by Janet Dailey
“Ridge is certainly in no condition to take care of himself,” Sharon reaffirmed. Neither of them directly alluded to her past infatuation for Ridge, but it was behind every word that was spoken—a silent reminder to proceed with caution. “Would you pack me some clothes for the next few days?”
“I’ll have Scott run them over to the ranch. He was planning to go to the hospital to see Ridge tonight anyway. Oh, I almost forgot,” her mother declared suddenly. “Andy Rivers phoned. I told him you’d be home later tonight. He’s going to call back. What do you want me to tell him?”
Sharon hesitated. It was funny, but when she tried to conjure up an image of his face, it was all fuzzy and out of focus. Ridge’s overpowering personality was to blame for that. Friendship had been the mainstay of her relations with the young geologist—for both parties. But even that feeling had dimmed dangerously in the few short days dominated by Ridge or thoughts of him.
“Have Andy call me here,” Sharon stated firmly, determined the Latigo Ranch wasn’t going to become a desert island with only herself and Ridge as occupants. Retaining contact with the outside world was essential. “Was there anything else?’
After exchanging a few more words, Sharon rang off. She had just begun investigating the contents of the kitchen cupboards to find something soft and easily digestible for Ridge to eat when there was a knock at the back door.
An incoming ranch hand had noticed the car and came to inquire about Ridge’s condition, thinking that someone from the Powell family had been to the hospital to see him. After Sharon explained that Ridge had discharged himself from the hospital, the cowboy went in to see him.
While he visited with Ridge, Sharon went back into the kitchen to prepare a meal. The cupboard had yielded a can of creamed split pea with ham soup and a jar of applesauce. Beyond that, she had to improvise. With a dish towel tied around her waist to protect her peach-colored dress, Sharon peeled potatoes to boil and mash and scrounged around to find some kind of tray to serve the meal on while the potatoes were cooking.
The ranch hand was still in the room when Sharon carried in Ridge’s supper, using the top part of a TV tray she’d found tucked away in the pantry. From the little conversation she’d overheard before entering the room, she had the impression Ridge had been grilling the man on the amount of work that had been done the last two days. The cowboy seemed glad of her interruption and the excuse to leave.
“I’ll tell Hobbs what you said. He’ll be gettin’ back with you,” the cowboy said as he backed out of the room.
Sharon paused beside the bed with the tray in her hands. “How do you want to do this?” she asked. “Do you want to sit up and cushion the tray on your lap with a pillow? Or shall I feed you? I’ve had a lot of practice playing airplane with Tony. The spoon is the airplane and your mouth is the hangar it flies into.”
“I’ll feed myself,” Ridge replied, unamused by her mocking suggestion.
Flattening his hands on the mattress, he levered himself into a more upright sitting position. He went white with the effort, briefly baring his teeth against the ensuing pain before clamping his mouth tightly shut. Sharon pretended not to notice, aware he didn’t like the thought of anyone, especially a woman, seeing him so weak that he could barely sit up by himself. Neither would he welcome any show of sympathy, so she partially turned aside to set the tray on the bedside table and get a spare pillow from the closet to lay across his sore stomach.
When she returned to the bed with a pillow in hand, his gaze had narrowed on the tray of food. It turned sharply to her face.
“That’s the same junk they tried to feed me in the hospital,” he accused.
“The doctor said no solid food for a few days—and you promised to follow his orders,” Sharon reminded him, letting her glance slide to meet his eyes while she gently laid the pillow on his lap and tried not to take too much notice of the sinewy, muscled width of his bare chest above his bandaged ribs. She placed the tray on the pillow, making sure it was balanced before letting go of the sides. “Now eat,” she ordered and straightened to study the distaste that showed on his face as Ridge viewed the meal before him. “Maybe your disposition will improve with some food in your stomach.”
The corners of his mouth were pulled in grimly with dislike. “I want something I can sink my teeth into,” he muttered.
“You’ll have to content yourself with snapping at me,” Sharon retorted.
