TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT

by Sharon Mignerey

  The man had a life away from here, not to mention his own family problems. That didn't mean he was right about hers.

  As Rosie played with Annmarie, Ian's accusations rang in her ears. He couldn't be right. She'd done all the things she was supposed to do to take control of her life again.

  Press charges … which were dropped when there wasn't enough evidence to prosecute.

  Get therapy, which she had done until it seemed nothing more could be said.

  Enroll in a self-defense class to help her feel empowered and less a victim.

  Take charge of her life. Lily had invited her to move in with her and John, but Rosie knew that would have kept her stuck in the old habits, unable to open the door without fearing who she'd see on the other side. When she had found the newspaper ad for a small nursery on a tiny island less than a hundred miles from her folks' home, she had packed up and moved. She hadn't missed anything about the Silicon Valley … except for her sister. As children, they'd been so close, often excluding Dahlia who wanted to be like her oldest sister and who battled Rosie for Lily's attention. Rosie had moved to the Silicon Valley to be close to Lily, and leaving was one of the hardest things she had ever done.

  In the solitude and safety of her beloved island home, Rosie had built a new life where fear no longer ruled her. Uncle Ross had carved a totem and blessed it with an ancient ceremony that invited prosperity and warded off evil. The totem had become a talisman for her work, which she loved. She gave back to the community by volunteering with the search-and-rescue team and teaching first aid at the community college.

  She hadn't been running. She had been healing.

  Ian … he couldn't possibly be right.

  "Come on, Aunt Rosie," Annmarie called from farther up the slope. She clambered across one of the boulders and put her arms in the air. "I'm way high, aren't I?"

  Rosie swung her off the rock and laughed when Annmarie squealed with delight. The instant the child was on the ground, she was off and running again, expending all the energy she had stored up on their long rainy days. Rosie gave herself to the play even as she was aware of Ian walking away from her.

  He was wrong, she thought. If she spent her time mostly alone, it was because she liked it that way. Not because she was hiding. She had stayed away from California because she couldn't deal with the endless traffic and the constant bustle and the not-so-benign strangers that were part of living there. If not for that, she would have been part of Annmarie's and Lily's life.

  Ian's harsh assessment seeped through her, though, feeding doubts that she hadn't even realized she had. She had been so sure her fear after the rape was what kept her away from California. Being away from Lily, not seeing Annmarie grow—that wasn't how she had wanted things to be.

  And as she played with Annmarie, Rosie ached for all that she had lost, remembering that she had planned to be the favorite aunt. If she wasn't, she had no one to blame but herself. They played hide-and-seek around the large boulders that dotted the sloping meadow, their laughter ringing out.

  "You can't catch me," Annmarie challenged, disappearing behind a rock.

  Rosie came around the opposite side, laughing with her. "Here I come."

  She stumbled across an exposed root and lost her balance. She threw out her hands to catch her balance but fell, anyway.

  Dumbly she stared at the soggy opening beneath the tree root, which looked ever more red. She couldn't believe that she'd been stupid enough or clumsy enough to fall.

  Her scalp felt sticky and warm, and she reached up to touch it. Excruciating pain shot through her arm and shoulder…

  She cried out.

  Annmarie screamed.

  The red haze in front of Rosie's eyes turned to black as she struggled to reassure Annmarie. Vaguely Rosie wondered who would rescue her, when she was the rescuer.

  * * *

  At first, the scream didn't register with Ian, who had leaned against a boulder as he watched the water lap against the shore. The vistas ahead of him looked more like a mountain lake than the ocean. Except in the distance, he had watched a pod of killer whales swim past.

  When he realized the depth and distress of Annmarie's cry, he ran back up the shoreline. He didn't see her … or Rosie … anywhere, and his alarm increased.

  He called to Annmarie, but she didn't answer.

  Finally he saw her behind one of the boulders. Giant sobs shook her shoulders, and she continued to scream.

  And then he saw Rosie. She lay on the ground, caught in a tangle of roots from one of the trees that grew farther up the slope. Her arm was thrust out at an awkward angle. Blood trailed down the side of her head. Sly stood over her, sniffing.

