by Paty Jager
“Everything is ready. I’ll get our patient.” She stepped into the room.
“And the prince and princess lived happily ever after.” Clay’s soothing voice ended the story. His large arm curled around the child’s body, cradling her next to his side. Sylvie held his other hand, playing with his fingers. The soft smile on his lips knotted Rachel’s throat and wrapped her heart in a blanket of warmth. She swallowed the lump and walked to the bed.
“Sylvie, we’re ready.”
The child clung to Clay.
“It’s okay, Sylvie,” Clay said. “Dr. Tarkiel and Mr. Smith worked on me yesterday and I’m still alive.”
Though the chuckle in his voice was lost on the child, it made Rachel smile. Clay patted Sylvie’s head, and she wrapped her small arms around his neck.
“You want me to come with you?” he asked, his hand still resting on her small head. She nodded. “Okay—”
“It isn’t a good idea for you—” Rachel cut off her words when Clay locked her in a glare.
He swung his uninjured leg over the edge of the bed, dragged the heavy cast across the mattress, and placed it on the floor, wincing. He clutched the child to his chest and stood. They both wobbled.
“Mr. Smith!” Rachel stepped to Clay’s side, grasping a solid arm and holding his body in an upright position. The handyman dashed through the door and gripped Clay’s other arm.
“Sylvie won’t let me help her without Mr. Halsey. We need to get them both into the other room.”
The handyman rolled his eyes and shook his head. He placed an arm around Clay’s shoulders and helped steady the two as they shuffled into the main room.
Clay held the child and pushed his aching body across the floor. He’d had little experience with children, but he found the last hour or so holding Sylvie and telling her stories brought happiness to him unlike anything he’d yet experienced. Her thin arms gripping his neck and the patter of her heart against his chest spurred a wish to have children of his own—a wish he’d all but given up on. He’d assumed when he became blind he’d never be a father. But maybe—just maybe he could. The thought seeped in and started to take root. Being blind would make fatherhood a challenge, but he’d protect anyone he loved with the same fierceness he’d displayed before he lost his sight.
His leg ached, his bruised body ached, but he wouldn’t let this child down. A hip high table bumped against him.
Clay set Sylvie down and removed her arms from his neck. “I’ll sit right here and hold your hand.”
Something touched the back of his knees. He hoped it was a chair, because his weak body wasn’t going to hold him up much longer. Perspiration cooled his forehead. He wiped it with his free hand and sat down. “Thank you,” he whispered at the flutter of cloth against his bare arm. Citrus filled his senses.
“You’re welcome.”
Rachel’s quiet reply eased some of his pain and curved his lips in a smile. Maybe she’d forgiven him for pulling her onto his bed.
“Sylvie, relax, honey, and just breathe in and out.”
Rachel’s soft melodious tone reminded Clay of his mother’s voice soothing him when he was ill.
The child’s hand slowly relaxed in his. He listened to the sound of Rachel’s even breathing, the rustle of her skirt, and the clink of instruments as she worked. A sweet scent mixed with Rachel’s lemon aura. His eyes grew heavy.
“Mr. Smith, you may remove the cloth and help Mr. Halsey to the other room.”
The authoritative tone shook Clay awake. “I have to be here when she wakes up.” He tightened his grip on the child’s hand. A Halsey always kept a promise.
“Mr. Smith will help you to the commode in the other room. While you are using the facilities, we can move the beds together, and you can hold her hand until she wakes. But I want you back in bed. You aren’t well enough to remain up for long periods.”
Jasper’s rough hand gripped his arm, lifting him from the chair.
“Doc, it ain’t proper him wanderin’ around with no clothes.”
“Once you get him settled on the commode, run out to his cottage and bring him back a n-nightshirt.”
Clay grinned at her stutter. The practical, efficient doctor appeared flustered talking about night clothes. It was comical considering what he wore at the moment.
“I don’t own one,” Clay said, raising an eyebrow and enjoying the fact his comment would fluster her.
“H-how—what do you sleep in?”
The rise in her voice tickled him. “My drawers.”
“Well, then, bring him a fresh set, tops and bottoms.”
