“What I think is that you show me exactly what you want me to see and believe. What I also think is that maybe you kid yourself about what you feel—even about who you are. Don’t know why. Not going to guess.”
He grabbed her arm and pulled her back to him. “But I have a confession of my own to make. I’m attracted to you. And when you talked about men looking at you … I looked.”
She looked up into his eyes. Swallowed hard. “But we can control the urges, Reid.”
“Because we want to, or because we have to?”
Nothing in her wanted to, because she liked the way he held on to her—his grip not rough, yet not gentle. And she liked his dominance. It was firm, but not unrelenting.
“Because it’s the only practical thing to do.”
“Depends on your definition of practical,” he said, pulling her up against his chest.
Keera looked up, put her hands on the sides of his face to hold him where she wanted him—which was no place but here, in this moment, this only moment. Then she wound her fingers up through his hair, tugged it slightly, and smiled when he started to breathe faster. Breaths to match hers. The edges of their bodies were melting into each other.
Dear Reader
Years ago, my husband and I met a wonderful little boy named Ryan. Ryan was an amazing kid—smart, full of life, optimistic. But Ryan had muscular dystrophy, and the degenerative process was so advanced in him that he never walked, never played ball, never did so many of the things his friends did.
He wanted to, though, because he never saw himself in terms of being different or disabled. Which was why the summer camps he attended were so important to him. All the kids there had pretty much the same abilities he had, and the fact that swimming or horseback-riding was a little different for them did not make a difference. For the time Ryan and his friends were at camp they got to be kids, doing kid things like all their other friends did.
Ryan wasn’t given a lot of time on this earth, but he exceeded all expectations—went to college, became a high school teacher, travelled the world. Much of this independence he gained through his camp experiences, and because of what I saw resulting from those summer weeks, where his differences didn’t matter, I decided to write about a camp much the same as Ryan attended—where kids, no matter what their condition, are allowed to be kids.
Did you go to camp when you were a kid? What kinds of memories do you have? I went to camp every summer and loved it. I didn’t fall in love there, the way Keera and Reid do in my story. But I remember some pretty good summer crushes, some mighty cute boys, and a lot of great fun. Definitely some great fun (and my first kiss!).
Wishing you health, happiness, and great summer camp memories!
Dianne
PS I’d love to hear about your summer camp memories. Please feel free to check out my website at www.Dianne-Drake.com, and contact me through that. Or e-mail me at [email protected]. I’m on Facebook too, at Facebook.com/DianneDrakeAuthor
Now that her children have left home, DIANNE DRAKE is finally finding the time to do some of the things she adores—gardening, cooking, reading, shopping for antiques. Her absolute passion in life, however, is adopting abandoned and abused animals. Right now Dianne and her husband Joel have a little menagerie of three dogs and two cats, but that’s always subject to change. A former symphony orchestra member, Dianne now attends the symphony as a spectator several times a month and, when time permits, takes in an occasional football, basketball, or hockey game.
A Child to Heal Their Hearts
Dianne Drake
Dedicated to Ryan McDonald,
who squeezed every last drop out of his young life.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
“COMING!” KEERA’S sleep-scratchy voice barely cleared the bedroom door and there was no way the person outside on her front porch could hear her. But she didn’t really care. This was her time. Off work.
She wasn’t on call, and after tomorrow she had no hospital obligations for the next week. A few days off after an entire year on. Blessed vacation time for eating, sleeping, reading. Most of all, quiet time to herself. No one to intrude, no one to disturb her. Time alone was all she had on the schedule and she adamantly didn’t want to be disturbed before her holiday started. But as chief of cardiac surgery, she didn’t always get what she wanted. Case in point, someone was knocking right now, and rather vigorously at that.
“OK, OK. Give me a minute,” she grumbled on a weary sigh, the sentiment directed more to the neon green clock light blinking acrimoniously at her from the nightstand than to anything or anyone else.
She blinked back at it, wanted to throw a shoe at it when she saw it was telling her the time was ten after two. And she’d only been in bed since twenty after one. Meaning she’d had fifty full minutes of sleep.
“Figures,” she grunted as another knock jolted her out of her blearies. Then another knock, louder this time. Last time this had happened to her, it had been the National Guard come to fetch her in the middle of a torrential storm. “Hospital’s on emergency alert, Dr. Murphy. Don’t want you driving in this because of the conditions, so we’ve come to take you in.” Yep, that had been quite a night, being hefted up into the back of a military helicopter and jostled around fallen trees and power lines.
But tonight there was no rain. No storm or adverse condition of any kind going on. And as Keera’s mind started to clear, she began ticking off the various reasons someone might be doing exactly what they were doing. Worst-case scenario—full-out disaster that wasn’t weather-related. Best-case scenario—emergency surgery waiting. But why not simply call her, like they always did?
Maybe they had. Maybe she’d slept through it. “I said I’m coming,” she shouted, cinching her robe as she plodded out to the entry hall. “Identify yourself, please,” she shouted, even though a glimpse through the peephole revealed the uniform of a police officer. “And show me some identification.”
“Will do, Miss Murphy,” the man out there shouted.
Miss Murphy. After fast-tracking her way through medical school and all the other stages that had preceded cardiac surgeon, that’s what it all boiled down to, wasn’t it? Unmarried doctor, unmarried