In the hospital, she recalled with relief. And for the moment, safe. The image of Len sprawled on the hood flashed into her mind again, and she shuddered. The baby was what mattered, all that mattered.
Babies are surprisingly resilient, especially in utero.
She drew a breath, thinking about the man who'd spoken those words earlier. Sweet, calming, positive words from a man with sawdust in his hair and calluses on his hands. A man accustomed to taking charge, she realized now. A quiet sort of guy with smoky eyes and a raspy voice. A powerful male with raw edges, a hard, arrogant mouth with surprisingly sensitive corners, and a don't-tread-on-me air riding those burly carpenter's shoulders. There wasn't a reason in the world why she should feel as though she'd known him—and trusted him—for a very long time, but she did.
Sleepy now, she let her mind linger on the image of an off-center smile and kind eyes in a deeply tanned face. Fathomless, intelligent eyes with whispers of pain still lingering in devil-dark pupils, framed by laugh lines suggesting a sense of humor.
His mouth, too, had given a hint of that same humor, a faint upward tilt at the corners of those aggressively masculine lips. More pronounced was the threat of an intensely male sensuality, the kind that had her fantasizing about lazy rain-washed afternoons spent in a man's arms in front of a warming, pine-scented fire. And when he'd smiled—once—she'd felt oddly cherished, as though he'd brushed those hard lips over hers.
Drowsy now, she brought her fingers to her lips and felt them curve into a languid smile. Ships in the night, she thought. Destined for different ports. She doubted she would see him again, but for the rest of her life she would always have a special place in her heart for a very special, rough, tough-as-nails Good Samaritan. She was still thinking about him when she drifted off.
"Oatmeal is wonderful. I truly, absolutely love oatmeal. Oatmeal is my friend."
Stacy sighed and looped another circle in the lumpy stuff beneath her spoon. She was hungry, the baby was awake and hammering on her insides with tiny fists as though she, too, were eager for breakfast, and yet, Stacy couldn't seem to work up the courage to swallow that first mouthful.
"It's just that it tastes like used wallpaper paste," she muttered to the empty glass that had held eight ounces of milk only a few minutes earlier. That, at least, she'd learned to stomach during the first few weeks after she'd found out about the baby. But oatmeal?
"Definitely a challenge."
Using her free hand, she raised the head of the bed a few inches more by pressing the button on the railing, then ran her tongue over her lips. Okay, this is for the baby, she thought as she grimly scooped up a tiny spoonful. She had it halfway to her mouth before she realized she had an audience.
Her Good Samaritan was standing just inside the door, a ragged bouquet of pink blossoms in his hands and a crooked smile on his deeply tanned face. Gone was the day's growth of beard that had given his face an outlaw appeal. His hair, now shiny clean and neatly brushed, was an intriguing mix of gold and platinum and silver blended into a unique color she could only call dusty blond.
Unlike yesterday, he was fully clothed in a chest-hugging T-shirt of faded blue, sporting the logo of a local lumberyard, and tight jeans worn thin from the stress of hard muscle rubbing against unyielding seams.
"This is just a guess, but I have a hunch you're not crazy about PortGen's breakfast special," he said, widening his smile into a truly dazzling but all-too-brief grin bracketed by engaging creases.
When she realized she was drinking in the sight of him like a parched desert nomad in sight of a spring, she quickly lowered her gaze to the spoon and shuddered. "I can't believe there are actually people who order this stuff on purpose."
She heard him chuckle and glanced his way again. Their gazes met, and she found herself holding her breath. More alert now, she decided that his irises weren't merely gray, but intensely so, the color of sooty topaz shot through with silver.
It had been forever since she'd felt such an instant attraction to a man, and she'd learned since not to trust any feeling that flashed so hot and fast. Still, she couldn't prevent her heart from skipping and her lips from curving as she feigned indignation.
"I'm starving to death, and the man is laughing," she groused to the ceiling.
"Sorry," he said, coming closer, adding the fresh tang of soap to the hospital mix. "I forgot myself for a moment."
Stacy felt her spirits reviving. After months of unremitting tension and fear, it felt good to smile again, even if it did hurt to move her facial muscles. "I'll forgive you, but only because you saved my life yesterday."
"Nah, wearing your seat belt saved your life."
She didn't waste breath arguing with a man whose jaw had taken on the texture of mountain granite. Instead, she directed an inquiring look at the fluffy blooms held in an awkward, one-handed grip against his flat belly.
"The hydrangeas are beautiful."
His eyebrows drew together and she noticed a faint scar angling across the left one in a jagged line. "Is that what they are?"
She nodded, then realized she was still holding the spoon and carefully returned it to the breakfast tray before pushing the table toward the foot of the bed. "I feel better just looking at them."
She smiled, drawing Boyd's gaze for an instant to her lips. Most guys he knew were suckers for the kind of impudent dimples framing her mouth. Thank the saints he was immune, he thought a smug instant before he found himself wondering if her pale, full lips would taste sweet. Like the wild berries that soaked up sugar-producing summer sunshine along the country roads.
