by Terry Odell
Although he was stuck with his dirty jeans, he found a clean t-shirt folded at the foot of his bed. Pulling it on, he followed his nose to the kitchen.
Frankie had her back to him at the stove. Her hair, the color of summer honey, hung loose to her shoulders. He took a moment to admire the way her jeans hugged the curves of her rump before he surveyed the room. The kitchen was large and homey, with yellow walls bordered in floral wallpaper, and a pine table with six chairs. Fabric cushions tied to each seat matched the wallpaper.
From one chair, a young girl, her strawberry-blonde hair pulled into two ribboned pigtails, turned huge blue eyes toward him. For an instant, she wasn't fair-haired, but dark, and her blue eyes were deep chocolate. Carmelita Forcada's face blurred in front of him. He shook it off.
When he smiled at her, the requisite facial muscles felt stiff from lack of use. He cleared his throat. "Good morning, Angel. I think this might be yours." He held out the stuffed dog he'd been embracing when he woke up.
"I'm Molly, not Angel," the girl said. "And that's Mr. Snuggles." She gave him a serious stare, her eyes narrowing. "He makes my bad dreams go away. Did he work for you?"
"He did. Thank you." He put the dog in her pudgy hands.
"Molly," Frankie said. "I told you to stay in bed."
"But I had to go potty, and I heard the man having bad dreams, so I gave him my nightlight and I let Mr. Snuggles sleep with him." She turned those cobalt blue magnets back at him. "I'm five, so I don't need him every single night. Besides, I got to sleep with Mommy."
Frankie turned back to the stove, but not before a pink tinge flushed her cheeks. Hell, she shouldn't be embarrassed. Smart thing to do with a total stranger in the house. She probably had a baseball bat by the bed, too. He glanced at the table again. Three place settings. Her mother was in the hospital. No father? No husband? He glanced at her left hand. No wedding band. He tried to remember what she'd said about her family last night, but it was like trying to hold onto smoke.
He forced himself to focus on the child. "Well, I feel a lot better now. Thank you again."
She gave him a solemn smile, then began a mumbled conversation with the dog.
Ryan stepped toward Frankie and lowered his voice. "Don't be ashamed of protecting your daughter."
She shrugged. "I've always trusted my instincts. They're usually right."
He couldn't help but notice the way her eyes darted to the large chef's knife on the cutting board. He smiled. "Well, I'm relieved to know I wasn't so pathetic that you gave me a nightlight and a dog to hug. If you'll tell me where your washing machine is, I'll deal with my sheets. They're kind of grimy."
"Forget it. Sorry about the shirt, but it was my only one in your size. They gave everyone extra-large after the race."
Ryan glanced down. He'd pulled it on without paying attention, pleased that it fit. A deep pink ribbon with "Run for the Cure" printed below covered the front of the pale pink shirt.
"Nothing to apologize for. I should have one myself. That was how my mother died." Fifteen years and the words still didn't come easy.
She must have sensed his discomfort. "Umm…how about some coffee?"
"Coffee would be great. Black is fine." He found a mug at a place setting on the table and brought it to the coffee maker. Frankie was pouring when the child spoke.
"Mommy, is fuckit a bad word?"
Frankie stopped mid pour. Her eyes snapped across the room to her daughter. "It most certainly is, young lady. Where did you hear that?"
"The man said it in the night." She held her hand out, palm up, smiling in apparent anticipation.
Shit, what did he know about kids? "Um…I'm sorry. Yes, it's a bad word. I was having a nightmare and it must have slipped out."
"You have to give me a quarter." She looked at her mother. "Or is fuckit a dollar word?"
"Oh, it's definitely a dollar word. But our guest didn't bring his money to breakfast. I'll get you a dollar later. It's time to eat."
The youngster smiled at him. "Mommy's making me happy pancakes."
Ryan, who was comfortable hiding in the jungle, trekking across the desert, or scaling a mountain, had never felt more out of his element than right now in this Mayberry kitchen. He turned, expecting Aunt Bea to wander in with a basket of fresh eggs.
"Sit down, please," Frankie said. "Juice is on the table."
