Buch lesen: «Lexy's Little Matchmaker»
“I’m not a superhero, sweetie. I’m just a one hundred percent regular woman.”
The words caused Drew’s abdomen to contract. An air of awareness hung in the room like fog.
One hundred percent woman? Definitely.
Regular? No way.
His pulse deepened as an unexpected pull toward this woman gripped him. Not solely because of the easy, loving manner she had with his son, either, although that was definitely a plus. But aside from that, Lexy Cabrera was, quite frankly, stunning. She wore jeans and a red tank top that showed off tanned and super-toned arms and shoulders. She reminded him of an exotic Marilyn Monroe, all dark tumbled hair, slanted bedroom eyes and creamy cappuccino skin. Super sexy without even trying.
Yeah, Lexy was leaps and bounds beyond regular.
Dear Reader,
I’ve been the voice behind 9-1-1 for eight years now, and certain calls reach out and imprint themselves on your soul. Usually those are fro children, who are braver and more capable under pressure than we give them credit for.
So it is when Lexy answers a terrifying, life or death 9-1-1 call from six-year-old Ian Kimball. Afterward, Lexy knows heroic little Ian will always be in her heart, but she didn’t expect his widowed father to find his way there, too.
She quickly realizes Drew Kimball is far more than simply a patient, or the new guy in town, or a sexy, eligible daddy. He’s the one and only man who makes her contemplate risking her heart again.
For those who’ve followed Lexy through the first three Troublesome Gulch books and begged me not to forget about her (I never would!), I hope you find her healing path as satisfying as you did her friends'.
Wishing you health, safety and, of course, love,
Lynda
About the Author
LYNDA SANDOVAL is a former police officer who exchanged the excitement of that career for blissfully isolated days creating stories she hopes readers will love. Though she’s also worked as a youth mental health and runaway crisis counselor, a television extra, a trade-show art salesperson, a European tour guide and a bookkeeper for an exotic bird and reptile company—among other weird jobs—Lynda’s favorite career, by far, is writing books. In addition to romance, Lynda writes women’s fiction and young adult novels, and in her spare time, she loves to travel, quilt, bid on eBay, hike, read and spend time with her dog. Lynda also works part-time as an emergency fire/medical dispatcher for the fire department. Readers are invited to visit Lynda on the web at www.LyndaLynda.com, or to send mail with a SASE for reply to PO Box 1018, Conifer, CO 80433-1018, USA.
LEXY’S LITTLE MATCHMAKER
LYNDA SANDOVAL
MILLS & BOON
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For the brave little girl who called 9-1-1
and followed all my CPR instructions despite her fear.
Your grandpa will always be your guardian angel.
Chapter One
Drew crouched at the carved wooden sign with white-painted letters and clapped a hand on his son’s slight shoulder, warm from the sun. “What’s that say, pal?”
Ian studied the words, his bottom lip jutting out in concentration. The expression always reminded Drew of Gina. “Um … Deer Track Trailhead.” He squinched his nose at his dad. “That’s hard to say.”
“Yeah, it’s a tongue twister—” Drew stood, then ruffled Ian’s golden hair “—but easy to remember, right? Deer Track?”
“Yep,” Ian said. “Deers make tracks.”
“That’s a good way to think of it.” Drew angled his chin down. “You won’t forget if you repeat the name in your head three times, just like I taught you.”
Ian squinted up at him and smiled. “I already did.”
“Good boy.” Drew lifted one arm and glanced at his wristwatch. “Ready for synchronization?”
Ian mimicked his father’s action, focused on his plastic digital superhero watch. “Mine says 11:11 a.m.”
Drew nodded once. “Mine, too.”
“Okay, so we started hiking from the Deer Track Trailhead,” Ian enunciated carefully, “at 11:11 a.m. You remember, too, Daddy. Just in case.”
Drew smiled down at his son, his heart swelling. “That’s right. The Kimball men can never be too prepared. You have your water bottle and energy bar?”
“It’s all in here.” Ian hooked his thumbs beneath the shoulder straps of his Batman backpack. He was in the midst of an extended superhero worship phase. Nothing could harm a superhero, after all. “And the special card I made for Mommy’s in here, too.”
