Forever Grace (4 page)

“I do. I also have a tub in the bathroom, first door off the kitchen. That might be easier than using the sink. There’s shampoo there you can use.”

With her hand swaddled in one of the rags she’d stuffed into her coat pocket earlier, Grace extracted the crutch from its resting place and carried it into the cottage. Like the rest of the place, the bathroom was basic but clean, with plywood walls whose white paint looked relatively fresh, open shelves holding towels and facecloths, a mirrored cabinet over the sink, and as promised, a bathtub. She set the crutch in the bottom, turned on the hot water, and squirted a spicy-scented shampoo along its length. Then, kneeling at the side, she unwrapped her hand and set to scrubbing the crutch’s wooden length, turning it over to do both sides, paying the closest attention to the pad at the top and the handgrip.

Several hot water rinses later, satisfied she’d erased all trace of toxic oils, she dried off the crutch with a hand towel and then carried it through the living room to the sliding doors. The man on the deck floor looked over as she stepped outside.

“All safe again?”

“All safe. Ready to be upright?”

“You have no idea.” He pushed aside the blankets and reached for the crutch at his side.

Grace watched him roll onto his good hip and push up onto the knee, his casted leg extended awkwardly to the side. He wiggled his fingers for the other crutch. She frowned, foreseeing impending disaster if they continued with his plan. “Wait. I have a better idea.”

She leaned the crutch beside the door and went back into the cottage. The kitchen table was flanked by two benches rather than the chairs she was looking for, but when she leaned her weight on one, she found it solid and sturdy. Far more so than a pair of wobbly crutches. She lifted the end of the bench and dragged it across the floor, over the doorsill, and onto the deck.

“Good thinking,” he said.

She slid the glass door closed and picked up the bench end again. “Let’s hope,” she grunted, tugging it over the planks to his side.

Between them, they positioned it for maximum support, and then she took the crutch from him and set it aside with the other—along with the shotgun.

“Right. Let’s give this a try.”

It took two attempts and very nearly flattened both of them, but at last her neighbor was upright. Almost. Grace retrieved the crutches from beside the sliding door and handed them to him. Standing back, she watched him tuck one under each arm and then, at last, stand tall. A look of sheer pleasure settled over his face as he stretched out his spine.

“That,” he said, “feels incredible.”

Grace pulled her gaze away from shirt buttons straining across a muscled chest. Ignoring the inexplicable increase in ambient air temperature, she herself smile. “I’m just relieved we managed it. Now let’s get you inside so I can get back to the kids.”

She went back to the sliding doors, gripped the handle, and tugged.

Tugged again.

Oh, hell.

She rested her forehead against the air-chilled glass. Hell, hell,
hell.

“Tomorrow,” the man announced behind her, “I will fix that. You have my word.”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Hey,” he said. “It’s not the end of the world. You can just go through the other…”

His voice trailed off. Grace squeezed harder.

“You locked it, didn’t you?” he asked.

Had any voice ever sounded so carefully neutral?

“It’s a habit.” She lifted her head at last and turned to face him. “I wasn’t thinking. I’m so sorry.”

“Well,” he said, his face half hidden and unreadable in the shadows. “Well.”

“I’m guessing that means you don’t have a spare key hidden outside.”

“The one I used to let myself in because I forgot mine in Ottawa? Yeah, no.”

“Ah. Window open that I can crawl through?”

“The bathroom one can be jimmied open with a bit of work, but I don’t think you’ll fit, and it’s too dark to give it a try right now.”

“Shit,” she said.

“My sentiments exactly.” He sighed. “Good thing you brought those blankets out earlier, I guess.”

Grace realized his intent, and for a moment actually considered the idea. Then guilt—and reason—kicked in.

“You can smell the rain in the air as well as I can,” she said. “There’s no way you can spend the night out in that. Even if you didn’t catch pneumonia, your cast would be mush by morning. You’ll have to come back to my place.”

He tipped back his head, and in the faint light reaching him from the interior lights, she saw his eyes close and his jawline go tight.

“That path will be hell on crutches,” he said.

“I still have my flashlight.” She pulled it from her pocket. Thank heaven she’d tucked it in there instead of setting it on a counter inside. “We’ll go as slow as you need to.”

