance in the misty past make this easier or harder? She didn’t know.
She smoothed down her navy pants and straightened the white polo shirt that bore the SPTC letters on the pocket. As warm as this spring had been, she hadn’t worn the matching navy cardigan. The outfit looked new because it was new—just as new as she was.
Nonsense. She lectured herself as she walked toward the front stoop of the Craftsman-style bungalow. She was a fully qualified physical therapist and just because she’d chosen to concentrate on marriage and children instead of a career didn’t make her less ready to help patients.
The truth was, her dwindling bank balance didn’t allow her any second thoughts. She had two children to support. She couldn’t let them down.
The grief that was never far from her brushed her mind. Neither she nor Kenny had imagined a situation in which she’d be raising Shawna and Michael by herself. Life was far more unpredictable than she’d ever pictured.
For Luke, too. He probably hadn’t expected to return to his mother’s house with his legs shattered from a shell and nerve damage so severe it was questionable whether he’d walk normally again.
Ruth Marino’s magnolia tree flourished in the corner of the yard, perfuming the air, even though Ruth herself had been gone for nearly a year. Luke had flown from Iraq for the funeral. Mary Kate had seen him standing tall and severe in his dress uniform at the church. They hadn’t talked—just a quick murmur of sympathy, the touch of a handshake—that was all.
Now Luke was back, living in the house alone. She pressed the button beside the red front door. Ruth had always planted pots of flowers on either side of the door, pansies in early spring, geraniums once the danger of frost was past. The pots stood empty and forlorn now.
There was no sound