It took all of Drew’s will to keep the soulcutting pain out of his expression. “That’s my little man.”
“I don’t forget stuff.”
“No, you sure don’t. Let’s get started. We have a long day ahead of us.” Drew blinked up at the crackling sun. “Looks like it’s going to be a hot one.”
Ian slipped his hand into his father’s. “Did you used to hike here when you were little, Daddy?”
“I did.” Boy, that had been a lifetime ago. “With your grandpa.”
“Cool,” Ian said.
Their hiking boots crunched softly on the packed dirt as they ascended the path through the Rockies. All around them, summer wildflowers bloomed with riotous, multicolored abandon, and the soft breeze through the evergreens sang on the air like angels’ whispers. Birds chattered in the trees, and the occasional chipmunk darted through the underbrush. In a word? Peaceful. And heartbreaking, but that was two words. This ritual, on this particular day—the anniversary of Gina’s death—might be excruciating for Drew, but it was important.
For Ian.
Drew set aside his private pain and sucked it up.
Ian peered up at the steep climb ahead of them. “I really think we’ll be closer to her at the top of the mountain, Daddy.” His voice had gone pensive, albeit determined.
After a moment to school his emotions, Drew smiled tightly at Ian. “Of course we will,” he said, in a gentle tone. He felt the sudden need to fill up the silence with words that might make the whole thing easier. “See those clouds?” He pointed to a blindingly white thunderhead hanging in the deep turquoise Colorado sky.
“Yeah?”
“That’s the part of heaven we can see from here on earth.”
“Where Mommy is?”
“Yes.” Drew cleared the catch from his throat. “And Mommy’s always watching you from heaven, okay? Taking care of you.”
“What about you?”
“Both of us, son. Every time you look at those clouds, think of her and believe.”
Ian’s wide-eyed stare remained fixed on the fluffy cloud. “We will be closer to her at the top,” Ian said, firmly. “I know it. I can tell.”
Drew smiled wistfully into the golden sunshine. “So close, you’ll be able to feel her arms around you in a big hug. And she’ll be so glad we’re remembering her with happiness on this day and not sadness.”
A beat of silence passed. “But I am a little sad,” Ian admitted.
“I know, pal. That’s okay. I am, too.”
Ian kicked his toe into the ground as they walked, sending a pinecone skittering. “Do you think she’ll like my card? I messed up that one part.”
“She’ll love it, and it’s perfect.”
“But, how will it go to heaven?” Ian fretted, shooting another worried glance up at the clouds that were, admittedly, so far away. “I don’t get it.”
Drew clenched his free hand into a fist. A six-year-old boy’s brow shouldn’t knit with such worries. At this point, Drew would do or say anything to alleviate his son’s distress. If Ian thought the top of the mountain brought them closer to his mommy, then by God, hike they would. He had no plans to dash a little boy’s hopeful illusions. “Well, we’ll leave it at the top, and when the stars come out, the angels will fly down and carry it up to her.”
“For real?”
“Cross my heart.”
Ian wore a dubious expression. “But how do you know?”
Think, Drew. Think. He cleared his throat. “Remember that shooting star I showed you last week?”
“Uh-huh. I made a wish.”
“Right. Well, that was an angel, coming down to get a message to deliver it to someone else’s mommy in heaven.”
Ian searched his face for a moment, checking for the truth of his words. Finally he nodded once. “Good.” He paused. “But Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“How come there are so many mommies in heaven?”
The question hit Drew like a body slam. “There are a lot of people in heaven, big guy. Not just mommies.”
They hiked in relatively calm silence through patches of dappled sunshine for a few moments. When they reached a tunnel of shade created by thick, overarching tree branches, Ian dropped his hand. “I miss her. A lot. Is it okay to say that?”
Drew draped his hand across Ian’s shoulders and pulled him closer, fighting the urge to stop, to wrap his arms around Ian, to succumb to the pall of mourning. Neither of them needed that. “Of course. I miss her, too. But let’s have a fun day, yeah? The kind your mom would’ve liked.”
“Okay,” Ian said. “I don’t like being sad.”
