Emily started to get up, but he stopped her with a light hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him. There was a faint white line around his compressed lips. Before she could voice her concern, though, he leaned down and kissed her full on the lips. Surprise held her in her seat.
“I won’t be long,” he said.
“Well,” Matthew commented after the screen door had slammed shut behind Jefferson, “I guess we know which way the wind blows now.”
Even Tristan was looking at her with a measure of surprise in his eyes. “Looks like you kissed and made up.”
She flushed, clear to the roots of her hair.
Mrs. Day suddenly scooted her chair back. “Perhaps one of you could show me where I’ll be sleeping? I’d like to unpack a few things.”
Daniel hopped off the counter. “No problem. To tell the truth, you’ve got your choice. We have a spare room upstairs, and a spare room down here.”
“Where is your father’s room? I should stay as close to his room as possible.”
“Down here then,” he told her, showing her the way through the living room and past the staircase.
Left in the kitchen with only Matthew and Tristan, Emily fiddled with her empty juice bottle. She didn’t think that Matthew would disapprove of a relationship between her and Jefferson. But, looking at his sober expression, she wasn’t quite so sure anymore.
He must have read the apprehension in her eyes, because he simply poured himself more coffee and smiled faintly. “If you and Jefferson can make each other happy, I’m all for it,” he said. “It’s about time one of the Clay boys settled down.”
Emily flushed all over again. Matthew made it sound as if wedding invitations would be going out in the afternoon mail. And even though she dreamed in her heart of hearts of being Jefferson’s wife, the details of that were far, far from being worked out. It was ironic, really, considering Jefferson’s love-making. And his very definite avoidance of birth control.
Tristan butted her with his elbow. “More Clay boys could settle down if they weren’t so all-fired determined to dislike pretty, long-legged redheads.”
Daniel returned and slid into Jefferson’s empty chair. “What’s this about redheads?”
“Nothing,” Matt said firmly.
“Ahh,” Daniel said, nodding sagely. “I can tell by the look in your eyes, Matt old man. This conversation wouldn’t be about Jaimie, now would it?”
“Shut up.”
Daniel rocked his chair back on two legs. “Man, you need to lighten up. She’s just what—”
“Forget it. Jaimie Greene is a flighty, sassy, little—”
“Whatever she is, she’s sure got your shorts in a knot,” Daniel delighted in pointing that out. Tristan chuckled beneath his breath.
“We’ve another redhead at the Double-C,” Emily hurriedly said. “Do you think she’s got a husband waiting for her at home?”
“Nope,” Daniel answered, his eyes still goading Matthew. “She’s a widow.”
“How do you know that?”
“I asked her.”
“You asked her?” Emily blinked. “Lord, Daniel, what business is it—well, I mean—Oh, geez, I hope you didn’t offend her.”
“Nope. So, Matt, you going to give us all a break and just get it over with Jaimie or not? Or do we have to put up with your bad mood for the next six months?”
“Zip it,” Matthew snapped. His chair scraped back as he stood up. His boots rang as he stomped out.
“Geez Louise, Daniel, what was that for?” Emily asked.
“Emily, have you noticed how uptight Matthew is? He’s gonna work himself into the grave if he doesn’t unbend a little. Seems to me that Jaimie’s the perfect one to help him do it. A few hours in bed with her would do wonders for his mood. It sure worked with Jefferson and you.”
Emily groaned and scooted back her chair. “I need some air,” she announced.
Tristan shook his head. “Dan, old boy, you need to learn some finesse.”
Daniel just shrugged. “Maybe. But am I wrong?”
“Probably not,” Tristan admitted.
Emily skipped down the back steps, and the smile she’d been suppressing broke free. Daniel was incorrigible. And maybe his methods lacked something, but his heart was in the right place.
She wondered how far Jefferson had gone. His knee had obviously been bothering him when he’d left the kitchen. She really should have found out where he’d thrown away that cane. It was silly of him not to use it, when he obviously still needed the extra support.
