again, searching for a birth date or mention of the man’s age, which was basic information present in the other nine case charts she’d been assigned. Thus far, nothing.
Maybe this guy was an old duffer, like her grandfather. Crotchety and isolated and clinging to whatever measure of independence he could manage.
This morning, Grace had studied Sophie’s home visit schedule before handing it over, and she’d made it clear once again that Sophie had to succeed with every physical therapy client, to the limits of their potential, and that she’d be closely evaluating Sophie’s progress.
The job was temporary—just three months while covering for the regular therapist who’d gone to Chicago for some intensive advanced training. Excellence was expected on a daily basis, Grace had emphasized. But if Sophie did exceptionally well, Grace would try to push the county board to approve hiring her on a permanent basis.
The thought had lifted Sophie’s heart with joy, though now some of her giddy excitement faded. She set her jaw. If her ability to stay in Aspen Creek hinged on those stipulations, then no one—not even this difficult old man—was going to stand in her way. Far too much depended on it.
“Buddy, I’m going to overwhelm you with kind ness, and your mean ole dog, too,” she muttered under her breath as she pawed through a grocery sack on the front seat of her car. “See how you like that.”
Withdrawing a small can, she peeled off the outer plastic lid, pulled the tab to open the can and held it high. “Salmon,” she crooned. “Come and get it.”
It took a minute for the scent to drift over to the cabin. The dog’s head jerked up. He sniffed the breeze, then he cautiously started across the stretch of grass between the cabin and driveway.
She stayed in the lee of her open car door, ready to leap back inside at the least sign of aggression. But by the time the dog reached her front bumper his tongue was lolling and his tail wagging.
She grabbed a plastic spoon on her dashboard—a remnant of her last trip to a Dairy Queen—and scooped up a chunk of the pungent, pink fish. She dropped it on the grass and the dog wolfed it down, his tail wagging even faster. “Friends?”
She held out a cautious hand and he licked it, his eyes riveted on the can in her other hand. “Just one bite. When I come out, I’ll give you one more. Deal?”
His entire body wagged as he followed her to the cabin door.
No lights shone through the windows. She knocked. Then knocked again as loud as she could and listened for any signs of movement.
What if…what if the old guy had passed on?
Her heart in her throat, she framed her face with her hands and pressed her nose to a pane of glass, trying to peer into the gloom. Knocked again. And then she quietly tried the doorknob.
It turned easily in her hand. She pulled the door open, just an inch. “Hello? Anyone here?” She raised her voice. “I’m from the home health agency.”
No answer.
Thunder rumbled outside, heavy and ominous. A nearby crack of lightning shook the porch beneath her feet. She opened the door wider, then bracketed her hands against the inner screen door and tried to look inside. “Hello?”
The dog at her side whimpered. Then he shoved past her, sending the door swinging back to crash against the interior wall.
So much for subtlety.
“Hello,” she yelled. “Are you here? Are you okay?”
Something moved in the darkness—probably just the dog. Still, she took a cautious step back.
If the old fellow had died, she had no business disturbing the scene. The sheriff should be called, and the coroner. And if he was in there with a shotgun, she sure didn’t want to surprise him.
But on the other hand, if he needed help, she could hardly walk away. Steeling herself, she reached around the corner and fumbled along the inside wall until she found a light switch and flipped it on.
Only a single, weak bulb came to life in the center of the room, leaving most of it dark. She started to step over the threshold…then drew in a sharp breath.
The room was nearly bare. She could make out the shapes of a sofa, chair and what might be a desk in one corner. But it was the figure suddenly looming over her that made her heart lurch into overdrive with fear. Tall. Broad shoulders. Silhouetted by the faint light behind him, she couldn’t make out his expression, but his stance telegraphed irritation.
This wasn’t some old guy.
Maybe…maybe he was an intruder. Maybe he’d hurt poor old crotchety Dr. McLaren and was hauling away all the loot in this cabin…
Raising her hands defensively, she backed up a step, and then another, preparing to run.
But then she saw the dog amble over and sit at the man’s side, leaning its shaggy body against his hip. He rested a gentle hand on the animal’s head.
“I—I’m sorry,” she faltered, searching his face. He didn’t look disabled…but then she saw the tell-tale signs of tension in his stance, as if it had been painful to make it to the door. And the angle of his body, as if he were guarding himself against injuries that probably still kept him up at night.
He said nothing.
“You must be Dr. McLaren. I thought…I thought you were old,” she stammered as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. He wasn’t only a much younger man—probably in his mid-thirties at the most—but he was striking in that tall, dark, and dangerous sort of way that always made her self-conscious about her very ordinary self. “When you didn’t answer, I…um…I was afraid that you might be dead.”
“Unfortunately, no,” he growled. He glanced at her upraised hands, then met her eyes with a piercing stare. “So who are you, and why are you threatening me with a can of salmon?” His gaze slid over to the folder in her other hand. “Second thought—just forget it and go away.”
He started to close the door. She stopped it with her foot. “I can’t leave. I’m Sophie Alexander, your new physical therapist, from the county home health agency.”
“Well, Sophie, maybe you’re the new therapist, but you’re wrong. You certainly can leave.”
“No, I can’t.”
“The others did, which was fine with me.”
“Look. I’ve been given my schedule, and Grace Dearborn—”
“Grace.” He sighed heavily.
“Right. Ms. Dearborn made it very clear that I had to follow through without fail on every person in my caseload. And honestly? Today hasn’t been good. I’ve been scratched and bitten by an eighty-seven-year-old woman with Alzheimer’s who should be in a care center, not living with her son. And I have been screamed at by an old man who was sure I was his ex-wife come back to life, and who called 911, while I was there. You can call 911 too, or you can just let me in and we’ll talk about where you’re at with your therapy. Okay? Because either way, I’m not leaving. I cannot let Grace down.”
He
