"Just three little
steps."
Every muscle in Kayla’s
body was burning from pain and fatigue. Rivulets of sweat were
pouring between her breasts and down her back, plastering her thin
blouse to her hot skin. Her palms were starting to blister from
repeatedly sliding them across wood.
"Brigit, please!" she
begged, sagging forward. "I’m exhausted!"
Physical therapy could be
grueling, but it could also be intensely rewarding. Brigit might
hate every moment of the torture, almost as much as her patients, but
the giddy rush of success was worth every agony they both suffered.
"Do you want to walk down
that beach?" she demanded, forcing her lilting voice into unaccustomed
harshness.
"Brigit..."
"Do you want to
walk down that beach?"
Half a mile away, distant
cameramen were scurrying around a neon-orange life raft. Alex
Matthews and Alicia Huntington were sprawled inside, seeming barely
alive under the merciless sun. According to her script, they’d
been floating aimlessly at sea for two long days following their
airplane’s violent crash. The makeup crew had done an outstanding
job in making them look traumatized and dehydrated.
Kayla blinked damp
tendrils of hair out of her eyes, and watched as ‘Mariah Conners’
staggered from the raft, sank to her knees in the foaming surf, then
tried to rouse her injured partner. Even from her isolated
position way down the beach, Kayla found the scene’s dramatic impact
unbearably moving.
Oh, how she longed to be
there, sitting in the shade with Paul and Jerry and Tommy, as they
watched the two weary castaways drag their waterlogged raft out of the
waves. How utterly thrilling it must be, to hover near enough to
hear their voices, the dialogue she’d written, being captured forever on
film!
But she could only
achieve that lofty goal by walking.
Jerry had scowled and muttered over Willy’s
ingenious double-bars for her physical therapy sessions. And he’d
grumbled to anyone who would listen when the set crew had built her more
ramps out of leftover wood scraps. She knew him well enough, now,
to realize that his bluster was mostly for show. And Allie had
assured her that he wasn’t really upset. The men were, after all,
doing the extra work in their spare time--and their daily performance
was exemplary, even by his exacting standards.
But bluster or not,
Jerry’s tolerance had firm limits. Her only access to the actual
filming would be her two agonizingly sore feet.
‘Mac’ was standing now,
gazing up the beach as he surveyed the lush island. For one
fanciful instant, she thought she could feel his piercing gaze riveting
on her flushed face. Then he turned again, and waved his uninjured
arm up the steep hillside.
Kayla’s breath shuddered
out in an unsteady sigh. "I want to walk down the beach."
"Then move your feet."
Brigit was ruthless during her therapy sessions. She had to be.
It was the only way to achieve progress. "Three steps. Right
foot first."
Kayla groaned in protest,
and gingerly lowered herself again. Searing pain shot up her
ankles, her calf muscles, her thighs as she stood swaying between the
heavy wooden bars Willy had constructed. It took every ounce of
willpower she possessed to rest her full weight on her left foot, and
slowly slide the right one forward a few scant inches. Then,
panting with exertion, she rocked back to the right and eased the
terrible pressure on her left foot.
"Two more."
Brigit’s voice faded into the background as blood rushed to her head,
pounding a sharp staccato beat against her temples. "Left foot
now."
Fierce muscle spasms
suddenly seared through her quivering legs. She gasped in mute
protest, then crumpled to the searing wooden deck.
Brigit caught her before
she landed, and deftly rolled her over. She ignored the thud of
running feet, and pressed both fists hard into Kayla’s left sciatic
nerve. The erratic spasming slowed, then faded away.
Satisfied, she transferred her weight to Kayla’s other hip.
"It’s all right,
Charlie," she murmured, finally glancing up. "This has happened
before. Help me get her inside, will you?"
The boy looked terrified
as he scooped up Kayla’s slender body and gingerly carried her into
their little hut. "She’s gonna be okay, ain’t she?" he blurted,
laying her down on the nearest cot. "It’s too hot for her to be
workin’ this hard!"
Brigit soaked a cloth
with cool water, and laid it across her patient’s clammy forehead.
"She’ll be fine, Charlie. She’s workin’ hard because she has to.
It’s the only way she’ll ever walk again."
He hung back, impotently
twisting callused hands together. "Sure do wanta see her do that,"
he admitted with a sheepish grin. "She promised me the second
dance an’ all, y’know. I just hate seein’ her hurt like this."
"So do I." Brigit
leaned back with a heavy sigh. "So do I."
