by Amanda Renee
Sheila felt the heat rush to her cheeks. Blushing was a trait she’d left behind in grade school. Now she was warm and fuzzy and blushing. Wonderful.
“Moving on,” Sheila warned. “You look different. More cowboy, less patient. You’ve come further than I had anticipated you would at this point. I like the hat.”
“My dad had a chance to stop by yesterday and bring me some things from my house. I needed to feel more like me. I’ve always worn a hat and have felt naked without it.” Brady tilted his brim back a little more, exposing his insanely gorgeous blue-gray eyes. “Sweats and track pants may be comfortable, but a cowboy needs his jeans.” Brady laughed. “I can get through most of my day, including hippotherapy in these. I just change when I have physical therapy. Once I can get my cowboy boots on and off, then I’ll be satisfied.”
Sheila glanced down at his well-worn sneakers, suspecting he’d had them since his high school gym days.
“I got a new ride too.” Brady stood—cautiously, but with relative ease. He walked to the back of his chair, each step methodical yet surefooted. “I can flip the seat forward and rotate the handles allowing me to use it as a walker. If I get tired, I can sit down and wheel around like I can with a normal wheelchair.”
“Kay told me she was getting these in.” After all the research Sheila had conducted on physical therapy and patient recovery, she was astonished more facilities didn’t use the chair. “It’s the first time I’ve seen one in person.”
“I can’t even begin to explain how amazing it is to walk again.” Brady’s face radiated excitement. “I’m trying to do it as much as possible. Now that I’m not restricted to walking only in my PT sessions, I feel invigorated.”
It was hard not to share in his jubilation. She wanted to. He deserved to be happy, but she wouldn’t be doing her job if she wasn’t at least a little cautious. She wished all her patients were as fearless and determined as he was. A few weeks ago, she had seriously doubted he’d return to bull riding. Watching him stand before her now, she acknowledged it was possible.
“I would like you to come in for follow-up testing. It’s been just over two weeks and your body has been through quite a lot. I’d like to run some scans and make sure you’re continuing to heal properly.”
“Sure thing. When do you want me?” It was a simple question, but Sheila detected desire behind the words and it wasn’t necessarily unwanted desire, despite her principles.
“I will see what I have available when I get to the hospital tomorrow. Until we get your test results back, I want you to ease up on your physical therapy.”
Brady’s smile slid from his face. “Why? I’m not feeling any pain. I feel wonderful.”
“You should never lie to your doctor. I get reports from all your therapists and I know much of your PT is painful.”
“I power through it.” Brady sat down and released the hand brakes. “You’re going to tell Abby to back off my therapy, aren’t you? That’s fine. I can continue to do the same therapy in my cottage. You can’t stop me. It’s bad enough I get this crap from Alice, but not my own doctor. I have faith in your abilities, why can’t you have faith in mine?” Brady spun his chair around.
Sheila had taken an oath to tread with care in matters of life and death, and that care extended beyond the operating table. She might not be able to act on her feelings for Brady, but she’d do whatever it took to protect him from himself. Even if that meant he’d hate her for it.
* * *
BRADY RESENTED SHEILA summoning him to the hospital. It had been three long days since he’d last seen her. She’d stopped coming around the ranch as frequently. And that suited him just fine.
That wasn’t true. He missed her angelic face. He wanted to explain why this meant so much to him. He wanted to make her understand. He wanted to kiss her, dammit.
Brady spent much of the morning either being poked and prodded or in a doughnut-shaped machine getting a full-body CT scan. Due to all the metal in his body, MRIs were no longer an option. He still hadn’t seen Sheila, but he’d met with four nurses, a neurologist, a radiologist and two employees from the finance department.
Brady had scanned the checks he’d received from his sponsors into the mobile banking app on his phone. Thank heavens for technology. Combined with the money his father had deposited from fund-raisers, Brady was able to write the hospital a large enough check to pacify them...momentarily. Of course, they wanted more and he had more, but he needed to set money aside for his son. He had no idea when he would collect another paycheck and he refused to give all of what he had away.
