Rekindled by Tamera Alexander Page A

feet fall back to the floor, barely reining his temper. “Like I told you before, it’s too soon for this, Isaiah. My legs aren’t strong enough.”
    Isaiah said nothing for a moment, then moved to pick up the bricks. “That’s what you said two weeks ago when you tried the walker.”
    “Yeah, and I couldn’t do that either.”
    “You took a few steps with it. That’s a good start.”
    “I took two steps and fell flat on my face!”
    Isaiah sighed heavily, but it didn’t hint at exasperation. Larson had yet to see the man lose his temper, though they’d been following Isaiah’s regimen of exercise for nearly a month now with little to show for it.
    Isaiah cradled the two bricks in one massive hand. “Your lack of strength doesn’t lie in your body, Larson.” With his free hand, he slowly traced the place over his heart. “It lies here.”
    Larson threw him a scathing look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “It means you don’t want it badly enough yet.” The patience in Isaiah’s eyes matched the quiet of his voice, and kindled Larson’s anger.
    He gripped the sides of the chair and bit back a curse. They’d been doing this for the last hour, and he’d barely managed to lift his feet more than four inches off the floor before his muscles would begin to tremble and the bricks would fall. Despite Isaiah’s encouragement, he doubted he’d ever regain use of his legs. Between the gunshot wound, the fire, and the weeks he’d spent in bed, his muscles had weakened to the point where Larson hardly recognized his own body.
    “Let’s try it once more before supper.” Isaiah reached out to reposition Larson’s legs.
    Larson suddenly wished he had the strength to kick him. “No.”
    Isaiah’s hands stilled. He looked up. “What?”
    Larson kept his head down and licked his parched lips. “I said no. I’ve had enough for today.”
    A moment passed. Isaiah gently laid the bricks aside and stood.
    Larson sensed Isaiah’s eyes on him but didn’t lift his head. His chest tightened as he prepared himself for another of Isaiah’s miracle stories meant to bolster his spirits. The tales always stemmed from either the mining camps or the Bible, but whichever the source, Larson knew they contained only false hope. The truth of his situation was undeniable.
    Larson cringed as he looked at his legs. He’d never walk again, much less be able to run his ranch. And Kathryn. Why would she ever want such a broken shell of a man?
    “You hungry?” Isaiah asked, pulling Larson’s thoughts back. “I bet Abby’s got some of her warm corn bread and stew ready by now.”
    Larson nodded, thankful for the unexpected reprieve. “Sure, that sounds good. I’m starved.” Humbled both by Isaiah’s understanding and his own need for assistance, Larson held out his arms.
    Isaiah placed the walker in front of him. “Come on in when you’re ready, then. We’ll wait for you.”
    Larson’s head shot up just as Isaiah disappeared through the doorway. He looked from the walker to the door and back, disbelieving. He knew Isaiah well enough to know what he was doing, and it galled him to the core.
    He squeezed his eyes shut against a sudden burning sensation and swore aloud. Did Isaiah see this as some sort of game? Or challenge perhaps? Larson gripped the sides of the chair again and shifted his body till his spine was flush with the back of the chair. Part of him wanted to call out an apology and get it over with. Another part of him knew that no matter what he said, Isaiah wasn’t coming back. And neither would Abby. Not with Isaiah standing in the gap.
    He heard the clink of dishes and Abby’s soft voice in the next room, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. Isaiah responded, but their conversation was indistinct.
    He reached for the walker with his left hand and dragged it closer. The pine wood was smooth and well sanded, not that Larson could feel any imperfections with his scarred palms. It was