Annmarie retrieved the first aid book out of the kit and thrust it into his hands. "What does the book say about broken shoulders?"
She leaned over his knee, looking at the pictures while he read a brief description, which warned about the dangers of reducing dislocated joints and the necessity for immediate medical treatment.
Which meant he had to get her to a hospital. He retrieved the chart book from the drawer by the wheel and flipped through it, discovering what he already knew—they weren't close to anywhere. Juneau was closest. Based on his experience with their travel so far, he figured they were a good eight or twelve hours away. He could only imagine the swelling that would take place around the joint in that length of time.
Rosie didn't say anything more, and she had closed her eyes. Ian glanced at the radio, knowing that he had put off calling for help long enough. He picked up the transmitter, pressed the send button and put a call out to Hilda.
At that, Rosie's eyes opened. "…hiding. Remember?"
"I remember."
She shook her head. "I'll tell you what to do."
"And I'd like a second opinion," he returned.
The radio crackled to life, Hilda's voice coming over the air. Concisely Ian explained what had happened. Hilda asked a few other questions about Rosie's condition-whether her arm was obviously broken, if she had a concussion, what her coloring was like. Hilda came to the same conclusion that he had—they needed to get to a hospital. Any one of the injuries was enough to be a worry. Despite the risks, Hilda told him that he needed to reduce the shoulder.
"The key," Hilda instructed, "is constant, gentle pressure. No jerky movements."
Ian described how he'd seen a medic do the procedure, and Hilda offered a couple of minor refinements. She signed off, and Ian promised to call her later.
He unwrapped the blanket from around Rosie, then untied the sleeves of her jacket that had formed a makeshift sling. So much blood was soaked into her shirt that he worried she had some other injury he hadn't yet seen. Reminding himself to focus on one thing at a time, he gently laid her on the floor after she insisted they put a blanket down first to protect the carpet from her blood. Each time she flinched, he felt as if her spasms of pain were his own. He took off his shoes and knelt next to her.
"Ready?"
She opened her eyes, and the trust he saw there humbled him.
"You can do this," she whispered. With her good hand, she reached for Annmarie. "If I cry out, it's not because Ian's doing anything wrong. Okay, sweetie?"
Solemnly Annmarie nodded her head. "I'll make sure Sly doesn't worry," she promised.
"Maybe you should go color," Ian said.
Annmarie's eyebrows rose in an expression that looked like Rosie. "You think I'm going to be scared."
He couldn't deny that.
"I promise I'll be good. Just don't make me go away. Please?"
"You don't have to promise me anything, petunia."
He stood, then straightened Rosie's arm and pulled it out at the angle that Hilda had instructed, then pressed the heel of his foot into her armpit. Hilda warned him the whole thing could take five minutes or more. Never had the seconds ticked by so slowly.
Her gaze locked with his, and he wondered if she imagined other endless seconds as he did. Old memories poured through him of other drawn-out moments that formed the journey that had brought him to this point.
The night his brother was shot and the long wait at the hospital when his other brothers and his sister had huddled around their mother in a tight circle that had excluded him. The family that had disowned him—with good reason. The day his unit had been ambushed in Kosovo and he had been hit by mortar fire while covering Jack Trahern's escort of refugees across an exposed field.
The memories marched closer to the present, including Lily and her family, who had also become part of the fabric of his life, including him as a brother for the first time in too many years. Which brought him to this point, to this woman.
She was in his blood as no one else ever had been. He wanted to please her and throttle her. He wanted to make endless love to her and to kill the men who had raped her. He wanted to spend the rest of his life discovering everything about her, and he wanted to run from her. Somehow he knew that no matter how far he ran, she'd always be right here with him. He wanted to be the kind of man she could turn to in the middle of a cold night and take walks with on summer afternoons. If there was one thing he knew for sure—she needed a man far more gentle than he would ever be.