When he felt heat climbing his neck, he frowned down at the sissy-looking flowers. He'd bought flowers for a patient before, but he'd always had the florist downstairs deliver them, and without a card.
"Maybe the nurse has a vase," she said, reaching for the call button.
"No need. This'll do fine," He stuffed the flowers into her water jug before she could argue the point. Then feeling awkward and more than a little foolish, he shoved his hands into his hip pockets and took a step backward. It was time he returned to work.
"I'm glad you came by," she said before he had a chance to get the hell out of there. "I wanted to ask you about that little girl who was so helpful and sweet. Um, Heidi, wasn't it?"
He nodded. "What can I tell you? She's a lonely little kid with too much imagination and not enough of the good stuff parents are supposed to provide."
"I'd like to do something to express my appreciation to her as soon as … as…" She halted and drew a breath that seemed to drain more than invigorate. "What would she like, do you think?"
One of Stacy Patterson's smiles for starters, he thought, and then frowned. Where the hell did that come from?
"Hell if I know," he hedged.
"I was thinking of a CD, but I have no idea what kind of music she prefers."
"She hates country, I know that."
"Why?"
"Because she's always making remarks about my lousy taste in radio stations."
Her lips curved, and for an instant her eyes sparkled. He felt something loosen inside, and frowned. "I take it you listen to country," she asked, touching one of the blossoms with a caressing fingertip.
"When I'm working, yeah." He'd been thinking her eyes were green, but now he saw a hint of gold mingling in the depths. Sunshine pretty, he thought, and as warming as summer's rays.
He wanted to gather her close and bask in the warmth of that sweet, soft smile until he couldn't remember what it felt like to be a man on the outside of happiness, looking in, longing to feel strong and protective and loved by a woman he adored. But those days were gone. Lost.
"Uh, maybe I could find out for you," he said lamely. "The kind of music she likes."
"That would be great, thanks."
"No sweat." He pulled his hands from his pocket and glanced at his watch. "I'd best be heading out," he said, shifting. "I promised I'd have this job done in time for the owners' tenth
anniversary, and time's getting short."
Was that disappointment he saw wisping across her gaze? Or relief to be rid of the blundering brute? He'd never been all that great at entertaining women. When he'd been a gawky kid working a couple of part-time jobs in order to save for college, he'd been too busy to learn the moves other guys had mastered by the time pimples gave way to whiskers.
In college, the women he'd met seemed all too willing to entertain him—once they found out he was headed for medical school and the big-bucks future. Now that he had an ordinary job with ordinary pay—well hell, he'd been boring even when he'd been a doctor. Even Karen had said as much more than once, but she'd put up with him for reasons he never fully understood.
After her death, he hadn't cared much one way or another about his skill with the ladies. But now he wished he could crack jokes like his kid brother, Ben, or flirt without coming on too strong or too awkward like his friend, Luke Jarrod—anything to arouse another sparkling smile in those now-somber emerald eyes.
"Thanks again," she murmured. "For the flowers." Before she shifted her gaze to the puffy bouquet he thought he saw moisture pooling in her eyes.
"I'm sorry about your ex-husband."
"So am I."
"He was in the hospital, you said?"
"He was hurt doing what he loved—protecting others." Stacy drew a suddenly shaky breath. "There were two of them robbing a convenience store near our house. They'd nearly beaten the clerk to death by the time Len had walked in to buy cigarettes. He'd drawn his gun, but the boys were so young—scarcely fourteen."
Boyd bit off a curse that had her pale lips trembling into a rueful smile that she couldn't sustain. "No one's really sure exactly how it happened. It doesn't really matter. What matters is that one of the boys hit Len in the head with a baseball bat he must have found behind the counter." She stopped to clear her throat. "By the time I got to the hospital, Len was in surgery. When he woke up, he was … changed."
"Brain damage?"
She nodded. "All cops have a capacity for violence or they wouldn't be cops. The good ones have a … an instinct for right and wrong that keeps that violence inside unless it's needed to protect human life. After his injury, Len had these rages that just … took over. And when that happened, he enjoyed hurting people."
"He hurt you?" His voice was too harsh, but there was nothing he could do about it, just as there was nothing he could do about the anger pouring through him at the thought of those huge wrestler's hands bruising her smooth skin.
"Not at first. He was more like a lost child. But … later, after he'd recovered physically, he had episodes."
She thought about the wild look of fear that had sometimes surfaced in his eyes when he'd thought he was being stalked by some nameless, faceless enemy. Some nights he'd sat up, waiting, his weapon cradled lovingly in his hands. Watching and waiting. She sighed, looked down at her hands.
