Roxanne Rustand - Second Chance Dad

“I don’t honestly care.”

Sophie leaned forward, her delicate brows drawing together. “Let’s give this a good shot anyway. I know I can help you. Let me prove it.”

“I don’t want this. Understand?” The others had given up and she would, too. He’d make sure of it.

She blasted him with another one of her dazzling smiles. “I think we’ll get along just great. I’ll be back Friday.”

Josh stared after her as she let herself out the door.

She was coming back?

He’d have to make himself perfectly clear—he didn’t want her intruding in his life. He didn’t want anyone promising the moon and stars, and the prospect of a full and rewarding future.

Because after what he’d done, he knew that was the stuff of fairy tales, not reality. And he only wanted to be left alone.

lives in the country with her husband and a menagerie of pets, many of whom find their way into her books. She works part-time as a registered dietitian at a psychiatric facility, but otherwise you’ll find her writing at home in her jammies, surrounded by three dogs begging for treats, or out in the barn with the horses. Her favorite time of all is when her kids are home—though all three are now busy with college and jobs.

This is her twenty-fifth novel. RT Book Reviews nominated her for a Career Achievement Award in 2005, and she won the magazine’s award for Best Superromance of 2006.

She loves to hear from readers! Her snail-mail address is P.O. Box 2550, Cedar Rapids, Iowa, 52406-2550. You can also contact her at: www.roxannerustand.com, www.shoutlife.com/roxannerustand or at her blog, where readers and writers talk about their pets: www.roxannerustand.blogspot.com.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

What does the Lord require of you

but to do justice, to love kindness,

and to walk humbly with your God?

—Micah 6:8

In memory of my mom, Arline. Without her,

I would not have believed in this dream, and

her endless love, support, encouragement and

enthusiasm always meant the world to me. Mom,

this one—as always—is for you.

With many thanks to Licensed Physical Therapists

Nancy Reilly and Erin Nicholas

for answering my many questions about

physical therapy. Any errors are mine alone.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

Sophie stepped out of her ancient Taurus sedan but lingered at the open door, staring at the massive dog on the porch of the sprawling cabin. The dog stared back at her with laserlike intensity, head lowered and tail stiff.

It was not a welcoming pose.

But set back in the deep shadows of the pine trees crowding so close, the cabin itself—with all the windows dark—seemed even more menacing than a wolfhound mix with very sharp teeth.

“Don’t worry about the dog,” Grace Dearborn had said with a breezy smile during Sophie’s orientation at the county home health department offices. “He’s quite the bluffer. It’s the owner who is more likely to bite.”

From the spooky appearance of the dwelling, Sophie could imagine the home health care administrator’s words about this client being true in the most literal sense. Ominous clouds had rolled in earlier this afternoon, bringing heavy rains and lightning, and from the looks of the sky, the current respite would be brief.

So what kind of person would be sitting in there, in all that gloomy darkness?

She looked at the folder in her hand again.

Dr. Josh McLaren. Widower. Lives alone. No local support system. Declined home health aides. Postsurgical healing of comminuted fracture, right leg with a knee replacement. Surgical repair of fractured L-4 and L-5 lumbar vertebrae, multiple comminuted fractures, right hand.

There were no details on the accident itself. Had he been hit by a truck? She shuddered, imagining the pain he’d been through. The surgeries and therapy had to have been as bad as the injuries themselves.

The only other documentation in the folder were the doctor’s physical therapy orders dated last year, originating from Lucas General Hospital in Minneapolis, and some scant, frustrated progress notes written by her various physical therapist predecessors.

The last one had ignored professional convention by inserting his personal feelings into his notes.

The man is surly and impossible.

Ten minutes spent arguing about the need for therapy. Five minutes of deep massage of his right leg and strengthening exercises before he ordered me out of his house.

And the final note…

I give up. Doctor or not, McLaren is a highly unpleasant client and I will not be coming back here.

Sophie scanned the documents again, searching for a birth date or mention of the man’s age, which was basic information present in the other nine case charts she’d been assigned. Thus far, nothing.

Maybe this guy was an old duffer, like her grandfather. Crotchety and isolated and clinging to whatever measure of independence he could manage.

This morning, Grace had studied Sophie’s home visit schedule before handing it over, and she’d made it clear once again that Sophie had to succeed with every physical therapy client, to the limits of their potential, and that she’d be closely evaluating Sophie’s progress.

The job was temporary—just three months while covering for the regular therapist who’d gone to Chicago for some intensive advanced training. Excellence was expected on a daily basis, Grace had emphasized. But if Sophie did exceptionally well, Grace would try to push the county board to approve hiring her on a permanent basis.

The thought had lifted Sophie’s heart with joy, though now some of her giddy excitement faded. She set her jaw. If her ability to stay in Aspen Creek hinged on those stipulations, then no one—not even this difficult old man—was going to stand in her way. Far too much depended on it.

“Buddy, I’m going to overwhelm you with kind ness, and your mean ole dog, too,” she muttered under her breath as she pawed through a grocery sack on the front seat of her car. “See how you like that.”

Withdrawing a small can, she peeled off the outer plastic lid, pulled the tab to open the can and held it high. “Salmon,” she crooned. “Come and get it.”

It took a minute for the scent to drift over to the cabin. The dog’s head jerked up. He sniffed the breeze, then he cautiously started across the stretch of grass between the cabin and driveway.

She stayed in the lee of her open car door, ready to leap back inside at the least sign of aggression. But by the time the dog reached her front bumper his tongue was lolling and his tail wagging.

She grabbed a plastic spoon on her dashboard—a remnant of her last trip to a Dairy Queen—and scooped up a chunk of the pungent, pink fish. She dropped it on the grass and the dog wolfed it down, his tail wagging even faster. “Friends?”

She held out a cautious hand and he licked it, his eyes riveted on the can in her other hand. “Just one bite. When I come out, I’ll give you one more. Deal?”

His entire body wagged as he followed her to the cabin door.

No lights shone through the windows. She knocked. Then knocked again as loud as she could and listened for any signs of movement.