by Linda Turner
Feeling like a man who suddenly found quicksand under his feet instead of unmovable rock, he promised himself he wasn't going to stay long.
He'd just check on her and her patients and make sure eve thing was okay. He'd have done the same for any other woman who found herself nursing three senior citizens and a child. Then he was getting the hell out of there. It was that simple.
Dirty dishes were piled on every available inch of counter space, and the only dishwasher in sight was Becca.
So tired even her toenails ached, she would have liked nothing better than to leave the chore until later and zonk out somewhere, preferably on a bed. But all her patients were napping at the same time for once, and this was the first chance all day she'd had to clean up the kitchen. If she didn't do it now, she might not get another chance for it.
God only knew how long. Wearily, she plugged the sink, adjusted the hot water until the temperature was bearable and added a generous squirt of liquid
Later, she couldn't say how she knew she was no longer alone. The only sound was that of water filling the sink, but suddenly her pulse stopped a beat in warning and she looked up to find Riley standing in the doorway to the living room, watching her every move. Dressed in his uniform, with his black Stetson pushed back from his forehead and his rock-hard jaw unshaven and shadowed, he looked good enough to eat. Caught in his searching gaze, Becca lost her grip on the dish she'd just picked up.
It slipped with a clatter into the sink, and she never even blinked.
"Hi," he said quietly.
"I hope you don't mind me letting myself in, but I knocked." Crossing t her with that lazy, loose-limbed stride of his, he reached over and turned off the water just as the bubbles threatened to overflow onto the floor. You didn't hear. I guess.."
"No. I—I guess I d-didn't."
He leaned against the counter as if he intended to stay awhile, standing so close she could see herself reflected in the blue depths of his eyes. Her throat suddenly dry, she swallowed, wondering if the heat climbing in her body could possibly be blamed on the flu.
Considering the way all her senses sprang to life just at the sight of him, she didn't think so.
"What are you doing here?"
"I was out this way and thought I'd drop in and make sure everything was okay. You feeling all right?"
All right? A strangled laugh rose in her throat. She'd had maybe three hours of sleep maximum in the last thirty hours, and that in snatches rather than all at once. She was so exhausted she couldn't see straight, her hair was dirty and she would have traded her Jeep for twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep and clean sheets that she didn't have to wash herself. Yet he only had to walk in and smile at her to make her heart start thumping like an eighteen year-old's. That should have worried her, but she no longer had the strength to fight a need that seemed as natural as breathing.
Dropping her gaze back to the dishes awaiting her attention, she dismissed with a shrug the fatigue that pressed down on her.
"Oh, yeah. I guess all that grape juice I’ve been drinking is paying off. I'm healthy as a horse."
"And ready to drop where you stand," he replied shrewdly.
"How much sleep have you had?"
"Enough."
"Liar."
"I'm not!"
"Look me in the eye and say that."
She tried—he had to give her that. But even with her chin jutting at that stubborn, challenging angle that always made him want to grin, she couldn't say the words. Staring down at her, Riley felt something he wouldn't put a name to squeeze his heart. She was tired, asleep on her feet, her eyes shadowed with dark circles of exhaustion.
The need to soothe, to comfort, rose up in him, and he settled his hands on her shoulders, just barely stopping himself from dragging her closer.
"You're not going to do anyone any good if you worry yourself into the ground," he said gruffly.
"I'll finish up in here. You go upstairs and relax in the tub for a while. A good soak'll do you good."
"Oh, but I can't" — In no mood to argue, Riley turned her abruptly an marched her toward the stairs.
"I'll take care of the ladies if they wake up, so I don't want to see your face dove here for at least forty-five minutes. Now, go!"
Just about every dish and glass in the house was dirt but Riley hardly noticed. Methodically cleaning a soul bowl, he found himself listening for sounds of activity upstairs that the rational part of his brain told him h couldn't possibly hear the creak of Becca's step on the bathroom floor, the sound of her clothes falling away, piece by piece, the whisper of her sigh as she slipped into the tub.
It was an exercise in self-torture—he knew that, but it was a damn good night for it. Erotic images played in his mind's eye. Becca lounging lazily in a tub full of bubbles, her hair piled on top her head in unruly mess skin flushed and rosy from the heat of the water. Just thinking about it made him hard.
Swearing, he reached for another dirty bowl, but there weren't any.
The drain board was overflowing with dishes he hadn't even realized he'd washed, the counters of the old-fashioned kitchen clean and bare.
Frowning, he glanced at the clock on the stove and realized that Becca had taken him at his word and used the entire forty-few minutes, which surprised him. She was usually so defiant, he'd half expected her to storm back down stair twenty minutes ago just to prove to him that she didn’t take orders from him or any other man. So she either had to be exhausted or sick.
He wasn't going up there, he told himself firmly. The lady was a big girl and could take care of herself. If she needed help, all she had to do was holier. Satisfied that he was worrying over nothing, he pulled the plug from the sink, then wrung out the dishcloth and hung it up to dry. Ten seconds later, he was heading for the stairs.