The upward sweep of his gaze took in the towel tied around her waist, the shallow rise and fall of her breasts beneath the peasant-style bodice of her dress, and the creamy smoothness of her throat and neck before stopping when it reached her face. A lazily seductive gleam entered his blue eyes.
“I might enjoy taking a bite out of you,” Ridge murmured.
Sharon didn’t immediately release the breath she drew in, her pulse accelerating under his disturbing look. It was a full second before she managed a brief laugh to break the spell over her senses.
“Don’t you know you aren’t supposed to bite the hand that feeds you?” she mocked him. “You might discover that I bite back.”
“I hope so,” he drawled in answer, a slow smile edging his mouth.
The room suddenly felt very warm. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go fix myself something to eat. You may not be hungry, but I am.” Sharon wanted to leave before she was drawn into another word battle laced with sexual overtones. “I’ll come back for the tray when you’re finished.”
As she turned to leave, her eye caught the change in his expression out of her side vision. The glinting, roguish light faded from his eyes and his features once again showed the gray pallor of constant pain. The suggestive looks and remarks he’d passed had provided Ridge with a mental distraction from his suffering. He wasn’t really interested in her, and she’d do well to remember that.
Word that Ridge was home from the hospital had evidently spread quickly throughout the ranch. Within half an hour after the cowboy left, the foreman Hobbs knocked at the door. When Sharon showed him into the bedroom, Ridge insisted she take away the tray. It looked as if no more than a couple of bites had been taken of each item.
Sharon’s mouth thinned with displeasure when she saw how little he’d eaten, but she knew she’d never accomplish anything by admonishing him in front of his foreman for not eating more. She’d grown up with the macho egos of western men and knew that such a remark, regardless of the genuine concern behind it, would be considered as undermining their authority. So she simply flashed him a disapproving look and silently left the room carrying the tray of food.
There was a steady stream of visitors throughout the evening. Her brother, Scott, was the last to come, arriving as Sharon finished washing the dishes from the two separate meals she’d cooked. He’d brought the suitcase her mother had packed for her. While Scott went in to visit Ridge, Sharon took her case into the bedroom next to Ridge’s to unpack and settle in.
Like all the rest of the rooms, this one was minus any frills. Her silk nightgown and matching robe appeared out of place when she laid them on the plain blue chenille spread at the end of the bed. After she had arranged her cosmetics and toiletries in the private bathroom adjoining the bedroom, she noticed her reflection in the mirrored medicine chest and realized she was still wearing the dish-towel apron.
As she retraced her steps from the bedroom to the hallway, heading for the kitchen, she worked to loosen the knotted towel ends behind her back. Scott emerged from the open door to Ridge’s room just as she went by. Her glance went to him in surprise.
“Are you leaving already?” Sharon doubted that her brother had been in the room more than twenty minutes.
“I’ve gotta get home.” His voice was deliberately loud so that Ridge would hear his answer as he fell into step with her. Immediately it dropped to a more private level. “Didn’t the doctor give him anything to take for the pain?”
“I have a prescription in my purse, but I don’t know if he’ll take it
,” she said.
“Give it to him whether he wants it or not,” her brother advised. “I was in there gritting my teeth for him. He’ll never get any rest at this rate unless he passes out.”
“I’ll see that he gets it,” she nodded and slowed her steps as they neared the back door.
“Mom said to call if you need anything.” Scott reached for the knob, turning it. “One of us will be over tomorrow night.”
“Okay.” Her smile faded as he left the house, her expression becoming serious with concern.
Before going to Ridge’s room, Sharon stopped in the kitchen and absently laid the towel on the counter near her purse. Opening her purse, she took out the bottle of pills and read the written instructions on the prescription label.
“Sharon!” The interior walls partially muffled the demanding call from Ridge.
Leaving the pill bottle on the counter, she moved quickly in the direction of his room. “Coming!” she raised her voice in answer.