She looked inside the tack room, but it was empty. His boots were still sitting on the shelf where he’d left them the night before. She started to walk toward the swimming hole, but abruptly turned back. She slipped a halter over Daisy’s head and led the horse out of the stall, then hoisted herself onto Daisy’s bare back and clicked her into a trot.
A sense of unease was growing in her, and before they were halfway to the swimming hole, she knew why. She reined in Daisy and hit the ground running.
Jefferson was lying in the grass, his eyes closed. If it hadn’t been mown just the other day, she’d have missed him completely.
No, oh no, oh no! Her mind screamed as she skidded to her knees beside him. “Jefferson?”
Sweat dotted his forehead, and he slowly opened his eyes.
Her hands were frantically running over his legs. Automatically feeling for broken bones. “What happened?”
He slowly blinked. “Em?”
“I’m here,” she leaned over him, pressing her palm to his forehead, running her fingers over his scalp. “Did you fall? Are you hurt?” It was a needless question. She could see the glaze of pain dulling his dark blue eyes. “What’s wrong?”
He grimaced and crushed her hand in his. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, as if gathering his strength. “I can’t feel my legs.”
Emily’s mouth ran dry. She sat back on her heels. “Oh, Lord.” She looked at Daisy, only a few feet away. But there was no way she’d be able to get Jefferson up on the horse. If he should even be moved at all. “I have to get help,” she said in a rush. “Just…just don’t move, oh, geez, that was stupid.” She bent over him and kissed his mouth. “Will you be okay for a few more minutes?”
“Yeah.” His bruising grip eased up on her hand, and she bounded for the horse. “Em—”
She darted back down beside him. “What?”
His cloudy eyes searched hers.
She frowned. Wiped the fresh sweat from his forehead. “What?”
“Love you,” he murmured.
A dart of pure panic pierced her heart. They were the words she’d wanted him to say. But his timing frightened her right out of her mind. Something was wrong here. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. Before she succumbed to the violent fear flooding her, she kissed his lips. Hard enough to bring some sense to her whirling thoughts. “I’ll be right back,” she vowed.
He closed his eyes. “Yeah.”
She lunged for Daisy. Grabbing a handful of mane, she vaulted onto the horse’s back and dug her heels into Daisy’s flanks. She rode the horse right up to the back steps and jumped off, racing into the house, running smack into Tristan.
“Holy sh—” He grabbed her before she bounced off him into the kitchen cupboards. “What’s wrong?”
“Jefferson,” she gasped, her hands clutching his shirt. “He’s hurt.”
“Where?”
“About halfway to the swimming hole.”
Tristan was already yelling for Matthew and Daniel. Mrs. Day and Sawyer came running, too. Within seconds they knew the problem and were springing into action. Daniel went for the truck. Sawyer went for the first aid kit, and Mrs. Day gathered up a collection of big towels from the mudroom.
Matthew was on the phone. “What do you mean we can’t get the chopper here? No, dammit, I need it—Yes, fine. No, we’ll get him there ourselves.” He slammed the phone onto the counter. “What the hell do we pay taxes for,” h
e growled.
Squire walked into the room. “What on God’s green earth is all the fussin’ about?”
Suddenly all motion ceased. Mrs. Day recovered first, pressing the towels into Emily’s hands and telling her to go get in the truck. She quickly took Squire by the arm and pushed him in a chair before telling him briefly that one of his sons was apparently injured.
Squire popped up off the chair like a shot. “What the devil we sitting around for, then,” he said. “Get the boy home. Is that old stretcher still in the bunkhouse?”
Tristan slammed out the door, already on his way.
Emily swayed in the doorway, her arms full of towels. “Don’t go passing out on us, Emily,” Squire warned sharply.
Dread numbed her thought processes. She heard Mrs. Day sternly order Squire to stay put, then felt the woman gently push her out toward the truck. Emily climbed up into the cab beside Daniel, sliding over to make room for Mrs. Day. She was absently aware of Sawyer vaulting into the truck bed, the square, white first aid kit in his hand, followed by Matthew.
Tristan trotted around the corner and tossed a stretcher into the truck bed, vaulting in after it.
“Go,” he called.