“Neither do I, Ian. Neither do I.”
They managed to get through several minutes talking about the terrain and trees, about the colorful striations in the rocks and what they meant. They managed, just for a little while, to set their grief aside and enjoy a normal father-and-son moment. Progress, Drew thought, however small and halting.
A few paces after a switchback carried them once again into the buttery sunlight, they came upon a vast field of stunning, bright-orange flowers—Gina’s favorite color. Bright-eyed and happy for the first time in days, Ian stopped short and bounced on the nubby soles of his hiking boots. “Look!” he exclaimed, as if it were a clear sign that his hike-up-high-to-mommy plan had been on-target.
“I see. They’re beautiful. Just like Mommy, right?”
“I know. Can I pick some for her? Please? To leave for the star angels so they don’t miss my card?”
“Sure, pal. Whatever you’d like.” Ian bounded into the field, all cowlicks and energy and thick rubber soles. Drew followed just to the edge. He’d give anything for Ian to be able to give those flowers to his mother in person, but that wasn’t possible. As much as losing her had left a gaping hole in their family, Drew was grateful her battle with “the beast,” as she’d called it, had ended. That was something, at least. A balm for the soul. Now all he wanted was to see his son happy again, whatever it took.
No more nightmares.
No more depression.
No more bed-wetting.
A boy of his age shouldn’t have to deal with those issues. Seeing Ian carefree, running through a field of flowers, Gina’s quirky favorite color, brought Drew a modicum of joy he sorely needed, especially on this saddest of days.
Ian whipped back, eyes bright and lively. “Come on!”
“You pick,” Drew said, waving him on. “I’ll arrange them in a bouquet as you gather them,” he said, as if he had the first clue about flower arranging.
Content just to watch his son thoughtfully gather the most beautiful blossoms as a memorial for his mother, Drew sat on a rock jutting out from the edge of the soft blanket of vibrant petals. Honestly? Days like this exhausted him emotionally and physically, straight down to his bones. Gina’s birthday, Ian’s birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, his and Gina’s wedding anniversary.
Family days.
He’d never planned on being a single father.
And yet, he was determined to do his best, even though a small part of him yearned to curl up and shut out the world until the day was over. Until his pain had eased. Until he could wrap his brain around the logic of a twenty-seven-year-old mother, in this day and age, dying from diabetes. She’d been diagnosed as a teenager, but had never accepted it, a fact that had always pissed him off. The familiar rush of guilt crested inside him, bringing back the times he’d accused Gina of being reckless with her health.
Reckless. He hated that they’d argued about it.
Screaming fights. Tears.
The undeniable truth was, Gina pushed herself too hard, stubbornly determined not to let the diabetes control her life. Instead of managing it, though, she’d laughed in its face. He understood her motivation, but it hadn’t worked. It would never work, which is what he’d told her. Why they’d fought. Not that it mattered in the end. Just as he’d feared, the diabetes had won, and he was just the jerk of a husband who’d argued with his headstrong, diabetic wife.
But all that? The past. What mattered now was that he was the grown man while Ian remained a child. Only four years old when Gina died. Drew had shoes older than that. Despite Gina’s infuriatingly stubborn nature, she was the mother of his son. Drew simply had to keep her alive in Ian’s mind, no matter what it took. So? Shutting out the world wasn’t an option; his son needed him.
Emotionally flattened, Drew blew out a breath and leaned his hands back on the hot, jagged rock.
The stings ripped through him like little searing shockwaves.
One, then another, and another. And more.
He hadn’t even seen the bees.
“Dammit.” He flailed, then shot to his feet, spinning this way and that to knock the bees off. How could he have been so careless? Where there are flowers, there are bees. Simple fact of nature.
An immediate rush of heat up his arm set the alarms clanging in his heart. The effects seemed much faster than his usual allergic reactions, which had always been bad enough. But this … probably due to the multiple stings.
Tamping down the panic, he inspected his forearm. Five stings that he could see, already swelling, with hives spreading well beyond the cherry-red bumps. His pulse kicked into overdrive and his face bloomed tight and hot. He recognized the signs of imminent anaphylaxis all too well. He’d been deathly allergic to bees since childhood and had brushed with the life-threatening condition more than once.
