Made to Last (Where Love Begins Book #1) (18 page)

“I’m thirty.”

A grin spread over her face and she nudged him with her elbow. “That’s not the point.”

“But it is. I’m thirty, and I’m still sometimes so angry at my dad. The kind of angry that makes you feel claustrophobic, trapped. Why am I not over this?”

He studied Miranda’s profile, the emotions playing over her face. Empathy, compassion, understanding. Their pasts weren’t anything alike, but the lingering effects were strikingly similar.

“Anyway, Jase wants me to go see Dad, thinks it’d be helpful if I get everything out in the open. All I can think is, it’d only be a repeat of the last time we saw each other.”

Gordon Knox’s face came into view, hair greased back and maverick sneer fuming in his eyes that day five years ago.
“This is garbage, son. Straight-up garbage.”
His father had held a copy of the
Star Tribune
in his hand, Delia’s article screaming from the front page. And Matthew hadn’t realized what he was doing until his fist connected with his father’s jaw.

Miranda slid her hand over the dusty ground beneath them, fingers brushing over the top of his own before closing over it. What was she doing?
She’s married.
The annoying voice of his conscience, or maybe just common sense, hadn’t stopped repeating the reminder in days now.

But he didn’t move his hand from under her hold. “You know what upsets me the most?” he murmured.

“Hmm?” Her eyes grazed over the blazing hues of the landscape.

“I’m turning out just like him.”

“Your father? Why do you say that?”

He rotated his hand so his palm faced hers. “I mess everything up. I hurt people who care about me.” He thought of Jase, angry at the zoo. His former co-workers at the
Tribune
. Even Miranda and the article Dooley wanted him to write. If he wrote it, he’d hurt her. If he didn’t, he’d anger Dooley and mess up the plan to help with Cee’s surgery. “I’m a screw-up.”

She released his hands and shifted to a kneeling position as her eyes took hold of his. “That’s a ridiculous thing to say, Matthew Knox. Let me tell you something. You keep forcing me to tell you my story. You ask me questions that annoy the socks off me, but once you get me talking, I can’t stop. And it’s pouring out of me, the past I’ve avoided for years.”

She spoke with energy, enthusiasm, cheeks reddening. Her knees dug into the dirt.
So breathtakingly beautiful . . .

“I’ve had these hurts clawing at me for so long, but now that I’m finally facing them, I’m finding a new freedom.”

Hurts? She’d only told him about her parents. And that Robbie guy . . . But the intensity in her voice now confirmed what he’d reckoned all along: there was more. And he warred between asking or . . . pulling her into his lap.

She’s married.

His conscience heightened to a scream.

She placed a palm on his shoulder, warmth he had no business feeling spreading through him. “
You
did that. You helped me. You and your irritating, nosy questions.”

He’d also searched her house. Did she remember that? He’d goaded Blaze behind her back. He’d noted every averted glance, verbal slip, and fidgety movement. Tucked away every sign of surreptitious behavior for later study.

I’m not what you think, Miranda.
He should tell her. Then maybe she’d pull her hand from his chest and lose that glimmer in her eyes. Save him from losing his last grip on his purpose here.

“And Celine, look at what you’re doing for her. Anyone can see this isn’t exactly the kind of reporting you relish. But you made the sacrifice, came down here to interview a B-list celebrity and make some quick money, all for her.”

Her hand glided to his heart. And he couldn’t stop his own from reaching up to cover hers. “Miranda—”

“You’re not a screw-up. Not to me.”

Her face was so close he could feel her breath. His chest pumped as her lips parted.

“Miranda,” he gasped at the last second. “You’re married.”

She froze, face hovering in front of his for a millisecond before shock sparked her into movement. Her hand flew from his chest as if burning and she fell backward, backside thudding into the dirt, dust and pebbles spilling around her. Her arms jerked to the ground to steady her and she scrambled to her feet, horror mixed with humiliation creasing her forehead.

“I’m . . . I’m . . .” Her hands covered her cheeks, and instead of blushing, she’d paled to white.

He jumped up. “It’s okay. We were just . . . having a moment. It was natural instinct, that’s all, and—”

Back to him, she groaned. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He skirted around her, arms popping out to hold her in place before she could whirl away. “You don’t have to apologize.”

Her hands dropped from her face. “But I do. Matthew, I . . .” Her eyes pressed closed, and then opened, lashes fluttering until her gaze focused. “I’m not . . .” She bit her lip as vulnerability welled in her gray irises.

“You’re not what? Sorry after all?” His lips hinted at a smile.

She took a long breath, squaring her shoulders. “I’m not—”

A scream gashed into the stillness of the forest, followed by a crash of branches and yelling. Miranda’s mouth dropped open. “Livvy?”

“Come on.” He grabbed her hand, pulling her into the grove.
But even as he quickened his pace, his heart raced. Not because of whatever lay ahead . . .

But what remained behind. An almost-kiss. Miranda’s unspoken words. And in her eyes, the mixture of mystery and fear and . . . confession.

“Brad, can’t you drive any faster?” Miranda heard the high-pitched whine of her voice but didn’t care. Blaze’s moan from the back seat of Brad’s Camry conjured the picture of him on the ground, arm at an angle that could only mean serious pain.

“We’re not going to get to the hospital any faster if we get in an accident, Rand—so just calm down.”

“Calm down? The man fell out of a tree!”

She glanced out the passenger-side rearview mirror. Matthew still followed in his Jeep with Liv.

Her voice lowered to a hiss. “Poor Blaze. I feel awful.”