A quick check of the bedrooms assured him that the three old ladies and Chloe were sleeping peacefully, but he still hadn't heard a sound from the bathroom. Concerned, he tapped softly at the door.
"Becca? You okay in there?"
His only answer was silence, and he didn't like the sound of it.
Throwing caution to the wind, he tried the door handle and found it unlocked. If he caught her in the act of dressing, she was probably going to chew him out royally, but he didn't care. At least he'd know she was okay. Pushing the door slowly open, he peaked inside.
"Becca?"
The sight that met his eyes nearly stopped his heart. She was still in the tub and sound asleep, her hair piled prettily on her head just as he'd imagined, her skin damp and pink, the bubbles that concealed her breasts and hips from him slowly dissipating. His throat dust dry, he reminded himself that he wasn't a man who took advantage of a vulnerable woman. But she looked better than his wildest fantasy, and it was all he could do not to look his fill.
Swallowing a groan, he stepped inside the bathroom and shut the door behind him as he looked wildly around for a towel. Finally finding one hanging on the back of the door along with her robe, he thought only about getting her out of that damn water and safely covered. Now!
Moving to the big, claw-footed tub, he eased down on his knees next to it. Knowing he had to keep his gaze on her face or he'd never be able to get through this without going quietly out of his mind, he laid his hand on her bare shoulder and gently shook her.
"Becca? Come on, honey, wake up. We've got to get you out of there before you turn into a prune."
Moaning, she refused to open her eyes, but a frown worked its way across her brow when he shook her more insistently.
"Can't," she mumbled, slumping toward him.
"Too tired."
More asleep than awake, she rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, dampening his uniform and drawing a low moan from him. God, she was killing him and she didn't even know it!
Muttering an oath between tightly clamped teeth, he swept one arm behind her back and dragged her into a sitting position, fumbling for the plug to the tub with his free hand while bubb
les slid down her breasts to reveal every sweet, beautiful inch of her to his hungry eyes. Sweat popping out on his brow, he dropped the towel and snatched it up again, as ham-fisted as a kid who'd never seen a naked woman before.
With need a hard knot in his gut, he coaxed hoarsely, "Up you go, sweetheart. On your feet. Let me dry you off some and then we'll get you into your robe. Stand there like a good girl."
"Riley?" Frowning, she blinked dazedly as he roughly draped the towel around her, patting her dry with a stiff efficiency that cost him more than she could possibly know. Forcing her eyes open a crack, she stared up at him in confusion.
"Whad're you doin'?"
"Saving you from drowning and driving myself crazy," he said tersely, guiding her hand into the sleeve of her robe.
"You fell asleep in the tub."
"Tired... s'tired. Be all right. Gimme a moment." Given the opportunity, Riley didn't doubt that she'd somehow summon the strength not only to dress herself, but to march down the hall and check on her patients.
Stubborn little fool. Didn't she know when she was beaten?
"Forget it," he retorted as he pulled her robe together and belted it.
"You're going to bed."
"Oh, no! I can't" — Shaking his head over her bullheadedness, he settled the matter simply by sweeping her up in his arms and striding out of the bathroom before she could do anything but drop her head to his shoulder with a sigh.
"That's right, honey. You go to sleep. I'll be here to look after things until you wake up." ' The upstairs bedrooms were all full, so he carried her downstairs and looked around until he found the room that had probably been her grandmother's before she died. Side rails had been added to the carved Victorian bed, and there was a wheeled hospital table pushed into one corner.
Sepia-toned pictures from another age cowered the walls, and the keepsakes of a lifetime littered every available space on the dresser and table tops.
Tenderly laying Becca on the spread, he waited for her to protest, but she only turned over and buried her face in the pillow. A heartbeat later, she was out. Staring down at her, Riley fought the need to touch her, to bend over her and smooth her hair back from her face, to lie down with her and hold her while she slept. If she'd opened her eyes then and smiled at him, he'd have been lost. But she didn't. Not sure if he was relieved or disappointed, he turned on his heel and quietly walked out. There was no question after that that he was staying, and he didn't ask himself why.
He just knew that Becca needed him, whether she would admit it or not, and there was no way in hell he could turn his back on her. Striding into the kitchen, he called the office.
Knowing Mark, he figured he'd probably tried to raise him a half dozen times on the radio already and was now close to panic.
"Hi, Mark, it's me," he said as soon as the younger man came on the line.
"I'm out here at the Prescott place" — "Beeca Prescott's place?" the rookie interrupted in surprise.
"Do you know another Prescott, Newman?"
"Uh ... no, sir."
"Then I'm at Becca Prescott's. The fill's hit pretty hard out here and she's got her hands full with three sick old ladies and her daughter. I thought I'd stay and help her awhile. You got any problems to report.
"No, sir. It's been pretty quiet." Good. With half the county sick in bed, it should be a slow night. Call me if anything crops up. Oh, and, Mark? "
"Yes"
"I don't think it's anyone's business where I am tonight."
"Oh, no, sir," he agreed quickly Too quickly. Hanging up, Riley wasn't fooled. As big a gossip as Myrtle was, the younger man was probably already on the phone spreading the latest news. It was damned irritating, but he couldn't worry about it now.