This could not be happening.
Not today.
He needed to talk to his son before he was no longer able. Needed help. Needed it damn soon. “Ian!” he choked out, coughing through a tightening throat. Damn. His tongue had already begun to swell, as had his windpipe.
Ian pivoted toward him and froze, instantly on alert by the urgency of his dad’s tone.
Drew fumbled in his cargo pocket for the EpiPen he never left home without … then stilled. Empty.
No EpiPen? He numbed. Dread spread through him as fast as the bee venom.
He always carried his EpiPen.
Panic pushed through his veins and squeezed him; he couldn’t breathe. Shaking, he tore through his other pockets, partially ripping one flap off his hiking shorts. Nothing. He shrugged off his backpack then pawed through it, clumsy and slow, craving oxygen.
Nothing.
Stars burst in his vision as he watched his son run and stumble toward him, the carefully chosen orange wildflowers falling forgotten from the boy’s little hand. “Daddy! Daddy! What’s wrong?”
He wanted to reassure his son.
Wanted to make it all okay.
But couldn’t.
Gasping, choking, Drew sat, then slid back on the rock. He tried to keep the stung arm angled downward, to slow the venom’s attack on his body. The skin on his face and hands seemed stretched to its limit, fire-hot and apt to split open if he moved or spoke. When Ian’s terrified and confused face appeared above him, Drew didn’t have the option of many words. He reminded Ian of the most important ones. “Deer … Track.”
He labored for air, his vision blackening. The last thing he heard was Ian yelling for him to wake up.
Eleven-eleven.
Deer Track Trailhead.
Ian repeated the words in his head as he plowed through his daddy’s belongings looking for the medicine shot that was supposed to save his life if he ever got stung by a bee. But it wasn’t there. It wasn’t there! His heart pounded so hard, he could hear it in his head. His throat had gone dry and sore from his heavy breathing.
The shot was nowhere.
Daddy had always told him, use the shot. But how could he use it if he couldn’t find it?
“Mommy!” he wailed in panic and frustration, fists clenched as he glanced up at the fat white cloud.
No answer.
Why couldn’t she say something?
Wasn’t she supposed to be watching out for them?
He felt so alone. So scared. Tears squeezed out of his eyes. The breeze tilted the orange flowers in the field to one side, then the other. They didn’t look so pretty anymore.
Eleven-eleven.
Deer Track Trailhead.
Unsure what to do without the shot, he choked out a sob and shook his dad by the shoulders as hard as he could. It didn’t wake him up, but Daddy’s cell phone fell out of his shirt pocket just as Ian was about to lapse into full-on hysteria. The cell phone felt like a sign from Mommy.
Help!
He could get help for Daddy. That’s what Mommy was trying to tell him. Snatching up the phone, he pressed the three important numbers he’d had memorized since the police officer came to talk to his kindergarten class.
Nine.
One.
One.
Please, God, Ian prayed, as the phone rang. Don’t take my daddy to heaven, too.
Lexy sat in her glass-walled office overlooking the bustling Troublesome Gulch emergency communications center she managed. The distinctive warble of the incoming 9-1-1 lines carried through the secured room, as did the regular phone sounds, the tones going out to the fire stations and the capable murmurs of the dispatchers she supervised deftly handling calls, emergency and otherwise.
Familiarity.
Her world.
But Lexy’s mind wasn’t on her work. Her mood was thoughtful, perhaps even melancholy, which really wasn’t her style. But she couldn’t seem to shake it and she couldn’t figure out why she felt like this. She tossed her pencil aside and studied the three framed wedding photos that adorned the upper left corner of the desk. Her best friends in the world.
Brody and Faith.
Erin and Nate.
Cagney and Jonas.
Survivors from the horrible prom-night tragedy twelve years ago, all of them. Happy. Glowing. Complete. And with their soul mates, at long last, which was all she’d wanted for them since prom night almost thirteen years ago. She’d dedicated her life to helping her friends forgive themselves and move on. That, and to serving her community through her career in emergency services. Both goals served as a sort of. retribution, and only after reaching them could she even think about finding a way to forgive herself for causing the whole thing in the first place—if one existed.
