Small-Town Redemption

by Andrews, Beth

  Kane just glanced at her, a flick of his cool green eyes saying she couldn’t possibly bore him more.

  So they were back to that, huh?

  “Then again,” she said, her smile more of a gritting of teeth, “you probably don’t care about a scar as it would make the poor, simpering ladies swoon over your pretty face even harder than they do now.”

  “You gonna swoon over me, Red?” he asked in an odd, low tone.

  Or maybe it was her reaction to it, to his question, that was odd, the way her stomach tumbled. Her pulse skittered.

  “Sorry. My supervisor frowns on us swooning while on duty.” She held out a paper for him to sign. “Here are the rest of your discharge papers.”

  She cleaned her hands and put on gloves. Removing his IV, she went over everything he was and was not allowed to do, in order to let his ribs heal. She explained about setting up an appointment with the orthopedic surgeon to have his arm X-rayed a week from now, repeated Justin’s instructions for how to care for his stitches...and realized he wasn’t listening to a dang thing she said.

  She set her hands on her hips. “Did you catch all of that?”

  “Do this,” he said wearily, “don’t do that, and a lot of blah, blah, blah.”

  Really. Why did she bother? “So succinct. Though in the medical profession we prefer to use yada, yada, yada.”

  His lips twitched. “As long as we’re on the same page.”

  They weren’t. How could they be when he refused to even open the book? But she wasn’t about to argue with him. She’d had her fair share of stubborn patients, and she had gone over everything. In detail. Whether he chose to follow the doctor’s instructions wasn’t up to her.

  “Here’s your script for pain meds,” she said, handing it and a prescription bottle to him, “along with enough to get you through until tomorrow when you can fill it at the pharmacy.”

  He eyed both warily. “Are they necessary?”

  Since he still hadn’t taken them, she tucked them into a small plastic bag. “That would depend on your level of pain now, wouldn’t it? Don’t take them on an empty stomach and don’t take more than two in the same dosing period. If, by Monday, you’re still in pain that’s over a five on a scale of one to ten, call your primary care physician about getting a higher dose or new prescription.”

  Still, he hadn’t moved. She shook the bag so the pills rattled and he finally took them.

  He stood and she quickly stepped back, but when his face went white with pain, his lips pressed together, she reached out. Steadied him.

  “Okay?” she asked.

  He nodded. Seemed to have some heavy internal debate before exhaling heavily. “Thanks.”

  She couldn’t help it. She grinned. “Wow. So polite. Those pain meds really are miracle workers.”

  If possible, his expression got tighter. Darker.

  What had she said?

  Before she could decide whether or not to ask—or apologize, which for some crazy reason she felt the need to do—he brushed past her, his steps slow and measured, his left arm wrapped around his ribs as if holding them in place.

  “Hold on,” she said, hurrying past him. “I’ll get you a wheelchair.”

  He pinned her with his flat gaze. “You’re kidding.”

  “I don’t kid about the hospital being liable if you fall flat on your face before reaching the exit.”

  “Your concern is touching.”

  “Hey, I’m very concerned.”

  “About lawsuits.”

  She nodded. “About lawsuits.”

  “I don’t need a wheelchair.”

  As if to prove it, he skirted around her, opened the door and walked out.

  She debated for all of ten seconds whether or not to just let him go, but in the end, her basic humanity won out.

  Stupid humanity.

  Catching up with him was easy enough since he’d gotten only a few feet, and now stood glancing around as if unsure which way to go.

  “This way,” she told him, gesturing to the right.

  They walked side by side down the brightly lit corridor, the harsh lighting only proving how truly horrible Kane looked. They turned left, then left again. She hit the big red button to open the automatic swinging doors and stepped out into the cool early morning with him.

  She lifted a hand to the EMTs getting in the ambulance. Behind them, a car pulled in and a young mother holding a crying, red-faced toddler got out and hurried inside. “Where’s your ride?” Char asked, the breeze ruffling the ends of her hair.

  “I’m walking. See ya, Red.”

  And damn if he didn’t start doing just that. For a moment, she simply stared, her mouth hanging open like a fish washed up on shore. Finally, she snapped out of her stupor—brought on by a long shift, lack of sleep and dealing with more than one bozo. The King Bozo was now making his way toward the road.

  She jogged over to him and carefully caught his good arm, stopping him before he could cross the street. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You can’t walk home.”

  “Neither of my legs are broken so I’m pretty sure I can.”

  “Yes, but...but...”

  “For Christ’s sake,” he said, irritated and grumpy, as if she was the one being a major pain in the butt. “Spit it out.”

  “It’s at least two miles,” she said, somehow able to keep the snap out of her voice. It helped to remind herself that he, too, was exhausted plus he’d been in a motorcycle accident.

  It helped, but not enough for her to forget his default mode was jerk-wad.

  “You’ll be lucky to get there before the sun comes up,” she continued.

  “Then I’d better get going.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake...” The man took stubbornness to whole new heights. “Don’t you have someone you could call? What about Sadie?”

  “I’m not getting one of my employees out of bed on a Sunday morning, especially after she worked until 2:00 a.m. last night.”