"I had him committed twice. Once, after he stopped taking his medication and started drinking, and again, about six months later when he started showing up at the school where I was teaching." She drew in a lungful of air and held it for a long moment before releasing it slowly. "Several times he even got violent when there were children present, waiting for their bus. When I threatened to call the police, he cried and promised to stop. He seemed like his own self for a while and I started to think he was recovering. But when I found out I was pregnant, he got it into his head that the baby wasn't his and—" She couldn't go on. The memories were too vivid, too painful.
"I'm sorry, Stacy."
"It wasn't his fault. I know that." She forced a smile. "Len always wanted a daughter."
Boyd felt a hole open inside, a hole he'd thought he'd cemented tight. Suddenly the room seemed too small and the air too thin. Dumb move, coming back here, he thought, drawing in a long breath. "Guess I'll leave you to your breakfast," he said in a decent enough tone.
"I thought you were my friend," she muttered, glancing pointedly at her congealing breakfast.
He turned the idea of being her friend over in his mind and found he liked the idea more than he should. "Uh, I just came by to see how you're doing. Both of you."
"We're both feeling much better this morning. Dr. Jarrod removed the monitor this morning, and Tory is back to her usual rowdy antics. I expect her to become a world-class gymnast someday."
"Tory?"
"Mmm. Short for Victoria."
One side of his mouth quirked. "Nice name. Classy."
"You don't think it's a bit stuffy for this day and age?" She inhaled, then rushed on. "I mean, the books all stress how important a name can be in the development of a child's personality."
"No, it's not stuffy at all."
Stacy heard the sudden hoarseness in his voice, saw the shutters come crashing down in his eyes. As though he were retreating from the friendship she was offering—and her. So she found herself utterly dumbfounded when he suddenly reached out a hand to caress her bruised cheek. The gesture was so utterly tender, the moment so intensely intimate she forgot to breathe.
"I'm glad you're okay."
She swallowed the hard lump in her throat. "Believe me, so am I."
"If there's anything I can do, anything you need—"
"No, but thank you," she assured him.
"Take care of yourself and Victoria," he said brusquely before turning away. Two steps later he stopped and stood motionless, staring at the stark white linoleum under his boots as though searching for an answer to some deeply disturbing question.
Stacy was about to ask him if she could help when he turned and retraced his steps. Leaning forward, he braced one hand flat on the mattress while the other gently cupped her shoulder.
"For luck," he murmured before he brought his mouth to hers. Sweetly, with no demand, he kissed her, his lips soft and searching, his breath scented with strong coffee and toothpaste.
A heartbeat later, he was gone, swallowed by the cavernous hospital corridor, leaving her stunned and bemused. It was only when she felt the tears dripping onto her breast that she realized she was crying.
* * *
Three
« ^ »
Stacy was still groggy from an afternoon nap when a strangely familiar, copper-haired nurse stuck her head in the door. A small woman, in a fuchsia-and-pink smock over pink slacks and yellow canvas sneakers, she reminded Stacy of a bright winter sunset.
"Hi, I'm Prudy Randolph. We met in the ER yesterday," she said when she saw that Stacy was awake.
"We did indeed," Stacy replied, waving her in. "I was hoping to get a chance to thank you for all your help."
Nurse Randolph shrugged off her thanks with an infectious grin that had Stacy's spirits lifting. "How're you feeling?"
"Antsy. I hate hospitals."
"On days like this, so do I."
Stacy laughed and found it felt good. "Feel free to hide out here with me. I promise I won't tattle."
"Sounds like an offer I can't refuse." Looking very much like a mischievous six-year-old playing a prank on her teacher, the elfin nurse pulled up the only chair and sat. "Lord, I'm bushed," she said, and let out with a heartfelt sigh. "And it's not even a full moon."
"Sounds like you've been inundated with accident victims."
"You have no idea." Prudy blew a lock of hair from her forehead before grimacing. "Everything from the usual fender-benders to a parrot attack."
Stacy blinked. "Parrot attack?"
"Hmm. On the owner. A case of adolescent rebellion mixed with rampaging hormones."
"The owner was a teenager?"
Prudy laughed. "No, the parrot. A male, naturally, and not at all happy to be kept away from the newest addition to the family bird population, which just happened to be a very attractive—and willing—female."
"Naturally."
Prudy swiped a hand through her Orphan Annie curls. "Sorry to unload on you. Sometimes I wish I'd followed my mother's advice and become a supermarket checker."
"At least the hours are better."
"Not to mention the pay."
Stacy laughed, then moaned at the sudden explosion of glittery light behind her eyes. Nurse Randolph's expression became solicitous. "Head still hurting?"
"Let's just say I've got a long way to go before I'm up to the 'feeling lousy' stage."
Chocolate brown eyes studied hers with professional expertise. "Any idea when Dr. Jarrod plans to release you?"
"This morning he said three or four days—if I continued to improve, and if there are no more indications of labor." She sighed. "Keep your fingers crossed for me."
Daddy by Accident Page 3