  Ian felt his heart stop, then resume double-time.

  "My God." He knelt, pressing his fingers to the artery just below her jaw. A rush of relief flowed through him when he finally found her pulse. He leaned over her and saw that her eyes were open. "Rosie, can you hear me?"

  She blinked but didn't respond.

  His first instinct was to simply pick her up and return to the boat as fast as he could. But what if her back was injured? And where the hell was all this blood coming from?

  The next few seconds blurred together. He found the wound on her head, a deep jagged cut behind her ear. It seeped blood with every beat of her heart. Head wounds were always the worst—so much blood.

  Annmarie continued to cry. Ian cupped her cheek with his palm. "Rosie is gonna be okay," he said. She had to be. Nothing else was acceptable.

  He rummaged through the pockets of the jacket, wanting anything to make a pressure bandage. Nothing. The blood kept pooling, then trickling down her neck. He tore off his jacket and pulled off the long-sleeved T-shirt he wore and made a pressure bandage out of it, using the sleeves to secure it firmly around her head.

  The instant he touched her arm, she groaned. Getting her untangled from the roots—he didn't know how he was going to do that without moving her. And before he did that he knew he had to make sure she didn't have a spinal injury. Think!

  He glanced down at Annmarie, who had plopped onto the ground next to Sly, running her fingers through his ruff, huge tears soaking her face, sobs shaking her shoulders.

  "C'mere," he said gruffly, scooping her up and hugging her tight. "Rosie is going to be okay."

  Annmarie shook her head.

  "I wouldn't lie to you." He pressed a kiss against her silky curls, then lifted her face. "Honest, petunia. We're a team, you and me. We'll figure this out, too."

  He set Annmarie down next to Rosie. She was so pale. He touched her cheek to reassure her, and his hand trembled. He'd been in combat situations that were much more grim, much more dangerous—had even been wounded in one. But he'd never felt this helpless.

  Deciding the roots were small enough he could hack through them with blades from his Leatherman, he pulled it out of his pocket and opened it to the blade he wanted.

  "You're my partner, right, petunia?" he said to Annmarie.

  "I keep telling you," she said, hiccupping. "I'm not a flower."

  "But you are my partner."

  She nodded.

  "While I'm getting her arm loose, I need you to talk to her. Okay?"

  Annmarie looked up at him. "I don't know what to say."

  "Anything, petunia." The accident was his fault. If he hadn't yelled at Rosie, taking his own frustrations out on her in a misguided attempt to help, he would have been there playing with her and Annmarie. She wouldn't have run from him.

  Annmarie wiped her eyes and took Rosie's hand. "Once upon a time," she began, "there were three bears." She sniffed, but with each sentence her voice grew stronger. Ian couldn't determine if Rosie was listening or not, but his objective was accomplished—Annmarie was no longer screaming, and she felt as if she was helping.

  "You're doing great, petunia," he said when she paused.

  The roots imprisoning Rosie's arm were tough. He began to wonder if he shouldn't have returned to the boat to lo
ok for a hacksaw, when he finally cut through the largest one.

  "…and then baby bear said—" Annmarie sniffed. "I think I'm going to cry again," she whispered.

  Ian touched her head. "Okay. But I still need your help."

  "Okay," she sniffed. "Aunt Rosie's hand is cold."

  Shock. He draped his jacket over her, then checked his makeshift bandage, which looked as if it was doing the job. She was still bleeding, but not as much.

  A breeze swept off the water, feeling cold against Ian's bare chest and carrying the scent of rain. He glanced up and saw their sunshiny day had been short-lived. Rain was indeed on its way once again.

  He began cutting through the root holding Rosie's wrist. She cried out. Ian stopped and knelt next to her. Her eyes were closed, but tears welled from beneath them.

  "Rosie?"

  She tried to move.

  "Stay still," Ian commanded

  "Hurts." she said. "Rock … digging into my cheek."

