Page 27 of The Rough Ride

He continued. “Inside, I’m not calm. I’m pissed as hell that you didn’t tell me, but I’m trying to understand. I said I’dconsideradoption down the road. Right now, is notdown the road.”

His face hovered an inch from hers. “I’d have moved heaven and earth to help you as much as I could. You shut me out. You’ve been carrying around this two-hundred-pound gorilla for how long? How old is Ella?”

“Six months.”

“Right—plus nine equals fifteen months. That’s a long time to carry a burden this size alone, Liz. What’s wrong in our relationship that you’d want to hide anything from me for fifteen months?” He held her teary gaze for a few seconds.

She looked away. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.”

“Don’t apologize anymore. You made a life choice. Not the choice I’d have made, but I’m glad for you because you’ve wanted to be a mom. But here’s the kicker. That baby of yours in the nursery? She’s got no control over the way she’s treated. She’s an innocent bystander at the start of her life.” He swallowed hard.

Love for this gorgeous, headstrong, fierce woman ached in his chest. He’d feel like shit later for saying these words.

“You can’t trust me with her, Liz. I could hurt her; say something she carries around the rest of her life. God forbid, raise a hand to her. I have no idea what I’m capable of with children, considering what I survived as a kid. I won’t have that responsibility forced on me. She’syourbaby.”

Liz turned her face away from him. “And where does that leaveus?”

Whoa.His hands shook and the room was thick with heat. He needed space.

He lifted her chin with a finger. “I don’t know. What Idoknow is that I’m leaving now. I’ve got a date with the boxing bag in my building. I’m going to pretend it’s Ella’s deadbeat dad until I get it out of my system.”

He released her hands and stepped back.

“I’ve got the house to myself until Monday evening and lots of leftovers. You could stay here, and we’d have the privacy to talk.”

Nick’s gaze travelled the length of her body. “We wouldn’t talk. You know us. We’d end up horizontal.”

She nodded. “Would that be so bad?”

“You’ve had a year-and-a-half to digest this situation. I’ve had less than an hour. I need time. But, Liz?”

She looked up.

“You did real good. She’s a beautiful baby.”

He locked the door on his way out.

17

She eyed the Pilates chair in her room.Nope. Not tonight.

Liz barely mustered the energy to peel off her jeans, pull down the sleeve, a liner, two pairs of thick socks, and a silicone liner. She set the mid-calf artificial limb aside.

The sensation rivaled taking off her bra at the end of a long day. An exquisite freedom, cool and heady, bathed her legs.

She stretched her right leg and wiggled the toes. The graceful muscles from foot-to-ankle and calf-to-thigh obeyed her every command. She lifted it high and pointed her foot. The stretch tugged at her glutes as she held the pose and breathed. Relaxation undulated up to her toes.

Now for the left. She took a deep breath and held it out straight, tightening her core muscles to get the best stretch. She grimaced as the muscles reluctantly slacked. They screamed in protest as she lifted it high. Divots from the shrapnel had gouged chunks of flesh repaired by surgeons, but the scarring was still prominent. She lowered her leg to cross her knee and massaged the stump. A residual limb iswhat they called it. She was grateful. She had a lot more residual than many.

The stump craved touch, and she indulged it every day with soft strokes and gentle massage. While watching TV or reading a book, she often caressed the stump like a lost stray resting on her lap. For the next five minutes, she grunted through a charley horse and whimpered every time she stretched the leg high. Without a pretty ankle and graceful toes to guide the process, her leg protested, balked, searching for muscle memory and nerve paths to rely on.

A foot was a powerful ally.

She needed another pedicure. Her mother’s friend, Louise, gave her one every month, always painting the toes on her prosthetic the same color. And Louise massaged her good foot and the stump, treating them like equal parts.God bless her.

Liz detested pity.

Time and again, she’d informed the stream of doctors and physical therapists that she would not limp. Most said she needed to be realistic, swallow her pride, and accept her limitations. A select two helped her accomplish her goal. One was a prosthetist and the other a physical therapist. Together, they’d adjusted, tweaked, stretched, massaged, and pushed her to strengthen her left side with exercise. Sometimes without mercy and while barking orders to exert herself one more time.

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