After his CT scan, he wheeled down to the cafeteria. He was finally allowed to eat something other than the dye he’d had to drink earlier. Maybe he should be nervous, but he wasn’t. If he didn’t like what Sheila had to say, he could always get another doctor. He knew his body. He would never push himself to the point where he couldn’t perform. He was determined, not stupid.
After settling on pork medallions and sweet potatoes, Brady realized he didn’t have much of an appetite. He twisted open a bottle of water and took a long swallow. The radiologist had told him Sheila would call him with the results, but he’d insisted on staying in the hospital and waiting. She’d forced him to come in and he was going to get his results today.
Frustrated, Brady pushed away from the table. He stood, reversed the handles on his chair and plodded to the hospital atrium. The open space seemed different than it had the last time he’d been there—with Sheila. Only an hour of his two and a half months in the hospital had been spent with her, yet the first memories that popped into his head were of Sheila.
“Brady?” It took him a moment to realize she was actually beside him and not just invading his thoughts.
He turned to face her. “Dr. Lindstrom.”
“I understand you would like your test results today.”
He turned his palms upright and shrugged. “Did you honestly expect anything different? It’s already been three days since you told Dance of Hope to ease up on my therapy. You’re setting my progress back every day. I’m not waiting any longer.”
“I should hear from the radiologist shortly. If you would like to follow me, I can complete your exam. I won’t have the results of your blood work today, but we don’t need them to continue your physical therapy.”
Brady attempted to keep pace with her. “Are you in a hurry?”
Sheila jammed her hands in the pockets of her white lab coat. “No, I’m not. I’m sorry.” She waited for him to catch up. “How many steps are you taking a day?” Sheila motioned to the black band around his left wrist. “I didn’t notice you wearing a step counter the other day.”
“I ordered it online and had it shipped overnight to Dance of Hope.” Brady stopped walking and sat in his chair. He tapped the device lightly, smiling at the display. “I told you I wasn’t going to give up.”
Sheila placed a hand on his shoulder. “I never want you to give up. I don’t want any patient to give up.” Her touch seared through his shirt. He’d craved it for days and immediately missed it when she withdrew. “I just don’t want you to push yourself so far that you set yourself back. That’s why you’re here.” She continued walking. “If Dr. Mangone felt you didn’t need any further treatment, he would’ve released you to Dance of Hope and that would have been it. We’re here—I’m here—to ensure you make the most complete recovery possible. Believe it or not, I do have faith in you.”
Hearing her say the words meant more to him than it should have. She didn’t sound like a doctor talking to her patient. She sounded more like a wife talking to her husband. Brady inwardly laughed at the thought. Marriage? Someday he wanted to settle down and have more kids, but that was way in the future. Years in the future. Well, maybe not too far. He was almost thirty after all.
Thirty-five was a great age to get marri
ed. Then he could have his next kid at thirty-six. He’d have retired from bull riding by that point, and hopefully have cleared his debt and set aside enough money for Gunner’s future to be able to focus on having more children and finding a stable job. Doing what, he still didn’t know. But the more time he spent watching the kids at the rodeo school, the more he began to entertain the idea of one day becoming an instructor. He’d need more wins before he reached that point. No one wanted to learn how to ride from a wannabe champion. Recognition went a long way in the industry.
Of course, none of these plans meant anything until he was fully recovered.
“Brady, where you going?”
He stopped wheeling and looked around. Sheila was ten paces behind him, standing outside an exam room door. He’d been so deep in thought he hadn’t realized she’d stopped.
“Sorry.” Brady returned to her side and wheeled through the door. “My mind was elsewhere.”
“I’m going to give you a few minutes to change into this.” Sheila handed him a hospital gown. “And then I will be back to wrap up your exam.”
