The Last Man She'd Marry. Helen R. Myers

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      “You’ve only been at this for a week. It’s always difficult in the beginning.”

      Who cared? Alyx didn’t like to test her limits on anything except her mental prowess. The closest she came to being athletic was an occasional soak in a hot tub. Granted, she had started some yoga in the year before the attack, but that was for stress relief.

      “I’m thirty-nine, not nineteen,” she reminded the twenty-something spa employee, “and I’m starting from scratch—just like your other clients.”

      “I know you think I’m giving other patients preferential treatment, Alyx. But please consider this—you’re late in getting help. Odds are some damage is already permanent, which makes me the automatic bad guy. The harder I push early on, the greater progress we may achieve before fatigue has you seriously locking those mental brakes.”

      “Good grief, you poor saint. I’ll just haul my insensitive self out of here to give you more time with people who are gluttons for punishment.”

      As she began to rise, Sharleigh signaled caution with a raised hand.

      “Look, I can take the sarcasm. In fact, I prefer it to those who kick or bite me. I’m just trying to impress upon you the great mistake it would be to give up.” Regaining some of her perkiness, Sharleigh tossed her gloss-enhanced ponytail over one shoulder before crossing her arms under her lemon-yellow sports bra. “Come on, help me out. I have a reputation to protect.”

      For relief, Alyx visualized a pot of cooked cabbage dumped over the annoying kid’s head. Lukewarm, of course. “You haven’t lived long enough to have one.”

      “Pardon me?”

      Once upon a time in a courtroom, Alyx could have rendered Shar mute using a minimum of words. But she’d lost her stomach for those kinds of power plays. Rising, she leaned over and replied in a conspiratorial whisper, “I promise to keep it a secret that you wasted your time on me.”

      Barely resisting the urge to massage the throbbing ache that ran from shoulder to wrist, Alyx decided her best bet was to head for the lockers and get out of here. A hot shower at the house would keep her from the temptation of popping pills or worse.

      It was August now, seven months since the attack that fiercely cold January day in Austin, Texas, that had changed her life forever. Contrary to Shar’s opinion, she’d been trying to follow medical advice at home but was beginning to conclude that the pain wasn’t worth the lack of results. Her surgeon had been one of the tops in his field and he’d warned her about that, warned that some of the damage done by Doug Conroe, ex of her deceased client Cassandra Field Conroe, would probably be permanent. With her usual survivalist bravado, Alyx had assured him that she would be fine. After all, she was alive, while poor Cassandra was buried back in Austin, Texas; what’s more, her work didn’t entail anything more physical than carrying briefcases, climbing stairs in high heels, and punching the heck out of a BlackBerry. Considering the hours she billed, she’d told her doctor, she could afford to hire someone to handle everything but her vain commitment to wearing high heels. The doctor refused to be amused, and about ten days ago Alyx had stopped pretending.

      She’d walked away from her practice, her home, from everything and almost everyone who had been part of her life. The timing had seemed ordained—her cousin, Parke Preston, an artist whose work graced an increasing number of hotels and restaurants in Sedona and elsewhere in the southwest—had been about to cancel out on an invitation to take a trip to Europe. Parke’s dilemma? She had no one to watch her home and beloved dog, a rescued greyhound named Grace. Although Alyx was no animal hugger, she and Grace were getting along better every day. Alyx wished she could have been as enthusiastic about Parke’s health club.

      Once outside in the blazing Arizona sun, Alyx all but stopped in her tracks. The drier summer air had her wanting a bottle of water. She was used to a more humid environment back in Texas, thanks to the Gulf of Mexico frequently wafting moisture up into southern plains. In this higher elevation, man-size-cactus country, the environment was even less friendly to sweatpants and an oversize T-shirt over a sports bra after the sun rose. But it was her outfit of choice to hide her scars.

      Maybe it was time to consider an adjustment, she allowed as she snatched her keys out of her bag and slung the straps over her good shoulder. Yet, although her leg cuts were all but healed, she still woke at night from spasms of pain. The doctor had assured her they were psychosomatic, ghost pains, and would ease in time. She was waiting and wondered—if they were wrong about that, what about the rest of her prognosis? At least she’d managed to wean herself off those tempting and addictive pain pills.

      Wanting nothing more than to get to the house and take a soothing shower, she slipped on her sunglasses and nodded her thanks to the driver in a car that stopped to let her cross into the aisle where she’d parked Parke’s black SUV. Within minutes, she was at the exit of the strip mall ready to merge with traffic.

      As usual, the town was already abuzz with activity, no surprise for such a tourist spot and spiritual haven. While some shops were welcoming early shoppers, many hikers had been well on their way up and down the multitude of trails winding through the valleys and up the cliffs that surrounded the community since before she’d first left the house. The rest—residents and longer-term visitors like herself—strove for patience navigating through all of that. About to zip past a tour bus, Alyx realized she was at the shopping center where Parke had directed her to buy groceries. Ducking back into the right lane, she heard the motorized equivalent of “the finger.” She had managed to press another native’s patience besides Sharleigh’s.

      “Sorry, sorry!” Waving and cringing, Alyx turned into the parking lot and found a slot blessedly close to the market. All she had to do was get inside, find the produce section, and sack enough fruits and vegetables to guarantee a two-or three-day break from human contact, she thought. By then, surely she would have regrouped to where she could formulate plan B toward recovery without breaking into a cold sweat.

      This time last year such pitiful reasoning would have made her snort “Wimp,” in disdain. Alyx Carmel afraid of the public and shunning mirrors? Alyx Carmel a shrinking violet? Her detractors would choke on their martinis in shock.

      What a difference a year made.

      She all but sighed in ecstasy upon finding the store virtually empty except for some clerks still restocking shelves. Alyx grabbed a red plastic basket instead of a wagon, and maneuvered around the stack of dried fruit to tug free a plastic bag for bananas. No sooner did she reach for a bundle than a strong, hair-covered masculine hand closed over hers.

      Alyx recoiled as though stung by a scorpion. “Excuse me—”

      “My fault. Guess we have the same good taste.”

      A sleepy-eyed, whiskered man close to her own five foot eight took a shuffling step back and, offering a jocular smile, bowed with courtly charm for her to continue. “After you.”

      “I didn’t see you,” Alyx said, disconcerted by her preoccupation. She could have sworn no one had been nearby, couldn’t even use the excuse that her vision had been hampered by sunglasses. She’d removed them the moment she’d nearly had a head-on collision with a soda machine by the entrance of the store.

      “That’s what I get for charging around like the place was my own backyard,” the stranger said with a toss of his unkempt mane. “Go ahead, please. I’d rather watch a beautiful woman any day than deal with a shopping list.”

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