Ryan pulled out his chair and sat. His orders were to stay low. Dalton was on his way. Meanwhile, he was starved, and when in Mayberry.…
Frankie opened the oven door, and using mitts shaped like chickens, pulled out a platter of pancakes. She set it on a padded mat, then slid into her seat at the other end of the table. She forked two pancakes onto her daughter's plate.
"Why don't you pass me your plate," she said to Ryan. "The platter is hot."
Ryan did as she asked, then gazed at three pancakes, each with two round eyes and a curved grin, staring up at him from his plate. His amusement must have shown, because Frankie laughed.
"Happy pancakes. It's one of my few specialties. All you do is start the eyes and mouth and let them brown a bit before you pour the rest of the batter. I'm not much of a cook."
The child was busy eating, with obvious gusto. For about five seconds, Ryan thought of what it might be like to have a family. He quashed the idea. These homespun moments were few and far between to begin with, and too many people he cared about were gone.
"These are good," he said around a mouthful of hot pancakes drenched in maple syrup. "Although I'm not used to my food staring at me."
Frankie chuckled. "I usually turn mine over before I eat them."
Molly pushed her empty plate to the center of the table. "I'm done. Can I watch cartoons?"
"After you brush your teeth. But only for a little while. We have to get Gramma soon."
Stuffed dog under her arm, she skipped out of the room.
Ryan turned the coffee mug in his fingers. "Thank you for last night."
"No problem." Frankie got up and cleared the dishes from the table.
When Frankie bent over to put the plates in the dishwasher, Ryan let his gaze linger on her round behind again. One look, he told himself. In a little while, he'd be out of here. No getting her involved.
The doorbell chimed. Frankie glanced at her wrist, a questioning expression on her face.
"That's probably my ride," he said. "I'll be out of your hair soon." He followed Frankie to the living room, feeling lighter than he had in weeks.
While she peered through the viewing pane, Ryan lifted a corner of the living room curtains. "That's him," he said.
Frankie nodded, and opened the door. He stepped out onto the porch, half-closing the door behind him. Dalton, wearing his standard off-duty attire of jeans, plaid wool shirt over a black turtleneck, and lightweight hiking boots, stood there, and Ryan felt a piece of his universe fit back into place. "Am I glad to see you."
Dalton clapped Ryan on the shoulder, then shook his head, grinned, and pulled him into a bear hug.
"You do have a way of getting into things, don’t you, pardner?"
Unexpectedly swamped by the concern in Dalton's drawl and the warmth of his embrace, it took Ryan a moment to find his voice. When he did, the words came out in a rush.
"Before anything else, I need to know about Pop. Can you get into the hospital, check on him? I don't think anyone knows I'm here, and the doctor last night said he didn't think it was serious, but—"
"But he's your daddy. I know. Calm down, and let's talk for a minute, okay?"
Frankie's footsteps approached. Ryan turned, wondering why he felt so protected now that she'd joined them. "Frankie, this is Dalton. He's come to take me off your hands. Thanks again for everything."
"Will you have a cup of coffee, Dalton?" she asked.
"That would be right kind, ma'am. Thanks. Black."
Ryan wasn't sure how to interpret the flop in his belly at Dalton's acceptance. Was it anxiety at the delay, or the way Dalton's
eyes had raked up and down Frankie's body?
"I'll be right back." Frankie popped inside like a woodchuck into its hole.
"What was that about?" Ryan demanded. "We need to get moving. This isn't a coffee klatch."
"Cool your jets, Harper. Is the lady in danger here?"
"No. Last night's accident was a fluke. Anyone following my routine wouldn't expect me to be driving until tonight. Otherwise, they would have come for me at the hospital." Ryan raked his fingers through his hair. "And it's Daniels, not Harper. Better for her not to know who I am."
"Daniels? Don't tell me. Jack."
He nodded. "That's what she called me. She knows it's not my name, but she seems willing to play along. At least, she hasn't asked any questions."
"Shadows in the night, like always. But I notice you gave her my name."
"Only half of it." Ryan grinned and punched Dalton's bicep. "Man, I've been going fucking nuts."
