She took his hand and whispered to him, silly, soft words of comfort, apology, heartfelt sorrow. He didn’t respond, but she wasn’t too alarmed. Postsurgery, he would still be floating in and out for a while.
Would he forgive her? Did he care if she had changed her mind? Could he give her an opportunity to make it up to him? She chided herself for her selfishness. None of that was important at this moment.
She would gladly give up any chance of a future just to know he was going to be okay.
He stirred restlessly, and his eyelids fluttered. The sheet was pulled up to his armpits, but his broad shoulders were bare. She reached for the small glass with the bent straw, touching it to his dry lips carefully. “Have a drink of water, Randy.”
He cooperated slowly, his face taut with the strain, but then washed with relief. Three times he managed to swallow. Three times she blinked back tears at seeing him so weak and helpless.
His head moved restlessly on the pillow. He scrunched up his face and opened his eyes. “Sherry?”
She squeezed his hand and stroked his forehead, the side that was not injured. “I’m here, Randy,” she whispered, her throat tight. “Go back to sleep.”
Randy struggled through layers of drugged awareness, searching for something, needing to remember. He tried to open his eyes, but they were glued shut.
He concentrated on the bits of reality he could pin down. First and foremost was the pain. Like most men, he rarely complained, but oh, God. The slice of fire in his neck, the merciless throb in his head—the agony was barely muted. He tried to move and groaned when the suffering intensified. Not a good idea, Temple.
A chiding voice scolded him. Soft hands pressed him back against the pillows. He knew that voice, recognized it even in the midst of his discomfort. Sherry?
It was probably a dream. She wouldn’t come within ten feet of him.
Now his heart ached in tandem with the rest of him.
The sudden familiar cadence of a nurse’s voice broke the darkness . . . the words brisk, matter-of-fact. Seconds later, precious medicine flowed into his vein. He courted oblivion, in no hurry to face what was out there waiting to drag him down and defeat him.
It might have been hours or days later when he surfaced again. His pain hovered at a manageable level, the corners smoothed by drugs.
When he tried to swallow, unseen hands brought a straw to his lips, waited patiently for him to take a drink, touched his brow with a murmur of praise.
His eyelids felt like lead.
He drifted . . . content to do so as long as they would let him.
But soon a cuff tightened on his arm, a thermometer found its way into his mouth, and his bedcovers were straightened, despite the fact that even his skin hurt.
Leave me alone. He tried to yell it, but the words wouldn’t come.
The next time, he felt something new. Hunger.
He concentrated fiercely and opened his eyes. Or thought he did. His vision was blurry. Had they done something to him? Made him blind?
Panic clawed at his throat until he forced himself to breathe slowly. He tried to lift his eyelids a second time, and this go-round, he was more successful.
Without moving his head more than was absolutely necessary, he scanned the room. And his heart stopped. Sherry. Sherry. She was in a chair, tucked up beside him, with her arms folded on the bed and her head resting on them there at his hip.
He wanted to touch her hair, but he couldn’t make his hand move. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. His throat was raw, dry as the desert.
“Sherry.” This time his voice was an embarrassing rasp of nothingness, a mere hollow squeak.
But it was enough. Her head snapped up, her face painted with anxiety. “Randy, are you hurting?”
“No.” A stud until the end. But he hadn’t fooled her, particularly not when he groaned and cursed as he tried to sit up.
Firm, small hands on his chest pressed him back. “For God’s sake,” she muttered, her breasts near his face. She adjusted his pillows and stroked his hair. “Don’t try to move. Not yet anyway. The doctor says they’ll be bringing in dinner shortly. Time enough then to get vertical . . . if you think you can.”
Damn straight. His stomach was demanding to be fed, and the woman he loved was here, in touching distance. He might be in a hell of a lot of pain, but he was highly motivated.
He went still, preserving his strength. Why was Sherry in this room with him? Pity? Guilt? Or simple compassion? None of those answers were acceptable.
She took his hand again, and he clenched his fingers around hers as tightly as he was able. Maybe if he held on to her and never let go, he could rewrite the ending of their relationship.
He’d tie her to him anyway he could, even if love wasn’t the reason she had come. And perhaps in time she would find it in her heart to care for him. As deeply as he loved her, surely it would be enough.
He allowed himself to doze off again, dreaming of her, imagining them together as a couple. She was in his arms, her face alight with passion. Everywhere he touched her, she was soft, perfect.
He saw her pregnant with their child, and then in the dream, he frowned. No, that wasn’t right. He winced in his sleep, feeling her sorrow. He wanted her to be happy. He’d make it so. No matter what.
Her gentle voice drew him back. “Wake up, Randy.” She said it like a lover’s caress, the depth of feeling in her words almost palpable. Or was he imagining things in a drug-blurred consciousness?
With dogged determination, he dragged himself out of the swamp, feeling the blessed relief of oblivion cling to him like twisted roots. Awakening was not pleasant. Now he had to deal with the pain.
But it was worth it to see Sherry’s face.
The first thing he noticed beyond her pallor was the fact that her sweater was buttoned incorrectly. It was an incongruous detail, especially from a woman who kept her lawn manicured.
