Page 1 of I'm Not Yours
THE APPLE ORCHARD
Prologue
For most of my childhood I was poor.
I spent years living in a dismal trailer next to an apple orchard. I have spent years trying to forget those years.
My mother died the day after we made an apple pie.
I left home at sixteen.
I fell in love with a man I met at a waterfall. Something very sad happened.
We broke up. I have never stopped missing him.
I bought used clothing until I was twenty-two.
After college I worked for a high-end retail corporation. My fancy outfits helped me to hide my past from myself. I ended up vice president.
I saved money. When you grow up poor, you fight hard to leave poverty far behind.
I was fired when I told my boss off. She threw her Manolo Blahniks at me.
My dad died an hour after I was fired. We hadn’t spoken in years because he was both scary and abusive. He left me an apple orchard.
It’s hurtful that he chose to leave me apples.
I am using an urn, filled with his ashes, as a doorstop.
My name is Allie Pelletier and that’s the summation of my life.
1
“The doctor will be with you in about ten minutes.”
“Thank you.” I smiled through gritted teeth, blood gushing down my leg.
The nurse, over six feet tall with curly gray hair, pressed a cloth to my wound, peering at it through his black-rimmed glasses. “You’ve got Dr. Rios. He recently moved here from New York. Excellent doctor. We were lucky to get him. You’re traumatized? He’ll untraumatized you—that’s what we say here in Portland’s greatest emergency room.”
The nurse, whose name was Kevin, did not notice the blood instantly draining from my face, as he was busy tending to the blood draining from my thigh.
I swayed on the bed, gripped the handles, and took a deep breath. “It’s not . . .” I struggled to breathe, the pain from my gaping gash suddenly gone, lost in my sheer panic. “It’s notJaceRios?”
“Yep, you got it. The one and the same. Not surprised you’ve heard of him. He has an amazing reputation. He’s been featured in newspapers and medical journals. He’s written articles and done extensive research on best medical practices for all sorts of life-threatening events. You bust it up, he’ll fix you up. You’re busted up, Miss Pelletier, and he’s gonna fix you up.”
I swayed again.
Kevin stood, winked at me, then noticed my rapidly declining state. “You’re not looking too good. Here, how about you lie down for me, close your eyes, think about being on an island with a pretty drink . . .”
I flopped straight back on the bed, the room spinning, as he took my pulse.
“Your pulse is higher than it was . . . blood pressure is, too,” he mused, a bit confused. “Okay, Miss Pelletier, I want you to take some deep, calming breaths. You’ll be sewn up like a quilt in no time, by the master quilter himself . . .”
A man’s face, Jace’s face, floated in front of my eyes. Straight, thick black hair, longer in the back—not long, exactly, but enough to run my fingers through. Dark eyes, high cheekbones. He had a face that was tough, a don’t mess with me kind of face, lined from hours of being outside and from a chaotic childhood.
He had a face you wouldn’t want to meet up with in a dark, back alley, but once you knew him, knew his kindness, his openness, you knew his innate goodness. If he was in a dark, back alley, it was because he was administering medical care.
“I can’t believe this.”
