Page 20 of The Rough Ride (Sanctuary, Inc. #3)

S he eyed the Pilates chair in her room. Nope. Not tonight.

Liz barely mustered the energy to peel off her jeans, pull down the sleeve, a liner, two pairs of thick socks, and a silicone liner. She set the mid-calf artificial limb aside.

The sensation rivaled taking off her bra at the end of a long day. An exquisite freedom, cool and heady, bathed her legs.

She stretched her right leg and wiggled the toes. The graceful muscles from foot-to-ankle and calf-to-thigh obeyed her every command. She lifted it high and pointed her foot. The stretch tugged at her glutes as she held the pose and breathed. Relaxation undulated up to her toes.

Now for the left. She took a deep breath and held it out straight, tightening her core muscles to get the best stretch.

She grimaced as the muscles reluctantly slacked.

They screamed in protest as she lifted it high.

Divots from the shrapnel had gouged chunks of flesh repaired by surgeons, but the scarring was still prominent.

She lowered her leg to cross her knee and massaged the stump.

A residual limb is what they called it. She was grateful. She had a lot more residual than many.

The stump craved touch, and she indulged it every day with soft strokes and gentle massage.

While watching TV or reading a book, she often caressed the stump like a lost stray resting on her lap.

For the next five minutes, she grunted through a charley horse and whimpered every time she stretched the leg high.

Without a pretty ankle and graceful toes to guide the process, her leg protested, balked, searching for muscle memory and nerve paths to rely on.

A foot was a powerful ally.

She needed another pedicure. Her mother’s friend, Louise, gave her one every month, always painting the toes on her prosthetic the same color. And Louise massaged her good foot and the stump, treating them like equal parts. God bless her.

Liz detested pity.

Time and again, she’d informed the stream of doctors and physical therapists that she would not limp.

Most said she needed to be realistic, swallow her pride, and accept her limitations.

A select two helped her accomplish her goal.

One was a prosthetist and the other a physical therapist. Together, they’d adjusted, tweaked, stretched, massaged, and pushed her to strengthen her left side with exercise.

Sometimes without mercy and while barking orders to exert herself one more time.

Again. Again. Again.

That’s when she escaped to her memories of basic training. She’d abhorred those long jogs in full uniform and the songs that accompanied them. Oddly enough, those recollections of running on two legs and the humorous chants had become unlikely friends during rehab.

She’d recovered enough to bear Ella the natural way when the time came. She’d waddled, but didn’t limp, into the hospital that night.

And Nick never saw any of it. The rehab, the growing belly, her learning to walk again with a prosthetic, Ella kicking a bowl of popcorn off her belly at thirty-nine weeks, her birth, first car ride, first bowl of oatmeal.

Liz had kept it all a secret and robbed him of the worry and joy.

The familiar stab of guilt panged in her chest.

But his emotions would’ve overloaded the delicate mental balance she’d worked so hard to achieve. Ella wasn’t his responsibility anyway. She couldn’t offer Nick the love he deserved back then. It was more than enough to learn to love herself again.

A sad melancholy draped her heart like a thick blanket. She’d hoped to spend the weekend with Nick and Ella making new memories. But she’d hoped too big on that one. Tears slipped down her cheeks.

She had no reason to be upset with Nick. She hadn’t expected him to be thrilled with her decision to keep the baby. He had every right to take some time.

But the burden of secrecy that she’d carried for fifteen months had been harder than any hundred-pound backpack she’d hefted during ten-mile survival training hikes. And now that she didn’t need to hide Ella anymore, she was free to live with the decision she’d made.

Her heart skipped a beat and adrenaline slammed her system. Tonight had jump-started her life. For the next three days, she’d be solo with Ella.

She hadn’t been alone for this much time in years. There would be no physical therapist to massage her. No nurse with a pain shot, no doctor interrupting a nap, no orderly getting a wheelchair, or Arlene to make it all better. No help with Ella .

An emancipating wail of gratitude flowed from her chest, followed by another, and then dozens more—each sob a cleansing breath. Her stomach calmed, and the emotional weight she’d been carrying lifted from her shoulders.

Maybe she’d plan a trip to the beach with Ella and they’d play in the surf’s edge. Perhaps she’d introduce her to an ice cream cone, take a long stroller walk through the zoo, or just take her daughter clothes shopping and show her off.

Maybe she’d call a few of her friends from college and catch-up, tell them about her beautiful daughter and share the joy.

One thing was for damn certain. She didn’t need to hide anymore.