"Mama!"
Chloe's soft cry hardly carried from upstairs, but Riley didn't doubt for a minute that it would take nothing more than a whispered call from her, however faint, to wake her mother from the soundest sleep.
Thankful that he d closed the door of Becca’s room, he hurried up the stairs into the large, airy room where he'd spotted Chloe sleeping ear "Hey, kiddo," he said from the doorway, greeting her with an easy smile.
"How you feeling?"
She looked so small sitting in the middle of the big bed, her piquant face, so like her mother's, scrunching into a frown at the sight of him.
"I want Mama."
"I know you do, sweetie, but she's sleeping right now. Can I get you something?"
Her lower lip started to tremble while big tears welled in her eyes.
"I want my mama."
"Hey," he exclaimed softly.
"What's this? Tears?" Crossing the room to her, he took a seat on the side of the bed and pulled his clean handkerchief from his back pocket.
But instead of offering it to her, he picked up the tattered, obviously well-loved teddy bear reclining on her pillow next to her and pretended to wipe its fuzzy cheeks.
"Don't cry, sweetie. Your mascara's going to run." Surprised, Chloe giggled, swiping at her cheeks.
"Bears don't cry. And they don't wear mascara. Only ladies do."
"Are you sure about that?" he teased, frowning.
"This bear's got something all over his face."
"That's fur, silly!"
Holding the stuffed animal up so that it was nose-to- nose with him, he widened his eyes and grinned.
"You know something? I think you're right."
"That's because I know bears," she confided, flashing her dimples at him as she claimed the toy and gave it a big hug.
"I've had this one since I was a little girl." Since she was scarcely as big as a minute now, that couldn't have been too long, but Riley wisely refrained from pointing that out. Taking advantage of her distraction with the bear, he searched her upturned face for signs of fever. She was still pale, her color washed out, but her eyes were clear, her laughter easy. He hadn't had much experience with sick kids, but she looked like she was on the mend, thank God. With a little food and rest, she'd be back to her old self in no time.
"Hey, I don't know about you," he said, ruffling her dark haft, "but I'm as hungry as that bear of yours. What about you? Think you could eat something?"
Her blue eyes impish, she considered the suggestion for a long moment, then nodded.
"Teddy likes mashed potatoes."
Riley blinked. Cooking anything more complicated than a scrambled egg was a stretch for him, and that included mashed potatoes. What the hell was he supposed to do now?
"Potatoes, huh? You sure about that?"
"Oh, yes. Mama keeps a bowl for him in the refrigerator all the time."
"No kidding?" Sending up a silent prayer of thanks for Becca's foresight, he rose to his feet.
"Then today's Teddy's lucky day." And his.
"Sit tight, sweetheart, and I'll be right back with the grub."
As good as his word, he was back within minutes with the requested potatoes, which he'd taken time to warm slightly in the microwave. And although Teddy showed no interest in them, of course, Chloe cleaned the bowl and was, Riley was relieved to note, able to keep them down.
Almost immediately after that, her eyes began to droop.
But she didn't nod off. Fighting drowsiness, she looked up at him, her expression serious.
"Mama reads me a story after I eat."
Amusement spilled into his eyes.
"Oh, she does, does she? Well, I guess I can manage that."
"This one," she insisted, pulling a well-worn book from under her pillow.
"The one about the duck who lost his quack."
Riley laughed. Chloe Prescott might be only five years old, but she was definitely her mother's daughter and went after what she wanted.
God help the boys around town when she reached her teens. They'd never know what hit them.
"All right, little bit. Move over and I'll sit next to you and read for a while."
"But Mama always sits in the rocker and holds me in her lap."
It was a good thing his deputies couldn't see him. They'd never believe he could be such a softie.
"Okay," he said, thumbing to the beginning of the story. The Duck Who Lost His Quack.
Cradling her in one arm, his free hand holding the book, he began to read, but he'd hardly started when she turned to frown at him indignantly.
"That's not the way Mama does it."
Riley glanced from her to the book and back again. He'd read exactly what was printed on the opening page.
What other way was there to do it?
"Sweetheart, I only know one way to read."
With an exaggerated patience that delighted Riley, Chloe took the book from him.
"Mama says every character has to have his own voice. Like this."
Raising the tone of her voice an octave, she recited the words the mother duck in the story said to the baby duck. Her smile. triumphant, she then handed him back the book.
"See?"
Struggling to hold in a smile, he nodded solemnly.
"My mistake. Shall I start over?" At her nod, he checked the open door to make sure he didn't have an audience of more than one, then began to read in an affected falsetto that soon sent Chloe into a fit of giggles.
It was the silence that finally woke Becca. Rested for what seemed like the first time in days, she swam up from the depths of sleep and stretched languidly, her cheek rubbing against soft chenille. Distracted, she opened her eyes to find herself lying on top of the bedspread of her grandmother's bed downstairs, dressed in her robe. In nothing but her robe. How...?
Before the question fully formed in the mush that was her brain, vague images swirled before her mind's eye, bits and pieces of tantalizing scenes that could have been real or the haunting remnants of a dream.
