Cops And...Lovers? (11 page)

Erin
looked at Stephanie. "I'm sorry," she said helplessly.

Spinning the wheelchair, uttering a single, heart-wrenching cry, Stephanie fled from the room.

Mrs.
Thornsberry
and Nick started after her simultaneously, but the older woman stopped him. "Let me handle this one, Nick."

He halted, uncertainty etched into his features as he watched her disappear down the hall.

Erin
felt physically ill. She hadn't even considered the possibility that the basketball would upset Stephanie. How could she have been so insensitive? Why had she expected that little girl to understand something no one had ever bothered to explain?

Erin
's gaze swept to Nick's. She nearly winced at the anger she saw burning there. "I didn't mean to upset her," she said. "I didn't think—"

"That's your problem, McNeal," he snapped. "You don't think before you act."

Erin
stepped back, hurt that she'd been so terribly misunderstood, angered that her judgment had been called into question once again by a man whose opinion was becoming increasingly important to her.

Erin
didn't lose control of her emotions easily or break down in front of people at the drop of a hat. She'd learned the futility of tears at a very young age. But as she stood there taking in Nick's angry expression, thinking of how badly she'd hurt that little girl, tears threatened her dignity.

"I've got to get back to work." Turning abruptly, she started for the door.

"Wait a minute."

Erin
didn't stop. She didn't trust her emotions not to betray her, and he was the last man on earth she wanted to break down in front of.

Letting herself out through the front door, she sucked in a breath of cool night air, thankful to be out of the house. When she reached the grass, she broke into a run.

The front door slammed behind her. Nick, she thought, and quickened her pace. When was she ever going to learn not to push the envelope in everything she did?

Blinded by the tears building behind her eyes, she stopped at her cruiser and fumbled for her keys.

"I'd like a word with you, McNeal."

She looked over her shoulder to see him crossing the lawn. Terrific. Here she was about to lose it, and he wanted a word with her. She had to hand it to him—the guy had great timing.

"I've got to get back to work," she said.

"It'll wait."

For an instant she was tempted to ignore him, and get in the car and drive away. Of course, she didn't.
Erin
had never been one to run away from her problems. So why did she feel the quiver of the fight-or-flight instinct every time Nick got near her?

She didn't turn to face him when he came up behind her and stopped. "You want to tell me what that was all about?" he demanded.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Why don't you turn around and look at me?"

Unduly humiliated, she swiped at the tears with her sleeve. "I said I was sorry, Nick. What else do you want?"

"I'm just trying to understand you. I don't have a clue why you bought
Steph
that ball. Why don't you help me out?"

Slowly,
Erin
turned. Raising her chin, she met his gaze. "I gave her that basketball because I want her to know she's strong and capable and doesn't have to stop living just because she's in a wheelchair."

"She can barely stand, McNeal. How on earth is she supposed to play basketball?"

"It's called wheelchair basketball, Nick. Don't tell me you've never heard of it."

"She's not ready for that."

"How do you know?"

"Because I'm her father," he said. "I know what she's been through. I know what she can handle."

"She's ready, Nick. She'll eventually do it whether you're ready to accept it or not. She can do a lot of things you don't seem to be ready to accept. Once she realizes it, you'd better learn to deal with it, because she's not going to stop." The words came out in a rush. Harsh. Damning. So true her chest ached with the need to prove to him she was right.

His eyes narrowed. "You don't know what you're talking about."

 
"I spent two months coaching disabled children. Wheelchair basketball. Therapeutic horseback riding.
Marathon
racing. The kids love it. They love it! I've seen their faces light up. Their
confidence bounce
back. Their
outlook on life improve
dramatically." Shaken by her own words and the emotion barreling through her,
Erin
broke off. She'd said too much, she knew, but once the words had started flowing, she hadn't been able to stop.

Nick stared at her. "Stephanie is still adjusting. She's … fragile. Not only physically, but emotionally. I won't risk her getting hurt again."

"At what cost to her?"

His face darkened. "You're crossing a line you don't want to cross, McNeal."

"I'm good at crossing lines, Chief. That's what I do best. For future reference, you should keep that in mind."

"You're reckless not only with your physical safety but with that smart mouth of yours."

"You asked, Chief. I'm telling you what I think. You're smothering that child—"

"She needs to be protected."

"She needs to live her life to the fullest extent, risks be damned."

"Recklessness is what put her in that chair to begin with!" Nick moved toward her, his jaw set. "I won't let it happen again, so back off!"

His words and the anger behind them stopped her cold.
Erin
stood there trembling, breathing hard, wondering what Pandora's
box
of pain she'd opened inside him.

As if realizing he was clinging to control by little more than a thread, Nick turned away abruptly. Walking to the front of the car, he put his hands on the hood and lowered his head.

For several long minutes the only sound came from the chirping of crickets.
Erin
leaned against the car door, shaken, aware that her heart was beating too fast. She wanted to tell him about the weeks she'd spent doing volunteer work at the Quest Foundation, an agency that specialized in helping disabled children adjust. But he was so angry she wasn't sure it would make any difference.

Shoving away from the car, he straightened.
Erin
heard him sigh,
then
he approached her. "I'm sorry," he said.