“Doc, it ain’t proper for me to rummage through his things. Mrs. White, she don’t like me messin’ with nothin’ that ain’t mine.” The reluctance in Jasper’s voice rang like a church bell at a funeral.
“I might need Jasper.” Clay faced the direction Rachel’s voice sounded. “You have my permission to find me some clothes you deem decent.”
Jasper pulled him away from the table. He didn’t like having to lean on the man, but his strength had faded considerably. The trek back through the door to the room with his cot had to be a mile or better. That’s what it felt like the way his good leg shook and the bad leg throbbed.
“Pull down your drawers and sit.” Jasper’s gruff impersonal tone didn’t help his confusion.
“What are you talking about?”
“The commode’s behind you. Sit and you know…” The man’s steps retreated.
“Hey, I’m not sitting in the middle of the room am I?” He might want to get personal with the good doctor, but having her walk in on him in this state wasn’t what he had in mind.
“Yer behind a screen. If ya hurry she won’t come in afore yer done.”
Chapter 10
Rachel didn’t care for the idea of going through Clay’s personals, but she also knew if Mrs. White or anyone else caught the handyman going through a student’s things he’d lose his job. She pressed her shoulders back and walked out of the infirmary, leaving Mr. Smith to watch over her patients.
The gravel crunched under her feet intensifying her already strung nerves as she walked to the cottage Clay shared with Mr. Smith. She stepped into Clay’s side of the cottage.
The wool jacket he’d worn the first day hung on a peg along with the wool trousers. A comb, toothbrush and powder, straight razor, strap, and shave soap lay in a perfect line atop the bureau beside a photograph of five men, a petite woman, and a boy of about twelve or thirteen. She held the shave soap to her nose, inhaling the spicy scent, and studied the photograph. The smallest of the men and the woman held hands in the middle of the group. A boy stood beside the woman and two men flanked both sides. Clay stood alongside a man slightly taller than he. The amiable smile he aimed at the photographer she’d only witnessed once. The brightness in his eyes she’d never see. Her heart longed to know the man he was before losing his sight. Would he have accepted her, scar and all?
The scent of the soap trickled through her musings, reminding her of the man and why she’d entered his room. She glanced down at the personal items again. He might like these. She scooped the toiletries into her apron pocket.
Her gaze lingered on the wide bed. She could visualize his large frame sprawled across the mattress. His shoulders filling the whole cot in the infirmary came to mind. The only way for two to sleep on the small bed would be for her to sleep on top of him. Her cheeks heated, shooting a rush of flames to her extremities.
She fanned her face and pulled open the bureau drawer. Mrs. White sleeping in the infirmary would be a good option considering the way Rachel’s body responded to Clay. She ran her hands over the neatly folded flannel shirts. Three. Two pair of denim work pants lay beside the shirts. She opened the next drawer. Dark wool socks were stacked in between one set of full body long johns and two sets of underdrawers.
Rachel grabbed a pair of socks, one pair of underdrawers, opened the top drawer and grabbed a flannel shirt. She shoved the drawer c
losed. Something in the drawer slid and thumped. She reopened the drawer and reached under the clothing. Her fingertips brushed the binding of a book. The scuffed brown leather cover of the small journal showed wear.
She shouldn’t peek inside, but she longed to know everything about Clay.
Opening the book, she stared at neatly printed block words, numbers, and line drawings. A third of the book held mechanical diagrams and descriptions. What had he been trying to build when he lost his sight?
A bird squawked, and she slapped the book shut, slipping it back under his clothing. She gathered the items and hurried back to the infirmary.
Mr. Smith had moved Sylvie onto a cot. Clay wasn’t in sight. “Got him cleaned up and waitin’ for his clothes.” The man took the garments from her arms and disappeared behind the screen.
She hastened to the restless child waking from the chloroform. “Shh, Sylvie. Lie still, you’re going to be fine.”
A clatter of dishes in the other room popped her to her feet, and she rushed to see who’d arrived. Mrs. Daniels stood next to the examining table. Steam curled up from a large platter of dishes sitting on the table.
