At First Touch. Cindy Miles

       CHAPTER ONE

      Cassabaw Station

      Early August

      IF ONE MORE person accused Reagan Quinn of having PTSD, she was going to lose it. She knew what it was, knew many others had it, and it was a serious, dangerous condition she wouldn’t wish upon anyone. But she didn’t have it. Not at all.

      She was just, simply and bluntly to the point, pissed off. Bottom line.

      Mad. As. All. Holy. Hell.

      She was blind. Not on the edge of insanity.

      The doctors had insisted her other senses would kick in to make up for the loss of sight. It hadn’t happened yet. How could it when your vision was literally knocked from your skull? They’d said it would be like the cells in her body would swarm to all other areas in order to perfect them—to try to make up for the loss of that one particular sense. The doctor had said it would happen, and in an excited sort of way. Like it was cool. Superhero kind of cool. She distinctly remembered telling one doctor in particular to go screw himself. Twice. He’d compared her to Daredevil. The blind lawyer from Hell’s Kitchen. She was nothing like Daredevil. Well, with one exception: she could see shadows, outlines, forms. Nothing definitive. Just like the blind superhero. But she doubted her vision would return to see something special like a rainstorm, where everything was all magical and beautiful and poignant. It sounded a lot cooler in a Marvel movie, instead of real life. Her life.

      And now she was coming home. A place she hadn’t returned to since the tragic accident that had taken the lives of her parents. She was basically helpless, depending on others, which she hated. Oh, the government was also helping her with a check for her troubles.

      And that was great, having a government check. Even free college. She’d loved the service and defended her country with pride.

      But what in the holy of all hell was she going to do with herself now?

      “I spy with my little eye something...” Emily Quinn’s pause lasted...and lasted. And lasted. “Brown. I mean tan. Definitely tan! Okay, more like a sort of, oh, I don’t know, a—”

      “The marsh.”

      “Dang it, Reagan, I swear,” Emily huffed. “I just honestly swear.”

      They’d been playing I Spy ever since Emily had picked her up at the airport. A really idiotic game to play with a blind person who could see only heavy shapes, but who was she to judge? Maybe her older sister didn’t know what exactly to do with her. No one did, really. Not anymore. Walk on eggshells? Treat her like an invalid? Pretend nothing’s wrong? Every option was completely and utterly wrong. All she wanted to do was get the hell home and go to bed. Sleep for a week. And pretend this nightmare wasn’t truly happening. Maybe, after a week or two of slob-like slothery, she’d awaken and an epiphany would strike. An idea on how to fix this stupid situation. But for now, it was I Spy. Or not. “No more,” Reagan insisted. “Seriously, Em. I’m kinda beat. It was a long trip.”

      “Oh, I’m sorry, you’re right.” Reagan jumped when Emily’s warm fingers threaded through hers. It’d take some getting used to—touches occurring before you see them coming. “I missed you so much, Rea. I just... I’m so glad you’re home. Here, you relax and I’ll turn the music up a bit. There’ll be time for girl talk later.” Silence for a moment. “I’ll just be quiet.”

      Emily’s quirkiness actually made Reagan fight a smile. At the same time, the quiver she’d noticed in her sister’s voice saddened her. Her older sister had always been different. Did her own thing, no matter what anyone said. Reagan had liked that about her. “I missed you, too, sis,” Reagan answered, and squeezed her sister’s warm hand. She had, too. More than Emily would really ever know. They only had each other, the Quinn girls. Well, she supposed, Emily now had the Malones. She was engaged to the middle son, Matt, and if Reagan remembered correctly, he was a cocky pain in the ass.

      Girl talking, yes—they’d be doing plenty of that. She knew Emily Quinn’s inquisitive mind, and Emily would want to know every detail of the accident. She would want to know her present condition, limitations. Feelings. Everything.

      Reagan would tell her. Just not now. Extreme exhaustion and jet lag clawed at her. Made her grumpy. Made her short of patience.

      The volume increased, just a little. She rested her head back and listened to Emily’s unique addiction to vintage music—Benny Goodman, maybe. Funny. Reagan vaguely remembered her mother listening to the same kind of music. The neighbors’ grandpa, too. Soon to be Emily’s grandfather-in-law. Their neighbors on the river. That was another thing she’d have to get used to. Insta-family. Insta-everything, really. Insta-different-life.

      Sleep didn’t come—not in Emily’s Jeep. Jeeps were great, especially living on an island, but whether in domestic driving or in the armed forces, they were jolting and bumpy. It was simply their nature to scramble your innards. So no matter how exhausted she was, sleep wouldn’t happen. And since attempting to focus on distant shapes in a moving vehicle tended to make her queasy, Reagan kept her head slightly turned toward the window and her eyes closed, allowing the sun to warm her skin. It also made her sister think she was napping. The whole thing worked until they reached the river house. There her shenanigans ended. Abruptly.

      Sleep and slothery wasn’t going to be happening anytime soon.

      The moment Emily cut the engine, voices rose over the marsh to greet Reagan’s ears. Close, but not too close, laughter. Male laughter. One older voice swearing. An old blues singer’s voice from a record player carried on the briny breeze that wafted through the open Jeep. The wind rustled her hair. A wind chime clanged softly nearby. As she peered through her shades, she could vaguely make out the shape of the river house.

      The smell of...something delicious hung in the air, too.

      “Happy homecoming, little sister!” Emily said with excitement. “A hero!” Again, Reagan’s hand was enveloped and she jumped. Soft lips pressed against Reagan’s cheek as Emily kissed her. “I wanted to surprise you!”

      Reagan sighed and inwardly cringed. “Well, you did that, Em.” God Almighty, a freaking party? That’s the very last thing she’d wanted. Especially with a bunch of strangers. But she didn’t want to come across as a total unappreciative ass, so she pasted a grin to her face and squeezed Emily’s hand. “Thanks, sis.” Her voice sounded strained, even to her own ears. But in Emily’s excitement, her sister missed it completely. These people, Emily knew. She didn’t. Maybe once, but that was a hell of a long time ago.

      “Okay, come on and meet everyone!” Emily said with excitement, then her voice faded a little. Footsteps hurried away and they, too, grew quiet and became lost in the music and voices and swearing. Reagan reached for her walking stick on the Jeep’s floorboard. Hopefully, she wouldn’t trip over a pine root and go sprawling on her face in front of everyone. It wouldn’t be the first time since the accident. Probably wouldn’t be the last.

      “Oh! Shoot!” Emily said. She sounded at least fifty feet away. Footsteps began crunching against something she couldn’t immediately identify? Pine straw? “Reagan!”

      “Stand down, my overanxious and soon-to-be sister-in-law,” a teasing male voice said, closer. A tall figure loomed, and along with it a clean, soapy scent met her nostrils and blended with the river brine. “Wow. Reagan Rose Quinn.” The male voice connected to the looming shadow drew closer. Close enough that his body heat clashed with hers. “I’ve got a confession.” He paused, and she felt him lean closer. “Ever since your sister showed me a picture of you in full gear, I’ve had a major crush on you.”

      Instantly, she stiffened, and he laughed, and it was a deep, male sound. “At ease, Quinn. Welcome home.”

      Reagan kept her shades in place. Who was this guy? She had to keep reminding herself that she