More silence. More jaw tightening. A sigh.

“In that case…” He lifted his right hand from its grip on the crutch and extended it. “Sean McKittrick.”

Grace’s stomach did an uncomfortable flip-flop, and she bit the inside of her cheek. The idea of telling him her name raised every warning flag she could imagine. What if he mentioned it to someone? Ottawa wasn’t that big a city. People knew people who knew people…what if Barry caught wind of a woman and four children camped out in a cottage?

Panic licked through her, kicking paranoia into overdrive. Maybe she should just leave him in the rain after all. Or maybe tomorrow, when she got into his cottage, she could take his cell phone…and his car keys. If he couldn’t go anywhere or talk to anyone—

“Is something wrong?”

Sean McKittrick’s voice shattered her wild imaginings. She met his narrowed gaze. Uncurled her fists. Set aside her wholly inappropriate plan to become another Annie Wilkes from
Misery
. She was being ridiculous—and probably raising all kinds of suspicions in her neighbor’s head.

“No.” She shook her head, forcing a smile. “No, nothing’s wrong. And it’s Grace. My name is Grace.”

She switched on the flashlight and stepped around his outstretched hand to scoop up the shotgun from the deck.

“We should go,” she added, shining the light onto the stairs. “Before the rain starts.”

Her neighbor regarded her for a long, silent moment before he lowered his hand to the crutch again and swung himself around. “Of course,” he agreed. “After you.”

THE SHORT TRAVERSE BETWEEN THE
cottages seemed to take forever. Even with Grace walking backward, shining her flashlight on the trail to light the way, Sean had one hell of a time keeping both himself and his crutches aligned with the packed surface. Too many times to count, one crutch tip or the other sank into the soft earth at the sides, throwing him wildly off balance. Most times he steadied himself against a nearby tree. Twice, Grace had to dart forward to catch him and hold him upright until he regained his footing.

She smelled like strawberries.

Which he totally had no business noticing.

Kids,
he reminded himself.
You don’t do kids.

Especially not four of them.

At last, his leg on fire and throbbing from the repeated jarring it had received, they emerged from the woods at Lucien Tremaine’s cottage. Which reminded him…

“So how do you know Luc, anyway?” he asked, pausing to flex fingers aching from their death-grip on the crutches. “Are you family?”

Grace-with-no-last-name stopped a few feet away, a shadow among shadows, flashlight pointed at the ground near his feet.

“He’s a friend.”

Sean waited for more. An owl hooted in the trees behind them.

“You’re not really the talkative type, are you?” he asked.

“Not really.”

He tended to like that in a woman. Hell, he preferred the trait in most people. But something about Grace niggled at him, making him want to know more. He squinted at her through the dark, wishing he could see her face, judge her expression. Decide if this was normal reticence on her part, or—

The flashlight’s beam flicked impatiently. “Are you ready yet?”

Well. He could figure that out tomorrow.

“Of course,” he said. “Lead the way.”

He negotiated the last stretch of path to the cottage—including the three steps up to the porch—without mishap. Ahead of him, Grace knocked at the door.

“Josh? It’s me.”

Footsteps sounded inside, the porch light came on, and the door opened. The boy who had triggered the entire evening’s chain of events stood framed in the opening, his wire-framed gaze zeroing in on Sean. Brown eyes widened, and he stumbled back. Sean frowned. His bellow hadn’t been
that
scary…had it? He cleared his throat, but Grace forestalled any words of greeting with a quick, fierce look over her shoulder. She stepped into the cottage and put an arm around the boy, pulling him in for a hug, resting her chin atop his head.

“Everything’s fine, sweetie,” Sean heard her murmur. “We got locked out of Mr. McKittrick’s cottage, so I had to bring him back here with me. He’s going to spend the night on the couch, and then we’ll help him get back home in the morning, all right? It’s all good, I promise.”

Despite the reassurance, tension riddled the boy’s body, pulling his shoulders taut, curling his hands into fists, sucking the color from his face. The kid looked like he’d either bolt or disintegrate on the spot if someone so much as sneezed. Sean wiped the frown from between his brows and swung himself into the cottage entrance on his crutches. Balancing there, he extended his right hand.