“I brought the food you asked for. How is that dear child, Sylvie?”
The older woman had cooked for the school longer than any of the current staff had been in residence. Her shoulders hunched slightly and her short carriage appeared frail. Guilt assaulted Rachel over the woman carrying such a large heavy platter.
“She’s on the mend. But I have to find out what is causing her rash.” Rachel motioned to the door. “You can go see her as soon as Mr. Smith gets Mr. Halsey settled in bed.”
The handyman stepped out of the room. “He’s in bed and holdin’ the child’s hand.”
“Thank you for all your help Mr. Smith. I don’t know how I’d handle Mr. Halsey without you.” Rachel crossed the room and smiled up at the man. “I have one more favor. I need to keep Sylvie here for another night or two. Could you bring a cot into this room for me to use?”
He stared at her a moment, and then nodded.
“Thank you.” The farther away from Clay she slept the better. She was intrigued by the way her body responded to him, but she had to keep a professional distance. The handyman shuffled out the door, and Mrs. Daniels picked up the tray.
“Let me get that. You go on ahead and see Sylvie.” Rachel smiled and eased the tray away from the woman. She followed the cook into the room. Her heart rammed against her ribs and air whooshed between her lips.
Clay sat up in bed, one flannel clad arm stretched out, and his large hand held Sylvie’s small one. The smile on the child’s face was infectious. Sylvie grinned from ear to ear as if the two shared a private joke. Rachel’s gaze returned to Clay. The two day stubble darkening his face, his crooked nose, and the arch of one brow gave him an intimidating appearance, contradicting the gentle way he held Sylvie’s hand.
“Dear, how are you feeling?” Mrs. Daniels asked, nearing the child’s bed.
“Like I was thrown in front of a train.”
Clay’s comment stopped the cook. She glanced at him, a smile cracking her thin face.
“You don’t look like it, Mr. Halsey.” Mrs. Daniels snickered and patted Sylvie’s left hand. “I brought you some broth, and when you’re feeling up to swallowing more, I’ll have some fresh cookies.”
“I can swallow fine.” The laugh lines around his eyes crinkled.
“You, sir, will get cookies when you learn to mind your manners. You know full well I’m talking to Sylvie.” Mrs. Daniels’s voice chastised, but she winked at Rachel.
Rachel glanced at Clay’s crestfallen expression and slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the giggle bubbling.
“I have your breakfast, Mr. Halsey.” Rachel set the tray on the chair beside Clay’s bed.
“Real food, not just broth?” The longing in his voice made her smile.
“Real food.” She picked up the plate. “Hold out your hands.” He complied, and she placed the plate on them.
Clay settled the warm plate on his lap and raised his right hand for an eating utensil. A cold metal object met his palm. Rachel’s warm slender fingers wrapped around his fist.
“Scrambled eggs at three. Ham, already cut into bite sized pieces, at six. Bread at nine.” She moved his hand around the plate as she spoke. Her firm but gentle hold launched visions of her gripping another part of him and jolted his senses like a jab with a hot pitchfork. He jerked, and she released his hand. He resisted the urge to find her hand and draw it back.
“Thank you.” He stabbed at the ham. She remained near, and her citrus scent played tag with his already inflamed desire. He’d hated to wash when Jasper handed him a rag and soap earlier. Her scent had remained on his skin from sleeping on him. He’d dozed off and on while she slept sprawled across him as if he were a mattress and not an aroused male.
He shoved food in his mouth to refrain from speaking. He hadn’t heard the cook leave, and talking intimately with Rachel while the child was present wouldn’t be a good idea. But they would have to talk.
Skirts rustled. “Here you go, Sylvie. Let’s prop you up and I’ll feed you the broth with a spoon. Small amounts at a time would be best for your throat.”
Rachel’s soft voice laced with authority made him smile.
“Doc Tarkiel?” Donny called from another room.
“In here,” Rachel’s voice sang out. Clay smiled. Even when she raised her voice it flowed like a sweet song.
The cadence of Donny’s hesitant gait entered the room.
“How’s Clay?” Donny asked, his voice a bit shaky.
