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“We’ve got a deadline,
Dr. McLaren.”
“I don’t honestly care.”
Sophie leaned forward, her delicate brows drawing together. “Let’s give this a good shot anyway. I know I can help you. Let me prove it.”
“I don’t want this. Understand?” The others had given up and she would, too. He’d make sure of it.
She blasted him with another one of her dazzling smiles. “I think we’ll get along just great. I’ll be back Friday.”
Josh stared after her as she let herself out the door.
She was coming back?
He’d have to make himself perfectly clear—he didn’t want her intruding in his life. He didn’t want anyone promising the moon and stars, and the prospect of a full and rewarding future.
Because after what he’d done, he knew that was the stuff of fairy tales, not reality. And he only wanted to be left alone.
ROXANNE RUSTAND
lives in the country with her husband and a menagerie of pets, many of whom find their way into her books. She works part-time as a registered dietitian at a psychiatric facility, but otherwise you’ll find her writing at home in her jammies, surrounded by three dogs begging for treats, or out in the barn with the horses. Her favorite time of all is when her kids are home—though all three are now busy with college and jobs.
This is her twenty-fifth novel. RT Book Reviews nominated her for a Career Achievement Award in 2005, and she won the magazine’s award for Best Superromance of 2006.
She loves to hear from readers! Her snail-mail address is P.O. Box 2550, Cedar Rapids, Iowa, 52406-2550. You can also contact her at: www.roxannerustand.com, www.shoutlife.com/roxannerustand or at her blog, where readers and writers talk about their pets: www.roxannerustand.blogspot.com.
Second Chance Dad
Roxanne Rustand
What does the Lord require of you
but to do justice, to love kindness,
and to walk humbly with your God?
—Micah 6:8
DEDICATION
In memory of my mom, Arline. Without her,
I would not have believed in this dream, and
her endless love, support, encouragement and
enthusiasm always meant the world to me. Mom,
this one—as always—is for you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With many thanks to Licensed Physical Therapists
Nancy Reilly and Erin Nicholas
for answering my many questions about
physical therapy. Any errors are mine alone.
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
Epilogue
Letter to Reader
Questions for Discussion
Chapter One
Sophie stepped out of her ancient Taurus sedan but lingered at the open door, staring at the massive dog on the porch of the sprawling cabin. The dog stared back at her with laserlike intensity, head lowered and tail stiff.
It was not a welcoming pose.
But set back in the deep shadows of the pine trees crowding so close, the cabin itself—with all the windows dark—seemed even more menacing than a wolfhound mix with very sharp teeth.
“Don’t worry about the dog,” Grace Dearborn had said with a breezy smile during Sophie’s orientation at the county home health department offices. “He’s quite the bluffer. It’s the owner who is more likely to bite.”
From the spooky appearance of the dwelling, Sophie could imagine the home health care administrator’s words about this client being true in the most literal sense. Ominous clouds had rolled in earlier this afternoon, bringing heavy rains and lightning, and from the looks of the sky, the current respite would be brief.
So what kind of person would be sitting in there, in all that gloomy darkness?
She looked at the folder in her hand again.
Dr. Josh McLaren. Widower. Lives alone. No local support system. Declined home health aides. Postsurgical healing of comminuted fracture, right leg with a knee replacement. Surgical repair of fractured L-4 and L-5 lumbar vertebrae, multiple comminuted fractures, right hand.
There were no details on the accident itself. Had he been hit by a truck? She shuddered, imagining the pain he’d been through. The surgeries and therapy had to have been as bad as the injuries themselves.
The only other documentation in the folder were the doctor’s physical therapy orders dated last year, originating from Lucas General Hospital in Minneapolis, and some scant, frustrated progress notes written by her various physical therapist predecessors.
The last one had ignored professional convention by inserting his personal feelings into his notes.
The man is surly and impossible.
Ten minutes spent arguing about the need for therapy. Five minutes of deep massage of his right leg and strengthening exercises before he ordered me out of his house.
And the final note…
I