Gravel spewed from beneath the tires as Daniel gunned the engine and set off for the stand of trees. It took mere minutes, with Emily pointing to the spot where she’d left Jefferson. Mrs. Day was out of the cab before the wheels had even come to a complete stop, and Emily was right on her heels. She raced through the grass, falling to her knees alongside Jefferson. He’d lost even more color, but his eyes were open.
She moved toward his head when Matthew and Tristan came up beside him, laying the stretcher on the grass. Mrs. Day had produced a stethoscope and was leaning over his chest, quietly questioning him. All Emily heard was something about his back.
After a moment Mrs. Day sat back, clearly unhappy with the situation. “At least you kept your knees bent,” she murmured.
Jefferson grimaced. Simply turning his head seemed a monumental task. He looked straight at Sawyer. “Get me back to the house.”
“That’s not where you need to go,” Sawyer replied.
Tired of watching the unspoken messages passing between the two men, Emily spoke. “What’s going on here?” Jefferson’s shadowed eyes turned her way, and her stomach dropped even further at the dull pain he couldn’t hide. Biting her lip, she gently smoothed his hair away from his forehead.
“On the count of three, okay?”
Daniel and Matthew were at Jefferson’s legs, and Tristan and Sawyer were on either side of his waist. “Emily, keep his head steady,” Mrs. Day instructed.
“One, two,” Emily gently cradled Jefferson’s head and when Sawyer counted off three, she moved with the rest as they carefully slid him onto the stretcher. It had only taken a second or two and Jefferson had hardly moved, but fresh beads of sweat rolled off his forehead. She got out of the way as the brothers grabbed the handles of the stretcher and lifted. Jefferson muttered a dark curse, his fingers latching on to her hand like a vise.
“No hospital,” he gritted as they slid him onto the truck bed. “Promise me, Em. No hospital.”
She climbed up beside him, placing the rolled-up towels beside his head and beneath his knees where Mrs. Day instructed, then carefully moved around so that she could sit near his head. Daniel and Mrs. Day climbed into the cab, leaving the others to follow on foot.
“Jefferson, you need—”
“Promise me,” he growled.
Her brows knit together. Using the hem of her T-shirt, she wiped the perspiration from his face. “All right.” For now, she added silently.
Jefferson’s eyes closed, relieved. He knew he could count on Emily. She might be small. She might be young. She cried far too easily and looked for the best in people when there was no best to find. But she had a core of strength inside her that would never fail her.
Even though it caused a fresh wave of pain to wash over him, he shifted his head until he could see her. The sun was shining brightly over them, turning her pale pink shirt to white. She looked like an angel. His lips were dry. “I’m sorry.”
The soft fabric stopped its daubing. She leaned down and gently kissed his lips. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
The truck rolled to a stop and rocked slightly as Daniel and Mrs. Day climbed out. They waited a few more minutes for the others to catch up, and then Emily moved out of the way while they carefully transported Jefferson into the house.
It wasn’t an easy task. The house, though roomy, clearly hadn’t been designed to accommodate four large men bearing an equally large man on a stretcher. Squire stood out of the way, uncharacteristically silent, when Jefferson was carried past. There were corners to maneuver around and stairs to climb. But eventually, amid much grumbling and cursing, they lowered Jefferson onto the bed in the room he’d used since childhood.
Mrs. Day supervised the placement of pillows beneath his knees. Her hands quickly wound a tight tube from one of the towels and she carefully slid it beneath Jefferson’s neck, while Matthew and Tristan pulled off his boots. Jefferson hissed, covering his eyes with his bent arm.
Sawyer came back in, bearing a wide, flat, cold pack. They managed to gently slide it beneath Jefferson’s back. “Damnation,” he muttered as the cold penetrated the worn fabric of his shirt. But it wasn’t long before he overlooked the cold for the relief it brought.
The brothers seemed to breathe a collective sigh as they hovered around the bed. Jefferson held Emily’s fingers tightly, and she sat on the faded, woven rag rug that covered a good portion of the wood-planked floor. She propped her chin on the mattress, careful not to jiggle the bed.
Mrs. Day brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “You need more care than we can provide here,” she said.