"That's another dollar, Jack." Frankie came out onto the porch, carrying a tray of coffee cups.
Ryan glanced through the doorway, but no blue-eyed strawberry-blonde appeared with her hand out. "Crap. I forgot. Sorry."
"That one's only a quarter."
"Pay the lady, Dalt." He shook his head at Dalton's quizzical expression. "House rules. There's a kid."
Dalton nodded. He pulled out his wallet and handed Frankie a ten. "I'm not sure we're going to be able to break old habits, ma'am. Consider this a retainer. Or maybe we should be going."
"Sit," Frankie said. She put the tray on the porch rail.
Dalton reached over, took a cup and settled onto a wooden bench. "Thank you." He took a sip, smiled at Frankie and balanced the cup on his thigh. "If you don't want anyone calling your daddy's room, we need to wait for morning rounds to be over before we check on him."
Ryan raised his eyebrows. Dalton was an expert at going anywhere, anytime, unnoticed. "I figured you'd put on some scrubs and blend right in."
Frankie said, "Mr. Dalton's right. This isn't a big city hospital. Everyone knows everyone else. A new doctor, or even an unfamiliar orderly would set off warning bells to the staff. Once the morning routine is over, you'll have a better chance of blending in as a visitor."
Dalton raised his coffee cup. "Score one for the little lady."
Ryan decided he did not like the way Frankie blushed with obvious pleasure as she returned Dalton's toast. "All right. You win. But we still need to find out what room Pop's in."
"Why can't you ask admitting?" Frankie said.
"I told them he was avoiding a vindictive ex-wife, not to put any calls through or give out his room. Of course, that includes me. I guess my brain stopped a few floors short of the penthouse last night."
Frankie looked from Dalton to him. Her eyes crinkled around the edges and one corner of her mouth turned up. "I might have an idea."
Chapter 6
Frankie watched Dalton cross the hospital parking lot toward her car, his long stride deliberate. Her nerves kicked into overdrive. She took a deep breath and tightened her ponytail.
Dalton tapped on the window. "You're up, little lady. It's carnations, with red and white heart balloons. You remember what to say?"
As if she hadn't been rehearsing it for the last twenty minutes. "Got it." She opened the car door and slipped out. "Come on, Molly. Remember, quiet—"
"As a mouse. I know, I know. No running, inside voices." She climbed out of the car, Mr. Snuggles tucked under one arm. "Can I bring my book?"
"Sure. Maybe Gramma wants to hear it." For the ten millionth time.
"Piece of cake, right?" Dalton raised his fist, and Frankie tapped her knuckles against his.
"Piece of cake," Molly echoed.
Dalton smiled and tweaked Molly's nose before heading to his car, where Ryan waited.
Inside the hospital, Frankie, Molly dutifully in tow, went to the third floor and pushed open the door to her mother's room.
Molly darted inside, then stopped, apparently remembering the ground rules. "Hi, Gramma. Are you all better?"
"I am, Peanut. Come give me a kiss."
Molly tiptoed to the side of the bed and clutched the bedrail. "I brought Green Eggs and Ham."
"That's good. Did you bring me clean clothes?"
"Mommy has them."
Frankie leaned over and kissed her mother's cheek. "And your toothbrush. The doctor said you can go home, but he wants you to follow up with Dr. Sedgewick as soon as possible. He'll have your test results sent over."
"Such a fuss over nothing." Her mother peeked into the plastic bag Frankie handed her. She pulled out the red polar fleece blazer, then frowned. "Where's the elephant pin? I know I always leave it on the lapel."
"That's the way it was in the closet. You probably took it off when you had it cleaned and forgot to put it back."
She shrugged. "Maybe you're right. Maybe my head is full of empty after all."
"I'm sure it'll be on your dresser, or in your jewelry box," Frankie said. She looked toward the door. "I'll be back in a couple of minutes, Mom. I think I saw the mother of one of my kids down the hall. I should say hello. Molly, you stay with Gramma, okay?"
Her mother frowned. "I told you Bob was coming to get me."
"Why don't you call Bob and tell him not to bother? I'm here, and no need for him to make an extra trip." Not waiting for an answer, Frankie walked down the corridor, keeping her stride as purposeful as she could. At each door, she paused and peeked through the viewing pane.
