Rowena was instantly up and out of her chair, brushing past Colin to get to the door.
“Now don’t freak out,” the woman said. “There was a minor accident.”
“Who?”
“It’s nothing too serious. Maybe he’ll need a few stitches—”
“Tricia, who?”
“Dylan, but—”
Rowena was already out the door, and Colin could swear as she ran, her feet never once touched the ground.
Colin followed them. Having been trained as a combat medic, he could potentially be of help.
“By the way, I’m Tricia Adams,” the woman walking beside him said.
“Colin Middlebury,” he said as they half walked, half ran after Rowena. Sitting on the playground near one of the wooden structures was a girl who couldn’t have been older than eighteen. Cradled in her lap was a young boy, thin, pale and fragile-looking, with unruly reddish-blond hair and big expressive eyes. If he hadn’t known he was Rowena’s son, the eyes and hair would have been a dead giveaway.
The girl held a blood-spotted cloth against his head, but he wasn’t crying and didn’t even look distressed.
“What happened?” Rowena demanded, scooping her son out of the girl’s arms. She gently lifted the cloth and examined the wound.
“He tripped and went headfirst into the monkey bars,” Tricia said.
“He was running?”
Tricia nodded.
Rowena tilted her son’s chin up, looked him in the eye and in a calm but firm tone said, “Dylan, what have I told you about running on the playground?”
The boy’s lower lip curled into a pout and he shrugged.
“Are you supposed to run on the playground?”
His lower lip beginning to quiver, he shook his head.
“And why do I tell you not to run?”
“I could faw,” he said in a small and wobbly voice. Colin knew practically nothing about kids, but he was guessing that this one couldn’t be much older than two.
“But you ran anyway,” Rowena said. “And what happened?”
“I fawed.”
“And you got hurt, didn’t you?”
He nodded.
“Next time will you listen to Mommy?”
He nodded again, and Colin couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. She could at least give him a hug or a kiss or something to soothe him.
Rowena turned to Tricia. “It looks as if this will need a stitch or two. Can you handle things while I drive him to the hospital?”
When he heard the word “hospital,” Dylan’s eyes went wide and he started to squirm in his mother’s arms, shrieking, “No! No hobspital, Mommy!”
“But you have a bad boo-boo, sweetie. You need to see a doctor.”
He began crying in earnest, struggling and screaming, “No! No dopter! No hobspital!”
For whatever reason, he was clearly terrified. Colin wondered if the wound was really so bad that it needed stitches.
“Can I have a look?” he said.
Rowena turned to him, blinking in surprise, as if she hadn’t even realized he was there. Then she frowned and held Dylan closer. “Why?”
“I trained as a medic. I’ve seen every sort of wound there is. He may not need stitches. Or a hospital.”
Hearing that, Dylan instantly stopped fussing and looked up at Colin, eyes wide and full of hope. Rowena asked her son, “Is that okay, sweetie? Can Mr. Middlbury look at your boo-boo?”
Eyes narrowed with suspicion, he asked Colin, “You a dopter?”
“Not exactly,” Colin said, approaching him cautiously. “But I do know how to help people who are hurt. Will you let me see?”
Dylan hesitated, then nodded.
Colin tilted his head down and gently parted Dylan’s blood-matted hair to inspect the wound. Dylan had a small gash just above his hairline, barely more than a quarter inch long, and though the bleeding had stopped, it was awfully deep.
“Does it hurt?” he asked Dylan, who shrugged.
To leave it open would be risking infection. A stitch or two would do the trick, but the child was already traumatized. Fortunately, during his training, Colin had learned a few tricks.
“I don’t think he’ll need stitches,” he told Rowena, and she looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.
“It’s not as if we can butterfly it closed with his hair in the way. It’s a gaping…” She paused, censoring herself. “It’s d-e-e-p.”
Dylan’s mop of hair was the very reason they would be able to close the wound. “Do you have a first-aid kit?”
