Promise Me Forever (Debbie Macomber Classics) Read Free

could lift your own weight. But if you want to try, don’t let the fact I’m a woman stop you.”
    A muscle jumped along the side of his jaw. With a violent shove, he propelled the wheelchair onto the veranda. For now, Joy recognized, he was running; he didn’t know what else to do. But the time was fast approaching when he’d have nowhere to go.
    Before she left, Joy set up the meal tray. A satisfied smile spread to her eyes as she regarded the meager contents. She’d bet hard cash Sloan Whittaker was going to eat his lunch.
    When she returned she noted that she’d been right. He’d devoured every bit and would probably look forward to dinner.
    “I’m taking you outside now,” she told him in a silky, smooth voice.
    “No, you aren’t.”
    She didn’t argue. Instead, she stuck her head out the door and called Paul.
    Almost immediately the muscle-bound young man stepped into the room.
    “I’d like you to take Mr. Whittaker to the beach.”
    “No,” Sloan shouted.
    “Do as I say, Paul,” Joy encouraged.
    “You so much as touch my chair and you’re fired.” The way he spoke proved that the threat wasn’t an idle one.
    “She told me you’d say that.”
    “Don’t do it.” The thin line of Sloan’s mouth was forbidding.
    Uncertain, Paul glanced to Joy for assurance. They’d had a long talk and had reached an understanding where Sloan Whittaker was concerned.
    “You can’t fire either one of us. You realize that, don’t you?” she asked, in a bored voice.
    “Like hell.”
    “As I understand the situation, it’s your family who hired us, and therefore we work for them. Not you.”
    Joy could have kissed Paul as he effortlessly pushed Sloan out the bedroom door. Only at rare times had she seen such barely restrained rage. Sloan’s face was twisted with it as Paul directed the chair out the back door and onto the sheets of plywood they had laid on the sand to help manipulate his chair.
    The day was gorgeous, and a gentle breeze ruffled the soft brown curls about her face.
    “Is that all?” Paul looked to her and she nodded, indicating he could leave.
    Slipping off her shoes, Joy sat on the soft beach and burrowed her feet in the warm sand. Lifting her face to the soothing rays of the sun, she closed her eyes, oblivious to the angry man beside her.
    After several minutes of contented peace, she lowered her gaze and turned to Sloan. He sat erect and angry, like a prisoner of war. He
was
a prisoner, she mused.
    “Tomorrow we’ll start with the therapy.”
    “What therapy?”
    She ignored the censure in his voice. “Your first session will be in the morning with me. I thought we’d start in the pool. Later, in the afternoon, Paul will be helping you tone up the muscles in your arms.”
    His hands grabbed hold of the arms of his chair in a death grip. “What has my mother told you?” He breathed the question.
    Joy let the sand drain out of her closed fist, watching it bounce against the beach. “Plenty.”
    “I refuse to fall into your schemes.”
    “We’ll see about that.” She rose lithely and rolled her pant legs up to her knees. The ocean was several hundred yards away, and she ran down to the water’s edge. Her big toe popped the tiny bubbles the surf produced. The sun felt soothing and warm, and she basked in the beauty of the afternoon. When she glanced back she saw that Sloan had somehow managed to turn his chair around, and with a determined effort had begun to wheel the chair toward the house.
    For now she’d let him escape. His pride demanded as much.
    Joy didn’t see him again until later that evening. She wasn’t surprised when Claraproudly exclaimed that Mr. Whittaker had eaten his dinner.
    The sky was pink with the setting sun when she unpacked her flute and stood on the veranda. The music flowed from her, unbound and free. There’d been a time when Joy had had to decide between a musical career and the medical profession. Once the decision had been made she had no