  Ian slipped a finger between her face and the unforgiving stone. Beneath her cheek, he found the sharp rock and swept it away.

  Rosie shuddered suddenly, and her teeth began to chatter.

  "I'll have you out of here in just a minute," he promised.

  "You and what army?" she returned. Her whisper broke.

  It was a pitiful attempt at humor, but he squeezed her hand. "Rangers lead the way."

  "I really want to get up," she whispered.

  "In a minute." Each cut at the roots made her wince. Finally one gave way, and her arm flopped to the ground.

  Rosie cried out. The pain of it cut Ian to the quick. Her shoulder protruded. Dislocated. He couldn't do anything about it with her lying on the ground in so awkward a place.

  "Can you move your feet?" he asked.

  She flexed them, then her fingers and toes, each move offering reassurance that she didn't have a spinal injury.

  Beads of sweat popped out on Rosie's forehead, even as her teeth continued to chatter. "D-d-don't mind me. It's just shock."

  "Just," Ian muttered. He remembered enough from his own first aid training in the army to know that shock could kill.

  Gently he eased her into a sitting position. When she saw Annmarie, she tried to smile.

  "It's okay, sweetie."

  "It's not." Annmarie shook her head, and her lower lip trembled while huge tears continued to well from her eyes. "But, Mr. Ian is going to make it better. He promised."

  Now that Rosie was sitting up, the angle of her arm worried him even more. Again, improvising, he pulled her good arm out of the sleeve of her knit jacket and used the sleeve to tie her other arm against her torso and hold it immobile. Each movement clearly caused her pain, and with each groan Annmarie cried and squeezed Rosie's hand and told her things would be okay.

  When he was finished, Rosie slumped against him. He rested his cheek against the top of her head for a second and contemplated the quarter mile of rocky beach that had to be covered to get back to the boat.

  "Ready to go?" he asked, once again wrapping his jacket around her.

  She nodded.

  He put one hand beneath her knees and the other hand under her back and lifted her across his lap. Then he stood and anchored her more firmly against his chest.

  "I can walk, macho man," she whispered, her breath hot against the bare skin of his neck.

  "I'm sure you can." He didn't put her down, though. Who knew how much blood she had lost? At least she was conscious. He couldn't deny the boulder-size lump that rose in his throat. Somehow he dredged up a smile. "I'm going to take you back to the boat, and then we're going to play doctor."

  She raised that eyebrow, the way she did when she was sometimes angry. "You could be in for a disappointment."

  He swallowed the lump. "A man can live in hope." He looked back at Annmarie. "Come on, petunia. I'm going to need a nurse, and you're it."

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  « ^ »

  The instant they were onboard, Annmarie ran through the boat heading for the galley, while the dog stayed close to Ian. He took Rosie to the salon and set her on the couch next to the helm. Sly crowded close, reassured only after Rosie patted his head.

  Ian had no doubt they'd be needing far more skilled medical help than he could provide, and he wanted her where he could keep an eye on her, which he couldn't do if he took her down to her bed. The dog moved out of the way only when Ian wrapped the blanket that Rosie had slept under the night before around her.

  "Here, Mr. Ian." Annmarie came back toward him, lugging a large case with the bright logo of a first aid kit. "Aunt Rosie showed me this. It has bandages and all kinds of stuff."

  "Good job, petunia"

  Ian opened the case, and a fast inventory showed it to be as nearly complete as anything a medic carried.

  Blood had begun to trickle from beneath his makeshift bandage. The instant he pulled it away, the trickle increased to a flow, running down her neck. Cursing under his breath that he hadn't done better, he tore the wrapping off a gauze pad and pressed it against the wound.

  She didn't resist as he anchored her head against his chest, though her breathing remained ragged. In that same moment he realized he was trembling.

  "Are you cold, Mr. Ian?" Annmarie asked. "I can get you a shirt."

  As much to reassure himself as her, he tousled her hair. "You think of everything, don't you?"

  She cast her aunt a worried glance. "Aunt Rosie fell because she was chasing me." Annmarie's lip trembled. "But we were playing. I didn't mean for anything bad to happen."