“Of course, but—”
“Have a little faith, Rowena.”
She opened her mouth to argue, and Colin said, “Do you want him even more traumatized, or will you at least let me try?”
Conflicted, she looked down at her son, and for a moment Colin was sure she would say no and drag the boy kicking and screaming to the nearest medical facility. But after several seconds she said, “Okay, you can try, as long as you don’t hurt him.”
As if he would purposely try to hurt the boy. “First we need to wash it out.”
“Bathroom sink?” she said.
He nodded and followed Rowena into the building. “Why don’t you sit with him in your lap and wrap your arms around him to hold him still?”
She closed the toilet lid and sat down with Dylan in her lap. Tricia handed Colin the first-aid kit.
Colin rummaged through it, setting everything he needed on the edge of the sink, then told Dylan, “I have to clean this, and it might sting a little, but if you hold very still, you won’t have to go to the hospital.”
Eyes wide and full of relief, Dylan sat absolutely still as Colin rinsed the cut thoroughly, and as he applied the antiseptic, the child barely even flinched.
“You’re being so brave,” Rowena said, giving her son a squeeze and a kiss on the cheek.
“Okay, now you have to hold very, very still,” he told Dylan, grabbing the tweezers and dipping them in antiseptic. He very gently used them to separate a few strands of hair from each side of the wound. Though it took several tries, he managed to tie the strands together in a firm knot, essentially using the hair as a stitch.
Tricia laughed and said, “That’s genius!”
“But it only works on hair that’s long enough.” If Dylan’s hair were a quarter of an inch shorter, Rowena would probably be taking him to the E.R.
It only required two knots to seal the wound, and then Colin dabbed the area with liquid bandage to hold everything in place and keep any dirt or moisture out.
“Good as new,” he told Dylan, gently ruffling the back of his hair. “Did it hurt?”
Dylan held his thumb and finger a centimeter or so apart to indicate that it had only hurt a little. Then he looked at Rowena and said excitedly, “No hobspital?”
She smiled and said, “No, baby, no hospital.”
“You’ll want to keep that dry for a few days, give it a chance to close.”
“He had a bath this morning, so he should be fine for now. Or maybe he’ll just have a stinky head,” she teased, tickling Dylan under the ribs. He giggled and squirmed in her lap.
“Tinky head, tinky head,” he chanted, as if that were the funniest thing he’d ever heard. And being that he was so young, it just might have been. But at least he was happy now.
“Can you tell Colin thank you?” Rowena said.
“Hubs!” Dylan held out his arms, and as Rowena handed him over, Colin realized that he wanted hugs. Dylan wrapped his arms around Colin’s neck, and for such a small, fragile-looking kid, he had one hell of a grip. Though Dylan obviously had a speech impediment, when he said “thank you” the words were perfectly clear, and when he planted a big wet kiss on Colin’s cheek, his heart melted. He sure was a sweet kid, and seemed exceptionally smart for such a little guy.
Colin handed Dylan back to Rowena and she said, “After all that excitement, I think someone could use a nap.”
Dylan turned to Col
in, flashing a thousand-watt smile, and said, “Cowin tuck me in?”
Five
It would seem as though Colin had earned himself a new friend. Rowena shot him a questioning look.
Odds were good someone would see him walking them into the house, but weren’t these extenuating circumstances? What sort of man would he be if he told the boy no?
“I’ll tuck you in,” Colin said.
“Are you sure?” Rowena asked.
“Of course.”
“Okay, then.” She turned to Tricia. “I’ll probably be out for the rest of the day. Can you manage without me?”
“We have four kids out with the flu. We should be fine.”
“Go grab your backpack,” Rowena said, setting Dylan down. As Colin watched him make his way across the room, he realized why running on the playground—or anywhere else—was so frowned upon. Rather than walk like a typical toddler, Dylan hobbled along unsteadily, balancing on the sides of his feet, looking as though any second he could topple over. Colin could relate. He’d spent the first eight weeks after his surgery hobbling around on crutches. But as the doctor had said, he was lucky to have a leg to walk on.