Little by little he pulled her arm across her body, worried with each passing moment that he was causing her further injury. She cried out, and in the next instant the bone slipped into the socket with an audible click.
Ian dropped to his knees and gently rested her arm against her body.
"Rosie?" he whispered.
She opened her eyes. "That feels much better. Thank you." Shaking with relief, he rested his own head close to hers, she turned her head toward his. To his complete surprise, she kissed his cheek. Without conscious thought he turned his face toward hers and kissed her with all the longing and apology and heartache that had flowed through him during the past twelve hours. Beneath him her mouth felt so soft, so sweet, and he would have been content to have the next hour lying here on the floor with her just like this.
"You're kissing," Annmarie announced, stating the very obvious.
Ian lifted his head and grinned. "Yes, we are."
Annmarie plopped down on the floor next to them. "That's what Mommy always does, too. Kiss it and make it better." She peered into Rosie's eyes. "Do you feel better, Aunt Rosie?"
"I do."
"We haven't ruled out a concussion," Ian said. He peered into her eyes, her dark pupils huge. He found it impossible to think of anything except how beautiful she was.
"I think you have to shine a light into my eyes to find out if they're reactive to light and if the pupils are the same size."
He brushed a hand against her cheek. "If you can think clearly enough to tell me that, it must not be too bad. You ready to get up?"
She nodded, and he eased her into a sitting position. She flexed her shoulder experimentally. When she glanced up at him, he helped her stand, then fingered the neckline of her shirt as soon as she was steady on her feet.
"Next order of business is to get you out of this bloody shirt and cleaned up."
She nodded.
He had already figured out she wasn't wearing a bra, and she couldn't get out of the shirt without his help.
"You keep Sly company for a minute, okay, Annmarie?" He glanced at the child. "I'm going to help Rosie get a clean shirt and then we'll be back."
"Okay," she said, sitting on the floor next to the dog. "Can we color now?"
"Sure." As far as he was concerned, that kid was nearly perfect. If she had asked him if she could fingerpaint a happy face in the middle of the carpet, he probably would have said yes.
Ian followed Rosie to the stateroom. Kissing her had been a mistake, he decided. Instead of helper or protector, he was remembering her the way a man remembers a woman he likes touching. Without warning he was hard, and the timing couldn't be worse.
In the stateroom she opened a drawer and pulled out a clean shirt, one that buttoned up. The shirt she had on, though, was a pullover with a crew neck.
"Ready?" he asked.
She nodded without looking at him.
He figured she was embarrassed and remembering the disaster from the last night. He had no doubt that if she were feeling better, she would have argued with him about needing his help. Feeling just as uncomfortable, Ian lifted her good arm and drew it out of the sleeve. He pulled the neckline wide and was able to get it over her head without dislodging the bandage. Then, the shirt slipped easily down her other arm. To his relief the smooth skin around her shoulder looked completely normal except for a smudge that he assumed was the beginning of a bruise.
He'd promised himself he wouldn't look further
, but he did. Last night he hadn't seen her breasts—he had only touched them. To him, her breasts were perfect, exactly the size and shape to fuel his hottest fantasies, pale like the rest of her, beautiful like the rest of her. He went to the head and brought her a towel. She draped it over the front of her, and he stepped back inside the compact bathroom to fill the sink with warm water. Dried blood was tracked down her neck and across her chest and back.
He glanced at her and found her watching him from the open doorway.
He nodded toward the toilet. "Turnabout is fair play, Rosie," he said, his voice huskier than he had intended, remembering that first day when she had cleaned his wounds. He had liked her hands on him then. Enduring that was easy, compared to doing the same for her. He could only hope he was disciplined enough to remember why he was touching her—and it sure as hell wasn't to cop a feel when she was injured. "Sit down, and I'll clean you up."
Gingerly Rosie sat down on the toilet seat lid. She knew she wasn't thinking clearly, especially when her strongest urge was to drop the towel and encourage Ian to take up where they had left off last night. A sure path to disaster, even if her head hadn't been pounding and her shoulder didn't burn.