It was hospital gown number three that day. He should start a business creating more manly hospital patient attire. He tugged his shirt up over his head. Numerous scars crisscrossed his chest and abdomen. He slid his track pants to the floor and stepped out of them. More scars peeked out from underneath his boxer briefs, a long one trailing down his left thigh. They were red and ugly. He still hadn’t seen himself in a full-length mirror. They were conspicuously absent from Dance of Hope. There was a small mirror above the sink, wheelchair height, and he could see some of his scars in it, but not all of them.
For the first time in his life, Brady actually felt insecure about his physical appearance. He slipped into the gown and sat down in his chair. He’d always taken his body for granted. He was fit and athletic. He certainly never minded a woman seeing him naked. Here he was, half-dressed in a hospital room and he felt more vulnerable than ever.
“This is crazy.” Sheila had seen him in a hospital gown before. He hadn’t had a Texas-size crush on her then, though. She knew his scars—she’d helped close the wounds that had created those scars. Brady ran his fingers along the one on his leg. It was raised and smooth, completely void of body hair. He’d gone out of his way to flirt with the pretty doctor like a complete fool. Many male patients had probably acted the exact same way. The connection he’d sworn they had was laughable when he thought about it.
A nurse followed Sheila into the exam room and closed the door behind them. “I just phoned radiology. We should have your CT results within the hour. In the meantime, you still haven’t answered my earlier question. How many steps are you taking a day?”
After another brief lecture on overdoing physical therapy, Sheila notated each and every one of his incisions. Her hand had covered almost every inch of his body as she checked each bone, every joint. He’d never thought a woman touching him would feel so cold and so impersonal. He’d dreamed of Sheila touching him again, of touching her. Instead, he felt like a lab rat.
“That’ll be all, thank you,” Sheila said, dismissing the nurse. “Just let me know when those results are in.”
“There are a few things I’d like to discuss with you. Do you want me to give you a moment to get dressed?” Sheila asked.
Hell, he’d come this far. What difference would it make if he changed in front of her? “Nope, you’ve seen it already.” Brady shrugged out of his gown, and tugged on his pants before Sheila had a chance to turn away. “Don’t keep me in suspense, Doc.” Brady slid his arms into his T-shirt, then slipped it over his head. “As far as I can tell I passed all your tests.”
“We’re still waiting on some of your results, but I’m certain your blood work will come back fine.”
“As will my CT scan,” Brady said through clenched teeth. He wanted to get his clearance from Sheila so he could get back to Dance of Hope and squeeze in a physical therapy session today. He’d left his watch at the cottage and had no idea what time it was. He didn’t want to pull out his phone for fear he’d appear even ruder than he felt at the moment.
“Brady, you’re a remarkable man.” Sheila sat on a blue vinyl-covered stool across from him. “And you’re right, I’m sure your CT scan will confirm that your recovery is progressing nicely. That doesn’t guarantee 100 percent recovery. You’re back on your feet, you have goals you’re working toward every day and, yes, I will most likely sign off on your physical therapy today.” She moved the stool closer to him. “But I’d be remiss if I didn’t talk to you about the real possibility of not competing again. Not because I don’t want you to—not because Alice doesn’t want you to—but because you may not be able to. That’s a very possible reality and I don’t feel you have taken it seriously enough.”
“Wow!” Brady’s knee bounced up and down. “One minute you’re praising me—the next minute you’re cutting me down.”
“That’s not at all what I’m doing.” Sheila stiffened her spine.
“You told me you had faith in me before, now you don’t.”
“It has nothing to do with faith. It has to do with the body’s ability to heal. I have more experience with this than you do. And in my experience, I don’t believe your body will be able to compete again. I don’t want to give you false hope. I also don’t want you to give up.”
“You don’t?” What the hell? The woman was confusing him.