Had she been in that much of a hurry to get to him?
He turned his head to look at the clock on the far wall. Four o’clock. But what day?
Sherry took pity on him, her gaze kind. “It’s still Saturday. You have a bad concussion, and you’ve had surgery to remove a piece of glass from your neck. The doctor says you’ll recover fully. But you were in bad shape when they brought you in. . . .”
Her voice trailed off, and he saw her eyes fill with tears before she turned away and fussed with a pitcher on the table. Her shoulders shook, and he couldn’t even hold her, damn it. He cleared his throat. “Come here, my love. I’ve got a hard head. Don’t worry about me.”
She turned, and her tears fell, tracing long, wet streaks down her face. She put a fist to her mouth, still three feet away from his bed. “I’m sorry.” She sobbed softly. “Ethan called me. I was trying to be strong, but oh, Randy . . . I was so scared.”
With a grimace, he held out his arms. “Come here, Sherry. Let me hold you.”
He barely had four minutes with her before supper arrived. But God, having her in his arms was sweet. She nestled carefully against his unhurt side, not letting him take her weight. She smelled like a woman, his woman. He didn’t want to let her go.
But when the young man with the perfunctory smile brought in a covered tray and plopped it on the table, Sherry jumped to her feet and began opening things, talking a mile a minute.
She tried to hand-feed him, and he bowed up. No man worth his salt would let his lover treat him like a helpless baby. When he said as much, she glared at him.
“Let me help you.” She said it through clenched teeth. “You took care of me when I was sick. Why can’t you let me return the favor?”
She had him there, damn it. So as much as it galled him, he let her feed him broth and Jell-O and a stale roll. They were just finishing up the five-star cuisine when Ethan walked through the door.
His boss’s face cleared when he saw him eating. “Good to see you on the mend, Temple. Everyone at the station sends their regards.”
The words were prosaic, but in Ethan’s eyes, Randy saw immense relief. The men and women on the police force were a close-knit team. And they looked out for their own.
Ethan kissed his sister on the cheek. “How about giving us a minute alone, Sherry.”
She looked anxious, but she obeyed her brother’s quiet request, stepping out into the hall and closing the door quietly.
Ethan’s expression sobered. “How are you really doing, Temple?”
Randy grimaced. “I hurt like hell. But I’ve got my own personal Florence Nightingale, so I won’t complain. But tell me what happened last night after I checked out. What went down with the kid?”
Ethan shook his head in disgust. “He’s Mr. Benson’s great-nephew. The stupid punk got the idea that if he made Jane miserable enough, she would move out and his uncle would rent or give the space to him. Dougie wanted to open up a comic-book store.”
“Good Lord.”
“My sentiments exactly. Not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. Jane has been over at Mr. Benson’s house all day, making sure the old fellow is okay. But he’s a tough bird. And he knows it won’t hurt Dougie to spend some time in juvie. Maybe it will knock some sense into him.”
Randy shifted his hips and bit down on a helpless curse as raw pain streaked from his head to his feet, stealing his breath and making him nauseous. It was still thirty minutes until they would give him more pain meds. But the damn bed was starting to feel like a torture device.
Ethan helped him get settled more comfortably with a matter-of-fact manner that kept both men from feeling awkward or embarrassed. Then he stepped back, folded his arms across his chest, and smiled slyly.
Randy lifted a wry eyebrow. “What?”
Ethan’s grin grew bigger. “They gave me your personal effects when they admitted you.”
Randy frowned. “Okay . . . ,” he said slowly, not sure of his boss’s intent.
“So I though you might be needing this.” Ethan pulled a small black item out of his pocket.
Randy felt his face heat. Shit. How could he have forgotten? He practically snatched the velvet-covered box from Ethan’s hand. “Thank you, sir.”
Ethan lifted an eyebrow. “I guess you’ll have to drop the ‘sir’ crap when we’re in private.”
Randy frowned. “Excuse me?”
Ethan shrugged. “Looks like we might end up being family.”
Randy’s flush deepened. “No proof of that, sir. She’s already turned me down once.”
Ethan’s gaze was kind. “She’ll say yes, Randy. I saw how she looked at you when I walked in. I saw her face. She’ll say yes.”
Sherry returned when her brother departed. Randy was gray-faced with pain, and she pushed the call button for the nurse, even though the patient protested. The harried woman came moments later with an apology. “Sorry. We’re understaffed at the moment.” She inserted a syringe in the IV and injected the medicine.
In her wake, Randy fumed. “I could have waited,” he grumbled, the narcotic already slurring his words.
Sherry sat down and held his hand. “You shouldn’t have to suffer,” she said. “I won’t allow it.”
The next time he surfaced, the room was filled with flowers. For a moment, he wondered if he had died and this was a funeral home. Then the fog lifted, and his eyes widened. Good grief. There were at least seven flower arrangements on the window-sills and counters.
And he’d thought of himself as a loner, an outsider. He felt a lick of shame as he realized that maybe he’d been the one to be standoffish. Maybe this small community had embraced him more than he realized.