Dylan hobbled back over, but when Rowena leaned down to pick him up he said, “No. Cowin take me.”
Rowena looked over at him, mouthing the word “sorry,” but he honestly didn’t mind. Dylan held out his arms and Colin lifted him up. He was heavier and sturdier than he looked. By the time they made it all the way up the path to the mansion and up to Rowena’s suite, his arms were getting tired.
The greater part of the senator’s mansion was about as warm and welcoming as a museum, and far too gaudy for Colin’s taste. Too much gold and beige and useless excess. In contrast, Rowena and Dylan’s suite was an explosion of color. It was casually furnished with an eclectic mix of antique and modern, all in bold prints and colorful patterns, yet the kitchen was ultramodern, with polished marble counters and stainless steel appliances. Nothing seemed to match, yet it all fit in perfectly together, and though it was very clean, it had a comfortable, lived-in look.
Rowena obviously did a fair share of reading. Wall-to-wall built-in bookcases crammed full of hardbacks, paperbacks and magazines bordered a picture window with a padded window seat, where he could just imagine her curled up with a book or reading Dylan a story. Everything about the room seemed to suit her somehow.
“Dylan’s room is this way,” she said, and he followed her down a short hall where nearly every square inch of the walls was covered with photos of her son. They started at birth—a time during which he clearly had serious health problems—and ranged to much more recent photos. In those, Dylan was always smiling, always looked happy.
Colin couldn’t help noticing, though, that in all the photos, something important was missing. Dylan’s father.
Had there been a bitter divorce? A falling-out? Or was he simply not a part of his son’s life?
Across the hall from Dylan’s room was what had to be Rowena’s bedroom. He could see through the open door that it was decorated in soft, warm colors, and he recognized the girly scents drifting out.
Rowena led him into Dylan’s room to his crib.
“At the risk of sounding like a novice, what’s routine when tucking in a child?” Colin asked her.
“Colin needs your help, Dylan,” she said. “Tell him what to do.”
“Hubs!” Dylan shrieked, wrapping his arms around Colin’s neck, giving him another one of those firm squeezes. He couldn’t remember ever being embraced with such enthusiasm or genuine affection in his whole life.
“Cwib.”
Colin lowered him into the crib and Dylan sat awkwardly, then lay back against the pillow. “Cubbers!”
Cubbers? Colin looked to Rowena for a translation.
She nodded to the blanket hanging over the side rail. Covers. Of course. Colin didn’t want to be responsible for the kid catching cold and maybe coming down with pneumonia.
He pulled the blanket down over Dylan. “How’s that?”
“Good!” Dylan said, but obviously not good enough, because as Rowena bent over to kiss him, she tucked the blanket even higher up under his chin.
“Does your boo-boo hurt?” she asked, and Dylan shook his head.
“Sawee, Mommy.”
“It’s okay, just go to sleep.”
They stepped out of Dylan’s room and Rowena shut the door behind her. She leaned against it and dropped her head in her hands, saying softly, “I’m a terrible mother.”
*
“You are not a terrible mother,” Colin said, but Rowena sure felt like one.
“My baby hurts himself, and the first thing I do when I see him is scold him? What kind of a parent does that?”
“Why don’t we go sit on the sofa so Dylan can sleep?”
She nodded and they walked into the living room. He sat down on the sofa, patting the cushion beside him, and when she sat, he took her hand. There was nothing suggestive or sexual about it, it was just very…comforting. And though she knew that the last thing he probably wanted was to sit there and listen to her silly insecurities, the words just sort of rolled off her tongue on their own. “I’m scared to death that Dylan will grow up to hate me.”
“No, he won’t. He obviously adores you.”
“But I made him feel even worse.”
“I’m sure that by the time he wakes up he’ll have forgotten all about it.”