“I’m fine. Soon as I finish eating, I want to continue reading.” Lazy footsteps approached his bed.
“Donny, don’t sit in that chair.” Mrs. Daniels said. Hurried, ratta-tapping steps rounded the end of Clay’s bed and stopped. Dishes rattled. “Now you can sit.”
“What’d you do to break a leg?” Donny’s tone held uncensored boredom mixed with curiosity.
“I fell off the shed roof.” Clay took a bite of the mushy eggs. He hated mushy eggs, but that seemed to be all they served here.
“How’d you get up there?”
The awe in the boy’s voice lodged the bite in Clay’s throat. He coughed and managed to swallow.
“By being stupid.”
A snicker drifted from his left. The pitch and feminine tone was Rachel’s.
“What’s so amusing, Dr. Tarkiel?”
“I find it amusing that you would readily admit to being stupid. Which I find quite accurate in this instance.”
The lilt of her words brought a smile to his face.
“It takes a big man to admit when he’s done something wrong.”
Clay’s dimple tugged on his cheek from the huge grin he sported. Someone other than Rachel coughed. He released his aching facial muscles and finished the food on his plate.
“I’ll take that, Mr. Halsey,” Mrs. Daniels said near his head. He raised the plate, and someone snatched it from his hands. “Would you like coffee, water, or milk?” the cook asked.
“Coffee.”
A warm object weighed down his outstretched palm. He slid his fingers up the side and found the handle of a coffee mug.
A spoon clattered to his left. “Mrs. Daniels, could you sit with these three for a while? I need to change clothes and consult with Dr. Runkle about Sylvie’s condition.”
“I still have dishes to wash and the midday meal to prepare.” Dishes clattered and the cook’s tapping gait faded.
Rachel’s sigh whispered through the room. “Donny, would you go find Mrs. White? I must visit with Dr. Runkle. She’ll have to keep an eye on you three while I’m gone.”
“Aww, does it have to be her?”
Donny’s attitude matched Clay’s sentiments. Anyone but the matron. He didn’t like her high-handed tactics or her attitude toward Jasper.
“I’m sorry, but she’s the only other staff available.”
So
mething heavy and square plopped on Clay’s lap. He flinched and jerked his injured leg. Pain shot from his ankle to his hip. “Wha—”
“Here, hold the books while I go look for her.” The chair scraped the floor. Donny’s lazy gait faded from the room.
“Are you okay?” Rachel’s smooth gentle hands whisked the hair from his forehead.
“Just a twinge when the brat dumped the books on my lap.” He’d get even with the kid. Her hand drifted down his face. Her intake of breath and hastily withdrawn hand accelerated his heart. Did he affect her as she did him?
“I-I’m going to step behind the screen. T-to clean up and change,” Rachel stammered. “You two tell stories.”
He could tell a story and still strain to hear her every move. Her footsteps retreated from the room, and then hurried back.
“You can start talking any time,” she ordered, and Clay chuckled.
He cleared his throat. “So Sylvie, do you want a tale about a fierce dragon?” He slid his hand up the child’s arm to her face, cupping the small head in his hand. Her soft curls rubbed his palm as she shook her head. He laughed. “I guess that means another girl story.”
A faint snicker drifted from the corner. “You take too much delight in me telling girl stories,” he said to the corner of the room.
“I think it’s telling that your mother of five boys took it upon herself to tell you all stories and not just ones about dragons and knights.”
The splash of water meant she had her dress off. What part of her body could she be washing? What would it feel like to aid her in undressing? Run his hands over her soft skin? Heat pooled in his gut.
Sylvie pulled on his hand. He cleared his throat and pushed the lustful thoughts aside.
“Once upon a time there was a girl named Cinderella…” He told the story, making up what he couldn’t remember. His ears strained to hear Rachel’s movements, but the click of the matron’s footsteps caught his attention first.
“Hurry, that huffy matron is coming,” he whispered loud enough for Rachel to hear.
Footsteps approached. The odd click of Mrs. White’s shoes and the adolescent shuffle of Donny entered the other room.