Wolfe Wanting by Joan Hohl

a self-deprecating slant. “It's at times like this that we realize how very trite we tend to be when offering our unsolicited advice to others.” Megan sighed again. “I'm afraid that I'm as guilty of doing so as everyone else. Sad, isn't it?”
    “Don't go down.”
    Megan blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
    “You're in a downward spiral,” Royce explained, his glittering eyes piercing hers. “I can hear it in your voice, see it in your face. I've witnessed it before, that mental lure into depression. Fight it, Megan.”
    Megan glanced away from him, his intensity. She blinked again, this time not in confusion, but against a hot rush of moisture to her eyes. “As I believe you mentioned,” she murmured, “it's easier said than done.”
    “But it can be done.” His voice was hard, adamant. “Get help if necessary, from Dr. Hawk, or your pastor, if you have one, or maybe a close friend, but fight, fight with every atom of resistance you possess. Don't let him win. ”
    The very strength of his voice, of his command, drew her gaze back to his sternly set features, and then to the hand he had extended across the table to her, palm up, in exactly the same way he had in the hospital.
    Get help. Fight. His command spun through her head, sparking corollary, comforting thoughts.
    With the simple act of offering her his hand, Royce was silently offering his help, offering his strength, offering to fight with her, beside her.
    Megan's throat closed around an emotional lump.
    Had she judged Royce Wolfe decent? she thought, reaching for his proffered hand. Decent seemed much too mild a term to apply in defining the man.
    Megan's palm slid onto his; it was warm, not smooth, as she might have expected of the hand of a desk jockey, but rough, callused, the hand of a man familiar with hard physical work. It was oddly reassuring, the rough feel of that hand.
    Megan swallowed to relieve the tightness, and when that didn't work, she cleared her throat of the tear-congealed emotional lump.
    “I...” She cast a quick glance at him, and was nearly undone by the look of tenderness that had eased the stern set of his features. “Thank you.”
    “Hey, you're welcome.” Royce's voice was low, soothing, and held a hint of entreaty. “How 'bout some fruit?”
    Fruit? Megan frowned and looked at her plate. It was empty. When had she eaten the last of her salad? She shook her head to clear the cobwebs of confusion, cast another look at him, and once again had to smile.
    “Okay, Sergeant Perceptive,” she agreed on a sigh, “let's have some fruit.”
    Royce grinned, and the room appeared to brighten considerably. “Awright...” he said, releasing her hand, then shoving his chair back and springing to his feet. “You dish up the fruit, and I'll pour the coffee.”
    * * *
    The house was quiet, too quiet, after Royce left to go to work. At loose ends, Megan wandered from room to room, glancing at everything, each carefully selected piece of furniture, each accent piece her mother had purchased after days, sometimes weeks, of shopping for just the right colors, the perfect decorative items. Since her mother's taste was excellent, the decor was both aesthetically appealing and comfortable.
    The beauty and ambience were lost on Megan in her present frame of mind. Although she looked, she did not see the warmth, the welcome. All she saw was the emptiness.
    She was alone.
    It scared her sick.
    Fight.
    The echoing sound of Royce's voice rang so clear in Megan's mind, she jumped and whirled around, expecting to see him standing in the doorway, his right hand extended in an unstated offer of help.
    He wasn't there.
    But the subconscious memory echo had served its purpose. Megan's vision cleared. She was home. She was safe. And she would be damned if she'd allow herself to tumble into that downward spiral into depression Royce had warned her against.
    Squaring her shoulders, Megan strode from the living room to her bedroom, and straight to the