A Match Made in Texas

by Arlene James

  Kaylie brought the chair to a halt beside the bed and set the brake with her foot. “I—I can’t imagine such a thing.”

  He shot a wry look over one shoulder. “We’re a pair, huh? Your father doesn’t want to let go of you. Mine doesn’t give me the time of day.”

  “H-how do you know that? About my father, I mean.”

  Stephen shrugged, not looking at her. “Little things you’ve said. A phone conversation I overheard. The fact that you still live at home.”

  “Not still,” she said, knowing that she sounded defensive. She walked around to stoop and adjust the foot and leg rests so he could stand.

  “Right. Again,” Stephen acknowledged dryly. “You’re living at home again. And your father likes it that way.”

  “Is there anything wrong with that?” she asked, straightening and backing away.

  “I don’t know,” Stephen said, putting his good foot on the floor. “Is there?” Pushing up with his good arm, he levered his weight onto his foot. Kaylie moved into position to assist him, using the need to do so to forestall answering his question. He didn’t press it. Nevertheless, she felt compelled to answer him. He motioned toward the bathroom, and she helped him take two hopping steps in that direction. Grasping the door frame with his good hand, he prepared to move inside on his own, and Kaylie suddenly found herself blurting the truth.

  “He thinks I shouldn’t marry, just stay home and take care of him.”

  Stephen leaned against the door frame, twisting so that he could face her, one eyebrow cocked.

  “Some are called to remain single,” she defended, lifting her chin. “Just look at my aunts. None of them have ever married—though I’ve heard that Auntie Od and Mr. Copelinger down at the pharmacy might have if…” She shook her head over the irrelevancy of that. “It even says it in the Bible.”

  “You’re kidding. I thought the Bible was all for marriage.”

  “Well, yes, except for certain circumstances, then it’s better not to marry.”

  Stephen studied her for several seconds. Abruptly, he turned away, hopping through the door.

  “Sweetheart,” he said, shaking his head, “if ever I’ve met a woman meant to be a wife, it’s you.”

  He hopped around to catch the edge of the door and push it closed, but her hand came up, seemingly of its own volition, and blocked it. Cocking an eyebrow, he waited.

  “Wh-what makes you say that?” Somehow, she just had to know.

  Stephen tilted his head and leaned down, bringing them nose to nose. She saw that he was trembling and feared that his strength had played out, but she waited breathlessly for his reply anyway.

  “Because,” he said, the very lightness of his voice heavy with meaning, “you’re the first woman I’ve met that I would even consider marrying.”

  Chapter Ten

  Because you’re the first woman I’ve met that I would even consider marrying.

  The words echoed inside Kaylie’s head. Stephen would consider marrying her. She was the first woman whom he would consider marrying. Consider. Marrying.

  Suddenly she found herself reliving that kiss. She felt the connection again, the surprising excitement and rightness of it, the unfamiliar warmth and yearning. It was the last that had frightened her so, causing her to jerk back. Blinking, she was astonished to find that Stephen had pushed the door closed in her face.

  She comprehended two facts simultaneously. One, several moments had passed. Two, she was in grave danger of losing her heart.

  The hopelessness of the situation swamped her.

  Her father was already convinced that she had been called to remain single, but even were he not, he would certainly never approve of her marrying a man like Stephen Gallow. Should she do so, she might well find herself more at odds with her father than her brother Chandler was, even estranged from him. Hub disapproved of Chandler’s lifestyle, finding the sometimes hard-drinking, hard-partying, often brutally dangerous atmosphere of the pro rodeo circuit unsupportive of a Christian lifestyle, despite the Cowboy Church “phenomenon,” as he called it. Would Hub think any better of hockey?

  She couldn’t imagine that he would, and she had always strived to honor her parents with her choices and decisions. How could she abandon that now, and was that not what a romantic involvement with Stephen would require? Suddenly she wanted to run for the hills again, to get as far away from this temptation as she could. Blindly, she started for the door, only to stumble into Stephen’s wheelchair—and the realization that she could not leave him.