When the warm washcloth touched her skin, she flinched.
"Sorry," he muttered. His touch became even more gentle. "God, but you lost a lot of blood."
She remembered when she'd said something similar to him.
He rinsed out the cloth and began washing her back and upper arm.
"Tell me about your tattoo," he said.
She glanced down at the vine that wound around her forearm. "I needed some tangible reminder than I'm the owner of my own body," she said. "No one else." At the time four years ago, the decision had seemed so important to her. A week ago she would have thought it still was. Somehow, today, it didn't seem to matter nearly so much.
"I can understand that." He grinned, catching her gaze. "The ranger logo would have looked nice about right here." He touched her upper arm.
"In your dreams."
He laughed. Deep. Sexy. It rumbled through her bones to her toes, making her remember everything about why she had wanted him last night. She was terrified that she might have another flashback and equally terrified with the depth of her longing for him.
"I'm so sorry about last night," she whispered.
The silence stretched without him saying anything. He just continued to wash her, intent on the task. Feeling almost as uncertain as she had been last night, she watched him. His usual smile was nowhere in sight, despite the laugh he'd had only moments before. Nor did he have that look of "do it my way or else" that had so often grated. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and when his gaze touched hers for a split second, the uncertainty there tore her open.
"Ian?"
"I know you're sorry," he said gruffly. His touch against the curve of her breast as he washed her was impersonal. When he was finished, he tucked the towel more firmly around her and continued to wash her as though nothing else was more important.
She looked away and felt another ache settle into her. Her head hurt. Her shoulder hurt. Her heart hurt. She was pretty sure aspirin wouldn't help the last one.
* * *
Eleven hours later Ian sailed up Gastineau Channel, the lights from Juneau at last visible. Despite it being well after midnight, the boat traffic seemed excessive, though he knew a lone fishing boat chugging through the channel could hardly be considered heavy. Despite that, he worried that Franklin Lawrence's men would show up before they could disappear again.
A large cruise ship, brightly lit and looking huge against the black silhouette of night, was anchored several hundred yards away from the dock. The mist-shrouded lights of Juneau looked bright, though they were a fraction of what he had been used to in San Jose.
Ian supposed that was because they had been alone all these days. When a jet appeared on its approach to the airport, he felt as though he had suddenly reappeared from an alternate universe—the change more abrupt even than when he'd returned to the United States from an overseas assignment.
He glanced at Rosie, who was more asleep than awake. Hilda had told him to try to keep her awake, and if he couldn't do that, to wake her up every couple of hours. After he had washed her and she had put on a clean shirt, Annmarie had helped him with the sling she had found in the first aid kit.
Rosie protested when she'd realized where he intended to go, but she lacked her usual determination. That alone scared him. Despite his promises to Annmarie, he worried that some life-threatening complication lurked beneath the surface of her injuries.
For a while Rosie had watched him, her eyes sad and filled with longing. The sadness he understood, but the longing—that surprised him. Admit it, he thought. That scared him spitless. That he might fail this woman again … he wasn't sure he could live with himself. He was damn sure that he didn't have what it took to help her.
Annmarie was curled up next to her, out like a light. He watched them a long moment, stowing away the memory of how they looked. This little girl who had stolen into his heart the first day she had shown up in his driveway and wanted to know why he had taken apart his motorcycle. This woman who not only had stolen into his heart, but who could steal it right from his body if he stayed around her much longer.
He looked ahead and saw one of the landmarks he'd been watching for—lights along a road following the shoreline. He doubled-checked his bearings with the chart, then headed for the marine park where he could tie up the boat.
He hadn't told Hilda where they were heading, and he hoped Franklin Lawrence's men, assuming they had overhead his conversation with her, figured they would have been closer to Wrangall or Ketchikan. If they hadn't, they still had to figure out where they'd tie up. The downside was that hospitals were few and far between, and there were fewer than a half dozen on the entire inside passage.
