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carefully swayed back into the hospital.
    The first person I saw . . .
    Dr. Jace Rios.

    When Jace saw me, he instantly smiled, gently, welcoming, and I was so touched my breath became stuck in my throat. I wanted to pirouette right into that man’s arms and rip off his white coat. I must have looked frightful, though, because his expression instantly turned to deep concern. He ran over to me.
    “What happened?” His voice was sharp and he put an arm around my waist as I teetered like a drunken sailor, the floor rollicking.
    I leaned heavily against him and shut my eyes against another swell of pain. “I can’t believe it. I was up on the ladder to get into the hayloft . . .”
    “You were what ?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Why were you on a ladder ? You have stitches in your leg.”
    “I wanted to see the hayloft, and the ladder broke—” I winced. “I believe that I won the fight with the ladder. The ladder is now destroyed.”
    “And your leg?”
    “Part of the battlefield. The bruises on my ankle will soon be as lovely as the bruises on my thigh. I’m looking forward to an exciting blend of colors.”
    “You’ll match. Right and left legs, both in various shades of blue, purple, and green, with some red thrown in. Perhaps you should stay off ladders and away from horses.”
    “Perhaps. Maybe I’ll take up knitting.”
    “If you can keep the needles from poking you, it might work.” He shook his head at me, those intelligent, intense eyes looking deep. “Let’s go, Allie.”
    I was in the hospital room a long time. Jace took out every one of the splinters imbedded in my leg. The X-ray showed that my ankle was not broken. It was badly bruised, swollen, and truly ugly.
    The X-ray did not show anything about my heart because my heart didn’t get X-rayed. I am sure it would have shown it was broken, though, yes, I am. Even after all these years . . .

    “Here’s your coffee. I poured whipped cream in.” Jace handed me a chipped coffee mug, then sat down about two feet away from me on my dad’s worn gray couch, my mother’s red-and-white flowered quilt beneath us. I made a note to buy myself mugs without chips.
    “Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome.” He smiled, and I couldn’t move, those dark eyes straight on me, intense but cheerful, happy, as if he was glad to be here. Glad to be with me.
    It was late morning; Jace had finished his shift at the hospital. He’d asked me, while holding my swollen ankle on his lap, plucking out splinters, if he could come over and check on me later in the day. I had resisted, then I’d melted. I needed him out of my life because our past was an alarming mess, I was a mess and my grief over my dad made me messier, and somehow my dad’s death was bringing up my mom’s death, making me a black cauldron of confusion and not a little anger.
    But I wanted him. I wanted to talk to him. I knew it would get my heart even more bent out of shape, but I said yes. I told myself I would talk to him, this one time, and that would be that.
    He had helped me out to my car at the hospital; I leaned on his arm, and he strapped me in. I had refused a taxi that he offered to pay for. When I got home I showered, washed my hair, and put on clean jeans, a pink push-up bra, a white lacy camisole, and a white sweater with a deep V. I put on silver hoop earrings, silver bracelets, and perfume that smelled like roses and vanilla. He had seen me, not once but twice, looking as if I’d rolled through hay and taken a dive into a pig’s trough. This time would be different.
    Jace had arrived with flowers, a bag of coffee beans, and whipped cream. He looked so darn cute holding those flowers, I couldn’t stop smiling. Ah, Jace.
    I smiled into the chipped blue ceramic coffee cup. “I’ll admit to being a tad embarrassed about drinking whipped cream in my coffee.”
    “Why be embarrassed? You like whipped cream in your coffee. You like swimming in lakes at night, biking for