  The man could barely get around with assistance; on his own, he was trapped. She was bound by duty, both as a nurse and a Christian, to help him. His physical condition was still serious, but his spiritual condition might well be even more acute. No, she could not abandon him, and if her duty to her father came into conflict, well, that was her problem alone. Stephen was weak and in pain and…lost.

  As exasperating as her father could be, as sad as her mother’s passing had been, Kaylie had never doubted that she was treasured by them. Thanks to them, she had grown up grounded in the surety of God’s love for her and the absolute belief that nothing could ever separate her from such love, not time or space or even death. But what surety did Stephen have? She sensed genuine friendship between him and Aaron, but how certain could Stephen be about that when Aaron depended on Stephen for income?

  It seemed to her that Stephen really had no one. And how unnecessary that was when Jesus stood waiting with open arms!

  Lord, she prayed, please let Stephen see You in me and my family. Let him turn to You and find the love that You bear for

  him. And please, Lord, teach my heart how to love Stephen as You would have me love him. To Your glory.

  The door opened behind her, and she turned to find Stephen sagging against the frame once more. He looked haggard and weary, his jaws unshaved and his pale eyes sunken. Her heart turned over. She quickly pushed the wheelchair out of the way and went to help him.

  “Let’s get you off your feet.”

  “Foot,” he corrected with a crooked grin, his arm sliding across her shoulders.

  “All the more reason,” she said, mindful of his battered ribs and collarbone as she attempted to aid his progress.

  At last, he sank down on the bed, and she briskly went about setting the covers to rights, something she should have done while he was in the bathroom. He smiled faintly as she tugged and tucked and smoothed, then dutifully swallowed his meds and submitted himself to an injection. As he settled onto his pillow again, his gray eyes sought hers.

  “Will you stay with me for a while?”

  “Of course,” she said, after only the briefest hesitation.

  Nodding toward the wheelchair, he said teasingly, “Your turn.”

  Laughing lightly, she pulled the chair close to the bed and sat. She waited for him to choose a topic of conversation, even as she feared what it might be. Instead, he reached down for her hand and closed his eyes. Sometime later, she realized that he had drifted off to sleep. Still, she stayed, her hand in his, until her own drowsiness drove her to her feet and at last sent her home.

  Because you’re the first woman I’ve met that I would even consider marrying.

  The words floated into Stephen’s consciousness, and for that stupid remark, he silently called himself every derogatory name in the book: fool, idiot, lunatic, dimwit. When he ran out of English versions, he switched to Dutch: dwass, krankzinning, stom, even hersenloos.

  How he could have been so brainless as to say such a thing he could not imagine. In truth, he had fully expected her to be gone when he’d hobbled out of the bathroom, to run as she had after that kiss, but she’d surprised him yet again. Not only had she been there, she’d smiled so benignly that his worst fears had evaporated and the treasured peace that she seemed to bring had settled around him.

  He had allowed her gentle bullying and fussing, meekly swallowing her pills, suffering her injections and putting up with a tuck-in
routine that a five-year-old would find insulting.

  Oh, who was he kidding? He enjoyed every quiet order that came out of her mouth, every smile that curved her rosy lips, every delicate sweep and light pat of her fingertips. He reveled in them, truth be told. Such caring and tenderness had been absent from his life for far, far too long, so long that he hadn’t even realized how much he had missed them until Kaylie Chatam had begun caring for him.

  Relieved of every discomfort and disgustingly exhausted, he had craved sleep but he also craved connection with Kaylie. Intending to make conversation, he’d teased her into staying. When she’d willingly complied, he’d availed himself of her hand, marveling anew at its daintiness, but instead of conjuring conversation to keep her with him, his mind had turned to blankness. Now, once more, he would awake alone.

  He didn’t understand why that mattered so much all of a sudden. After Nick had died, Stephen had known that he was truly alone, forever separated from his family by loss and guilt. He had learned to live with it. Until now.

