printed off, he picked up the snapshot of her unwrapping the ribbon and plastic from around the flower he’d had delivered, and pressed a kiss to her adorably surprised expression. Then he dug a pin from the desk drawer and gently tacked the photo on the wall above the computer beside the collage of similar images hanging there.
His favorite picture was one in faded black-and-white newsprint, something from a state high school basketball tournament. But he knew Jilly’s colors by heart. Long, dark brown hair. Eyes as bright and verdant as Celtic green.
And she was smiling. Right at him.
He smiled back and pulled the letter from the printer. Then, with clumsy gloved fingers, he pushed aside the gun and plastique, the ammo clips and clockwork devices, and cleared a spot on top of his desk to work. He folded the paper into three neat rectangles and stuffed it inside the matching envelope before rolling his chair away from the desk and heading out to deliver it.
Soon, she would know how much he had done for her, the risks he would take for her—all without complaint.
Soon, she would know how much he loved her.
Chapter One
“Nice shot, Troy!”
Jillian Masterson applauded as the basketball swished through the net.
Her young charge with the neat black braids pumped his fist in the air and whooped in victory. “Oh, yeah. I’m all that!”
“And a bag of chips,” she cheered. He pushed his wheelchair beneath the basket to retrieve the ball while Jillian turned to her other patient and smiled. “Come on, Mike. Your turn.”
“Basketball is lame,” he groused.
Ignoring his ironic choice of words, she let his blue-eyed hatred for the world bounce off her skin and reached for his arms. Clamping one hand firmly around each wrist and bracing her feet in front of his, she pulled him out of his chair and balanced him against her shoulder while his leg braces locked into place. “Well, unless you want to plant some grass and turn this gym into an indoor football field, we’re stuck with a basketball court. Let’s try one from the free throw line.”
“Why? It’s not even a real court. Troy’s baby brother could make a shot from that free throw line.”
“You afraid you can’t match up with an eighth grader?”
“I can do it,” he argued. “I just don’t want to.”
“Show me.”
“Jill…”
She stepped away, brushing the bangs from her eyes and shaking her ponytail down her back, forcing Mike Cutler, Jr.’s, reknit bones and weakened muscles to function on their own whether he liked it or not. She supposed the modified half-court in the university hospital’s physical therapy center couldn’t compete with the grass and fresh air and promise of the field where this high school athlete had once caught passes and run for touchdowns.
But she’d spare him the lucky-to-be-alive-get-over-yourself speech, knowing he wouldn’t hear the words. She understood the black hole he was fighting to crawl out of. She’d lost her dreams when she was a teenager herself. Or rather, after her parents’ tragic deaths in a plane crash, she’d single-handedly blown those dreams into smithereens, nearly ruining what was left of her older brother’s and sister’s lives as well as her own in the process.
Now, at twenty-eight, after rehab and long years of counseling and healing, she could look back objectively and see her mistakes, see that the love of her brother and sister, along with help and hope, had always been there for her. But Jillian would forever remember those dark days well enough to know that, at sixteen, Mike Cutler couldn’t yet see beyond the fear, despair, anger and resentment that clouded his young life.
Instead of lecturing him, she stuck to the job she’d been trained to do—helping rebuild the bodies of accident victims and medical patients through physical therapy. And she was counting on the innate competitiveness of his sports-loving nature to help get the job done. Jillian reached down beside him to pick up the stainless steel cane from the polished wood floor beside him. Then she held out her arm and the cane, giving Mike the choice of which way he wanted to get himself to the free throw line eight feet away.
One of the advantages of standing five foot eleven herself was that she could look Young Mr. Attitude in the eye and not be intimidated by the width of his shoulders or the glare in his expression. “You gonna put your money where your mouth is and make the shot?”
“Do it, man.” Troy Anthony put the ball in his lap and wheeled back over to their position. “If we don’t play, then we’ll have to go back to the weight room with the old farts and work out. I do not want to have Mrs. Hauser talking to me about her operation anymore. She smells like my great-grandmother used to. Creeps me out. And you know you don’t want Old Man Wilkins talking to you about the Chiefs’ off-season trades and recruitment again. That’d suck right down to your shorts.”
Apparently willing to do anything to shut up his young compatriot, Mike snatched the cane from Jillian’s hand. “Fine. I’ll shoot the damn ball.”
Jillian spared Troy a wink of thanks as Mike hobbled past her. She turned and studied the slight improvement in his jerky gait. A cataclysmic car crash had killed Mike’s friend and shattered his legs. According to the medical reports Jillian had studied before writing up a therapy plan, it was a miracle that Mike Cutler was alive, much less walking. Several surgeries, steel pins and one determined father had gotten him to this point. But it would take a lot of patience—and convincing Mike to apply that stubborn attitude to his own recovery—to get him back to some semblance of normal life again.
“Here, bro.” Once Mike had reached the free throw line and paused long enough to catch his breath, Troy shot him the ball.
Reading that split-second moment of terror in Mike’s expression, Jillian reached around him and intercepted the straight-line pass. In one smooth movement that didn’t allow either teen the time to feel embarrassment or regret, she tucked the ball against Mike’s stomach, forcing him to steady it with his own hand. In the next second she took his cane, watching the muscles beneath his jeans and T-shirt clench and adjust to maintain his balance.
Good. Use what you’ve got, kid. You can do it.
Mike’s athleticism would be as much a boon to his recovery as it had once been to her own. She’d remember to make good use of his natural balance and strength. Jillian bit down on the urge to cheer his success and pushed him a little further. “Dribble it.”
An answering groan filled Mike’s lungs with a deep, healthy breath. Jillian moved behind him, bracing his hips while he used different muscles and adjusted his equilibrium to control the bounce of the ball in front of him. She felt him tense his core muscles, stabilizing his body without any real help from her. Excellent! “Now shoot.”
The normal bend of the knees to make such a shot couldn’t yet happen, but the instincts were there. He raised the ball above his forehead, took sight of the net and pushed the ball off the tips of his long fingers. Jillian held her breath along with him as the ball arced through the air, hit the backboard and circled twice around the rim before dropping through the hoop.
“Yes!” She held up a hand and was rewarded with a high five. “Don’t tell me basketball isn’t your game.”
Mike