"Maybe..." He
hesitated, gathering his courage, then ventured, "Maybe she could do
this at night, when it’s cooler? ’Cause for sure, Miz Brigit,
she’s gonna kill herself in this heat an’ humidity!"
Nighttime meant the
off-duty crews would be lounging around, playing cards, swapping lies
over the campfire. Kayla had insisted on exercising at midday
because they’d all be gone, working at one location or another.
She felt self-conscious enough, awkwardly hobbling back and forth,
without the added burden of sympathetic eyes. But darkness
could hide their intensive sessions, if they moved the double bars
closer to the overhanging trees.
"I’ll talk to her about
it, Charlie." Brigit laid a grateful hand on his, and hid a smile
as color rose in his youthful face. "You’d better go now, before
she wakes up. She won’t like knowin’ that anyone saw her fall."
"Yes’m." Nodding,
the lanky boy quickly backed away. "Uh...maybe I could bring
her a cool drink, in a while? Later, so she won’t think I saw
nothin’."
This time Brigit did
smile. "That’d be perfect, Charlie. Thank you!"
Kayla was starting to
stir. Brigit flipped the cool compress over, and wiped a trickle
of water from Kayla’s pale temple. "Welcome back to the living,"
she teased as Kayla blearily forced her eyes open. "How d’you
feel, darlin’?"
Kayla stifled a moan.
"Did anyone get the license of that truck?" she quipped, her weak voice
quavering with exhaustion.
"Aye, it was a huge
sixteen-wheeler carryin’ cattle for the market," Brigit chuckled.
"He ran ye down, then came back an’ let his cows tromp on ye, too!
But he’ll not be causin’ ye any more trouble, mauvereen.
From now on, we’ll be doing this after sunset, while the lads are busy
down on the beach."
The pain was drifting
away, leaving her light-headed. Kayla struggled to keep her eyes
open, but bone-deep fatigue was taking its toll. "I almost took
that second step, Brig," she murmured, her voice slurring as she sank
into cool, dreamless sleep. "I almost did it..."
"Indeed you did."
Brigit’s freckles and riotous curls were already fading away into the
comforting gray mist. "We’re makin’ good progress, darlin’, an’
I’m proud of you. Now get some rest, you’ve earned it."
• • • • • •
He’d seen her fall.
Half a mile away, Alex
had looked up and seen Kayla poised in the sturdy double bars. For
one brief, blinding instant, he’d felt a sizzling jolt of connection
as their gazes had locked. He’d seen every tiny detail with
incredible clarity. The sweat beaded on her pale forehead.
The tremors in her arms as she’d hovered between triumph and agony.
The lonely yearning in her fathomless sapphire eyes.
Then she’d fallen, and it
had taken every ounce of hard-earned discipline not to forget his lines,
his cues, and his dignity, and race headlong up the beach.
He’d covered that short
lapse so skillfully that no one, except maybe Allie, had noticed his
break in concentration. But the eerie sensation of falling,
of sprawling hard on the hot wooden deck, of blinding bone-deep pain,
had lingered with him throughout the endless afternoon.
By nightfall, his nerves
were raw and his temper was short. He didn’t even bother removing
his makeup or changing from his character’s battered clothes when he
returned to the main camp. Brigit was standing near the campfire,
chatting easily with Allie’s stunt double. Kayla was nowhere to be
seen. Without warning or apology, he grabbed Brigit’s arm and
dragged her away, into the looming forest.
"Is she all right?
Was she hurt?"
Only the frantic worry in
his eyes allowed Brigit to excuse his imperious tone. She kept a
firm check on her own rising temper as she yanked free, and curled
healing fingers over her bruised skin. "So you saw her fall."
It was more a statement than a question. "I trust you’ll not be
lettin’ her know that."
He’d expected her to rage
at him, and knew he deserved it for such appallingly rude behavior.
He couldn’t explain, even to himself, the panic churning in his guts.
How could he possibly hope for her to understand?
But her cool response
took him aback. "What? Why not?"
Brigit inhaled deeply to
quell her irritation, and tried to frame a coherent reply. She
knew why Kayla would be devastated to realize that Alex Matthews, of
all people, had seen her collapse. How could she explain so that
he understood?
"You’re a fine strong
man, Mac," she finally sighed, spreading both hands wide in a helpless
gesture. "Tall an’ proud, an’ a fair slice o’ heaven to a lady’s
eyes. How’d you feel if your mates saw you trip on a wee twig an’
land face-first in the mud? It’d be embarrassin,’ right?"
He’d been accident-prone
as a child, until he’d learned to channel his excess energy into
constructive outlets. So he could envision that exact scenario all
too clearly, and he winced. "There’s a world of difference,
though, between clumsiness and Kayla’s situation," he pointed out.
