Janice Johnson - Lost Cause

He did most things on his own. He didn’t feel any need for a cheerleader.

Besides, he’d been considering a trip. What better time? While convalescing, he’d discovered he was curious about these sisters it seemed he had. One who was apparently heartbroken because he hadn’t been excited about some kind of reunion, and the other who’d wanted to chew a strip off him because he wanted to be left alone.

Funny thing, since he’d gotten first the call from the P.I. and then the one from the sister, he’d found he did remember them. Or at least he thought he did. His memories from before he went to live with the Lindstroms in Bakersfield had a hazy, dreamlike quality.

He wasn’t 100 percent sure which people were the family he’d lost and which were foster families. But chasing memories that refused to be caught was getting old.

So he figured he’d take a ride across country to Washington state, maybe stay a couple of weeks, talk to this Carrie and Suzanne a few times, hear the real story.

Then decide what he wanted to do with the rest of his life…

Dear Reader,

Once in a while, a character just takes over a story. We writers like to think we’re in control, so it’s a little disconcerting to have a hero or heroine become someone we didn’t plan for at all. This is one of those books.

I knew Gary Lindstrom had had a terrible childhood. (After all, I planned it that way!) What I’d forgotten was that he’d had three happy years in a loving family before his parents died. That part of him reawakens when he falls in love as an adult and does battle with the cynicism and deep distrust of fellow humans he thinks is his basic nature.

This wasn’t an easy book to write. I kept complaining to everyone who would listen that I had no plot. I began to wish for a car chase or a gun battle! The more subtle, internal change is always a greater challenge. But by the time I finished Lost Cause, I realized it had become a favorite of my own books. Gary came to life for me in a way fictional characters rarely do. In many ways, he told his own story, and I found myself hurting for his loneliness and touched by the man he proved to be.

I’m eager to hear from readers and to talk to some of you at book signings.

Janice Kay Johnson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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

A SINGLE MOMENT, an unbidden thought, is all it takes to change a man’s life. Or at least motivate him to change it.

Gary Lindstrom became conscious and, without even opening his eyes, knew he was in the hospital. The smell, the quality of the air, the beep beep of a monitor were familiar.

His leg hurt like hell, he had the mother of all headaches, and when he flexed experimentally, every muscle in his body screamed.

He opened his eyes a slit, confirmed by the sight of the white bedding, a larger than expected mound over his legs and the curtain pulled around the bed that, yep, he was indeed in the hospital, and closed them again.

Damn it. The last thing he remembered was… Oh, crap, yeah. He’d been riding the winding canyon road, nothing but the night around him, occasional cars passing in the other direction. He’d taken each curve faster than the one before, until oncoming headlights had momentarily blinded him and he’d gone wide enough to catch some gravel under the tires. He’d felt the bike skidding, the spurt of fear and adrenaline as the guardrail rushed toward him. He recalled knowing he’d lost it, his leg scraping pavement. Then…nothing.

Footsteps, then the rattle of the curtain rings, coaxed his eyes open again. A young Hispanic nurse smiled at him.

“Mr. Lindstrom. You’re awake. How are you feeling?” She checked the bag hanging on the IV pole beside the bed.

“Hurt.” His voice came out rusty. “Accident?”

“Yes. Don’t you remember? You were very fortunate that you wore a helmet.”

“Leg?” he croaked.

“You had a nasty fracture.” She patted him. “No more questions. I’ll have the doctor come in and talk to you.”

Five minutes later, the doctor, an older man, arrived to recite a laundry list of bruises and contusions as well as cracked ribs, a leg fractured in three places, and a concussion.

“My bike?”

“From what I hear, a mangled mess.”

Regret speared Gary. Damn it, he’d worked hard to restore the 1950 FLE model Panhead. He’d intended to sell it when something else came along that interested him. He supposed insurance would cover the more than $20,000 he was out, but the accident wouldn’t be good for his rates.

“You’re not a pretty sight,” the doctor added, scanning Gary’s face with interest. “But you’d be a dead man if you hadn’t worn a helmet.”

Funny thing. He almost hadn’t. He’d slung his leg over his Harley, picked up the helmet, hesitated, then shrugged and put it on. He wore it most of the time, but he’d been in the mood to toss it aside.

Lucky I didn’t, Gary thought, as the doctor left the room. Or maybe not.

Shock punched through the pain.

Goddamn. Had he been trying to kill himself?

He closed his eyes and saw again the road, unwinding before the narrow beam of his headlight. As always, he’d exulted in the power of the Harley between his legs, but it alone hadn’t been enough. He’d sought out this road, perhaps because it was carved from the face of a cliff. Sometimes, he just plain needed to be reckless, to toy with oblivion. Tonight had been one of those times.

Or had it been last night? He realized he had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. Hours? Days? With indifference, he dismissed his speculation and returned to his main preoccupation.

Speeding down the canyon road, he’d felt the pull of the darkness beyond the white strip of guardrail. He’d known it before; who didn’t have those fleeting thoughts: What would it feel like if I sailed off the road? Maybe fantasies like that were a brief surfacing of the subconscious awareness of danger.

But tonight… Tonight, it had been stronger than that. He’d wanted danger. Maybe he’d wanted to die.

Bleakly, he examined the possibility. Could you be suicidal without realizing it?

Yeah, he decided; you could. But he didn’t think he’d gone that far. Flirting with death was one thing, marrying her another. He didn’t feel ready to cash it in. But he also had a little trouble pinpointing what appeal living held.

Maybe his attitude wasn’t so good. He’d been calling his despair cynicism. Loneliness was his choice.

A choice that meant darkness, the seductress, called to him. Or was it ignoring him, and he was the one sidling closer?

Either way, lying in that hospital bed, he saw he did have a choice now. Let himself keep sidling, or figure out how other people made themselves happy and try some of it on for size.

He shifted in bed and had to go still until the pain eased back on the throttle. One leg hadn’t shifted at all, weighted down as it was with plaster.

Okay, he thought, with a flicker of humor: he wouldn’t be trying anything on for size for a while.

But once the cast was cut off and he could throw away the crutches he predicted in his future, he had to find a way to give his life some meaning, or another time he would toss aside that helmet.