Protected from Villainy (Blade and Arrow Shadow Team #2)

Chapter 1

BEATRIX

After all, how hard could it be?

If memories from high school math hold correctly, a mile is equivalent to something like one and a half kilometers. So five kilometers would be what? Just over three miles?

I can do that, right? Between walking to and from work, plus rushing around the hospital, I must hit close to that every day.

Although.

Do I travel the entire three miles in one go? Not walking, but jogging, no less?

Hmm. Maybe not so easy.

“Does everyone run during the 5K?” I ask Derek, my patient and hopeful 5K recruiter. “Would I be competing like I’m in a race? With times and everything?”

Derek adjusts his gym bag on his shoulder and shifts his weight to one side. Pain tenses his features for a moment, but it’s gone just as quickly. He lifts his left leg and gives it a little shake, loosening muscles that have to be sore after our hour-long therapy session.

His mouth quirks at one corner as he replies, “Not everyone runs, Bea. Some people do, but plenty walk, too. You can go at whatever speed you’re comfortable with.”

I grab my laptop off the workbench and slide it into the case that was lying beside it. “When you say plenty of people walk, do you mean people twice my age?”

Derek grins. “Actually, the last 5K I did, the third-place finisher was in his late sixties.” As we head towards the door, he gestures for me to go ahead of him. “The guy used to be a D1 runner back in college. It was really impressive.”

With a little laugh, I ask, “So you’re saying I’ll be slower than all the sixty-year-olds?”

“Hardly. I’m just saying there’s a broad range of participants. Former athletes, senior citizens trying to be more active, families with their kids, casual joggers”—he glances down at his prosthetic foot before giving me a wry smile—“and people like me.”

Once we’re both in the hallway, I fall back so we’re walking side-by-side. “You mean a kickass Army Ranger who could probably lap me three times on a 5K, at least?”

“A former Army Ranger,” Derek retorts. His smile fades. “And I doubt I could lap you three times.”

“A Ranger,” I correct. “A hero. And one of the best patients I’ve ever had.”

His lips twitch. “Oh, really?” He pauses as a man with a bandage over one eye wheels himself past us. With a tiny jerk of his chin, Derek silently greets the man. A beat later, the other man lifts his chin in return.

“Out of all your patients here,” Derek continues once the man’s moved past us, “I’m one of the best? That’s quite an honor.”

“It’s true.” From the other end of the hallway, Helen, another PT, spots me and gives a quick wave. I wave back at her, then turn to Derek. “I probably shouldn’t say it. But the progress you’ve made is incredible. Not that recovery is a race—”

He laughs. “Just like what I said about the 5K.”

“You’ve done amazingly, is what I mean. Not just with the work you’ve put in getting used to the prosthetic, but your attitude, too.”

As we arrive at the doorway to the reception area, we both slow to a stop.

Derek turns to look at me. His expression sobers.

“It’s because of you, Bea. Not to sound all cheesy, but I was pretty down when I got here.

With my injury”—his gaze dips to his prosthetic again—“and losing my job, well, it was tough. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever feel whole again. ”

“Derek.” My nose prickles; just as it always does when one of my patients talks about feeling less in the wake of their injury. “You’re not—”

“I know I’m not,” he interrupts with a gentle smile.

“Now I know. Six months ago, I wasn’t as sure.

But you kicked my ass with those exercises, kept on me to do them at home, didn’t let me feel sorry for myself, and look.

I’m about to do my third 5K post-injury.

Which is something I never would have imagined when I first came here. And that’s because of you.”

Aww.

I know my feelings aren’t the important thing when I’m working with patients.

It’s how they’re feeling. How they’re coping with such a traumatic shift in their life and coming to terms with a devastating injury.

It’s encouraging them to believe in themselves, to believe that their life isn’t ruined just because they lost some or all of a limb.

Yes, my primary goal as a physical therapist working with amputees is to help them strengthen their body enough to adapt to a prosthetic. But I want them to feel confident about it, too. I want them to know they can still have a fulfilling life, just like my dad did after he lost his leg.

So when a patient—especially one I like as much as Derek—tells me I made a difference to him, it means something.

It means a lot, really. It means the years of schooling were worth it. It reminds me that the hard times, when I’m struggling to convince a patient to stick with the program, when they’re yelling at me out of frustration and pain, that they’re all worth it in the end.

“I’ll do the 5K,” I announce spontaneously. “I’ll probably be all the way in the back, but I’ll do it.”

