Who's the Boss

by Linda Turner

  With all the upstairs bedrooms taken, she had nowhere to put him but her grandmother's room off the kitchen.

  Away from the rest of the house, it was quiet and private, and no one would disturb him there. Steering him through the open doorway, she started to help him toward the bed. Suddenly realizing where she was taking him, he stopped, swaying on his feet as he frowned.

  "You've been sleeping here since the ladies moved in upstairs. I can't take your bed. "

  "It's just for tonight," she insisted, urging him across the room.

  "And I don't mind the couch. Clara's feeling much better and should be strong enough to go home tomorrow. So don't worry about it."

  His head thick, his body aching, he couldn't have protested after that if he'd tried. It took the last of his energy just to make it across the room. The minute they reached the bed, his knees seemed to lose their starch and he hit the mattress with a low groan. It was the last thing he remembered for hours.

  After a struggle, Becca got his boots off, then, somehow, his clothes, but it wasn't easy. He was a deadweight and moaned every time she had to move him. And he was so hot! The heat seemed to just pour off him.

  Thankful he wasn't awake to see how worried she was, she covered him with a sheet and light blanket so he wouldn't get chilled, then ran to the kitchen for a bowl of water and a cloth to sponge him off.

  After that, she lost all track of time. Sitting on the side of the bed next to his prone figure, she ran the damp washcloth across his shoulders and down his arms and chest over and over again as the night slipped by with agonizing slowness. Any other time she would have marveled at the way the man was put together—the wide breadth of his shoulders, the sinewy strength of his hardened muscles, the sheer power of him. But her stomach was twisted with the beginnings of panic, her fingers shaking.

  Nothing she did seemed to help his fever.

  A low groan ripped from his throat and he shifted restlessly on the pillow.

  "No," he muttered.

  "No! This can't be happening."

  '"Shh," Beeca murmured.

  "Just relax. You're going to be fine."

  But instead of soothing him, she only seemed to agitate him. Swearing, he kicked at the sheet, his hand suddenly lashing out without warning to grab her by the wrist. His fingers biting like talons into her skin, he jerked her toward him, his eyes those of a cold, furious stranger" as they met hers without recognition.

  "You bitch! We thought we had backup when we went into that damn warehouse, but we didn't have squat. Just you. And you weren't coming in, were you? Oh, no. You sold us out." Startled, sprawled halfway across his chat, Becca pulled against his steely grip.

  "Riley, please... I don't know what you're talking about. You're hallucinating..."

  But the fever was too high, the nightmare that gripped him too strong, for him to hear her.

  "Did you watch, Sybil?" he jeered softly, contempt twisting his mouth.

  "Did you stand back in the shadows and watch your coke buddies splatter Danny's guts all over that warehouse? We were your partners, damn you!"

  He tossed her hand away as if he couldn't stand to touch her.

  "God, you make me sick." Collapsing back against the pillow with an exhausted sigh, he slowly shut his eyes again as sleep dragged him under.

  "Oh, God, Danny," he murmured in a choked voice. "I’m sorry, man. So sorry."

  Pale and shaken, Becca couldn't have moved for the life of her. So this was why he believed women didn't belong in law enforcement. A partner—a woman—had betrayed him and cost a friend his life. And ten years later, it still haunted him.

  Sudden tears stung her eyes and she blinked them back furiously, wishing she could comfort him. But she'd never suffered that kind of betrayal and didn't have the words to heal a hurt that went soul deep. All she could do was tend his fever and help get him through the night.

  He wanted to die.

  Nauseated, with every bone in his body aching, Riley woke time and again during the long night, more miserable than he'd ever been in his life. At least twice he demanded that Becca take him out back and shoot him and be done with it, but she only laughed and forced enough grape juice down him to float a battleship. As far as he could tell, it didn't help, and if he never tasted the stuff again, it would be too soon.

  Sometime before dawn, the fever that had been cooking him alive broke, and he vaguely remembered Becca murmuring to him that he was going to be all right now. During the last few days, she'd seen enough of the flu to know that the worst was past, and all he had to do was lie there and get better. Too weak to do more than squeeze her hand, he drifted to sleep with the sound of her voice following him into his dreams.