"Not to her mind."
Brigit firmly shook her head. "She doesn’t want anyone to see her
vulnerable, Mac, especially you. It’s a weakness she won’t allow.
She can’t, if she ever hopes to walk again."
Alex frowned. "Why
me, especially?"
Just how blind could
the man possibly be? Brigit wanted to shake him like a rag
doll.
"It’s obvious you don’t
feel the same," she replied with just a touch of acerbic bitterness.
"But your opinion matters to her. She’d walk on hot coals for you,
if she could. Bad enough that anyone else should see her fail.
Knowin’ you did would humiliate her. An’ I won’t allow that
to happen. Especially not after all she’s accomplished since comin’
here."
Hero worship again.
He should have found it flattering, but instead a cold shudder of dread
rippled down his long spine. Dammit, he had enough trouble being
responsible for his own feelings and actions. He didn’t want the
added responsibility of coping with someone else’s heart.
Especially not Kayla, who saw in him things that didn’t really exist.
Like confidence, and compassion, and commitment.
"No one will think less
of her, not after everything she’s been through," he muttered, glancing
away.
"She’ll think less
of her." Brigit’s freckled face was grim with foreboding.
"An’ that’s what really matters. If she starts believin’ she can’t
do it--she won’t. She’ll give up, an’ she’ll be trapped in that
wheelchair for the rest of her life."
No! Icy
panic, unexpected and unwelcome, cut through his self-centered
preoccupation like a sharp knife. "You can’t let that happen!"
She jammed both fists on
her hips, and glared up at him. "You can’t let that
happen!" she retorted, poking at his wide chest with an imperious
finger.
"Me!" He blinked
down at her in startled confusion. "What am I supposed to
do? You’re her nurse!"
You’re the man she
loves! she wanted to shout back at him. But she wisely held
her silence. Whatever might develop between Kayla and Alex
Matthews was their own business. She intended to stay well out of
the blast radius.
"You can help, more than
you know," she said instead, in a gentler voice. "You’ve no idea
how the exercises drain her. She’s been workin’ out at noon
because the camp’s empty then, but it can’t continue. Heat’s makin’
her fatigue a thousand times worse, which just makes the muscle spasms
even more intense."
Alex’s stomach clenched
at the mere thought of Kayla suffering. But how on earth was he
supposed to help? His job was to chase bad guys in front of a
movie camera, not to become a physical therapist!
"From now on, she’ll be
workin’ at night, where the darkness’ll hide her efforts an’ protect her
pride. It’s all she has left." Sadness briefly chased across
Brigit’s features, then her green eyes chilled with warning. "I
don’t want to catch anyone lurkin’ around the double bars, even with the
best of intentions. You understand me, MacAllister? If we
need help, we’ll ask for it."
He didn’t understand, not
entirely. But he did recognize an elemental force when he slammed
head-first against it. And he knew better than to cross this
fiery-haired little tempest, especially when Kayla’s health was at risk.
If she could stand
unaided, her head would rest perfectly against his shoulder, he suddenly
realized. Who’d have guessed that she had such long legs, under
those concealing ankle-length skirts?
"Will she be able to walk
again?" he urged, glancing toward the sturdy double bars. Willy
had done a tremendous job of constructing the ingenious therapy device
from young saplings and thick vines. He’d even stripped off the
bark and sanded the wood, so she wouldn’t get splinters in her palms.
A professional gymnast couldn’t ask for better quality.
"Why?" Brigit’s
lilting voice was caustic. "Did she promise you a dance, too?"
"I haven’t asked."
‘Mac’ might have added
that he never bet on a sure thing--but right now didn’t seem quite the
time for such glib sarcasm. Besides, Alex wasn’t sure she would
care to dance with him! Tommy seemed far more her type, with
his clever words and easy acceptance of her handicap.
"Mac!" Oblivious to
the brewing tension, Renee was approaching with a damp cloth and a jar
of cold cream. "There you are! Time to remove your makeup,
before it clogs your pores. Brigit," she added with a warm smile
as she slid into the shadows, "you let me know if you need any creams to
protect that fair skin. We wouldn’t want you getting sunburned
this early in the filming."
Renee was cheerful and
ingenuous, and impossible to dislike. Brigit felt some of her
antagonism toward Alex fading as the dark-skinned makeup artist reached
them. "I’ll be careful, thanks. You did a marvelous job,"
she added with a saucy grin, and canted her head in Alex’s direction.
"He looks awful!"
