“That girl’s smile is God’s miracle,” his mother had murmured once.
Rory didn’t have his mother’s faith, not by a long shot, but he couldn’t argue with that one. He’d been told it was a miracle he hadn’t died when the tractor rolled over him. He hadn’t felt that way at first. Truth, he’d been a little bitch about it all, wallowing in his own pity. Which he’d learned was normal, a stages of grief thing. But Daralyn’s smile made him ashamed of indulging in even a second of that shit.
He’d had a loving family and friends who’d supported him, every step of the way. She'd spent her first fifteen years with people who never cared what she wanted, except to use it against her. No one in her corner.
She glanced at the vintage Coca-Cola clock on the back wall. It said three-fifteen, and her ride to the community college was coming at three-thirty. Just like that, the nervousness was back. Double the strength.
“I guess…” Her voice quavered, her eyes slammed shut, and her knees buckled.
“Shit.” He hit the brake locks on his chair and grabbed her elbow. He couldn’t stop the fall, but he slowed it down. She went to one knee by his feet, but her kneecap glanced off his carbon footplate and his steel-toed work shoe.
“Darn it,” she whispered.
He heard the helpless despair that turned the gee-golly-whiz word into a profound oath of self-condemnation. And he refused to allow her to go there.
“Breathe through it,” he said. “Just breathe. You’re fine.” He gathered up her long, thick ponytail so he could reach her nape, knead it with strong fingers. He wanted to soothe, be gentle. But seeing her on one knee before him, her head bowed, other reactions surfaced. He could feel her breath against his abdomen. Her hand was gripping his knee.
What surged up in him was too certain and powerful to be wrong. He might question it later, but not now.
He tightened his hold on her hair, let her feel the pull against her scalp. Her breath stilled, and the hand on his knee curled. He could see her fingers pressing into his leg. Yeah, he’d somehow known she’d react that way. He caressed her neck with a firmer, sure-fingered stroke.
“You’re going to school, and you’re not only going to be fine, you’re going to love it, do great things with the stuff you learn. Become a rocket scientist or something. Straighten up for me.”
She lifted her head and shoulders, bracing her hand on his thigh to stand. Instead of letting her make it all the way to her feet, he grasped her under the arms and brought her forward. He’d intended to turn her sideways, but her knees naturally parted, and he kept the forward motion, lifting her so she straddled him. Since his chair didn’t have arms, her legs slid past his hips, her calves finding a natural resting spot on the wheels.
Hell…finally. He had some elusive traces of sensation at the tops of his thighs, enough to conjure what her backside would feel like, pressed against his lap. Her thighs and knees brushed against his hips, his waist. That input from his nerve endings to his brain was heaven.
Even more importantly, having her legs spread loosely around him distracted her, which seemed to pull her away from her worries. Maybe he could get a straight answer out of her, help drive them away completely.
“So what’s the problem?” he asked bluntly. She blinked, moistening her bottom lip. Her hands were on his biceps, teasing a million responses from his flesh.
Stop thinking about that. Think about her.
“Tell me, Daralyn.”
She gestured helplessly around her. “I’m okay here with… At the store.”
She’d been about to say, “With you.” But as much as he loved knowing she felt safe with him, the crumpling of her features, reflecting the defeat her fears created within her, was a bigger concern to him.
Everyone wanted to be needed. But being needed through wanting and craving was way different from being needed as a place to hide from the unknown. He knew about that kind of fear. The first months after his accident, it had kept him paralyzed in ways that turned his wheelchair into a prison.
“When I’m here, and it’s not time to leave, I get excited, thinking about going to school.” She was trying hard to steady her voice. Trying not to shake. Her fingers continued to curl against his flesh, convulsive kneading. “Happy, even. Now it’s