A thin, smoke-blue haze hung in the upper air near the ceiling when she entered. Ridge was propped in the same position as earlier in the evening, but there seemed to be a marked deterioration in his condition. His features were decidedly haggard and drawn and the glitter in his eyes seemed tortured. There was an occasional, very faint tremor in various parts of his body. Sharon had the distinct impression that he wanted to writhe with pain, but it hurt him too much to move. The last of the hospital medication had worn off, leaving him without any barrier to screen out the pain.
“Bring me another pack of cigarettes.” He wadded up the empty pack and added it to the mound of cigarette butts in the ashtray. “And empty this.”
“You’re smoking too much,” she criticized automatically, aware that he was using smoking as a distraction.
“I don’t need any lectures, just a pack of cigarettes,” he retorted irritably.
“What you need is rest,” Sharon stated. She walked to the bed, took away the ashtray and emptied it into the wastebasket by the dresser, but didn’t carry it back to the bed. “I’ll bring you a couple of the pain pills the doctor prescribed. They’ll help you sleep.”
“I don’t want any of those damned drugs,” Ridge flashed angrily but in a tightly controlled voice. “That’s why I checked out of the hospital.”
Turning, she faced the bed, her hands moving up to rest on her hips in a challenging stance. “Still determined to tough it out, are you?” she chided him for being so foolish.
There was a moment of silence during which his hard, level gaze held her eyes. “Are you going to get my cigarettes or not?” he demanded.
“No,” Sharon replied smoothly. “If you want another pack, get out of bed and get it yourself.” If he tried, Sharon was positive he’d collapse before he reached the hall.
His mouth tightened into a line that matched the hardness of his flinty blue eyes, indicating he suspected the same. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Ridge muttered.
“Immensely,” she assured him and hid the wrenching concern she actually felt. As he passed a hand over his face, she noticed the faint tremor of his fingers. She relented from her attitude of indifference and suggested, “Hot milk is supposed to relax a person and help them fall asleep. Shall I heat some for you?”
Ridge started to reject the offer, then changed his mind. “If I promise to drink it, will you bring me a pack of cigarettes?”
“That’s blackmail,” Sharon accused.
“Yes.” He smiled briefly, the movement accentuating the tautness of his mouth.
After a second’s hesitation, she smiled and uttered a surrendering sigh. “You’ve got a deal,” she agreed.
In the kitchen, Sharon poured milk into a pan and set the pan on a stove burner. While it was heating, she shook two prescription pills out of the bottle and placed them on a square of wax paper, then used a rolling pin to grind them into a white powder. After she added it to the scalded milk, she sipped a spoonful. The bitterness pinched her lips together. To disguise it, Sharon quickly added a generous amount of chocolate syrup and then plopped a marshmallow into the cup.
With a fresh pack of cigarettes in one hand and the mug of hot chocolate in the other, she returned to the bedroom. “I changed the hot milk to hot cocoa. I thought you’d drink it with less fuss,” she announced as she entered.
“You can set it on the stand,” Ridge instructed, referring to the chocolate and reaching for the cigarettes.
“No.” She held the pack of cigarettes behind her back. “Drink the cocoa first, then you can have the cigarettes.” She gave him the cup and watched him take the first drink, unconsciously holding her breath while she waited for his reaction.
“You got a little carried away with the chocolate, didn’t you?” he remarked.
“Did I put in too much?” Sharon inquired innocently.
“It’s all right.” He took another drink. “It’s just a little strong.” He slid a sideways look at her. “I suppose I have to drink all of it before you give me the cigarettes.”
“Yes—to the very last drop.” She didn’t want any medication settling to the bottom of the cup. As he lifted the cup to his mouth again, Sharon walked to the dresser and retrieved the ashtray. After several more swallows, Ridge tilted the cup to drain it dry.
“There, I’ve been a good boy. Now, how about lighting me a cigarette?” The haggardness of his features seemed more pronounced as he lowered the cup to the bed. The upward curve of his mouth was closer to a smiling wince.
