From Good Guy To Groom

In that group of minutes following her collapse, she didn’t remember anything except the seemingly endless screaming, the blast of gunfire, the excruciating pain that enveloped her leg and, within seconds, had magnified and was pulsating throughout her entire body. Pain like she’d never experienced before. Dizziness, blurred vision and then, for a blessed minute, numbness took over. Believe it or not, that was what got her moving again.

Numb was bad. Numb meant she was losing too much blood.

She’d looked at Hugh, whose prone body was several feet from where she’d been shot, and had made a decision. But what if she’d been wrong in her assessment? What if...? No. Surely, she’d been correct, that his pallor, unmoving chest and closed eyes meant that Hugh had bled out. Fast. Surely, he was already gone. She hadn’t left a dying man alone, had she?

No. She couldn’t think about that possibility now. Couldn’t.

Unreal. No. Surreal. Impossible that Hugh was dead. Impossible that such violence was happening in her hospital. Impossible that she’d been shot, and that others were hurt and dying around her. Impossible that she couldn’t do her job, what she was born to do, and try to help the injured. The most impossible of all, though, were the loud cracks of gunfire that continued to blast through Juliana Memorial Hospital’s trauma center. When would he stop?

When would someone stop him?

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” The voice, solid and sure and offering hope, slipped into the dense fog of Andi’s fear, her panic and disbelief.

“My name is Andrea Caputo and I’m a nurse at Juliana Memorial Hospital,” she said in as crisp and clear a manner as possible. “There is a gunman in the emergency room. He’s—” she cringed and gasped when the sound of another shot pierced her eardrums “—the widower of a patient we lost yesterday, and...and...people are hurt. People are dying. Send help.”

“Help is already there,” the female voice said. “Are you hurt?”

“I am. I think an artery was hit by...by the bullet, but if I can stanch the bleeding, I should be... I...I need to...to—” Words, thoughts...everything trailed off as black edged into Andi’s vision. She blinked, tried to force her brain to function, tried to stay conscious against the promise of painless oblivion. But the pull was just too appealing, and she started to sink.

“Andrea! Talk to me,” the operator said. “What do you need to do to stanch the bleeding? You’re a nurse, right? Walk me through the steps.”

The sharp command served to momentarily bring her to her senses. “I need to... A tourniquet would do it,” she mumbled. “There are supplies here. I just need to...find the strength to get to them. So tired. Just want to close my eyes for a second.”

“I have good news,” the operator said, her voice calm and collected. “The police have everything under control. You’re safe. Where are you in the emergency room, Andrea?”

“Trauma room four. I’m in number four, behind the...um—” what was the word? “—curtain. I’m behind the curtain, on the...um...floor.”

“Stay awake just a little longer, Andrea. Can you do that for me?”

She tried. She really did. But the force of keeping her eyes open and her mind alert proved impossible against the weight of her exhaustion. Soothing warmth surrounded her—a pool of tranquility promising relief—and Andi sighed in surrender and closed her eyes.

Chapter One (#u8defbf07-613e-5b4c-8c1e-4a57809cda7b)

Afternoon sunlight, bright and bold, saturated the cerulean sky and cast a golden glow on Steamboat Springs, Colorado. Snuggled in a valley, with the majestic Rocky Mountains standing sentry, the pure beauty of the picturesque city should have, if nothing else, brought a smile to Andi’s lips. It didn’t. Traveling had left her far too exhausted to care.

She craved peace, though, and maybe...just maybe she’d be able to find a grain of that here, miles away from Warwick, Rhode Island, and Juliana Memorial Hospital. Here, in her aunt Margaret and uncle Paul Foster’s home, she hoped to regain everything she’d lost. Mobility in her leg, serenity in her heart, a full night’s sleep without being awakened by nightmares that echoed with the blast of a shotgun and screams of terror. Pleas for help.

Six months had elapsed since the tragedy that had taken four lives—including Hugh’s and the bereaved-husband-turned-crazy-gunman’s—and injured twelve others. One-hundred-and-eighty-odd days had passed since Andi had slipped into unconsciousness in trauma room four, mere minutes before help arrived. Due to the 911 operator, she’d been found quickly.

