“I don’t know. It’s just that I haven’t had a lot of good doctor visits in the past. Seems like they’re always finding something.” He reached out with his napkin and wiped the corner of her mouth. “There you go.”
For a moment, she was irritated. Why hadn’t he just told her she had something on her face and let her deal with it? At the same time, though, her heart warmed at his touch, and she wished she had something on the other side of her face as well. She couldn’t decide what she wanted or how she felt, and that was the most irritating thing of all.
“Well, I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you,” she said lamely, not sure how else to respond. She was more than a little distracted by the way he was looking at her, with his eyes full of humor and yet like he was thinking about that almost kiss—if that really had been an almost kiss. It might have been anything at all. What if he’d been about to flick an eyelash off her cheek? That wasn’t even a romantic thing. Maybe she was reading romance into this when there wasn’t any to be had.
And maybe the moon was made of green cheese.
“I’d appreciate that,” he replied, and she had to think back to what they’d even been talking about. Her thoughts were zooming around in her head so quickly, she couldn’t track them. All she knew was that her heart was pounding. She was having some kind of allergic reaction, probably. What was in that barbecue sauce? It was making her breathe funny, too.
Or that was him.
No.
She was happy by herself. She could be happy without a man for the rest of her life—she didn’t need one to be successful. But maybe she wanted one. Maybe she wanted her heart to feel warm and her knees to go weak. Maybe she wanted to stand with him in barns and feel his hand on her waist and want him to pull her closer. Maybe she liked joking with him. Maybe she liked the way he looked at her right before he said something sweet.
If this was just her being a damsel in distress, if all this wasn’t real, it was certainly the best imitation of real she could have conjured up.
Chapter Thirteen
When Bryce dropped her off, he asked her again if she’d like to go riding the next day, and she told him no. She said she’d see him Monday afternoon after his appointment, but that she was busy all weekend. Now, as she lay in bed and stared at the ceiling in the darkness, she wanted to kick herself for putting that look of disappointment on his face.
She needed this space, though. She needed time to think, and she definitely couldn’t think when he was around. She had to make sure that she wasn’t just getting carried away in the moment. Half a week—that’s how long it had been since he walked into her office. She couldn’t throw her heart out the window after half a week. She needed some space, and if she still felt this way when she was all alone and he wasn’t there looking at her with those warm eyes, then she’d have a better idea of what was really going on inside her.
She chuckled as she realized that Bryce and Rocky almost had the exact same eyes—brown, deep, and soulful. She didn’t know if Bryce would appreciate the comparison, though.
Finally, she rolled over and turned on her bedside lamp. If she couldn’t sleep, she might as well work.
A little bit of Googling told her that yes, she and Bryce could set up an agreement where they went in together to buy the house. The websites she looked at recommended a contract very similar to the one she’d already been thinking about, and it was nice to know she’d been on the right track.
Then it was just a matter of getting the bank to honor the agreement and give them a loan and asking Eileen to accept their offer. No big deal, right?
She shook her head. It seemed insurmountable.
Ashley would know what to do. Or at least she’d listen while Phoebe worked it out for herself. She grabbed her phone and was about to dial, but then she remembered that Ashley was married now, and Josh might not appreciate a phone ringing and waking him up at two thirty in the morning. She sent a quick text instead.
You up?
Of course.
Can I call?
I’ll call you in a sec—I’ll go sit on the porch so I don’t wake anyone up.
A few minutes later, Phoebe’s phone rang, and she answered it immediately. “I’m sorry to bother you.”
“You know I’m a night owl. What’s going on?”
“Everything. Like, everything in the whole world.”
As succinctly as she could, Phoebe went through everything—the house offers and the apartment building and Bryce’s idea and then the almost kiss that could have been an eyelash retrieval but wasn’t. Ashley didn’t say anything while she blurted, but when she finally wound down, Ashley said, “You weren’t kidding. That’s a lot.”
“Yeah. So . . . help me out here.”