She’d worked in the comm center for eleven years now, and loved it. Giving back to the community kept her sane. And, although it had taken a decade, all her friends had worked through their own pain, come to terms with the past, fully recovered. Brody and Faith had a beautiful baby girl, Mickie, and a teenage foster son, Jason. Erin and Nate had been blessed with little Nate Jr. Cagney and Jonas were still in that newlywed state and probably would be for a while. But they’d more than earned it.
Lexy had done all that she’d set out to do. Mission accomplished.
So … what now?
She’d always imagined she’d feel a sense of serenity, of closure, of having set things right once all the pieces fell into place. But instead she felt restless and afloat, and she had no clue why or what to do about it. Clearly, she’d been so focused on her original goals, she’d never visualized the what next? part. Now, here she was, smack in the middle of what next? and utterly clueless. Okay, so she’d increased her sessions with the rehabilitation therapist to four times a week—as her sore muscles reminded her—and she felt physically stronger. Emotionally, though, not so much.
She needed something new to strive for.
Like … a hobby? Lame.
A tentative knock on the open door startled Lexy from her contemplative brooding. She shot a glance toward the sound, then exhaled noisily. “Oh, you scared me.”
“Sorry.” Genean, one of the younger dispatchers, scrunched her nose. “I didn’t mean to sneak up.”
Lexy easily maneuvered her wheelchair to face her employee, then smiled up at her. “No problem. I was just daydreaming, which, admittedly, isn’t listed anywhere in my job description,” she added, in a just-between-us-girls tone.
Genean laughed. “Happens to the best of us.”
“True enough.” Lexy rested her hands in her lap. “What can I do for you, Genean?”
The trendy young woman aimed a thumb toward the central area of the secured room. “Can you sit the board for me for half an hour? I forgot my lunch on the kitchen counter this morning, and I’m sure it’s been devoured by my ill-behaved dog by this point.” She shrugged. “I’ve been trying to hold out until I got off shift, but my tummy’s protesting loudly.”
“Of course.” Lexy glanced at the large, wallmounted LED clock and saw it was already after eleven. Genean’s shift had started at six-thirty in the morning. “God, you must be famished. Why didn’t you call me down earlier?”
“I was okay until a few minutes ago.”
“If you say so. I’d be chewing on paper now if I were you.” Lexy winced as she opened her desk drawer and extracted a headset.
“You okay?”
“Just sore. My rehab therapist, Kimberly, has been increasing the intensity of my workouts in preparation for race season.” And possibly some experimental therapies, but she didn’t share that.
“Physical therapists, personal trainers, they’re all evil, if you ask me,” Genean said, with a grimace.
“True enough. Kim’s a brute.” Lexy slipped on her headset, adjusting the earpiece and clipping the cord to her V-neck top. “Give me a quick pass-down of what’s going on out there. Then feel free to take your time and have a nice meal. I need the distraction of working the phones today.” She gestured toward the door.
Genean preceded her out. “Thanks. As for pass-down, not much to say. Nothing’s going on,” she said, over her shoulder. “A couple minor medicals, one fender bender with no injuries. But those calls are handled, and the phones are quiet. It’s one of those excruciatingly slow days.”
Lexy followed her employee down the wide ramp from her office into the center. “G, you know we never utter the phrase ‘slow day’ out loud,” she chided, in a playful tone, as they entered the epicenter of dispatch. “It’s the quintessential jinx.”
“Oops.” Nonplussed, Genean shouldered her handbag and chuckled as she untangled the headset of her iPod from an outside pocket. “Sorry about that.”
“G always jinxes us,” said Dane, the other dispatcher on duty, currently working the radio side, head buried in the Rocky Mountain News. He was senior to Genean, but the two of them got along great and worked well as a team. “She’s a crap magnet. Trust me, I know, because I get stuck with her all the dang time,” he fake-groused.
“Ha-ha. So not true, Dane. You know you love working with me.” She made a face at his back.
“Keep telling yourself that, jinx.” He grinned at Lexy, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Boss, I’ve been meaning to ask you about a schedule change.”
Lexy shook her head, smiling at their banter.
