He led the way down a long hallway decorated with photographs of places she recognized around Hope’s Crossing. The bridge near Sweet Laurel Falls, moonlight reflecting on Silver Strike Reservoir, a moose standing in a pond she had walked past often on Woodrose Mountain, moss dripping from his antlers.
While one part of her mind was enjoying the photographs, the therapist side of her brain she could never quite silence was thinking that this long space with the polished-wood floors might be a perfect place to practice walking with Taryn.
“I’ve moved her bedroom down to the main level,” Brodie said when they neared a doorway at the end of the hall. Behind the extrawide door, the sounds of construction intensified.
“That seems logical.”
“You and I might agree but I’m afraid Taryn likely won’t see it that way. She loved her room upstairs and I have a feeling she’s likely to pitch a fit about the new digs. Just one more major change for her.”
“Some things can’t be helped. She’ll get over it.”
“I’m shocked. You actually agree with me about something?”
She smiled a little. “Don’t worry. I won’t let it become a habit. In this case you’re right. It makes perfect sense to keep her room on the ground floor for now.”
“For now. Right.” He frowned. “I’d like to tell her she can move back up to her room eventually, but that’s one more promise I can’t make Taryn right now. It seems cruel to promise her that when we don’t know if she’ll ever be out of that wheelchair.”
Somehow she sensed this was important to him. Only logical. He was a very active, very physical man. One of his many businesses was a sporting-goods store and Brodie had even been a former competitive ski jumper at one time.
Katherine had told her once that Brodie and Taryn interacted most through skiing together in the winter, hiking and mountain biking in summer. No doubt the prospect of his daughter never being able to join him again in those activities would seem a crushing blow. She only hoped he wouldn’t pin unrealistic hopes on Taryn and could keep proper perspective. Walking again was only one of Taryn’s many hurdles.
As he opened the door, the scent of fresh paint wafted out and the thuds and bangs grew louder. She had a quick impression of a roomy, bright space with large windows and a light-grained wood floor. The room was painted white with some lavender trim and one wall of mirrors reflected the mountain scene out the window.
The construction workers apparently were installing large eye-hooks from the ceiling at various intervals, which would be perfect for hanging a pommel or swing. Around the corner from the therapy space, set in its own good-size alcove, was a sleeping area, complete with a hospital bed covered in a fluffy lavender comforter. A padded treatment-table just right for stretching ran the length of one wall and she could see a wheeled lift in one corner for helping to transfer Taryn from the wheelchair to different positions. The workmen were putting the finishing touches on a built-in cabinet in one wall with open shelves that would be perfect for storing odds and ends like exercise bands, hand weights, small weighted balls.
She had worked in world-class therapy facilities that weren’t as well equipped.
“Wow.” It was all she could say.
“We ended up taking out a couple of walls between rooms down here to make an extra-large space. Most of the work was focused on the bathroom, where we put in a roll-in shower and a lift tub.”
“This looks really great, Brodie. Perfect.”
“I hope we’ve considered everything, at least structurally. If you think of any equipment we need, just say the word. I’ve got a treadmill and stationary bike in the exercise room upstairs and we can bring those down, or if you’d like a different kind, we can get that, too. I’ve also got plans to have an all-season cover installed over the pool and hot tub out back so Taryn can continue to use them for therapy after the weather changes.”
Evie didn’t want to admit it, even to herself, but she was touched that Brodie was going to so much effort and expense for his daughter. Despite her best intentions, she was finding it a little hard to dislike a man who was so obviously committed to doing all he could to return his injured daughter to her previous abilities.
“Offhand, the only need I can see immediately is perhaps a table and some chairs in here so the occupational therapist can work on fine motor skills during her visits.”
“Oh, right. I hadn’t even thought of that. We’ve got one down the hall in the media room I can bring up.”
She held out the basket, feeling a little like Red Riding Hood offering goodies to the Big Bad Wolf. “I’ve brought some catalogs with basic items that will probably be useful. Therapy balls, pommels, that sort of thing. I’ve marked them with sticky notes. There are a few other things you may want to consider down the line but I suggest you give me and the O.T. a chance to work with Taryn for a few days and assess a baseline before you make any decisions.”
“Great.” He took the basket from her, leaning a hip against the padded table while he leafed through the catalogs.
She found it interesting that even during a moment of apparent ease, when he was only looking through catalogs, he seemed restless. His toe tapped a little, he shifted his weight, he flipped a page and then back. It occurred to her she had never seen the man completely still. Was it her imagination or was that just Brodie?
She wasn’t here to wonder about him, she reminded herself, and forced herself to wander the room taking mental measurements. As soon as she shifted gears, her mind began to spin with ideas about how she could utilize the space for therapy.
This all seemed natural, right, as if the clinical part of her brain had simply been hibernating, waiting for the first chance to emerge and stretch in the sunlight again.
She should have known she couldn’t just twist a valve shut on years of training and experience. It was part of who she was. She had loved being a therapist, helping children in need because of accident or illness regain skills they had lost or achieve new milestones.
Until Cassie’s death, she had been extremely content in her career and had enjoyed knowing she was good at what she did.
Everything had changed when her adopted daughter died. What had always given her such satisfaction and fulfillment suddenly became a harsh reminder of her own failures. After the funeral, she had returned to work but quickly discovered that the passion and drive so necessary in a dedicated physical therapist seemed to have shriveled away. After a few weeks, she had known she couldn’t do it anymore. Her patients deserved more than someone going through the motions. If she couldn’t force herself to stretch past the pain—and if she was no longer able to find that joy and passion again—she had reached the grim conclusion it was time to walk away.
Apparently it wasn’t as easy as she’d thought to turn her back on the career path she had once loved.
“Can you give me your honest opinion?” Brodie asked, sliding the catalog back in the basket with the others.
“That’s usually not a problem for me.” She gave him a wry smile. “If anything, I can sometimes be a little too brutal.”
“Brutal is just what I need right now. Most of the doctors give platitudes and best-case scenarios. How the brain still is a big mystery and we have to wait and see, blah-blah-blah. It’s been more than three months and I need more than that. I know you’ve visited Taryn in Denver and I’m sure you’ve seen similar brain injuries to hers. When all is said and done and we’ve thrown all the intensive therapy we can at her, let’s be realistic. What are our chances for a full recovery?”
Oh, the dreaded question. Her stomach muscles