She shook her head. “You don’t know Dylan. He remembers everything.”
“Well, then, he must have remembered that he wasn’t supposed to run. Right?”
“He’s just a little boy. I know that I’m too hard on him sometimes.”
“Rowena, listen to me. You were scared, and you overreacted a little. Kids are resilient. I know because I was one.”
Being a kid and having one relying on you for everything were two very different things. And sometimes it was so hard doing it all alone. But Colin was not the man she should be pouring her heart out to.
“I’m sorry to have dragged you into this.”
He looked confused. “Into what?”
“This whole—” she gestured randomly “—domestic scenario. I know that’s the last thing you want to be dealing with. I didn’t even intend to introduce you to Dylan.”
“Why? I’m happy to have met him. He seems like a very special boy.”
“Thank you for what you did.”
“Dylan obviously hates going to the hospital. I take it from the photos in the hall that he’s spent considerable time there.”
“He was born with cerebral palsy, and yes, he was in the hospital a lot when he was a baby. The doctors told me he might never walk, and that he would probably be mentally disabled. I didn’t listen. I made it my mission to prove them wrong. He’s light-years from where he was when he was first born, but that’s only because I work with him constantly. With his speech problems, people sometimes think he’s slow.”
“I thought he seemed exceptionally bright.”
“He is. He didn’t start walking unaided until he was two, but he started to speak in two-and three-word sentences before his first birthday.”
“How old is he now?”
“Two and a half.”
“He’s very smart for his age.”
“Sometimes he’s a little too smart for his own good. And he tries to do more than he should, like running.”
“Well, he’s okay now,” Colin said.
“He’s okay now, but what about the next time?” she said.
“You just can’t think about that.”
“But I do. Constantly. I’m always on edge, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something really horrible to happen. He’s so small and fragile.”
“That isn’t want I see when I look at him.”
That surprised her. “No?”
“I see a kid who’s had it rough, but doesn’t let it slow him down. How many kids his age would take a tumble and hurt themselves, a
nd not even cry?”
“He’s been through much worse.”
“Exactly. And I’m guessing that he just wants to be like the other kids, wants to be a normal little boy.”
“But he’s not.”
“That’s not the point.”
Was he trying to confuse her? “What is the point?”
“It isn’t how you see him, or anyone else, for that matter. It’s how he sees himself. I have scars all over my back, and titanium holding my left leg together, and yes, it’s limited me physically, but I’m still me. Who I am inside hasn’t changed.”
“Yeah, but Dylan’s health is in constant flux. Just recently he started having seizures. At first I was afraid to leave him for a second. When Tricia first came to get me, that’s what I assumed had happened.”
“Obviously it wasn’t.”
“No, which means the medication he’s on seems to be working. And his neurologist believes it’s something that he’ll outgrow.”
“That’s encouraging. As far as his other disabilities go, what’s his prognosis?”
“Well, he’ll never be completely steady on his feet, and will need occasional surgeries to lengthen the tendons in his ankles. His compromised immune system will always make him susceptible to certain illnesses. But if he eats well and takes care of himself, there’s no reason why he won’t lead a long and productive life. But it won’t always be easy for him. He’ll have to work harder than the average person.”
“Everyone has their cross to bear. We all have challenges. Like I said before, it’s all about accepting who you are. If you accept Dylan the way he is, he’ll learn to accept himself.”
She hoped so. “I know I’ve already said this, but thank you. I don’t even want to think about what I’d be doing right now, and putting Dylan through, if it wasn’t for you.”
Colin stroked her palm with his thumb and moved a little closer. “I know a way you could show your appreciation.”
“Colin…”
The protest died in her throat as he leveled that piercing gaze on her, flashed her a coaxing smile. “You know you want to. And we’re already here. Alone. Seems a shame to waste the opportunity.”
“You’re not playing fair,” she said, but she was already leaning in, anticipating the touch of his lips.
Bedroom Diplomacy Page 5
