Free The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek by Jane Myers Perrine Page B

nickname showed the kid recognized the preacher as being older, but he didn’t care. He’d more than held his own against the youngster. That felt good.
    The other guy spun the ball on his finger and studied Adam. “I’m Hector Firestone.”
    “Hector.” Adam nodded but didn’t say more for a few seconds. He was so winded he could barely talk, but darned if he’d let Hector know that. “Just call me Pops.”
    As he walked home that night, dribbling the ball in front of him and making moves toward phantom baskets, Adam cooled off and considered the next day.
    Sam Peterson. He had to visit him again. Or try to.

    Sam groaned, inside. He didn’t want to face intake with a PT who had read his eyes and understood what the redness meant. But here he sat, in her office, waiting for an interview and for the therapist to lay out a program to fix him. He looked out the window between her office and the treatment room.
    As if feeling his gaze on her, Willow glanced at him, then away as she chatted with a patient. He grinned as he considered what he’d say to her. He noticed again the brackets between her eyes and understood them better. Moving to Texas, a cheating husband, and two active boys, as well as a new job, could wear a woman out. Maybe a year ago, he’d have sympathized, but compassion no longer made his top twenty list. In fact, compassion came well below “attempt to function” and “could care less.”
    As she entered the office, Willow Thomas turned a friendly smile at him but still didn’t react like other women. Her lack of response probably was good but still odd in a life-is-pain sort of way. The only woman he’d seen in months whom he might like to attract didn’t respond to his charms. Not at all. Not that he wanted to attract her, not now, but a positive response, the usual my-my-my-aren’t-you-hot reaction, would feel good.
    With another surreptitious glance at the redhead, he realized what a bunch of bull his desire not to attract her was. He’d like her to find him attractive and not only for the ego boost.
    Once in her office, he’d shoved the crutches against the wall and settled into the chair, glad to take the weight off his shoulders. Aware of the warning from his doctor and the PTs in other hospitals not to cross his legs, he did exactly that, right over left, to see if he could get a rise from the professional and gorgeous therapist.
    Before her death, his mother would’ve said he was acting out. He didn’t care; he wanted to see the woman’s response. Most likely, her dimples and honeyed smile would disappear.
    Leaning back, he attempted to use the biofeedback exercise again. His leg hurt, but he found it difficult to relax in this chair with the commotion outside and the proximity of the redhead.
    “Hello, Captain Peterson.” She stood in front of him. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said.
    Yeah, fat chance.
    “As you know, I’m Willow Thomas, one of the two PTs in the department. I’d like to review the notes Trixie made the other day and conduct an intake interview with you.”
    As Willow closed the door, he saw her eyeing his crossed leg, but she didn’t say a word about it. Choosing her battles, he guessed.
    “How are you doing today?”
    “Peachy.”
    She nodded like she believed him, settled at her desk, and brought a file up on her screen. She perused the information for a moment before turning in the chair to look at him. “Why don’t you tell me about your injury?” She picked up a clipboard. “You served in Afghanistan? A marine?”
    He nodded.
    “Your records say you were stabilized in Hawaii then transferred to Walter Reed in DC?” At his nod, she continued, “A transtibial amputation. That’s fortunate.”
    “Oh, yeah, losing your leg is always lucky. All of us amputees celebrate it every glorious day.”
    She blinked. “I apologize. I can’t believe I said that.” She bit her lower lip. “I shouldn’t have used those words. What I meant is a