Sharon lighted one and traded it for the empty mug in his hand. Ridge puffed on it, unable to inhale the smoke too deeply. The nicotine didn’t appear to offer him much comfort or relief. Sharon moved toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Ridge stopped her with his question.
“The kitchen, so I can clean up the mess I left.”
“Oh.” His glance fell to the burning tip of his cigarette, then quickly skipped back to her, his pain-bright eyes silent in their appeal. “When you’re finished, would you come back and talk to me?”
It was a request to have his mind distracted from the incessant messages of pain traveling through his nervous system being expressed, not a desire for her company. Sharon reminded herself of that as she smiled.
“Sure.” For both their sakes, she hoped the medication worked quickly.
It only took her a few minutes to rinse the cup, pan, and utensils she’d used and to straighten up the kitchen. When she returned to Ridge’s room, the cigarette had been crushed out in the ashtray and his head was resting against the headboard of the bed, his eyes closed. He opened them a slit to acknowledge his awareness of her presence in the room but otherwise didn’t move.
“Instead of talking, I think you should see if you can’t go to sleep,” Sharon suggested quietly.
“Yeah.” It was a tired agreement. Ridge stirred, as if intending to change his position, then subsided onto the pillows. “I can’t even lie down by myself.” The remark was inadvertently muttered aloud, an admission that he couldn’t withstand the additional pain produced by movement. “Would you help me lie down?” Grudgingly he made the request of her.
“Of course.” She suspected that his bruised stomach muscles simply couldn’t withstand the strain of slowly lowering his torso into a prone position.
At the side of the bed, Sharon lifted the full skirt of her dress out of the way so that she could rest a knee on the mattress to give herself leverage. Bending over Ridge, she slipped one arm behind him while she removed the pillows propping him up with her other hand.
Chapter Six
Although Ridge tried to help when Sharon began to lower him gently onto the mattress, his strength and capacity were severely limited, and she was obliged to support the bulk of his weight. When he was finally lying flat, she found herself in a ridiculous position, with her arm pinned under him while she leaned over him, trying very hard not to touch his sore ribs or stomach accidentally. She made a wriggling attempt to free her
arm, without success.
“Can you lift up just a little so I can get my arm out?” she asked, out of breath from the exertion.
His face looked ghastly white under its tan, and beads of perspiration had gathered on his upper lip. “Wait a minute.” His voice was unnaturally thin and taut.
Despite the care she’d taken, the change of positions had obviously released a whole new series of stabbing pains. Sharon made no reply as she patiently waited for the fresh throbbings within him to dull. In the meantime, she had a hand braced on the pillow by his head and her arm trapped beneath his weight while her face hovered above the point of his shoulder near the slashing angle of his jaw. His eyes remained closed, black lashes lying thick and roughly spiked together.
The color returned slowly to his face as his breathing began to return to its normal steadiness. Lifting his lashes, Ridge looked at her through half-closed eyes. Their blueness held a mixture of relief at the subsiding pain and self-mocking chagrin at his weakness.
“Are you okay?” she asked, now that he seemed to have recovered.
“Yeah.” His mouth twisted wryly. “I never realized how impossible it is to move without using your stomach muscles.”
“That’s why the only cure for you is complete rest. If you had stayed in the hospital, they have beds that crank up and down.” She was becoming cramped in her position, half-leaning over and half-lying down.
“I thought nurses took care of their patients without complaint,” Ridge chided.
“I’m not a nurse.” Sharon wiggled her arm under his back to remind him she was still pinned by his heavy weight.
“No, that isn’t a uniform, is it?” he said with a slow perusal of her dress and the soft folds of its full skirt falling over him and the bed. “What color is it?”
“Peach.” In her position, the peasant-style neckline was threatening to expose a bare shoulder.
“Nice.” He fingered the hem of her skirt, which was closest to his hand. “Soft,” he remarked on the texture of the fabric, then his half-closed gaze slid back to her.