  That alone made up for all the torture earlier in the night.

  When he finally struggled back to consciousness and forced his eyes open, sunlight was spilling in through the windows to the west. Turning his head slowly on the pillow, he studied his surroundings. Becca was nowhere to be found, but there were signs of her presence everywhere—the empty juice glasses on the bedside table, the washcloth he remembered her sponging him off with, some towels that had been dropped over a nearby chair.

  And a pallet on the floor by the bed. Surprised, he stared at it, only now realizing how she'd been able to get to him so quickly every time he so much as groaned.

  She'd slept within touching distance the entire night and he hadn't even known it.

  Lost in his thoughts, he didn't hear the quiet knock at the door at first. Then Chloe peaked around the doorjamb, her smile broadening into a quicksilver grin when she saw him look up.

  "Oh, good. You're awake," she said happily. Pushing the door open all the way, she skipped into the room with a light-hearted energy Riley couldn't help but envy.

  Stopping at the foot of the bed, she clasped her hands behind her back and informed him seriously, "Mama's gone to the store, and she made me promise not to bother you. Am I bothering you?"

  Hastily swallowing a grin, he pretended to consider the possibility.

  "No," he said finally, chuckling.

  "I don't think you are. I was just lying here thinking that it was awful quiet around here. What are you up to, short stuff?"

  "Nuttin'," she said, dragging the toe of one of her canvas tennis shoes across the braided rug underfoot.

  "Want me to read to you? I brought a book." Dragging it out from behind her back, she held it up so he could see it. "

  One corner of his mouth hitched up in a crooked grin.

  "The Duck Who Lost His Quack, huh? That's a pretty good story. You think you're big enough to read it? It's got some pretty hard words in it."

  Insulted, she bristled like a bantam hen.

  "I'm not a baby," she said indignantly.

  "I know every one of them, even stu..." She frowned, trying to remember the correct pronunciation, then tried again.

  "Stupendous

  Grinning broadly, she winked at him.

  "See?" What he saw was that she was a heartbreaker—just like her mother. And he couldn't resist her any more than he could Becca.

  The day was quickly coming when he would have to deal with that, but for now, he only patted the bed beside him.

  "You're right—you know your onions. Climb on up here and get comfortable."

  Pleased with herself, she kicked off her shoes and scrambled up onto the bed before the words were scarcely out of his mouth. Riley saw immediately that she intended to stay awhile—the pillow behind her back had to be just so, the book resting on her thighs and tilted at just the right angle. Casting a look at him out of the corner of her eyes to make sure he was listening, she smiled slightly and began to read the story she'd heard so many times that she knew it by heart.

  They were well into why the quack less duck had lost his quacker when Clara, looking much better than she had the last time Riley had seen her, suddenly stepped into the open doorway. Still a trifle pale, she was dressed in a gown and floral robe instead of he
r usual shirtwaist, but she wore her pearls, and that said it all. She was definitely on the mend.

  Spying Chloe on the bed, she clicked her tongue reprovingly.

  "Chloe, your mama said the sheriff needed to rest."

  "He is," the five-year-old said innocently. "I'm the one who's reading. "

  Fighting a sudden laugh, Riley choked instead.

  "Uh, she's right, Clara. I'm just lying here listening. I'm fine, really."

  "Maybe so... now. But you don't want to have a relapse." Shooting Chloe a bright smile, she said, "Your mama left you some brownies on the table. I think I hear them calling your name."

  It was a bribe, pure and simple, one that Chloe didn't even try to resist.

  "Can I have two?"

  "Oh, I think so... if they're little ones."

  That was all the child needed to hear. She was off like a shot, leaving the two adults chuckling behind her. Expecting Clara to leave him then to rest, he lifted a brow when she stepped into the room, her blue eyes twinkling behind the lenses of her glasses as she held a finger to her smiling lips.

  "Okay, Clara, what are you up to?"