Surgeries were required to put her shattered bones back together, and an infection had set in, causing muscle damage. If she’d been a tad unluckier, she could have lost her leg. Reports to the police and hospital board were given when she could barely think let alone form the appropriate words. Newspaper, magazine and television reporters had called, asking—almost begging—for interviews. Add in the well-meaning but nonstop flood of family and friends and coworkers offering their love, shock and support...well, getting from one minute to the next had proved a herculean effort. So, yes, she was exhausted. To her very soul, even.

She needed to be somewhere she could heal, inside and out.

Oh, her parents and sister were terrific. Ken and Colleen Caputo were loving, devoted parents, and Andrea’s younger sister, Audrey, was just as wonderful. The Caputo family enjoyed a close relationship, but Andi had needed...space. They were all just trying too hard.

When Aunt Margaret—Andi’s mother’s sister—had called and offered respite in Steamboat Springs, the idea had soothed like a salve on a burn. Andi had accepted instantly, and after an early start this morning and two layovers, she’d finally arrived. Yet, she couldn’t summon the energy to enjoy the beauty of her surroundings. Tomorrow, maybe.

Her aunt had picked her up from the airport, hugged her close and kissed her cheek, and other than asking how she felt, how her flights were, she had stayed mercifully quiet during their drive. The radio, turned to an easy-listening station, played softly in the background. For the first portion of the drive, Andi had closed her eyes, breathed and tried to ignore the throbbing in her leg. The remaining portion, she’d just stared out the window.

Now, as they turned into the long, tree-lined driveway of the large mountain-cabin-style home that Andi had wonderful memories of from a childhood visit, her aunt said, “Here we are, safe and sound. I’ll have Paul get your luggage and take it to your room. Are you hungry?”

“I...guess I’m more tired than hungry,” Andi said, pressing her fingers against her temples. “But a headache seems to be building fast, so maybe—”

“What you need,” Margaret said, releasing the key from the ignition, “is a little food, a big glass of lemonade and a room with no one else in it. Maybe a nap. Don’t worry—” she reached over to pat Andi’s knee “—I’ve warned the rest of the family to stay away until Saturday to give you time to settle in and find your bearings. We’re having a cookout in your honor.”

Bless her aunt for the foresight of holding everyone off. That gave Andi four full days to get used to being here instead of at home. “Thank you. I’m excited, of course, to see my cousins and meet their families, but I’m... Yes, Saturday should be good.” And if it wasn’t, she’d have to make do. Recalling the email she’d received yesterday, she said, “Oh. The physical therapist I’ll be working with here, Ryan Bradshaw, wants to meet tomorrow. Can you give me a ride or...?”

Important, she knew, to get right back on the healing path, but she wouldn’t have minded twenty-four hours of just existing here before jumping back into rehabilitation. Hopefully, tomorrow’s meeting would be more of a question-and-answer session about her treatment up until now. Even though she’d made sure Ryan had received copies of her medical records, he’d have questions. They always did. Sometimes things were missed in the record keeping.

Before Margaret could answer, Paul stepped from the house, his smile wide and welcoming as he almost sprinted toward the car. More greetings. More hugs. More pretending she was normal before she could escape into the solitude she so, so needed right now. Inhaling a large breath, she reached into the backseat for her cane and opened the passenger-side door, forced herself from the car and plastered on her I’m-okay smile.

“Darling! It’s so good to see you!” Paul, a tall, lithe man said as he approached her, arms wide open. Ten seconds later, she was embraced in a tight hug. “Been far too long.”

“Yes,” she said faintly. “Too long. When you visited us in Rhode Island for my parents’ anniversary party, I was what...sixteen?”

“Something along those lines.” Retreating, he gave her a long look. Nodded. “Go on in. We gave you the guest bedroom on the first floor. Just follow the hallway to the end. Second door on the right. I’ll bring in your luggage and leave it outside the door for you to get when you’re ready to deal with unpacking. How’s that sound?”