“With what? Advice? Cheering for you? Gasping in awe and amazement? I can do all those things. Easily.”
“Tell me what to do about buying the house. I really want it, but it comes with so many strings attached, and I’d imagined it being all mine, not sharing it with someone. I mean, I’d get a renter for downstairs, but they wouldn’t be an owner. I’d be the boss, you know? Paint all the walls purple if I wanted to.”
“Do you want to?”
“I might. But it’s the principle of the thing, you know? Being able to.”
“Yeah, I get it. You don’t think Bryce would go for it?”
“I don’t want to have to ask him. Of course, where I am now I’d have to ask . . . and I don’t think my landlord would appreciate it.”
“I’d have to say that Bryce is nicer than your landlord.”
“Too true.” Phoebe absent-mindedly scrolled through Facebook while she talked. “As far as investments go, what do you think? He’d be the one taking the risks, not me, but is that even fair?”
“It sounds like he’s willing to do it—it was his idea, after all,” Ashley replied. “I think that at the very least, you should go talk to your lawyer. Never hurts to get more information.”
“True again.” Before she could change her mind, Phoebe opened a new tab and sent an email to her lawyer’s office, asking for an appointment.
“So, was that all you needed me for? You didn’t want to talk to me about all this possible romance stuff?” Ashley’s voice was wry.
“No, I definitely want to talk to you about that. I was saving it for last because it’s so heavy, you know?”
“Yeah, I know. I think it’s exciting, though. You should explore it.”
“I should? Are you sure? Exploring is dangerous—there’s poison ivy and rattlesnakes and all kinds of stuff out there.”
“And there are also rainbows and waterfalls and beautiful things,” Ashley replied. “Exploring is the only way to know for sure which it is. Oh, wait. I hear someone calling me from inside. Can I check back with you later?”
“Just call me tomorrow. Thanks, Ash.”
“No prob.”
Phoebe hung up and stared at her computer. Exploring, huh? She could do that. She knew Ashley meant she should date Bryce more and get to know him better, but exploring could also mean seeing if he was on Facebook, if they had any mutual friends, that kind of thing. She’d never seen his name pop up before, but that just meant she hadn’t been looking for it, not that it wasn’t there.
She started by putting his name into the search bar. There were several Bryce Davidsons, and there was a fan page set up for his rodeo career, but he didn’t seem to be on there personally. So she checked out his fan page—wow. There were a lot of giddy girls on there. It was kind of embarrassing, actually. She didn’t recognize the name of the page admin—it looked like someone had taken it upon themselves—er, herself—to set the whole thing up and that he wasn’t even involved.
Some other articles appeared here and there throughout the newsfeed, mentioning all the titles Bryce had won. A YouTube clip caught her eye and she clicked on it, then wished she hadn’t—it showed the moment Bryce got injured, and watching him land that way made her sick. How had he even
survived it? He was right when he called himself a blessed man—she’d be more inclined to call him a walking miracle.
Scrolling down even farther, a magazine article leaped out at her, and she felt herself go numb. She shouldn’t read it—she really shouldn’t—but she had to. The headline said, “Attempted Rapist Now Jailed for the Real Thing.” Without knowing what she was doing, she clicked on it.
“Jett Hanover, jailed for attempted rape while a senior in high school, has now been found guilty of three counts of aggravated rape in Sacramento, California. His sentence this time will be much longer than what he served previously, but it makes us wonder—why wasn’t that first stint in jail enough to teach him a lesson? At the time of that arrest, witness and former friend Bryce Davidson, rodeo champion, commented that he thought men like Hanover shouldn’t be allowed to walk free. Davidson, recently injured, was unavailable for comment about this recent ruling. Odds are that his feelings haven’t changed, especially in light of the fact that Hanover is now a repeat offender.”