  "Hey, you." He waited until she raised her tear-filled eyes toward him. "You didn't do anything wrong. It was an accident. That's all."

  She took a step closer, looking small and fragile and hitting him in the gut with how good she had been no matter what happened. She wasn't even five yet, and today's accident should have been the absolute worst that she experienced as a child. If he had the power, when this was over, he'd make sure the biggest worry she had for the next year was whether to play inside or out.

  He gathered her close with his free arm. "You've been very brave. Your mom would be so proud of you."

  "Rosie, she's not going to—" Annmarie's voice faded to a whisper "—die. Like my daddy."

  "I promise you, she's not." He held the two of them a moment longer, child and woman. Deep, fierce longing stole through him, clogging his throat. He knew to the depths of his soul this was what family felt like … and the magnitude with which he wanted it in a forever kind of way shook him. With sudden clarity, he understood how Lily felt despite the optimistic face she portrayed to the world. She had trusted him to keep her family safe, and so far he had barely passed muster.

  He cleared his throat. "There are shirts in the top drawer of the dresser."

  Annmarie drew back, then planted a kiss on her aunt's cheek. "I can get that." She headed toward the doorway that led to the stairs going down to his berth. "Come on, Sly," she called. "You can help me look."

  Tail wagging, the dog followed her.

  Against his chest, Rosie muttered something about her shoulder.

  "One thing at a time." He stuffed a cushion behind her to give her back additional support. "Let's get the bleeding stopped first."

  This time, when he lifted the pressure bandage to peek underneath, the bleeding had slowed. He lowered the bandage back down and pressed again. A second later Annmarie returned with a black T-shirt and handed it to him before crawling onto the couch on the other side. He pulled the shirt over his head and was vaguely surprised when he felt warmer, since he hadn't been aware of being cold at all.

  "I want to help, too," she announced.

  "Water," Rosie whispered.

  "Good idea," Ian said.

  "I can get it." Annmarie slipped off the couch and ran toward the galley.

  "Mike will kill me if I get blood all over his couch."

  "I'll buy him a new one if you do." When Annmarie returned with a glass
of water, Ian said, "Remember how I told you we were partners?"

  She nodded as Ian held the glass against Rosie's lips. She took only a few sips before laying her head back.

  "Well, I need a washcloth and a towel and a bowl of warm water."

  "Soap, too?" Annmarie asked.

  "Sure."

  Her small face pursed in concentration, she made three trips, bringing Ian everything he asked for. With the last trip, she walked slowly, carrying a bowl of water filled to the brim.

  He set the bowl on the table with a murmured thanks.

  She climbed up next to Rosie, intently watching every move he made. He explained everything he was doing, and in turn she repeated what he said to Rosie, adding her own interpretations that would have made him smile under any other circumstances. He washed away the blood around the wound and pulled it together with butterfly bandages, surprised they worked so well.

  Carefully he cleaned as much blood from Rosie's hair and neck as he could reach, noticing details he hadn't taken the time to appreciate in his haze of desire last night. The silky texture of her hair and the way the curls feathered at her hairline. The satiny softness of her skin. The fragile curve of her neck at her nape.

  And he would have given everything he owned to be touching her in the act of love instead of taking care of injuries that he blamed himself for. When he was finished, he gently set her head against the couch, rearranging the pillow so it better supported her.

  From the set of her mouth, he knew that she was in a lot of pain. Based on his observations from the one other time he'd seen a shoulder dislocated, he knew it wouldn't get better until the bone of her upper arm was returned to its proper alignment in the shoulder socket.

  He sat back on his heels in front of the couch and glanced at Rosie. "We're about at the end of my expertise. What do we need to do about your shoulder?"

  "Did you ever reduce one?"

  "Put it back in, you mean?" He shook his head. "I watched our medic do one once." He couldn't imagine laying Rosie down and putting the heel of his foot into her armpit and then pulling on her arm. Somehow that seemed worse than the injury.