  Now, he wanted to think that Kaylie cared for him, as opposed to “took care of him.” The difference was significant. The first implied an emotional connection; the second, a simple, professional one. He wanted that emotional connection badly, craved it with a desperation that frightened him.

  For a moment, Stephen wondered if his concussion had addled his brain worse than the doctors had assumed. Since losing Nick, he had eschewed all but the most basic emotional connections for years, telling himself that was safer all the way around. Besides, he was too busy establishing his career. His game could not afford such distractions.

  He had shut out everyone and everything not essential to his concentration on hockey and his performance on the ice. When he indulged in social occasions, it was most often at the behest of team management, in the interest of team morale or just to shut up Aaron. All work and no play, as the saying went. Even his “romantic” relationships had been brief, shallow and selfish on both ends.

  He hadn’t realized just how selfish he could be, though, until he’d taken Kaylie’s hand in his last night and wished Kaylie’s father would disappear so that Kaylie herself might not.

  He opened his eyes, and to his everlasting surprise, Kaylie was there, sitting in a patch of bright sunshine that poured through the window next to the bed. Wearing lime-green scrubs, her hair in a ponytail, she sat quietly in his chair sorting pills into tiny cups arranged in a small plastic tray on her lap. He caught a pleased, energizing breath, and she looked up. Smiling, she quickly dispensed several more pills before speaking.

  “Good morning. I was just organizing your meds for the next few days. How do you feel?”

  His stomach growled as if in response, and she laughed, tucking the tray into the drawer of his bedside table. “We can take care of that.”

  Atop the table stood a tall, disposable cup of coffee in a foam rubber insulation sleeve. Rising from his chair, she removed the cup from its protective holder, clasping it between her palms.

  “Not hot but warm enough, I think. Breakfast will be up in a few minutes. Meanwhile, you can work on this.”

  He used his elbow to dig his way higher in the bed while she took out a paper-covered straw, peeled it and slid it into the opening in the top of the coffee container.

  “You’re not just beautiful, you’re a genius,” he said as she passed him the cup. She ducked her head as he tentatively slurped up the fragrant brew. Not hot by any measure but drinkable.

  “It’s just that you’re so easy to please,” she murmured.

  He yanked up his gaze. “Hah! Easy to please? Me? As if!” He shook his head, laughing, and went back to sucking up that dark ambrosia. “Then again,” he said, pausing, “with you, maybe I am easy to please. Or maybe it’s just that you please me. I don’t really know.” What he did know was that he felt absurdly, ridiculously happy.

  “And maybe,” she said, blushing furiously as she drew her phone from the pocket of her smock, “being gravely wounded has changed your perspective.”

  He’d give her that. Such experiences were life altering, as he knew only too well. But his wounds weren’t what made him glad to be alive for the first time since—he faced the thought squarely—for the first time since he had killed Nick. To his surprise, the pinch of grief and regret did not change the facts.

  He was happy. For this moment, he was truly happy.

  Suddenly, in a rush of jumbled sensation, he remembered all the other happy moments in his life. The sheer number of them shocked him, things like trying to rope a tumbleweed while his father shouted advice and the west Texas wind blew it first here then there, or crouching low at his mother’s side to watch the winding path of a snail in his oma’s garden. He felt his father clapping him on the shoulder after a big win, his grandmother’s yeasty hugs, his mother ruffling his hair, the dry west Texas breeze and the misting North Sea rain. He could almost close his hand on the satisfying smack of a puck into his mitt, knowing that the net stood empty behind him, and puff his chest with pride as he signed his name to an actual NHL contract. He heard the sound of his own laughter mingled with Nick’s and felt his heart trip at the appreciative glance of a pretty girl.

  So many happy moments, and somehow they were all embodied in a slight female with big, dark eyes and hair the color of light red sand. Awesome.

  By the time Kaylie informed Hilda that he was ready to eat, he had swigged down three-fourths of the coffee and felt the urge to be moving. With her usual careful efficiency, she helped him through his morning routine then wheeled him out into the sitting room and went to get his breakfast from the dumbwaiter.