“You must be Josh,” he said. “Your mom told me you like to read on my deck.”

Damned if the kid’s face didn’t go even whiter—just before he buried it in Grace’s shoulder.

Sean raised a perplexed eyebrow. “Something I said?”

Lips pressed tight, Grace shook her head. “He’s talking about me, Josh.
I
told him you like to sit on his deck.”

“Of course I was talking about —” Sean stopped. “You’re not his mother.”

“Aunt.”

He blinked, adjusting to the information. The woman who smelled like strawberries
didn’t
have kids? Well.

“Mommy isn’t here,” a new voice informed him. “She’s in the hospital.”

Sean looked sideways and down to meet the solemn brown gaze of a little girl with braided, dark hair and pajamas covered in purple penguins. A smaller girl peeked out from behind her with round, darkly fringed blue eyes.

“Are you the man who yelled at Josh?” the taller girl asked.

Once again Grace cut off his response.

“That’s enough, Lilliane. Take Sage and go into your room. I’ll be there in a minute to tuck you.”

Without so much as an instant’s hesitation, the two girls turned and departed. Sean blinked.

“You certainly have them well trained,” he said to Grace, and damned if she didn’t flinch and go pale, too. What the hell?

He shifted his weight on his crutches. His injured leg responded with an intense flash of pain that twisted through his gut. “Son of a bi—”

Grace’s scowl cut him off mid-word. Right. Children on the premises. He swallowed a slow roll of nausea.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I moved the wrong way.”

Her gaze dropped to his leg. “Is it bad?”

“Getting that way, yeah.”

“Right, let’s get you inside.” With quick efficiency, she popped the shells out of the shotgun she still carried and slipped them into her jeans pocket. Stretching up on tiptoe, she placed the weapon on top of a cupboard over a washing machine, then stripped off her coat and draped it over a hook. “Josh, can you grab a couple of blankets out of the closet and one of the pillows from my bed?”

With a lingering, wide-eyed glance at the shotgun’s resting place, Josh sidled out of the mudroom toward the kitchen, then disappeared around the corner.

“Do you need help getting your shoes off?” Grace asked.

“Um…”

Again her gaze dropped, then rose to meet his, shocked and more than a little horrified. “You’re not wearing—you walked that entire way in bare feet?”

Brown, Sean realized. Her eyes were brown, like those of her niece and nephew, only darker. A rich, just-sweet-enough, dark-chocolate brown.

And they were scowling at him again.

His mouth twisted. “Only one bare foot, technically. My shoes were in the cottage, and there didn’t seem much point in mentioning it when neither of us could do anything. Besides, we’re here now.”

He tacked the last bit on hastily, when she flicked her hair back over her shoulder and planted both hands on her hips, looking as if she might launch into a full-blown lecture. She favored him with tight-lipped silence in return and lifted one hand to point toward the kitchen.

Sean took hold of the crutch’s handgrips again, trying not to think about how bruised his palms had become or how little sleep his leg would likely give him without painkillers available. Once he reached the kitchen, Grace went ahead of him to the couch in the living room, clearing a path through the toys and books scattered across the floor.

She didn’t apologize for the mess, a fact that bumped her up a notch in his estimation. After spending a great part of his own childhood being apologized for and feeling in the way, he liked families who embraced the chaos rather than trying to hide it. It was how he would have raised his own kids, if he’d ever been inclined to have them.

Grace swept a final pile of books up from the couch and waved to Sean to take a seat. He eased himself down, crutches in one hand, other hand braced against the couch’s arm. Then, teeth on edge, he struggled to lift his casted leg up onto the coffee table. Grace plopped the books she held onto a nearby shelf.

“Here,” she said. “Let me help.”

She lifted his injured leg gently, seeming to know any quick movement would exacerbate matters, and settled his foot where he’d been aiming for. “Is that all right?”

“Better. Thanks.”

“Let me guess. Your painkillers are in the cottage, too.”

“I just need a few minutes with it up.” He laid his head back against the cushions and put his other foot up to join the first. “I’ll be fine.”

“Sure you will,” she said. “All right. Give me five minutes to tuck the girls in, then I’ll be back.”