From Emily’s angle she could see beneath the arm that Jefferson still had over his eyes and could see his strained expression. “No hospital,” he said tiredly.
“You had back problems before?” Daniel asked. “I have. Ever since that last accident I had on the bike. Racked myself up but good. I got the name of a good orthopedic guy in Gillette—”
“No.”
Matthew leaned against the tattered wing chair that sat across from the foot of the bed. He crossed his arms. “You should see a doctor. A chiropractor. Something.”
“No.”
“Dammit, Jefferson, you—”
“No.”
Matthew sighed. “You always were a stubborn fool. The older you get, the more like Squire you become.”
At that, Jefferson’s arm shifted and he glared at his brother. “Bull.”
Matthew smiled faintly. “Well, anyway, since you won’t go to the mountain of medical help, maybe we should call someone out here.” Mrs. Day was nodding in agreement.
Sawyer lifted his hand. “I’ll call someone.”
Emily frowned at the panic that edged into Jefferson’s face. Her fingers were going numb, and she wiggled them slightly. “Jefferson—”
“I said no,” Jefferson grimaced.
She bit the inside of her lip, looking at the other men. Sawyer’s narrowed eyes studied Jefferson’s prone body. Matthew and Daniel shared an unsurprised look. And Tristan was looking out the window, his expression thoughtful.
“I hope you change your mind,” Mrs. Day finally said. She brushed her palms on her slacks. “I’d better see to Squire.”
“See if you can change his mind, Em,” Matthew said finally.
“I’m not changing my mind,” Jefferson said distinctly. “Just let me be.”
Daniel shook his head, following Matthew out the door. “More like Squire every day,” he agreed.
Jefferson snorted faintly.
Sawyer tugged on his lower lip. “Jefferson, this is really a bad idea. A bad idea. You need—”
“I know what I need,” Jefferson growled. “To be left the hell alone.”
“But you said you couldn’t feel your legs,” Emily
cried out.
Though his face turned a little green, Jefferson’s foot moved. Merely a few inches. But it had moved. “It’s getting better,” he said, inflexibly.
“For how long,” Sawyer asked, just as inflexible. He got no reply from Jefferson and, throwing up his hands in disgust, he left the room.
A weary sigh left Jefferson’s dry lips. Emily slipped her fingers loose and stood up. “I’ll bring you some water.”
As soon as he heard Emily’s light tread on the staircase, Tristan said, “She knows what you need without you even saying a word.”
“Turn the screws a little tighter, why don’t you?”
He shrugged and moved closer to the bed, so that Jefferson could see him without having to tilt his head. “Do you know what she needs? Without her telling you?”
“Not now, Tris.”
“Then when?” Tristan crossed his arms. “When you’re up and about again? That won’t work, ’cause you’ll probably just head out again.”
“I don’t have anywhere to head out for,” Jefferson said grimly. Nor could he envision leaving Emily again.
“Not even that nice little condo you own down in South Carolina? Oh, that’s right. You’ve signed it over to Kim Lee’s wife. Lisa, isn’t it? And the boy. What is his name? Oh, yeah. Jeff. Appropriately named after his honorary godparent.”
Jefferson slowly lowered his arm and eyed his brother. “You’ve been busy.” He waited for some sort of explanation of how his baby brother had come by that information, but none was forthcoming. “You’ve got one thing wrong, though. Lisa is Kim’s widow,” he finally said.
Tristan nodded. “True. Sometime we’ll have to talk about that, too.” He idly scratched his ear. “So, how about going to that little brick farmhouse. You know…the one outside Stockholm?” He didn’t give Jefferson a chance to respond. “Or the flat in London? The apartment in D.C.?”
“Enough,” Jefferson snapped.
“It’s time to finish what you started, Jeff. I know you’ve sold those places. Over the last six months, you’ve divested yourself of every piece of real property you’ve collected around this bloody world. You’ve closed every account, in every country, under every alias you’ve used in the past ten years. Except for the bank account you opened in Casper when you were twenty years old, you’re strictly cash and carry. The only thing, as far as I know, that you haven’t officially done, has been to resign. If they’ll even let you.”
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