Renee’s chocolate-brown
eyes danced with laughter. "That’s why they pay me the big bucks!
Now just imagine what I could do with you, some fine evening!
You’d have all the men tripping over their tongues! And I know
where your eyes have been wandering," she teased with a sly
smirk. "Why, if we shaped your hair just a little, and then used
subtle makeup on your face and your..."
Alex grabbed the cold
cream, and beat a hasty retreat before she could devise some bizarre
makeover for him, too. He was perfectly happy with the way he
looked. After all, millions of screaming fans couldn’t be wrong!
Could they?
One of them was sleeping
in the script hut right now, he reminded himself with an inner pang.
But he was the one screaming, deep inside, every time he saw her.
Brigit was wrong to
believe he didn’t care about Kayla. He couldn’t help respecting
someone so courageous, so delightfully clever, so full of laughter.
She generated such
incredible enthusiasm for every new experience, it was impossible not to
respond. He supposed that was an understandable side-effect from
being trapped in a coma for three years. Being dead must give you
an amazing new outlook on life.
She was a beautiful,
intelligent, likeable woman. Being confined in a wheelchair
shouldn’t make any difference at all.
So what was it about
Kayla Farrell that stirred all his baser instincts to boiling--and
scared the living daylights out of him?
And what the hell was he
going to do about it?
• • • • • •
Allie was pleased.
She’d had her doubts, at
first, when Jerry had suggested expanding their seven-year-old TV series
into a full-length movie. It was the next logical step, he’d
insisted, with enforced syndication right around the corner, if they
wanted to keep the series going. And he’d just been given a
magnificent script that would tie together all of their ongoing plot
threads into one neat package. Better yet, it would pave the way
for more episodes, and more movies, in the future. He was certain
it would be a huge success.
She’d done a few
low-budget films during her early struggling years. Now that she
was wildly successful, those wretched B-rated flicks had become cult
classics to her most dedicated fans. She remembered them mostly
with a shudder of horror.
The very thought of
taking that route again had given her plenty of sleepless nights.
Not like Alex, who’d been eager to try his hand at the illustrious
silver screen.
The script was brilliant,
she’d been in full agreement with Jerry there. But she knew the
cost and hassle involved in filming a high-quality movie, especially if
most of the filming was on some remote tropical island. Why
couldn’t this Kayla Farrell have chosen upscale Manhattan, or New York,
or D.C.? Even Hollyweird was preferable to the untamed wilderness!
How would she survive for months on end, without a single salon or night
club in sight?
Yet here she was.
And much to her surprise, she was enjoying herself immensely!
Sure, it was hotter than
the proverbial gates of hell. And the mosquitoes were big enough
to carry off a pregnant cow. (When she got back to the mainland,
she was going to invest heavily in every insecticide company she could
find!) The hours were long, and the sun was harsh, and she’d
nicknamed her hut Alcatraz, because she was sleeping on a rock-like
mattress every night.
But the island was
mind-bogglingly gorgeous. Every morning, she woke to the sweet
liquid trills of songbirds and parrots flitting through the fragrant
trees, warbling their intricate dawn symphonies. She was coming to
love the ocean’s perpetual hiss-and-crash, in all its whimsical moods.
The night sky was thick and velvety, with millions of brilliant stars
scattered across its endless bowl like glittering diamonds.
Crickets and elusive bullfrogs added their own magical serenade to the
nightly campfire’s crackling.
Filming was going
extremely well, despite the capricious weather. Even Paul was
starting to relax, and enjoy the frenetic pace. Jerry was
positively ecstatic that their equipment was still functioning, despite
the humid salt air. There hadn’t been any serious injuries yet.
And Kayla had managed to take four slow, shuffling steps on the double
bars that morning, before her legs had given out again.
Only Brigit and Allie
knew how hard she was pushing herself. Every waking moment, she
was either pounding away on her laptop, or twisting herself into aerobic
knots to stimulate her damaged spinal nerves. Her three-year
struggle to walk again had become an obsession that drove her to
constant exhaustion. Allie found herself caught up in the fierce
battle, agonizing over every setback, rejoicing over every slight
victory, as if she was waging the war herself.
When she wasn’t
exercising, Kayla could usually be found wrestling along the double
bars, striving to force her reluctant body into submission. None
of Allie’s warnings had any effect. Even her dire prediction that
she’d soon have Arnold Schwarzenegger’s biceps didn’t deter her from
practicing again and again.
At least now she could
tell when she’d stressed her muscles too far, and stop before her nerves
started spasming. That, too, was definite progress.