  Stephen found himself talking as he gobbled, his aches and pains easy to ignore. Such was not the case by the time he had cleaned up, changed his clothing and collapsed back onto the bed, even though Kaylie had poked pills down him beforehand. Still, despite the physical complaints, he schooled himself into cheery acceptance when she announced that she must go but would return in time to bring him his lunch.

  To his gratification, she seemed to dither about it for a bit, asking, “What will you do with yourself while I’m gone?”

  He randomly reached for a book from the stack on his bedside table. “Oh, I’ll read, play with my phone, whatever.”

  “No moving around on your own,” she warned. “If you have to get up, call Chester.”

  Snapping her a smart salute, he squared his shoulders. “Yes, nurse liefje.”

  A smile wiggled her lips. She went out saying, “I’ll have Odelia bring you something to drink.”

  “Juice!” he called out. “Not tea!”

  Her laughter was the only promise he got. It was the only one he needed, the only one he wanted, and he’d put up with almost anything to have it. He’d even share her with her greedy father.

  Their days took on an easy routine. Aaron popped in and out. On Sunday, he brought his wife with him. Dora was a plump, curvaceous, stylish blonde, with green eyes and a breathless way of speaking that made her seem helpless and none too bright, but in the little time that Kaylie spent with the woman, she learned that the opposite was true. Dora had a witty sense of humor and shrewd judgment. She quickly sized up the situation and voiced her assessment of it.

  “Why, Stevie,” she breathed, curled up next to her husband on the sofa, “I haven’t ever seen you this relaxed.”

  “Yeah,” Aaron joked, “I may need a list of those drugs you’re taking.”

  “It’s not the drugs, sugar,” Dora corrected, leaning heavily against him. “It’s the ambience. Just feel this place.” She let her gaze sweep languidly around the room and come to rest on Kaylie, adding, “Of course, I’m sure the company has a lot to do with it.”

  Kaylie shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Still dressed in her Sunday best with her hair held back by a simple headband that left it streaming down her back, she felt like a schoolgirl allowed to sit quietly in a room with the adults—until Stephen smiled up at her and clasped
her hand. Suddenly she felt…claimed. And thrilled by it.

  Determined to resist such temptations, she quickly made her excuses and escaped to her father. When she returned later, dressed in scrubs, her hair ruthlessly scraped into a bun, it was as if nothing had occurred, and so it remained.

  In midweek, Aaron brought one of the team trainers to see Stephen. An earnest, fit, fortyish man with a shaved head, he gave Stephen a careful examination under Kaylie’s watchful eye, made some astute observations and asked some penetrating questions.

  “You’ll be out of that jacket in another few days,” he told Stephen, then looked to Aaron. “I’ll want to see his X-rays, but if what Miss Chatam says is correct—and I have no reason to doubt her—we may want to tap this Doctor Philem, especially if the facilities down here are adequate.”

  “Oh, they are,” Kaylie was quick to assure him, excited to think that Craig might reap some formal connection with the Blades out of this.

  The trainer cocked his head. “We’ll see. The situation has some real positives. Buffalo Creek is far enough from the Metroplex to escape some of the harsher scrutiny but still within easy driving distance. Worth looking into.”

  That’s where it was left, until Brooks called on Friday morning to report that the team had asked him to provide a reference for Craig Philem, who was thrilled. He also said that he’d be stopping by as early as possible to check on Stephen. Kaylie was about to head home to prepare her father’s lunch when he finally strolled into the sitting room with Odelia on his arm and Chester trailing along behind. Chafing a bit with the inactivity today, Stephen had elected to spend the morning on the sofa with his cast propped on the footstool. He looked up and smiled.

  “Hey, Doc! You’re just in time for lunch.”

  “Well, of course, I am,” Brooks said. “Exactly as I planned.”

  “That’s not what you told me,” Kaylie retorted, folding her arms.

  “You’re right,” he admitted glibly. “I’d hoped to make it in time for breakfast. Lunch is plan B.”