Sherry was standing by the window, staring out into the dark. Night had fallen. She had to be exhausted. To his knowledge, she had never left his side.
His hand gripped the ring box beneath the sheet. He was petrified with fear. What if he asked a second time and she said no? There wasn’t enough morphine in the world to dull that kind of pain.
He must have made a sound, because she spun around to face him. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”
He frowned and did a quick mental evaluation. “Not as bad as I did twelve hours ago. But not quite well enough to go dancing.”
Her smile warmed him. “That’s good.” But still she hovered by the window.
He decided he couldn’t wait another minute. The suspense was almost as painful as the blow to his head. He lifted his hand. “Come sit by me.”
She came instantly, her gaze never leaving his face. She scanned every nuance of his expression as though checking to see if he was lying about his condition.
When she was seated, he took her hand. “I want you to promise me something, Sherry.”
“Anything.” The quick answer was solemn.
“I want you to promise me that you’ll go home in a little while and not come back until morning. I’ll take the damn medicine, so I’ll sleep through the night, but I need to know that you’re home in your bed getting some rest. You’re exhausted.”
She straightened her spine and her eyes narrowed. “No.” She said the word simply, not dressing it up with explanations or equivocations.
His lips trembled in an effort not to smile. “But you just said anything.”
She shrugged, her expression mulish. “Anything but that. I’m not leaving you. I heard the nurse. They’re understaffed. So I’m going to take care of you. End of story.”
“So if I ask something else, you’ll say yes?”
She nodded slowly. “Within reason. I won’t promise to bring you a cheeseburger, and I won’t let you refuse your medicine.”
He smiled, loving her so much his chest hurt with it. “Fair enough.” He fumbled beneath the sheet, removed the modest diamond solitaire from the box, and held it out to her. “In that case, then . . . Sherry McCamish . . . will you please promise to marry me?”
Sherry was glad she was sitting down. Otherwise her knees would have buckled, and she would have keeled over. She shook her head, trying not to look at the beautiful ring he was holding.
How did a man with a concussion, a man who had recently come out of surgery, have the opportunity to procure an engagement ring? She cocked her head. Maybe she was dreaming.
She pinched her own arm. Then she pinched his.
“Hey!” His outraged protest echoed the pain she felt, as well.
She must be awake.
She licked her lips, studying his face. Was it possible to know a man for such a short time and feel so desperately in need of him? “Where did that come from? They must have one hell of a hospital gift shop.”
He waved the ring in front of her face. “Quit stalling. You promised me anything I want, within reason. I want you to be my bride.”
An odd mix of relief and joy and stunned amazement began to swirl in her chest. He still loved her.
Desperate to hold on to a modicum of self-control, she ignored the ring. “Would it be?” she asked softly, her heart troubled, even now. “Within reason, I mean . . .”
He took her left hand and slid the small circle of gold onto the correct finger.
“No,” he said softly. “It won’t be reasonable at all. It will be passionate and crazy and messy and joyful and sheer, bloody wonderful.”
Her chin wobbled. “And the babies?”
His smile was gentle as he rubbed the back of her hand. “We can adopt . . . if you want to. Either way, I’m okay. But I can’t bear it if you walk out of my life, Sherry. I’m begging you. Say yes.”
Fresh tears started, and this time she didn’t try to hold them back. She stood, leaned over him, and found his mouth with hers. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, yes, yes.”
Eighteen
Ethan unlocked his front door and practically landed on his ass when he stepped on a piece of paper and his right foot shot out from under him on the hardwood floor. He man-foot shot out from under him on the hardwood floor. He managed not to crash, but it was a close call. And he did bang his knee on the wall in the proces
s.
Limping and cursing, he made it to the sofa and collapsed, facedown. God he was tired. He’d had a total of about two hours of sleep last night, and the entire day since had been grueling in the extreme.
Still, all the messy ends were finally tied up. Jane was safe. Dougie was in custody. Mr. Benson was disappointed and hurt, but in decent spirits, all things considered.
Ethan had spoken to Jane a couple of times on the phone. She wanted information about Randy. Ethan had asked about Mr. Benson.
Other than that, they hadn’t been in contact.
And he missed her. Thinking about last night made him hard. And that made him frustrated and antsy, because he needed sleep, damn it.
He rolled to his side and sat up, staring balefully at the innocent envelope on the table. He knew without opening it what it would be.
But though he was right in theory, the contents surprised the hell out of him when he ripped into it and read the words.
Dear Ethan,
I think ’twas not wise
to deceive you with lies.
I’m done with this ruse,
and my bent to confuse.
I feel in my bones,
that your heart’s not your own.
You’re in love I believe,
with a girl who’s not me.
I bid you adieu,
’cause there’s naught else to do.
True love can’t be forced.
It’s a matter of course.
The heart casts its spell,
be it heaven or hell.
Be happy my dear.
’Tis the last you will hear . . .
From me,
Your devoted but secret admirer
His first reaction was disappointment. The naughty valentines weren’t from Jane. After that registered, he realized he could forget about the notes. The sender had clearly moved on. A good thing all around.
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