DEAD WOMAN WALKING. Natalie Keaton cringed over the hyperbole of death-row-inmate proportions as she crossed through the activity room, but that didn’t loosen the ankle weights slowing her steps or lift the dread bearing down on her shoulders.
Sure, she’d had frustrating days at work before. Like when clients expected range-of-motion improvements without doing their exercises, or when she had to come in on Saturdays for appointments. But never before had she wanted to walk away from her job at Brentwood Rehabilitation Services rather than meet with a new client.
Now she was dreading the whole day.
From the activity room, where two other physical therapists guided clients through exercises and stretches, to the shoes and the examination-bed wheels that peeked out from beneath the curtains of consultation areas, everything seemed wrong inside the clinic. The piped-in music was too loud, its notes jagged scratches over her eardrums. Even the usually comforting antiseptic scents from foaming hand cleaner and antibacterial cleansers only made her queasy.
The row of windows outside the activity room displayed an obstinately gray March afternoon, the stratus-striped sky belching and spitting without having the decency to really snow. That didn’t keep Natalie from shivering until long after the windows were far behind her. As she passed her boss’s closed office door, she gripped the file folder she held tightly. The file she’d just tried—and failed—to hand off to another therapist.
You’re a professional. You can handle a challenge like this. Meg Story’s words of support, sprinkled with censure, burned like a blister ripped wide. A challenge? How could Meg see it that way? Why had she matched Natalie with this client in the first place? Didn’t her history matter? Natalie didn’t doubt that this seriously injured client deserved compassionate care. They all did. She just wasn’t the right PT to provide it for him.
She pulled at the sleeves of her sweater and brushed her free hand down her maroon scrub shirt as she neared the clinic side of the registration desk. If only she could swipe away her unease as easily. But she needed this job, so her only choice was to help this client get back on his feet as soon as possible. In and out faster than a playboy on a one-night stand, if she had her way.
Still, for a heartbeat too long, Natalie rested her hand on the door leading to the reception area instead of opening it.
Anne-Marie Long, the impossibly young receptionist with a perky ponytail to prove it, glanced over from her computer, a telephone handset tucked between her shoulder and ear.
“You okay?” Anne-Marie mouthed, her eyebrows escaping to behind her bangs.
Natalie nodded, wishing it were true. She pressed her lips together and pushed open the door.
The minimalist reception area through the doorway was always cramped, with barely enough seating for a family of five, but the man in the manual wheelchair at the room’s center and his uniform-clad valet overwhelmed the tiny space. She had to force herself to close the door behind her when she longed to retreat behind that shield of hollow wood veneer.
The man in the chair was an exaggerated cartoon version of what she’d expected, his overdeveloped physique a contradiction to the benign nylon sweat suit and running shoes visible below his coat. And the state police uniform his friend wore might as well have been a billboard announcement for the both of them. Navy shirt with a knotted gray tie. Shiny silver shield. A telltale hat on his head, which he wore even indoors. Did they have to throw this awful assignment in her face by showing up at the clinic with everything but a squad car?
Oh, that was probably parked outside.
She swallowed as the image of another police cruiser slipped from behind the veil of her memories with blurry lights and squealing tires. Her mother, once vibrant, now broken...inside and out. It was only a blip of a digression, like that pinpoint moment of impact from eight years before, but it left her raw and exposed.
Natalie blinked away the image and schooled her features as she returned her attention to the man in the chair. The one not wearing a uniform, though she could easily picture him in one. But she wasn’t prepared for the fathomless blue-gray eyes that stared up at her from beneath a black stocking cap. Intelligent eyes that seemed to pick up on more than they should have in that moment. Things that weren’t any of his business.
“I’m Natalie Keaton,” she managed and then coughed into her sweater sleeve to clear her strangely clogged throat. “Sorry. Dry air. Anyway, I’m a physical therapist. You must be Mr. Warner.”
“That would be Trooper Warner,” the other man answered for him, gesturing toward her client as if they all weren’t perfectly aware whom they were talking about. “Of the Michigan State Police.”
Warner had been trying to pull off his gloves, something that required more effort than it should have, but at these words he stopped and frowned at the younger man. He then went back to work on the gloves and finally pulled them off before stretching his arm up to pluck off his hat. An awkward move, given his injuries. As light brown strands of an overgrown crew cut sprang to electrified life, he reached stiffly for his head a second time and gripped a disobedient fistful on top.
“I mean Troop—”
She was relieved when he dropped his arm and cut off her comment. It didn’t feel right calling him by his title, anyway.
“Don’t mind him.” Warner gestured toward his friend. “He’s all out of whack, having to start his shift here instead of stopping by the doughnut shop for a vanilla cream with frosting and sprinkles.”
Then Warner flipped on a smile so dazzling that it hit Natalie like an elbow to the diaphragm and spread warmth over her skin faster than a steaming bath. She blinked. What was that all about? Maybe the rest of female society might have joined in a collective swoon at the sight of this guy’s sculpted jaw, aristocratic nose and lips that were fuller and softer looking than any tough guy’s should be, but she wasn’t like other women. She could never be. They hadn’t lived her life. Or experienced the guilt she carried.
Still, when the other officer chuckled, Natalie startled. Had she been caught staring at him? Ogling the last type of man she should have been seeing through anything other than the most remote, clinical lens. Her face warmed, and her pulse rushed to announce her humiliation.
The officer, who looked barely old enough to shave, kept laughing. “I’m a raspberry-filled man, and Trooper Warner knows it.” He pointed at Natalie. “We miss his humor around the Brighton Post lately, but you’d better watch out. If he’s already starting with the cop jokes, you’re going to have some long sessions ahead of you.”
He didn’t know the half of it.
One side of Warner’s mouth lifted as he allowed his friend to help him out of his coat. Even without the extra padding, Warner still looked like a football player, his broad shoulders and burly arms pulling at the sleeves of his warm-up suit. His lack of muscular atrophy suggested he’d been rolling that wheelchair around all by himself.
“Thanks, buddy.” Warner glanced up at Natalie. “You see the quality of help you can find after you get your butt shot? Anyway, before the rookie’s rude interruption, I was going to tell you to call me Shane.” He gestured toward the other officer. “And this is Trooper Jamie Donovan. But he’s just leaving.”
The