Especially since he’d had to walk a good mile after the fall. None of their cell phones had enough signal up on the trail to call 9-1-1, so Brad had jogged back to the car, driven it as far up the trail as he could, and they’d met in the middle, Blaze assuring everyone he could make it.

“It’s not like I haven’t broken an arm before,” he’d said through gritted teeth. “This is the third time. No, fourth. No, wait, third. That other time was a dislocated shoulder.”

He’d talked all the way to the car. His way of dealing with the pain? Or a side effect of all the meds Liv had stuffed down his throat.

“I still can’t believe Liv gave him all that Sudafed. He has a broken arm, not a head cold.”

“She thought he’d be better off drowsy.” Brad passed a station wagon.

He was drowsy, all right. Mumbling something about Michigan and his brother and pancakes.

She twisted in her seat. “It’s going to be all right, Blaze. We’ll get you to the ER and the doctor will fix your arm and—”

“Can’t fix it now.” Blaze lay on his back, broken arm cradled against his torso, the other flopped over his forehead. Dirt streaked across his face, sullied his zipped-up jacket. “Too late. He’s gone.”

“What?”

“The meds, Randi,” Brad said. “Mixed with the pain, he probably doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

“Drive faster.” Oh, why’d he have to climb that tree? It was a miracle he hadn’t been hurt worse. “I’m a horrible wife, Walsh.”

“Pretend wife. And why would you think this is your fault? If it’s anybody’s fault, it’s mine and Liv’s. We should have stopped him when he asked us to time his climb.”

She shook her head. “I know the kind of stunts he pulls. I could’ve talked him out of it. I should’ve been there.”

Instead of chasing after Matthew and almost—

Oh, Lord, help me.
She had almost told him everything. Worse, had almost kissed him. She could feel the flush taking over her face even now. Horror and humiliation cavorted in a frenzied mental dance. “I could just die.”

“Say what?” Brad veered his vehicle onto Main Avenue of the small mountain town. The hospital there was small, but it was closer than Asheville’s suburbs, and they’d get faster service.

“Nothing.” She couldn’t worry about Matthew now. Not with Blaze still mumbling in the back seat, face white.

“Nothing I can do now,” Blaze murmured. “Too late.”

“He’s really out of it.” She exhaled. “Are you sure it’s just a broken arm? It looked so mangled. And what if he’s got internal injuries?”

“I really think it was a clean break.” Brad’s voice softened. “It’s nice of you to play the concerned wife, but truly, I think he’ll be okay. And look, here’s the hospital.”

He pulled into the circle drive. Miranda shot out of the car the minute he shifted into Park. She ducked in the back seat. “Blaze, honey, it’s time to go into the hospital. Come on.”

“You called me honey,” he slurred.

The doctor might have to pump his stomach in addition to setting his arm. How many pills had Liv given him? She wove her arm through Blaze’s good arm, patting his shoulder with her other hand. “Let’s get inside.”

Footsteps padded on pavement behind her. Brad most likely—maybe Matthew and Liv, too. But she was focused on getting Blaze through the revolving door, into the emergency room. The receptionist was blessedly free, the waiting room, smelling of bleach and potpourri, empty of all but one other cluster of people.

Within minutes a nurse took Blaze back. The receptionist handed Miranda a clipboard and paperwork with a crooked smile that spoke recognition.

Yes, I’m Randi Woodruff. But please, not now.
Miranda joined the others in the waiting area.

“If pacing was an Olympic sport, you’d win gold, Miranda.” Matthew rose from his vinyl chair. “He’s going to be just fine.”

She couldn’t look at him. Didn’t have words, either. Not after . . . She turned to the window.

“Listen,” Matthew said, “I missed a few calls but can’t get good reception in here. I’m going to step outside to catch up on my voice mails.”

She waited until the whir of the revolving door promised
Matthew’s absence and dropped into the seat next to Brad. “Where’s Liv?”

“Same as Knox, on her phone. Checking in on Open Arms.” He poked her arm. “So, you want to tell me?”

“Tell you what?” She pulled her flannel jacket tight around her, the waiting room’s warmth no match for the blizzard of worries whirling in her. She fiddled with her hands.

“Why you and Knox are acting as awkward around each other as a couple of teens on their first date.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Across the room, a nurse called a name, and the other waiting room occupants rose to follow her down the corridor. The receptionist chattered away on the phone.

Brad shrugged, picked the clipboard up from the end table. “Fine. Let’s get the paperwork filled out.”

“Sorry I snapped at you.”

“You’re worried. I get it. Any clue what Blaze’s middle name is?”

She pulled the clipboard from Brad’s hands and slipped the pencil from the clip. “Lucas. Blake Lucas Hunziker.”

She scanned the cover sheet. They’d swiped Blaze’s wallet before he’d gone back, so they could rifle through it, fill in his birth date, maybe even find a health insurance card.

“What should I put for his address? Mine or the one on his license?”

“The one on his license. They’ll want a copy of his license, so they should probably match.”

“Yeah, but . . .” Oh well. Hopefully the hospital personnel wouldn’t ask questions.

She looked farther down the sheet. Was he on any medications? Um, other than the cold meds Liv fed him, she hadn’t seen him pop so much as a Tylenol. Allergies? She kept reading. Oh dear. Past surgeries? Medical history?

No stinkin’ idea.

“I can’t do this, Brad.”

“You’re right, you shouldn’t guess. It’s okay. We’ll get Blaze to look at it after—”

She flopped the clipboard into the chair next to her, fighting a wave of nausea. “It’s not just that. It’s this whole thing. It’s so wrong.”