Marta Perry - A Soldier's Heart

Yell all you want, she told him silently. I’m not giving up on you, Luke Marino. I’m going to help you whether you want it or not.

“Hey, M.K., catch.”

Hearing her brother Gabe’s voice, Mary Kate turned to see a bright blue exercise ball heading toward her. Off-balance, she grabbed for it, missing and stumbling toward the wheelchair. Before she could hit it, Luke grabbed her, his strong hands steadying her.

“Sorry,” she muttered, straightening herself. “My brother’s an idiot at times. I didn’t mean to run into you.”

“It’s okay.” His hand still encircled her wrist, his fingers warm and strong. She glanced at him, aware of how close they were, of how dark those smoky eyes of his were. That emotion seemed to dance between them, and she felt sixteen again.

MARTA PERRY

has written everything, including Sunday school curriculum, travel articles and magazine stories in her twenty years of writing, but she feels she’s found her home in the stories she writes for the Love Inspired Line.

Marta lives in rural Pennsylvania, but she and her husband spend part of each year at their second home in South Carolina. When she’s not writing, she’s probably visiting her children and her beautiful grandchildren, traveling or relaxing with a good book.

Marta loves hearing from readers, and she’ll write back with a signed bookplate or bookmark. Write to her c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279; e-mail her at marta@martaperry.com or visit her on the Web at www.martaperry.com.

The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me to preach good tidings to the poor; He has sent me to heal the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound; to proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all who mourn, to console those who mourn in Zion, to give them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they may be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that He may be glorified.

—Isaiah 61:1–3

This story is dedicated to my granddaughter,

Georgia Lynn Stewart, with much love

from Grammy. And, as always, to Brian.

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

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Questions for Discussion

She was keeping an appointment with a new client, not revisiting a high school crush. Mary Kate Donnelly opened her car door, grabbed the bag that held the physical therapy assessment forms and tried to still the butterflies that seemed to be doing the polka in her midsection.

What were the odds that her first client for the Suffolk Physical Therapy Clinic would be Luke Marino, newly released from the army hospital where he’d been treated since his injury in Iraq? And would the fact of their short-lived romance in the misty past make this easier or harder? She didn’t know.

She smoothed down her navy pants and straightened the white polo shirt that bore the SPTC letters on the pocket. As warm as this spring had been, she hadn’t worn the matching navy cardigan. The outfit looked new because it was new—just as new as she was.

Nonsense. She lectured herself as she walked toward the front stoop of the Craftsman-style bungalow. She was a fully qualified physical therapist and just because she’d chosen to concentrate on marriage and children instead of a career didn’t make her less ready to help patients.

The truth was, her dwindling bank balance didn’t allow her any second thoughts. She had two children to support. She couldn’t let them down.

The grief that was never far from her brushed her mind. Neither she nor Kenny had imagined a situation in which she’d be raising Shawna and Michael by herself. Life was far more unpredictable than she’d ever pictured.

For Luke, too. He probably hadn’t expected to return to his mother’s house with his legs shattered from a shell and nerve damage so severe it was questionable whether he’d walk normally again.

Ruth Marino’s magnolia tree flourished in the corner of the yard, perfuming the air, even though Ruth herself had been gone for nearly a year. Luke had flown from Iraq for the funeral. Mary Kate had seen him standing tall and severe in his dress uniform at the church. They hadn’t talked—just a quick murmur of sympathy, the touch of a handshake—that was all.

Now Luke was back, living in the house alone. She pressed the button beside the red front door. Ruth had always planted pots of flowers on either side of the door, pansies in early spring, geraniums once the danger of frost was past. The pots stood empty and forlorn now.

There was no sound from inside. She pressed the button again, hearing the bell chime echoing. Still nothing.

A faint uneasiness touched her. It was hardly likely that Luke would have gone out. Rumor had it he hadn’t left the house since he’d arrived, fresh from the army hospital. That was one reason she was here.

“You went to high school with him.” Carl Dickson, the P.T. center’s director, had frowned at the file in front of him before giving Mary Kate a doubtful look. “Maybe you can get him in here for an assessment. He’s refused every therapist we’ve sent. You certainly can’t do any worse.”

She had read between the lines on that. She was new and part-time, so her hours were less valuable. Dickson didn’t want to waste staff on a patient who wouldn’t cooperate, but he also didn’t want to lose the contract from the U.S. Army if he could help it.

She pressed the bell again and then rapped on the door, her uneasiness deepening to apprehension. What if Luke had fallen? His determination to reject every professional approach, even simple acts of kindness, left him vulnerable.

She grabbed the knob, but it refused to turn under her hand. Kicking the door wouldn’t get her inside, tempting as it was, and if Luke lay helpless, he couldn’t answer.

She stepped from the stoop and hurried around the side of the house toward the back door. She’d grown up less than two blocks away, in the house where her parents still lived. Luke had been at their place constantly in those days, shooting hoops on the improvised driveway court. A frayed basketball hoop still hung from the Marino garage, mute testimony to Luke’s passion for sports.

The back porch had the usual accumulation—a forgotten rake, a trash can, a couple of lawn chairs leaning against the wall. She hurried to the door and peered through the glass at the kitchen.

At first she thought the figure in the wheelchair was asleep, but Luke roused at her movement, fastening a dark glare on her. He spun the wheels of the chair, but she didn’t think he was planning to welcome her in. She opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind her.

“Don’t you wait to be invited?” The words came out in a rough baritone snarl. Luke spun the chair away from her, as if he didn’t want to look at her.

Or, more likely, he didn’t want her to look at him.

Her throat muscles convulsed, and she knew she couldn’t speak in a normal way until she’d gotten control of herself. But Luke—