Derek looks at me with a furrowed brow. “You don’t have to, Bea. I wasn’t trying to pressure you into it. I just thought it might be fun. The weather’s actually supposed to be nice this weekend, and the route through Rock Creek Park is pretty scenic. But 5Ks aren’t for everyone, and that’s okay.”

“No, I want to.” And now that I’ve said it, I do. Even if I embarrass myself horribly by coming in last, I’d rather have done the 5K than chicken out. “Plus, it’s for a good cause, right?”

The door to the reception area opens and we move aside as a woman in scrubs hustles by. “It is,” Derek replies. “My buddy, Callum, he started a charity to help vets get better prosthetics. So they can run 5Ks and go hiking again, stuff like that.”

“For a good cause, how can I say no?” My watch vibrates with an incoming call. Glancing down at my wrist, I notice my friend and fellow PT Jenna’s name appear on the screen. “I’ll see if I can convince some of my friends to go, too.”

“That would be great.” His gaze follows mine to my wrist. “Sorry to hold you up. I’m sure you’ve got another appointment.”

As Derek opens the door, I reply, “Actually, you were my last for the day. So I just have to finish up some paperwork and I’ll be done here, myself.”

“Cooking anything interesting for dinner tonight?”

All my patients know how much I love to cook and how I take weekly cooking classes in different international cuisines.

It’s one of the things I like to chatter about as a distraction when they’re struggling with conditioning.

I’ll describe a new recipe I made the night prior or ask for their input on a new one to try.

Sometimes I’ll even make extra to bring in to share.

“Actually, I don’t know what I’m making tonight,” I reply. “Either chicken stir-fry or sushi. I’ll have to see what I have for ingredients.”

Derek gives an approving nod. “Both sound good.” He grins. “I’m taking Emily out for dinner tonight. I made reservations at Francesco’s in Rockville. She’s been wanting to go there since it opened.”

“That sounds great.” I’ve met his girlfriend, Emily, on several occasions, and she’s lovely. Not intimidated by his prosthetic in the least, she’s the kind of supportive partner I’d love all my patients to have.

“Yeah.” Affection softens his features. “Which reminds me, I should get home and cleaned up so I can pick Emily up on time.” He pauses.

“If you’re still sure about the 5K, you can register online.

The website is Andy’s Angels dot com. It’s named for our buddy, Andy, who didn’t make it home with us. ”

My heart squeezes. “I’ll register tonight. And have a nice dinner with Emily.”

“I will.” He takes a step into the lobby, then looks back over his shoulder to add with a smile, “See you this weekend.”

“Sounds good.” I give him a little wave before the door closes behind him. “See you then.”

Once I’m alone again, I shake my head in amusement at myself.

I guess I’m doing a 5K this weekend.

Which means I should probably buy a pair of running shoes that are newer than the ones I own now; worn Adidas I got in my senior year of high school when I mistakenly thought I wanted to join the track team.

Sixteen years ago, I had a vision of myself sprinting to the finish line in front of a crowd of excited spectators, finally hearing their cheers after years of hollow silence.

I imagined a whole new group of friends that I’d carb load with before meets and celebrate with milkshakes at the local ice cream shop after.

Then I tried out and was cut pretty much immediately, putting an end to my track star fantasies for good.

And now I’m running a 5K? When my usual exercise consists of the five-block walk from my apartment and back each day, plus a weekly Pilates class at the Y?

With a rueful laugh, I pull out my phone to listen to Jenna’s voicemail.

Maybe I can convince her to go with me this weekend.

We could make a day of it. Breakfast at Smilin’ Sals, the all-day breakfast diner, then over to Rock Creek Park for the 5K, and a celebratory shopping trip in Bethesda afterwards.

I can swing by the gourmet grocery store there, pick up some Madagascar vanilla and black truffle oil…

I’m smiling as I think about my potential plans for the weekend. But the instant I hear her message, my smile fades.

“I need to talk to you. It’s important. Call me.”

My first thought is it has something to do with her boyfriend, Greg. They’ve been dating for nearly six months now—their official first-date-versary is next Monday, she informed me, and she has hopes for some type of jewelry as a gift—and he seems like a nice guy from the times I’ve met him.

But I also know the six-month mark can sometimes spell doom for a blossoming relationship. Especially when a desperate romantic like Jenna is involved; someone who has dreams of an engagement after one year and marriage before the second.