Phoebe closed her laptop and pushed it aside on the bed. He . . . she refused to think his name. He was in jail again? For hurting more girls? And were there others who hadn’t come forward? She pressed the palms of her hands into her eye sockets and held them there until she saw stars. This couldn’t be happening. How could he have done it again, at least three times? She had to agree with the magazine columnist—what good had that first trip to jail really done if it hadn’t taught him a lesson? That was the main reason she’d turned him in—to keep other girls safe. She hadn’t succeeded. She hadn’t accomplished anything at all.
Chances were, the magazine wouldn’t have picked up the story if Bryce’s name hadn’t been attached. She was slowly starting to realize that he was a pretty big deal. She’d been seeing him as the guy from high school, the guy who picked her up and took her home, but he was a celebrity, a real-live famous person. People knew who he was all over the world, and yet he was choosing to retire here in tiny Burnt River so he could give his horse a good life. Did that make him amazing or crazy? Probably both.
But the biggest question burning in her brain was on a much different topic. Why hadn’t he told her about the three other rapes? Wasn’t that something she had a right to know?
***
Bryce got out of bed and stretched, then climbed into a hot shower. It didn’t help. The relaxation techniques hadn’t helped either, but not that he’d expected them to—he’d made the mistake of sitting on a backless stool at the barbecue place, and that was asking for trouble.
Finally, he dug in his bag and pulled out his prescription painkillers. He hated taking them—they made him so groggy—but if he didn’t do something, he was going to lose his mind with pain. He’d given it four hours, and nothing had worked. It was time to call in the big guns.
He swallowed the pills with a few ounces of milk, then climbed back into bed. They should kick in before long, and maybe he’d get some sleep. In the meantime, he’d think about something more pleasant, like Phoebe.
Hmm. He’d thought that would be pleasant, but now he wasn’t so sure. Why had she shut him down so quickly when he asked her to go riding? It was like the girl had an on and off switch—one minute, she was warm and friendly, and the next, she was right back behind her brick wall, and he couldn’t think of anything he’d done to cause that. He usually knew when he was being an idiot—he’d had enough practice at it to memorize all the signs. This time, he had no clue whatsoever.
He’d probably scared her off with all his talk about buying the house together. It was a big commitment, and one that he didn’t take lightly, but she might have interpreted it as a ploy to hook up. He could understand her reluctance in a case like that. He’d probably sounded crazy, too, rambling on like he had. It would have been a lot better if he’d reasoned it out and presented it point by point, but he’d been full of the fire of the moment.
His brain was getting fuzzy, and he knew he’d be asleep soon. Thankfully, the pain was abating at the same rate, and he should be able to get some deep rest. Probably wouldn’t be functional much for about twenty-four hours, but that’s just how it was sometimes. Thank goodness this was over a weekend, when he didn’t have important obligations to fulfil. Thank . . . goodness . . .
Chapter Fourteen
It had taken Phoebe hours to fall asleep. First, her worries about Bryce and then reading that article—she’d been wound up and restless half the night. The first thing she did when she woke up Saturday morning was to text Bryce. She needed to find out the truth—it wouldn’t do either of them any good to keep secrets from each other, and she wanted to know why he hadn’t told her about the arrests.
She sent a text asking him to call her, then set her phone on the bed. He didn’t call, though, even after she’d been waiting twenty minutes, drifting in and out of sleep. Finally, eyes wide open, she got up and took a shower, thinking that she’d get out and find a message or a missed call. Nothing.
Sick guilt filled her gut. She’d been cold to him the night before, but he hadn’t deserved it. Now he was ignoring her calls, and she did deserve that. She’d wanted space, and it looked like he needed some too. She guessed she’d have to honor that.
***
Bryce still felt a little hung over when he walked into the specialist’s office Monday morning. He’d slept most of Sunday, but he’d needed it more than he’d realized. He checked in with the receptionist and then took a seat with the clipboard she handed him. Page upon page of forms, asking about his medical history and the cause of his injury and the type of medical insurance he had. When he finally got it all filled out, he took it up front and handed it over.
“Thank you, Mr. Davidson,” she said. “Please be seated again and Dr. Mathis will be with you shortly.”