  “Why not? I’m sure she’d be—”

  “No.”

  “So call someone else to give you a ride home.”

  “There’s no one to call.”

  She laughed, the sound dying when she realized he was serious. “Oh, come on, now. Everybody has at least one person they can call, one person they can count on to have their back.”

  She had several. Her parents and Sadie of course, but also her cousin Harper. Jenn, her ex-roommate, a couple of girlfriends from college and high school, and even one or two coworkers.

  Kane didn’t answer, though, and that, in and of itself, was all she needed to know.

  He’d lived in Shady Grove for what...a year? A little less? And he still hadn’t made any friends, didn’t feel close enough to the people he did know to impose on them. Didn’t have anyone he could call to let them know he’d been hurt, to sit in the waiting room worrying while he was being examined and X-rayed. No one to keep him company, to lift his spirits while he was stuck in a hospital bed for hours. No one to take him home, then check in on him every day to make sure he was all right.

  He didn’t have anyone.

  She had a feeling, a weird premonition his lack of social circle was somehow going to become her problem. Possibly even her undoing.

  No. That was silly. This had nothing to do with her and everything to do with his being aloof and unlikable.

  “The sooner you let go of me,” Kane said, his words slurring slightly, “the sooner I can get home.”

  Her hold on him tightened. She shifted her weight to the left. Then back to the right. Tried like mad to keep the words forming in her throat from bubbling out. She clenched her teeth together. Reminded herself, rather sternly, she was in no way, shape or form, responsible for making sure Kane got home safely. She d
idn’t even like him, for goodness’ sake. Why on earth would she even consider going out of her way for him?

  Because he’s your patient. Because he’s hurting. Because he has no one else.

  The first two reasons rolled off her back. The third, however, stuck.

  “Come on,” she groused.

  “Where are we going?” He sounded merely curious and didn’t resist when she tugged him back toward the hospital. He must be worse off than she thought. Or else those pain meds were making him more amenable.

  “I’m clocking out.” They stepped up to the emergency room doors, walked through after they swished open. “And then I’m taking you home.”

  * * *

  SHE WAS LIKE some incredibly annoying, stubborn, fiery-haired guardian angel, Kane thought, as he and Red climbed the stairs to his apartment. She hovered at his side, one hand behind his back, close enough that every once in a while, her fingers brushed his shirt, the other under his good arm. As if she and the force of her will alone were enough to stop him, to catch him, should he decide that falling off his bike wasn’t enough for the day and he’d like to take a tumble down the stairs, too.

  She wasn’t any happier to be here playing the role of saving grace than he was to have her. Yet she’d still insisted on seeing him home, despite his best efforts to dissuade her.

  Not that he’d tried very hard. Not when the alternative meant his walking two miles.

  He may not want her help, but he wasn’t stupid enough to cut off his nose to spite his face.

  Each step caused pain to shoot up his side, as if someone thought it would be fun to stab him repeatedly and often with a thick needle. Every inch of his body hurt. His legs felt as if they weighed two hundred pounds each. His muscles trembled.

  Kane refused to let any of it show. No easy task, but if Red sensed any weakness in him, if he gave even the slightest hint he was unable to take care of himself, she’d never leave.

  He wanted her gone. Needed her gone. He hated that she was seeing him at his weakest—and he didn’t mean physically. When the doctor had done his stitches, there had been concern in her eyes. Pity. Kane had let his guard down, hadn’t been able to hide the panic clawing at him. Had clutched at her as if he was freaking Leonardo what’s-his-name, freshly dumped from the Titanic, and she was sexy Kate Winslet, his only hope for salvation.

  Too bad Kane was way beyond saving.

  Halfway up the stairs, he paused. Pretended it was so he could scratch an itch near his stitches, but was really so he could catch his breath. Damn it, he’d forgotten how painful cracked ribs were.

  He started climbing again and Red was right there with him, watching him like a blue-eyed hawk. Back at the hospital parking lot, she’d asked if he needed help getting into her car. He hadn’t responded, just sent her a hard look guaranteed to let her know he could get into the damn car on his own. She’d rolled her eyes, but had kept her mouth shut while he’d struggled to lower himself into the passenger seat.

  She hadn’t spoken since.

  He wondered if he could get lucky enough for that to stick for the rest of their time together. Their hopefully brief time together. Or, better yet, for the rest of their lives?

  A man could dream.

  Finally, they reached his door. Sweat coated his skin, his breathing ragged. He lifted his left arm slowly, wiped the dampness from his forehead with the back of his wrist.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” Red asked in her exasperated, impatient tone. As if dealing with him pushed her right to the edge of insanity.

  “I’ve got it from here.” Because she probably wouldn’t leave until he’d displayed the correct amount of gratitude, he added a gruff, “Thanks for the ride.”

  “What kind of person would I be if I didn’t see you safely inside?”

  “The kind I don’t want around?”

  “It’s shocking, really, you don’t have any friends. I mean, you’re so charming and gracious and all.”

  Friends. Christ. That was the last thing he needed. Relationships. People with expectations of him. Wanting more from him than he could give.