Genean spread her arms wide. “You people are too superstitious. What could possibly happen in the half hour or so that I’ll be gone?”
“Jinx number two, and the worst kind.” Lexy groaned, then pointed toward the exit door. “Go on, get out of here before you lay a hex on the entire town.”
“Fine, fine, I know when I’m not wanted.” Genean batted her eyes with innocence. “Can I bring either of you anything from the Pinecone?”
“I’ll pass,” Dane said, burying himself in the paper again. “You’ll probably jinx that, too.”
Lexy snickered as she plugged into the console and adjusted the height of the motorized ergo-nomic desktop to accommodate the armrests of her wheelchair. She always loved how dispatch seemed like a family, with “siblings” picking on each other good-naturedly. “Nothing for me, either. I brought lunch. But thanks.”
Dane glanced up at his span of five computer monitors, fingers poised over one of four keyboards he manned, as a medic unit called out en route to High Country Medical Center with one patient, nonemergent, followed by additional units going in service, in quarters, or other radio traffic.
Genean gave a little finger wave and left. While Dane was busy communicating with the units on calls, Lexy’s restlessness returned like a persistent rash. At odds, she reached into the side pocket of her chair for the sheath of paperwork her care team, led by Dr. Shannon Avolese, had urged her to read.
Experimental treatment.
The possibility of truly walking again, after all this time? Surely she’d never walk without the aid of crutches or, best-case scenario, a cane, but she didn’t mind that. For that matter, she didn’t mind her chair. It didn’t hold her back; she was independent.
Still … walking at all was such a long shot. As it was, the short distances she could walk with crutches exhausted her. But she’d been feeling stronger than ever, physically and mentally. This could occupy her mind for the time being. It wouldn’t hurt to try, since she had no emotional attachment to the outcome. It beat collecting stamps, she supposed.
Aside from the initial three years post-injury when rehabilitation had been an everyday thing, she’d resisted the notion of regaining further use of her legs. But experimental treatment options had changed so much recently. She decided to give the literature a once-over, even if she hadn’t made up her mind about pursuing it.
Truth was, ever since the prom-night accident, she’d embraced her physical changes as a constant, stark reminder of all the pain she’d caused. She never wanted to forget. Brody and the others suffered from garden variety survivor’s guilt, but none of them had truly been at fault for what had happened that night.
None of them, that is, except her.
Lexy shivered, rubbed her palms over her upper arms.
To this day, she could close her eyes and recall the exact moment when she’d irresponsibly tried to crawl on her boyfriend Randy’s lap, even knowing he was driving.
Knowing the twisting roads were treacherous at night.
Knowing all of them had been drinking.
She’d known better and had done it anyway.
Her hip hit the steering wheel, knocking it out of Randy’s grasp, and the slow-motion look of raw fear on his face before they tipped over the cliff side still haunted her. She saw it as she drifted off to sleep, revisited it in her nightmares and she came back to it as she woke up.
Every day.
He had known he’d lost control of the SUV and, though he tried, there was no regaining it. At that moment, seeing his whitened face, their terrified gazes locked, she’d known, too. It was the last expression she’d ever see him make.
Her fault. No one else’s.
If only she could take it all back.
But she couldn’t. Four teens buried. It was done.
All things considered, adapting to the loss of function in her legs seemed a small price to pay for the ripple effect of grief she’d set into motion throughout the community.
Still … when she’d confided in Rayna, a fellow wheelchair triathlete, she had suggested that maybe it was time for Lexy to stop punishing herself.
I just don’t know how.
She blinked down at the paperwork outlining new treatments. Everyone around her was happy. She supposed she could think about finding a new level of happiness herself, whatever that took. She wasn’t sure, though, if this experimental treatment route was the key. If walking was the key. It would take her completely out of her comfort zone, and nothing was guaranteed, anyway.
A 9-1-1 line warbled, cutting through the silence. Lexy gratefully tossed the papers aside and pressed the red button on her phone keyboard to engage the line, relieved by the interruption. She’d reconsider the monumental decision about helping herself later. Right now her job was to help someone else, which fell directly within her comfort zone.
Go time.
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