“Perfect,” she said, again so grateful for the simple yet powerful understanding and acceptance of her aunt and uncle. “Absolutely perfect. I just need a few hours, I think, to—”

“You take as long as you need,” Paul said. “Go. Rest. We have all summer to catch up.”

Yes, yes they did. Three blissful months to finish repairing all of the damage dealt to her on that cold winter afternoon. Three months to wake up, smell the flowers, see the sun and feel the wind on her face. Three months to...start living again. To feel real again.

* * *

Steaming hot coffee, toasted everything bagel with butter and cream cheese and the breathtaking—often gut-kicking—view of the Rocky Mountains made for an excellent start to the day. Ryan Bradshaw stretched his legs and sipped his coffee, savored his bagel and congratulated himself on the wisdom of buying this particular property close to three years ago.

The decision to move to Steamboat Springs, Colorado, from Denver had been a surprisingly quick and firm one. His folks had already lived here for some time, and his visits to them had made him realize how he longed for a less hectic daily existence in a place exactly like Steamboat Springs. His thoughts then had been that he’d eventually relocate once he and Leah were married. Unfortunately, their engagement had come to an abrupt end.

The right choice for both of them, but without the glue of their relationship keeping Ryan in Denver, he felt the need to start over somewhere new. And thank God he had, because he had never loved life more. Everything about Steamboat Springs—the views, the people, the lifestyle, the skiing—fit him like a well-worn pair of jeans.

Even his zeal for his career had been revitalized, after too many years of fighting burnout. In Denver, he’d worked endless hours for the hospital, with a few private clients on the side when the opportunity presented itself. Here, he’d jumped into the deep end immediately by starting a private practice clinic in this gorgeous house he’d bought.

Due to some fortunate investing over the years, he had the funds to do so, and it hadn’t taken long to turn the lower level of the A-frame into a clean, functional therapy clinic. The upstairs of the house—including the deck he now sat at—was his personal living space, and he’d managed to successfully keep the two areas completely separate.

While he still worked more than he probably should, the struggle with becoming overextended had long since faded. A combination of the environment and being his own boss. Oh, he still put in ten to fifteen hours per week at the hospital’s rehabilitation unit, but that only made good sense. Doing so allowed him to be a larger part of the community that was now his, and his relationship there gave him access to services and equipment he couldn’t easily obtain on his own. A win-win, every way Ryan looked at it. Another plus? He loved what he did.

The mix of his clientele here was much the same as in Denver. Although he did have a greater percentage of folks rehabilitating from sports injuries—skiing, snowboarding, white-water rafting, you name it—he still had those coming out of one surgery or another, fighting illness or disease that had weakened their muscles, or had had an accident that wasn’t sports related. Back in Denver, though, his clients had also frequently included trauma survivors.

People who’d survived any type of a vicious, purposeful trauma—Ryan refused to call them victims—tended to require a different type of focus on his part. Sure, every person he worked with demanded his complete attention on their full selves—not just their bodies—but, on the other side of being hurt or almost killed by another’s hand, a certain type of shutting down often occurred. In the heart and soul. In the way the world is viewed.

In feeling safe.

Today—in just about an hour now—his first trauma-survivor client in Steamboat Springs would arrive. Andrea Caputo, from Warwick, Rhode Island. A trauma nurse, which could prove challenging on its own, as medical professionals tended to trust their experiences and training over Ryan’s, at least in the beginning stages of the relationship. She had witnessed a coworker being shot and killed, and had sustained two gunshot wounds to her upper and lower right leg.

Ryan had thoroughly studied her file. He understood her medical history, as well as her current status, as much as he possibly could from her records. What he didn’t know, what he wouldn’t know until she arrived and they spent some time together, was her mental and emotional state. This woman had already trekked an arduous road, but she had a hell of a long way to go. She’d need some fortitude, courage and a kick-ass positive attitude to get herself all the way back.

With every one of Ryan’s clients, that was always his end goal: to bring them completely back or, when that couldn’t happen for physical reasons, as close to complete as was within reach. He hoped, genuinely, this Andrea Caputo was prepared and had already found all the strength she would need. But if not, he’d get her there.