  He’d left his jeans in the hospital, but had remembered to take his wallet and keys and put them into the pockets of his borrowed scrubs. Mouth tight, well aware Charlotte watched his every move, he gingerly reached across his body, tried to slide his left hand into the right front pocket.

  He hissed out a breath. Shit.

  Dropping his arm, he sent her a narrow look. “Don’t. Say. It.”

  She held up her hands. “Say what?”

  And that innocent tone wouldn’t fool a deaf man. “Anything.”

  She mimed a zipper being pulled across her mouth. If only.

  Then she stood there. Silent, yes, but also not making a move to help him.

  “Could you get the damn key?” he snapped.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “Please,” he ground out from between his clenched teeth.

  “How can I refuse after you asked so nicely?” She stepped forward only to pause as if just realizing where she had to put her hand. How close she had to get to him. “I swear to God, if you make one snide comment or a sleazy innuendo, I will poke you in the ribs. Hard.”

  Holding her gaze, he brought his left hand up, mimicked her zipping motion.

  She ducked her head, but hesitated again, her teeth worrying her lower lip.

  Then, resolute thing she was, she inhaled and slipped the tips of her fingers into his pocket. With a sound of frustration that sounded oddly sexual to him, she stepped closer, dipping her hand farther into the pocket. If his entire body didn’t hurt like a son of a bitch, he might be able to appreciate the feel of her knuckles pressing against his hip, how the warmth from her hand seemed to seep through the fabric to brand his skin.

  Her fingers curled around the key and she dragged it out. Raising her head, her hair brushing against his chin, she stepped back, a blush staining her cheeks. Then, before he could snatch the key from her, she turned, unlocked the door and let herself into his apartment.

  “Well?” she asked, setting the key on the table. “You coming in or not?”

  Stepping inside, he left the door open, hoping she’d get the hint. “Do you barge uninvited into other people’s apartments or am I just special?”

  “I’m here in a professional capacity.”

  She shut the door.

  He tipped his head back. “I’m in hell.”

  “Not yet,” she said, way too cheerfully for his taste or peace of mind. “But give it time. I’m sure you’ll end up there eventually.”

  He crossed the room and gingerly lowered himself onto the couch. “What are you doing now?” he grumbled while she banged around in his kitchen.

  She opened a cabinet, wrinkled her nose at the contents then closed it again. Opened another one. “Getting you something to eat. Don’t you have any soup?”

  “I’m not hungry.” He sounded like a spoiled ten-year-old, but he was tired and his entire body hurt. “I’m just going to go to bed.”

  As soon as he could stand up again.

  Obviously giving up on finding what she was looking for, she opened the fridge, pulled out a stick of butter and the block of cheddar cheese. “You need to eat. You’re due for another dose of your pain meds and there’s less chance of you getting sick to your stomach if it’s not empty.”

  He’d lied. He really was hungry. Maybe that was why he didn’t argue anymore. Then again, arguing with any female was pointless. With this one, it seemed especially so.

  He watched as she sliced cheese, then layered it onto a piece of bread. Her movements were quick and efficient, as if she couldn’t wait to be done so she could hurry and collect her good-deed medal. Watching her wasn’t a hardship, though. She was thin, yes, but his
initial view of her as being all lines and angles was off base, he thought, his gaze taking in the slight indentation of her waist, the slope of her hips. Her legs were long, and he couldn’t help but wonder what she’d look like in a skirt. A really short one.

  He liked the image. Too much. Before he did something incredibly stupid like start seriously considering ways to charm Red into his bed, he shut his eyes. Drifted in and out of sleep until she set a plate on the table in front of him.

  He opened his eyes, saw a grilled-cheese sandwich, cut into two neat triangles, along with a glass of water.

  She shook a pain pill into her palm, held it out for him.

  He looked at it then up at her face. “If I’d known the E.R. staff made house calls, I would’ve requested the brunette who took my medical history.”

  Red blushed. She did that a lot and easily. Must be her fair skin. Every flush showed. If he touched her now, cupped her face in his hand, he bet her skin would be soft and incredibly warm.

  But when she spoke, her words were cool. “I’ll be sure to let Jocelyn know you’re interested.”

  “No need.” She’d already given him her number. He’d tossed it in the trash can.

  Charlotte waved her hand in front of his face. “Are you going to take this? Or do you need me to crush it up into some applesauce for you?”

  Sitting up was a struggle, but he managed. He bit into his sandwich. Chewed and swallowed. “I don’t need it.”

  “You might not think you need it right this minute, but you should take it every four hours. They’re not as effective if you take them after you start hurting again.”

  Hurting again? He hadn’t stopped since he’d come to on the side of the road.

  “I don’t want to get hooked on them.”

  He fisted his good hand in his lap. Damn it, he hadn’t meant to say that. Had never wanted anyone, least of all Red here, to know he’d been an addict. But he was so terrified of becoming dependent on anything again he’d gladly offer up what was left of his pride if it meant staying clean.

  At least she didn’t laugh. But she did smile, one of those patient, condescending grins medical professionals were so good at. “You won’t become addicted—”