“I...guess I’m more tired than hungry,” Andi said, pressing her fingers against her temples. “But a headache seems to be building fast, so maybe—”
“What you need,” Margaret said, releasing the key from the ignition, “is a little food, a big glass of lemonade and a room with no one else in it. Maybe a nap. Don’t worry—” she reached over to pat Andi’s knee “—I’ve warned the rest of the family to stay away until Saturday to give you time to settle in and find your bearings. We’re having a cookout in your honor.”
Bless her aunt for the foresight of holding everyone off. That gave Andi four full days to get used to being here instead of at home. “Thank you. I’m excited, of course, to see my cousins and meet their families, but I’m... Yes, Saturday should be good.” And if it wasn’t, she’d have to make do. Recalling the email she’d received yesterday, she said, “Oh. The physical therapist I’ll be working with here, Ryan Bradshaw, wants to meet tomorrow. Can you give me a ride or...?”
Important, she knew, to get right back on the healing path, but she wouldn’t have minded twenty-four hours of just existing here before jumping back into rehabilitation. Hopefully, tomorrow’s meeting would be more of a question-and-answer session about her treatment up until now. Even though she’d made sure Ryan had received copies of her medical records, he’d have questions. They always did. Sometimes things were missed in the record keeping.
Before Margaret could answer, Paul stepped from the house, his smile wide and welcoming as he almost sprinted toward the car. More greetings. More hugs. More pretending she was normal before she could escape into the solitude she so, so needed right now. Inhaling a large breath, she reached into the backseat for her cane and opened the passenger-side door, forced herself from the car and plastered on her I’m-okay smile.
“Darling! It’s so good to see you!” Paul, a tall, lithe man said as he approached her, arms wide open. Ten seconds later, she was embraced in a tight hug. “Been far too long.”
“Yes,” she said faintly. “Too long. When you visited us in Rhode Island for my parents’ anniversary party, I was what...sixteen?”
“Something along those lines.” Retreating, he gave her a long look. Nodded. “Go on in. We gave you the guest bedroom on the first floor. Just follow the hallway to the end. Second door on the right. I’ll bring in your luggage and leave it outside the door for you to get when you’re ready to deal with unpacking. How’s that sound?”
“Perfect,” she said, again so grateful for the simple yet powerful understanding and acceptance of her aunt and uncle. “Absolutely perfect. I just need a few hours, I think, to—”
“You take as long as you need,” Paul said. “Go. Rest. We have all summer to catch up.”
Yes, yes they did. Three blissful months to finish repairing all of the damage dealt to her on that cold winter afternoon. Three months to wake up, smell the flowers, see the sun and feel the wind on her face. Three months to...start living again. To feel real again.
* * *
Steaming hot coffee, toasted everything bagel with butter and cream cheese and the breathtaking—often gut-kicking—view of the Rocky Mountains made for an excellent start to the day. Ryan Bradshaw stretched his legs and sipped his coffee, savored his bagel and congratulated himself on the wisdom of buying this particular property close to three years ago.
The decision to move to Steamboat Springs, Colorado, from Denver had been a surprisingly quick and firm one. His folks had already lived here for some time, and his visits to them had made him realize how he longed for a less hectic daily existence in a place exactly like Steamboat Springs. His thoughts then had been that he’d eventually relocate once he and Leah were married. Unfortunately, their engagement had come to an abrupt end.
The right choice for both of them, but without the glue of their relationship keeping Ryan in Denver, he felt the need to start over somewhere new. And thank God he had, because he had never loved life more. Everything about Steamboat Springs—the views, the people, the lifestyle, the skiing—fit him like a well-worn pair of jeans.
Even his zeal for his career had been revitalized, after too many years of fighting burnout. In Denver, he’d worked endless hours for the hospital, with a few private clients on the side when the opportunity presented itself. Here, he’d jumped into the deep end immediately by starting a private practice clinic in this gorgeous house he’d bought.
Due to some fortunate investing over the years, he had the funds to do so, and it hadn’t taken long to turn the lower level of the A-frame into a clean, functional therapy clinic. The upstairs of the house—including the deck he now sat at—was his personal living space, and he’d managed to successfully keep the two areas completely separate.
While he still worked more than he probably should, the struggle with becoming overextended had long since faded. A combination of the environment and being his own boss. Oh, he still put in ten to fifteen hours per week at the hospital’s rehabilitation unit, but that only made good sense. Doing so allowed him to be a larger part of the community that was now his, and his relationship there gave him access to services and equipment he couldn’t easily obtain on his own. A win-win, every way Ryan looked at it. Another plus? He loved what he did.
The mix of his clientele here was much the same as in Denver. Although he did have a greater percentage of folks rehabilitating from sports injuries—skiing, snowboarding, white-water rafting, you name it—he still had those coming out of one surgery or another, fighting illness or disease that had weakened their muscles, or had had an accident that wasn’t sports related. Back in Denver, though, his clients had also frequently included trauma survivors.
People who’d survived any type of a vicious, purposeful trauma—Ryan refused to call them victims—tended to require a different type of focus on his part. Sure, every person he worked with demanded his complete attention on their full selves—not just their bodies—but, on the other side of being hurt or almost killed by another’s hand, a certain type of shutting down often occurred. In the heart and soul. In the way the world is viewed.
In feeling safe.
Today—in just about an hour now—his first trauma-survivor client in Steamboat Springs would arrive. Andrea Caputo, from Warwick, Rhode Island. A trauma nurse, which could prove challenging on its own, as medical professionals tended to trust their experiences and training over Ryan’s, at least in the beginning stages of the relationship. She had witnessed a coworker being shot and killed, and had sustained two gunshot wounds to her upper and lower right leg.
Ryan had thoroughly studied her file. He understood her medical history, as well as her current status, as much as he possibly could from her records. What he didn’t know, what he wouldn’t know until she arrived and they spent some time together, was her mental and emotional state. This woman had already trekked an arduous road, but she had a hell of a long way to go. She’d need some fortitude, courage and a kick-ass positive attitude to get herself all the way back.
With every one of Ryan’s clients, that was always his end goal: to bring them completely back or, when that couldn’t happen for physical reasons, as close to complete as was within reach. He hoped, genuinely, this Andrea Caputo was prepared and had already found all the strength she would need. But if not, he’d get her there.
Because that was what he did.
* * *
Andi stared at her feet, unwilling to meet the direct gaze of her new physical therapist.