His plan was simple—straightforward. Take Rosie to the hospital. Call her parents. Find out if Lily had testified yet. Keep a close eye out until he could disappear with them again.
He pulled into a deserted slip close to the dock. The marina was dark and isolated despite the streetlights less than a hundred yards away. A good place for an ambush.
That in mind, Ian picked up the radio, asked for a land line and called for a cab. He spent the five-minute wait pacing the dock and letting Sly have a last run. When the cab arrived, Ian bundled Rosie into it and slid in after her and Annmarie, then asked to be taken to the hospital.
"Your wife had an accident, looks like," the driver said, offering a congenial smile that matched his picture on the visor.
Ian didn't bother correcting him about his relationship to Rosie. "Yep."
"We were playing, and she fell down and hit her head," Annmarie offered.
"Ouch," the man said in sympathy. On the drive to the hospital, he commented on the early tourist season and talked about things going on around town, including some new construction near the hospital, and pointing out a couple of salmon processing plants along the route. If he noticed Ian's lack of response, he didn't comment.
The staff inside the hospital were just as friendly and just as efficient as the talkative cab driver. Ian expected to find himself cooling his heels in an impersonal waiting room. To his relief he and Annmarie were allowed into the examining room. His surprising realization was that Rosie hadn't been out of his sight, except to sleep, since they had been together. He didn't want to start now.
"Not a bad field dressing," the doctor said, inspecting the wound behind Rosie's ear. "How long ago did this happen?"
Ian glanced at his watch. "Yesterday morning."
The doctor continued his examination, talking in acronyms and medical jargon to the nurse, ordering tests and asking a few questions of Rosie. Finally he turned back to Ian, "We need to rule out that your wife didn't fracture her arm, so I want an X-ray of that, and given the severity of her head wound, I want a CT-scan just to make sure everything is okay. Nothing to worry
about. Just a precaution."
"Okay." Ian glanced at Rosie. When she didn't contradict the doctor about their marital status, he ignored the comment, as well. Based on what the doctor had said so far, Ian hoped that she'd be released as soon as she got a clean bill of health. "Whatever it takes to make sure she's fine."
The nurse touched Annmarie's hair, then gave Ian a reassuring pat on the arm. "You look like you could use a cup of coffee. There's a machine in the waiting room."
Ian nodded, but made no move to leave Rosie. She caught his eye and reached a hand toward him.
"Promise me," she whispered.
"Name it."
"You won't let Annmarie out of your sight."
"I promise," he said instantly. That had never been in question. If she had asked him to leave her behind the way she had the day her cousin was shot, he would have argued with her.
"I'll be right here, Rosie." He nodded toward Annmarie. "The two of us. We'll be right here waiting as soon as you're done."
"And then we can go home."
"The boat, you mean?"
She nodded.
He squeezed her hand. "Absolutely."
A moment later a nurse wheeled her down the hall toward a door marked Radiology, and Ian resisted the urge to follow. When the door closed behind her and the nurse, he decided that now was as good a time as any to call her folks.
"Want a candy bar?" he asked Annmarie.
She shook her head. "I want to go to sleep."
He scooped her up and carried her toward the pay phone. "Hopefully we can do that pretty soon."
She rested her head against his shoulder, and he dialed the number to Rosie's parents. Her dad, Dane, answered the phone, sounding groggy.
Ian glanced at his watch, then groaned. He might have at least waited until morning.
"Dane, it's Ian Stearne," he said.
"Everything okay with my girls?" Dane asked without a trace of sleepiness in his voice.
"We're in Juneau," Ian said, then went on to explain the accident and the extent of Rosie's injuries as best he knew them.
Dane promised that he and Rosie's mother would be on their way to Juneau just as soon as it was light enough to get a float plane in the air.
TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT Page 18