Focusing for the first time on her son’s soccer team, a ragtag group of kids in shorts and T-shirts who were coming off the dusty field, she saw trouble. The boys’ faces were red, perspiration darkened their hair and grass stains smeared their jerseys. Part of the team was still kicking a ball around, a few others were gathering up their bags and water bottles, but what held her attention was the group huddled around the coach who was helping a sweaty kid who bit his lip as he limped toward the parking lot.

Josh.

Her already-battered heart sank even further.

Luke reached for the door, but Katie was ahead of him, out of the pickup like a shot. “Josh?” she called, waving her arms madly. “Over here!” His face was so red she could barely make out his freckles and every time he started to put some weight on his right foot, he winced, then bit his lower lip. He had one arm slung around his coach’s shoulder and he hobbled slowly. Though tears swam in his eyes, his chin was jutted in determination as he made an effort not to cry.

“What happened?” Katie asked when she reached him. Luke had gotten out of the truck and was leaning on a fender.

“Little accident,” the coach explained. “Josh and Tom were fighting for the ball and Tom tackled him. Josh went down and twisted his ankle.”

“Let me see—” She bent over and eyed the injured foot. His shin guards had been stripped off but the swelling was visible through his sock. She clucked her tongue and when she tried to touch his leg, Josh sucked in a whistling, pained breath.

“Heck of a way to start the season,” the coach, a man by the name of Gary Miller, said.

“I can still play,” Josh protested.

“Only if the doctor says so.” Gary helped Josh to Luke’s truck. “I think he should have that ankle X-rayed.”

Katie nodded. “We will.”

“Where’s the car?” Josh asked as he slowly climbed into the bench seat of Luke’s truck.

“It’s a long story.”

“Don’t tell me. It broke down again.”

Katie’s head was beginning to throb. She didn’t want to think about what else might go wrong. First the convertible had broken down, then she’d heard the devastating news that Dave had died and now Josh was hobbling, his ankle twice its normal size. “Yep, the car conked out again.”

“I thought Uncle Jarrod was gonna fix it—Ooh!” Josh sucked in his breath as he shifted and tried to slide across the seat.

“He did. Sort of. Come on, let’s get you to a doctor.” She squeezed onto the seat with her son and slammed the pickup door shut.