Bryce couldn’t sit anymore, so he strolled around the office, looking at the different pictures on the walls. He saw a painting that reminded him of something Phoebe might like, so he pulled out his phone to take a picture to send her, and it was then that he saw a message from her. Twenty-four hours ago, and he hadn’t replied. That wasn’t good—she must think he was blowing her off.
He replied, Sorry. Will call later and hit send just as the receptionist called him back.
He hated sitting on cold tables in paper gowns, but that was the way it was in every doctor’s office he’d ever visited. He went through it this time as well, hoping that he’d get more answers at last.
When Dr. Mathis entered the room, he shook Bryce’s hand and then sat on the rolling stool in front of the exam table. “Let’s talk for a minute,” he said.
That didn’t sound like anything good.
“I’ve studied all the x-rays and scans you sent over, and I’m sure you know that you got off lucky,” the doctor continued. “Very few people sustain this kind of injury and live to tell the tale. But because I’m sure you know all this, I’m not going to waste time telling you. Instead, we’re going to talk about the pain you’re in, which I’m sure is excruciating, and what we can do about it.”
“Yes, please,” Bryce said, already liking this doctor’s style. He wanted to get right to the point as well.
Dr. Mathis put an x-ray up on the light box and flipped the switch. “Right here is the source of all your problems,” he said, pointing to a spot in the middle. “These vertebrae are moving all around and rubbing against the nerves. When was this x-ray taken?”
“About two weeks ago,” Bryce replied. “I sent you the ones taken right after the accident too, right?”
“You did. Quite impressive, in a gruesome sort of way.” Dr. Mathis used the tip of his pen to indicate some microfracturing. “If your back was going to heal on its own, it would be showing signs of it by now, but all I see is scar tissue, which is likely narrowing the spinal canal and causing problems with the nerves as well. I want to take some x-rays of our own just to be thorough, but from what I’m seeing here, I’d like to suggest back surgery to fuse some of these loo
se areas together and make them stop rubbing on those nerves. We’ll also take care of the scar tissue while we’re at it.”
Bryce swallowed back the nausea that was building in the back of his throat. “What all does that kind of surgery involve?”
“We’ll make an incision in your hip and remove some bone from your pelvis which we’ll use to build bridges between your vertebrae. Your body will then form new bone in addition to what we create.”
“And what kind of recovery are we talking about?”
“A few days in the hospital under close supervision, and then supervised recovery at home. You should be able to move around somewhat freely once you’re at home, resting as needed, but not in a convalescent state.”
“And the dangers?”
Dr. Mathis pulled off his glasses. “I won’t beat around the bush, Mr. Davidson. Any kind of back surgery is risky. There could be paralysis or even death. Some patients don’t notice any improvement in their symptoms at all. I will tell you, though, that I’ve done this procedure over a hundred times, and my success rate is quite high, with no deaths.”
“Yeah, that’s what Dr. Stone’s office told me,” Bryce replied. “So, if I don’t have this procedure, what’s likely to happen?”
“The pain you’re currently in will continue, and will most certainly get worse. There could be some disintegration of the vertebrae as well. I don’t perform surgeries unless I feel they’re important, and this one I believe is very important.”
Bryce nodded. He’d had a feeling this would be the case, and hearing it just confirmed what he presumed his body had been trying to tell him this whole time. “All right,” he said after a long moment of checking with his gut. “Let’s do it.”
Dr. Mathis nodded. “First let’s do that other set of x-rays so I can be completely sure of what I’m seeing. Then we’ll talk to Mrs. Forrester at the desk and see when we can get you worked in.”
Bryce nodded again. He hated like thunder that he was having to do this, but if it would give him a better quality of life and keep him from getting worse, it was worth the risk, wasn’t it? He chose not to think about that whole dying thing. He refused to be the one to ruin Dr. Mathis’s perfect score.
Phoebe's Fate (Burnt River Contemporary Western Romance Book 9) Page 7
