Joan Kilby - Family Matters

With a little laugh Fiona backed away. “I’m not qualified to do more than get you another coffee.”

“Have dinner with me,” Marc said.

“No. Thank you. I have other plans.”

Marc wheeled after her. “Tomorrow?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t.”

“Won’t, you mean,” Marc said bitterly. “Because I’m in a wheelchair.” In his heart he couldn’t blame her. What woman wanted to go out with a cripple?

“It’s not because your legs don’t work. Your real handicap is your attitude.”

Her challenging gaze held his until Fearless Marc Wilde had to look away.

Dear Reader,

Writing Family Matters required me to “take a giant step outside my mind,” as the saying goes. Timid ol’ me had to delve into the psyche of Marc Wilde, whose greatest thrill is meeting physical danger head-on. When Marc ends up in a wheelchair not knowing if he’ll ever walk again, once more I found myself in foreign territory, navigating by empathy, imagination and a lot of help from people who’d been there.

When I began writing this book I worried that a story about a hero in a wheelchair might be depressing to readers. Through my research I learned not only the hardships and difficulties paraplegics face, but about their ability to achieve rich, full lives. These men and women are true heroes whose stories are a triumph of the human spirit and a tribute to the joy of simple things.

Marc’s recovery is assisted by Fiona Gordon, whose combination of tough love and compassion raises his spirits and helps him find meaning in his new life. Ultimately Marc must face his demons alone and find the courage to let Fiona go to live the life she’s always longed for.

For me, Family Matters, the second book in THE WILDE MEN trilogy, became an uplifting story of moral courage and the healing power of love. Does Marc walk again? You’ll have to read the book to find out—no peeking at the final pages, please! I hope you’ll agree that by the end of Marc and Fiona’s story (which is really just the beginning) whether he walks or not truly is irrelevant. One thing we can always count on in a romance is a happy ending, and Family Matters is no exception.

I love to hear from my readers. Please write to me at P.O. Box 234, Point Roberts, WA 98281-0234, or e-mail me at www.joankilby.com.

Sincerely,

Joan Kilby

www.millsandboon.co.uk

I would like to thank physiotherapist Clifford Leckning and Dr. David Brumley for their invaluable advice and information regarding the nature of spinal injuries and their treatment and recovery. Any errors are mine.

My thanks and admiration go to a certain paraplegic young man—who prefers to remain nameless—for his humor, courage and insight.

My thanks, also, to Sheena Gibbs for introducing me to her beautiful alpacas and telling me all about these fascinating creatures.

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

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

HE SOARED OFF THE JUMP on his snowboard, looping through the mountain air, the sky a brilliant blue against the diamond-white glacier. Legs braced, he landed with a satisfying crunch on the sparkling ice and, with a rush of adrenaline, whooshed at breakneck speed down Whistler Mountain….

“Another drink, buddy?” the barmaid asked.

Marc opened his eyes to find an empty glass clutched in his fingers and his dead legs draped uselessly over his wheelchair.

The Pemberton Hotel pub in midafternoon swam back into his consciousness—glasses clinking, pool balls clunking and football on the big-screen TV in the corner. Home after a month in a rehabilitation hospital in Israel, Marc spent most of his time either lying in bed staring at the ceiling or here at the pub. This vast room with its clientele of truckers, loggers and laid-off railway workers was preferable to the fancier drinking establishments in Whistler, frequented by skiers and mountain climbers who reminded him of everything he’d lost.

He swirled the ice cubes melting in a pool of diluted bourbon at the bottom of his glass. Fearless Marc Wilde they used to call him. Hah!

“I’ll have ’nother Jack on the rocks. Make it a double.” He could hear himself slurring his words but who gave a damn? Not him. He didn’t care about anything anymore except escaping the tedium of life in a wheelchair. His days of snowboarding and rock climbing were over and his career as a foreign-war correspondent at an end. What was left to live for?

“How about a coffee instead?” the barmaid suggested. “I put a fresh pot on.”

Marc peered up at her through bleary eyes. Her thick curling mass of strawberry-blond hair, tied loosely back, framed an oval face with the type of pale pink skin that blushed easily. She looked fresh and pretty, making him even more aware of his unwashed hair and dirty fingernails. At one time he’d taken pride in good grooming but what was the point when people he passed in the street averted their eyes and even his old friends avoided his company?

The barmaid’s voice might be soft but that steady gaze looked anything but timid. Just to test her, he repeated his order. “Jack on the rocks. Double.”

He lifted his hand to place his empty glass on her tray and missed. The glass fell to the floor with a quiet thud and the remaining liquid soaked into the carpet.

“No more booze for you,” she said firmly.

They bent simultaneously to retrieve his glass. The scent of roses wafted toward him, faint and delicate amid the stale odor of cigarette smoke and beer. His hand fumbled, hers grasped the tumbler securely. Coming up, they bumped heads.

“Sorry.” Rubbing his temple with one hand he stretched shaky fingers toward her smooth forehead.

Before he could touch her, she pulled away, her eyes filled with disgust. “I’ll get you that coffee.”

Swiveling on her low heels she was gone, leaving him with a back view of well-toned legs in a short black skirt. Her fitted white blouse with three-quarter sleeves emphasized a slender waist. Once upon a time he’d had his pick of diplomats’ daughters and foreign beauties. Now not even a small-town barmaid wanted to know him.

Weeks of frustration exploded inside his booze-addled brain. If he wanted to walk badly enough, he ought to be able to do it. He planted his hands on the arms of his chair and pushed with all of his strength. The effort propelled him forward only to send him sprawling facedown on the carpet, his cheek in the wet patch where his drink had spilled. He closed his eyes as a wave of self-loathing engulfed him in blackness.

Dimly he heard the clatter of a coffee cup as the barmaid set a tray on the table. Small hands reddened by hot water crept under his armpits and tugged. She was surprisingly strong but not strong enough to lift his dead weight.

Marc struggled to push himself up, cursing his useless legs. The barmaid gave up trying to lift him and held the wheelchair steady while he dragged his sorry carcass back into a sitting position with the help of a burly logger from the neighboring table. Behind the bar, the sandy-haired bartender polished glasses and kept a wary eye on him.