Greyhound Therapy

Prologue

Megan Kingman set the wipers of her Volvo station wagon on high. They flapped furiously back and forth in a futile attempt to beat back the torrential rain, flooding down from the dark Colorado skies. Megan leaned forward, crowding the steering wheel. Eyes wide, she focused on faded double yellow lines.
“How’re you doin’ back there, baby girl?” Megan called out, not daring to look away from the road.
“I need my Wubbie,” Madison whined. She strained against the nylon straps of her car-seat and pointed a pink, chubby finger at a one-eyed, worn fleece bunny rabbit.
“Mommy can’t help you now, babe. Wubbie will be alright ‘till we get home.”
“But Mommy!” Maddie slumped back in her seat and kicked her heels against hard plastic.
“Maddie, I can’t help you right n . . . Oh, my God!”
Megan’s posture straightened. Her mouth gaped open. Two vehicles careened around the bend, side-by-side and directly in her path. She glanced to the right. The road’s narrow shoulder was flanked by an unforgiving steel guardrail. Her eyes darted back ahead. Beams of four oncoming headlights mixed with streaks of water on her windshield, scattering blinding prisms of light and further obscuring her limited options. This was it. They were going to crash. The guardrail or hold the line?
Megan cranked the wheel to the right and braced for impact.

Chapter 1

That which doesn’t kill a man makes him stronger, or at least more stubborn. James Kingman had never been inclined to ask for help. Now, nearly a year after the tragic deaths of his wife and only child, he was even more determined to go it alone. The son of working class parents, James had put himself through college on a track scholarship and working weekends at Pizza Hut. He hadn’t received any financial assistance from home. James’ father had made it quite clear -- college education was neither an entitlement nor entirely necessary. James bankrolled law school by tutoring undergrads and securing a limited amount of federal aid.
Now, alone on a crisp spring Rocky Mountain morning, James muttered a few choice words and prepared for battle. Man against machine. He would get the damned trailer on the hitch, or die trying. Either way he’d be better off. James took a deep breath, braced one shoulder on his tall angular frame against the back of his Ford Expedition, and pushed for all he was worth.
It barely budged. James lowered his point of leverage and threw all his weight into it. Vessels bulged in his temples as he held his breath to bear down and push for all he was worth. The vehicle’s hitch eased forward ever so slightly. Abruptly the trailer assembly dropped down and snapped into place. “Gotcha!” He gave the connection a rigorous shake, reasserting his triumph over the stubborn contraption.
James wiped his brow on his sleeve. He looked toward the empty house, finally settling his deep-set brown eyes on the large oak door with the small shiny brass cross on its front--the cross he’d mounted the day he, Megan, and little baby Madison first moved in. Goosebumps rose up and spread down his arms, causing the hairs to stand on end. His chest suddenly felt tight. His heart pounded faster when it should have been calming. Something was wrong. James took a seat on the bumper of his SUV. He leaned over, resting elbows on knees, and worked to get enough air. James pressed a hand over his sternum. Memories of his father’s heart attack flooded into his consciousness. He looked up and spoke to the heavens.
“Really? At thirty-five? Hooking up a damn trailer?”
James straightened up, closed his eyes, and tilted his head back until it rested against the rear window of his Explorer. Oh, what the Hell? Bring it on! I didn’t sign on for this, anyway. He waited. Slowly the intensity drained away. The pounding pulse slowed. Breathing came easier. After a minute or two he opened his eyes and shook his head. No such luck. No. It was much worse. The cold, inflexible sound of metal locking against metal had shocked him into recognition of a terrible truth. He was leaving. He was leaving them.
His sister, Anna, had warned him there would be moments like this. He had dismissed her concerns. Now, as he sat in the driveway and prepared to leave their home for good, the sound of Anna’s voice reverberated in his head. You have to let them go, James. Easier said than done.
James took a moment to survey the acre they had called home. He scanned across the expansive, manicured yard that surrounded the white-and-brown Tudor-style house. The large white “For Sale” sign posted alongside the mail box stood out like a sore thumb. His shoulders drooped a bit at the sight of the smaller red “Price Reduced” placard tacked on top.
The eerie quiet was interrupted by occasional, seemingly irreverent tinkle of a wind chime. James thoughts wandered to the way it used to be—the way it was supposed to stay forever. Far down the driveway he could see Madison riding toward him on her new yellow and blue Big Wheel. Her chubby legs churned the pedals of her birthday gift as fast as she could make them go. Memory of her toothy, dimpled grin brought pressure back to his chest. James inhaled deeply, making a conscious effort to slow his breathing.
Farther down, past rows of fragrant flowering plum trees, he envisioned Megan pruning her treasured roses--anniversary presents from him. A light breeze pushed through the garden, gently swaying an empty swing suspended from the branches of the grand old willow. Many a carefree evening had been spent pushing Maddie in that swing. “Higher, Daddy, higher!” her excited command echoed in his mind.
Suddenly, it was all too much. James squeezed his eyes shut as if closing them could make the vivid mental images fade away. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I’ve got to go. I won’t forget you -- ever.” Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes as he climbed into his Expedition and prepared to leave for Northern Idaho. He turned the key in the ignition, placed his car in drive, and started off. He didn’t look back.