"I can’t believe the
difference this climate has made," Brigit had told Allie in an undertone
one evening as they’d watched her sweat and strain against gravity.
"In another few weeks, at this rate--assumin’ we’re allowed to stay that
long--she might be givin’ old Willy that dance, after all!"
That was a sight she’d
give a lot to see! So Allie had slipped away to have another
private chat with Jerry. No matter how much he might fuss and
bluster, he wasn’t going to risk alienating the entire cast and crew.
If Kayla was their auburn darling, their lucky charm, then Kayla was
what they’d have.
Their work had never been
finer. It was going to be one helluva movie!
Renee brushed something
cool and damp across her forehead, and Allie watched in the mirror as a
simulated angry-looking scrape emerged on her left temple. "They
do like to bang you up, don’t they?" the talented makeup artist crooned,
tweaking the brush in delicate strokes. "What is it this time,
dodging more bullets?"
Allie grinned.
"Exploring a dark cave." She held perfectly still, but her eyes
sparkled with suppressed laughter. "You should see the size of the
rock I’m supposed to crash into!"
Renee winced. "See
that you don’t damage my artwork," she fretted, leaning back to study
Allie’s exquisite face. "Or yourself! It’s a lot harder to
hide a real cut than to create a faked one!"
The dirt-smudged actress
chuckled, and rotated her slender shoulders. "Not to worry, I have
a highly-developed aversion to genuine injury."
"Which is a damned good
thing," Tommy interjected from the doorway, "considering what they want
us to do out there. Have you taken a look at this afternoon’s
crazy schedule? Paul’s definitely lost his mind this time.
Morning, Renee!" And he sauntered in to plant a teasing kiss on
the woman’s smooth brown cheek. "Haven’t lost your touch, I see."
Renee chuckled, and waved
the brush perilously close to his youthful face. "You’re a
terrible flirt, Tommy Anders!" she smirked. "I live for the day
some sadistic woman breaks your heart! Now don’t distract me while
I’m creating a masterpiece!"
"Yes, ma’am."
Mock-obedient, he sank into the adjoining chair, and arched his spine in
a bone-popping yawn. "What’s with the rumors that you and Jimbo
are up to something special for our psychotic genius?"
Allie grimaced.
Despite her best efforts to squash it into oblivion, Alex’s tactless
description had stuck. Fortunately when Kayla had heard the
mocking term, she’d simply laughed. "Of course I’m psychotic!
Why else would I fit in here so well?" she’d teased.
Now Allie leveled a
reproving frown at her lounging co-star. "What rumors?"
Renee’s soft laughter
bubbled through the tent. "That big ox, he can’t keep a secret for
anything. God knows why I married him."
"’Cause I look just like
Shaq! Why else would you love me, woman?" As if on cue,
Jimbo poked his head into the sultry tent. A wide grin split his
coal-black face when he saw that Kayla and Brigit were nowhere in sight.
"Check this out, guys!"
With fine dramatic flair,
the huge man stepped inside, and swept a pair of intricately carved
wooden crutches from behind his broad back. "I had to guess some
on how high they should be," he admitted. "But they oughta be
pretty close. Think Kayla’ll like ’em?"
"Oh, my!" A sudden
lump rose in Allie’s slender throat. She blinked hard several
times to dispel brimming tears, and gripped Renee’s free hand.
"This is wonderful! With a little practice, she’ll be able to go
anywhere!"
Renee’s answering grin
was full of mischief and pleasure. "That’ll show Jamieson, for
refusing to give her decent quarters. We figured she’s been
working so hard, these might perk her up. So Willy cut and shaved
the wood, Roland padded the armrests, and Jimbo put them together."
"Tested ’em myself, too,"
her burly husband interjected with a deep chuckle. "So I know
they’ll be sturdy enough for her."
Tommy gratefully clapped
him on the shoulder. "It’s brilliant! Once she finds her
balance, these crutches will make a huge difference!"
"Let’s surprise her
tonight at dinner," Renee suggested, glancing at each of them in turn.
"I can’t think of a nicer way to end a long, busy day!"
"Speaking of busy..."
Allie glanced guiltily at her watch. "I’d better get up to the
cave, or Paul’s going to give me a matching gash on the other side of my
face. Excellent work, Renee, as always. Tommy, are you
scheduled on Set Three right now?"
He pulled a well-worn
notebook from his hip pocket, and consulted it. "Not for another
hour. Want me to ride up the hill with you?"
She hooked an arm through
his, and stepped cautiously into the blazing midday sun. "Would
you? I know it’s sturdy, but that rusty old ski lift always scares
me half to death."