Near the end of the hall, she found what she was looking for. The huge floral arrangement, topped with big red and white heart-shaped balloons. She couldn't remember which television show she'd seen the ploy on, but Dalton had gone to the gift shop and bought the arrangement, asking the hospital to deliver it to Mr. Daniels. She inched the door open and edged inside.
A man, his skin creased with years of exposure to the sun, sat up in bed watching television. White hair tousled in a serious case of bed-head lent him an endearing quality, and Frankie saw a little of Jack around the eyes. She closed the door and crossed to his bed.
"Mornin'," he said. "You don't look like you're going to poke me, or is the no-uniform look supposed to catch me off guard?"
"No, I'm not a nurse or anything like that. Are you Mr. Daniels?"
The man studied her for a moment. "Might be. Who wants to know?"
"Your son. You were in a car crash, right?"
He eyed her, still wary. "How about you tell me who you are, and why you're here, first?"
She nodded. Jack had made it very clear what she was supposed to say. "My name's Frankie. Your son, who's calling himself Jack Daniels at the moment, came with you last night. There was a car crash, an explosion. He can't come up himself because someone might think it was him in the crash, and he'd like them to go on thinking that. The ER doctor said he'd go along with it, which is why you're supposed to be Mr. Daniels." The man's expression didn't change. She recited her final line. "He said to tell you he's glad you're not moving to Albuquerque."
Concern replaced wariness. "How is he?"
"He's fine. Worried, though. My mom's being discharged this morning, and I said I'd check on you while I was here."
"Tell him I'm all right. It takes more than a bump on my head to put me down." He tapped his forehead and grinned. "Hard as a rock."
"He'll be relieved. Do you need him to send someone for you?"
"I'm here one more day, they said, and no. I got along without him for ten years. I can swing another day or two. Got plenty of my own friends."
"I'm glad you're all right, sir. I'll tell…Jack."
He looked at her for half a moment, then back at the television.
Frankie stepped into the hall and turned on her cell phone to call Dalton. She frowned at the display when there was no signal. Well, she'd be downstairs in a few minutes. Jack could wait a little longer for his good news. She put the phone back in her purse.
As she walked back to her mother's
room, she wondered what would have kept Jack from his father for ten years. But then, she'd hardly seen her mother since leaving Broken Bow for college. Frankie shook off the old memories. She'd done what needed to be done, gotten her degree, a job, and the best daughter on the planet.
By the time she got back to her mother's room, Mom was dressed, sitting on the bed with Mr. Snuggles in her lap, listening to Molly read Green Eggs and Ham. Bob sat in the visitor's chair, a bouquet of flowers across his thighs.
"Good morning, Frankie," he said. "I can take it from here. We're waiting for the official wheelchair escort."
*****
Crouched low in Dalton's car in the hospital parking lot, Ryan struggled to control his anxiety about his father. He checked his watch. Had Dalton only been gone seventeen minutes?
Last night, Wolf had found Pop, unconscious, a good twenty feet from the car. In that frantic eternity while he had waited for the paramedics, his father drifting in and out of consciousness, his training had kicked in. He told the cops his father had swerved to avoid a deer, and about the flammables in the trunk. They'd filed their report, and arranged for the wreckage to be towed to Josh's place. Wolf, he'd ordered home. The dog had refused to leave, staying at Pop's side until both men were loaded into the ambulance. Then he'd seen him trotting toward the ranch, where Ryan knew he would find food and water.
He'd done everything by the book last night. Talking to Pop, keeping him calm had been the glue that held him together. Until they got to the hospital and the doctors took charge, when every iota of control shattered, and he'd been at the mercy of a cocktail waitress with hair the color of honey and a smile that almost made the world right.
The way Dalton grinned at Frankie sent his hackles up. He reminded himself that Dalton's charm was an ingrained part of his personality, and the way he made people feel at ease was an asset to the team. He was this nice to everyone. Which didn't make him feel better. Neither did the knuckle tap Dalton and Frankie had exchanged before she and her daughter headed toward the hospital entrance.