“Of course not. I don’t know any doctor who wants their patient to give up.” She started to reach for him then quickly retreated. “I want you to be the very best you can possibly be. And if you recover enough to compete again, then more power to you. But no, I don’t want to see you on the back of a bull.” She rested her hand over her heart. “I don’t want you back in this hospital again as my patient. I don’t want to read about you in the newspaper.”
She exhaled slowly, leaving Brady to wonder which one of them was more anxious. “In my professional opinion, from what I’m seeing when you move and when you walk, the tightness in your joints, the lack of flexibility in your hips, I just don’t see you competing again, even with physical therapy. My advice is to talk to somebody about it. I can recommend a great therap—”
“A psychiatrist? You want me to see a psychiatrist?” Brady shoved his feet into his sneakers and yanked his cell phone out of his pocket. He dialed Dance of Hope. “I’m not a head case.” Kay Langtry answered on the second ring. “Hi, it’s Brady. I’m ready to leave the hospital. Would you be able to send the transport to pick me up?” He hung up. He had twenty minutes to wait, and it certainly wouldn’t be anywhere near Sheila. “Would you please give me something in writing that I can bring back to Abby so I can continue my physical therapy?”
“I wasn’t talking about a psychiatrist.” Sheila removed a pad from the drawer and scribbled out a note. “I was talking about a transitional therapist. They help patients reacclimate after life-changing injuries.” She tore the page off the pad and thrust it into his hands. “I can help you only if you’re willing to help yourself.”
“I don’t need the kind of help you’re offering. Goodbye, Dr. Lindstrom.”
Chapter Seven
Sheila waited until Monday to give Brady the results of the rest of his tests. She’d felt he needed the weekend to cool off after he’d stormed out of the hospital on Friday. The results wouldn’t have deterred him anyway, so she hadn’t seen any harm in waiting.
She’d had Sunday off from the hospital and had chosen to do nothing at all. She had one guilty pleasure at home. The pink-and-purple nylon hammock she’d purchased during her first year of college. The thing stuffed into its own rucksack and weighed a little over a pound. Whenever she went on vacation, which was a rarity these days, she brought it along. She’d slept in it on numerous camping trips, hung suspended over streams and watching eagles soar while relaxing on the
slope of a snow-covered mountain. She called it her thinking pod and yesterday she’d needed some serious thinking time. She’d hung it between two trees in her backyard and swayed in the shade for the majority of the day.
She stood outside Brady’s cottage, uncertain if she should knock or just leave the test results along with the cookies she’d made for him. She lifted her hand to knock and thought the better of it. Apologies weren’t exactly her forte—clean breaks were. Turn and walk away.
She knocked.
No answer.
She knocked again.
She sealed the manila envelope containing the test results and set them along with the cookies on his doorstep. As she straightened, Brady answered the door, barefoot, with the aid of an aluminum cane. His dark hair was tousled and wet, a simple white T-shirt clung to his still-damp skin, and his well-worn faded jeans—good heavens—hugged his hips and thighs like nobody’s business. The undone top button exposed a hint of flesh and left Sheila wondering if he wore anything beneath.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. She shouldn’t have knocked.
“I come in peace.” She picked up the envelope and cookies and handed them to him. “Did I catch you in the shower?”
“I was just getting out when I heard you knock. I still don’t move very fast.” Brady held up the clear cellophane bag and inspected the contents. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen cookies decorated as white flags before.”
Sheila attempted a smile and felt awkward. Really geeky awkward. She didn’t know what to say. She was a physician, skilled in the art of breaking news—both good and bad—to people in various states of distress. Yet she couldn’t find the words to talk to Brady. Instead, she stared at the bottom of his frayed jeans. Even his toes looked sexy.
She tucked her hair behind both ears and braved a glance. Brady stood watching her, his head tilted slightly as if trying to read her innermost thoughts. Swallowing hard, she clasped her hands and then unclasped them, suddenly unsure what to do with them. She opted to slide them into her back pockets, and the movement thrust her breasts in his direction. Crap! Folding her arms across her chest, she grinned up at him.