"It's all right. This is none of my business—"

"I lost my temper. It's not the first time, and it's definitely not all right." He bit out an oath,
then
gave her a canny look. "Stephanie is everything to me, McNeal. Everything. I love her more than life. She's been through hell in the last three years. I don't want her hurt again. I'll do whatever it takes to keep that from happening."

His eyes were the color of
midnight
, and so tortured
Erin
wanted to reach out and touch him, just to let him know he wasn't alone, even if she knew he wouldn't believe it.

"I know you only want what's best for her," she said.

"That includes keeping her safe."

"Nick, I didn't mean to overstep. I'm just…"

"Impulsive?" One side of his mouth hiked into a half smile.

"It's not the first time I've been accused of that."
Erin
let out the breath she'd been holding, relieved that he'd purposefully quelled the tension between them. "How did she end up in the wheelchair?"

Nick waited so long before answering that for a moment
Erin
thought he wouldn't answer at all. When he did, his voice was so low she had to lean forward to hear him.

"A car accident three years ago. My wife was killed. Stephanie received a spinal injury. She spent two weeks in intensive care."

He looked out across the lawn, into the darkness. Even in profile,
Erin
saw the tight clench of his jaw and the raw emotion in the depths of his eyes. Her heart went out to him as she watched him struggle for words.

"Two weeks later, I had to look into those innocent eyes of hers and tell her she might not ever walk again. That was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do." His laugh held no humor. "All she was worried about was whether or not she'd be able to take care of Bandito. That from a little girl who lived for basketball and horse shows, and who'd just lost her mother. Her courage humbles me."

"I'm sorry, Nick. I know that must have been tough." The words didn't seem adequate.

"Yeah, McNeal, me, too. She's a terrific kid."

"I know."
Erin
longed to reach out to him. To touch that strong jaw. Run her fingers over his shoulders until they were no longer rigid. To relax the clenching of his fists by taking his hands in hers. But she didn't do any of those things because she knew that wasn't what he needed.

His eyes met hers. Even under the cover of darkness, she felt exposed beneath that heady gaze. She wanted to tell him that disabled children could ride horses with the help of special equipment and adult spotters, but something told her now wasn't the time. His emotions were too close to the surface, and she knew he didn't want them prodded.

Neither of them spoke for several minutes.
Erin
gave him that time, knowing he needed it, not sure how she would react if the strong man she'd come to respect broke down. She wasn't sure she could trust herself to do the right thing if he did. The urge to touch him was too powerful, and at the moment she was feeling downright weak.

"Is there a possibility she could walk at some point in the future?" she asked.

"She's had two operations already. Her neurosurgeon seems optimistic."

"What about pain?"

"Thank God it's minor and can be controlled with anti-inflammatory drugs, for the most part," he said. "She has some feeling and a little strength in her left leg. But in the last six months, she's developed a rare post-traumatic condition called
syringomyelia
."

"One of the kids I worked with up in
Chicago
had the same condition. It's where a tumor forms at an injury site or surgical site, right?"

His gaze sharpened, and
Erin
knew he hadn't expected her to be familiar with the condition. "Most people haven't even heard of it."

"There's an operation—"

"
Laminectomy
and
duraplasty
." Nick grimaced. "The procedure's untested. Risky."

"What kind of risks?"

His mouth curved into that half smile again. "Ah, McNeal, you're getting really predictable."

"Best case scenario," she pressed.

"Best case, Stephanie would regain feeling in her legs and be able to start physical therapy immediately. Worst-case scenario is that the formation of scar tissue or further spinal cord damage could cause further paralysis. It could significantly lower her quality of life, possibly even her life expectancy. If we leave it be
,
she might eventually regain enough feeling to use a walker one day."

Erin
absorbed the words, wondering what she would do if faced with the same devastating dilemma. "You're willing to settle for that?"

"I nearly lost her once." Nick looked across the driveway to where Bandito grazed next to the fence. "I won't risk losing her again."

* * *

Nick wasn't sure why he'd opened up to
Erin
. Maybe because he sensed she somehow understood, when most people couldn't. Maybe it was the fact that she, too, was no stranger to tragedy. Maybe that kinship was what kept bringing them together.

It had been a long time since he'd spoken to anyone about the accident that had turned his life—and his daughter's life—upside down. He didn't like to talk about the dark months that followed, preferring to keep that era of his life buried. He'd spent months grieving. The kind of black grief that came with the loss of a soul mate. Grief he'd kept bottled because he couldn't stand the thought of the poison inside him leaching out and affecting Stephanie.

Shoving thoughts of the past aside, Nick gazed at
Erin
. She leaned against the car, staring out across the lawn toward the pasture, where he could hear Bandito nipping the grass.

"I'm sorry I came down on you so hard," he said. "That was uncalled for."

"You know, Chief, I'm starting to get used to you yelling at me."

She elbowed him lightly, and he knew she was trying to dispel the high emotion of just a few minutes earlier. For that, he found himself unduly grateful.

"I didn't know you had worked with disabled kids," he said after a moment. "That's commendable."

"The Quest Foundation works with all types of disabled children. Head injuries. Spinal injuries. Down's syndrome. Muscular dystrophy. A few months after the shooting, I volunteered and spent a couple of months coaching wheelchair basketball. Teenagers mostly. A couple of times I went out to the equestrian center and spotted young riders. To say the experience was eye-opening would be an understatement."