  "Nothing." Delighted with his suspicious look, she pulled a pack of overlarge tarot cards out of her robe pocket and held them up so he could see them.

  "Just a little card reading. I thought it would amuse you."

  Riley took one look and almost rolled his eyes.

  "C'mon, Clara, you know I don't believe in that stuff."

  "Oh, pooh," she scoffed with a dismissive smile as she pulled up a chair next to his bed.

  "Everyone wants to know about the future. It's fun!" All-business, she positioned a bed tray across his lap and set the tarot deck in the middle of it.

  "All right, dear, cut the cards." There was no getting out of it, not without hurting her feelings. And what was it going to hurt to indulge her, anyway?

  Resigned, he shot her a teasing grin.

  "Okay, but I expect you to tell it like it is. If the cards say I'm going to win the election, you can't go changing things on me just because you're supporting Becca."

  "That goes without saying, dear boy," she said with all the regalness of a queen whose ethics had been questioned.

  "I only report what I see."

  The rules set, Riley cut the cards, only to have her click her tongue disapprovingly and hastily stop him.

  "Never cut your luck away from you, dear," she admonished.

  "Try again." Struggling with a grin, Riley did as she asked, this time making sure to cut the cards—and his luck—toward himself.

  The second he was finished, Clara quickly gathered the odd-looking cards and laid them out before him. Riley took one look at them and frowned. He didn't have a clue what they stood for.

  "Well?" he demanded with the patience of a man who was clearly just humoring her.

  "How does it look? If I'm going to bite the bullet anytime soon, I'd just as soon not know about it."

  Tapping one particular card, Clara gave him a reassuring smile.

  "Oh, no, dear. You're going to live to be a very old man." Leaning closer so she could see better, she nodded, as if she were carrying on a conversation with someone in her head, and mumbled, "Yes, it's just the same as before.

  I hoped it would be, but it's so unbelievable "Her eyes suddenly lifting to his, she exclaimed, “Oh, Riley, this is the most amazing thing!"

  "What?" Frowning down at the cards, he didn't see a thing in the strange pictures to get excited about.

  "What do you see?" "Why, your future, of course," she replied, sitting back with a broad smile.

  "And I'll tell you, young man, fate has certainly stepped in and blessed you. I don't know when I've last seen love and romance so strongly aligned in a man's cards. Miss Right is right here," she said, pointing to the card of a woman in an old-fashioned dress, "so close you can practically reach out and touch her." Too late, Riley realize he should have been prepared for this. Clara had never made any secret of the fact that she looked at the world and saw hearts and flowers, but he'd honestly expected her to focus on the election.

  "Miss Right, hmm? And here I'd given up on her years ago. So who is she?"

  "Someone who's going to turn your life upside down," she predicted secretively, her blue eyes dancing as they met his.

  "She's really going to shake you up, but don't you dare let her get away. She's strong and full of life, a real fighter who'll stand by you. You need her."

  He almost argued with her over that point—during the course of the last ten years, he'd made sure he hadn't let himself need anyone—but that was something he didn't particularly want to discuss with Clara or anyone else.

  And she was having such fun, he hated to disillusion her.

  "Well, someone like that's not exactly hiding under a rock. Where is she? What's her name?"

  "Oh, I can't tell you that, dear. But I don't think you'll have any trouble recognizing her. She appears to be someone who's fairly new in town. I see upheaval around her, so I would think that she's just made some major changes in her life."

  Not a dense man, he didn't need to be hit over the head with a frying pan to get the point. Giving her a knowing look, he said dryly, "I see. That narrows it down considerably, doesn't it? We don't have many new people in town."

  "Oh, but I didn't say she necessarily had to live in town," she said quickly, flustered that he'd misunderstood.

  "Just the vicinity."

  "Or maybe she doesn't live here at all," he suggested innocently.

  "She could just be someone who's passing through on the interstate and I stop her for speeding or something.

  Who knows? We could take one look at each other and fall head over heels. Now wouldn’t that be romantic? "

  "Actually, I was thinking she was someone you've already met," Clara said pointedly, starting to look miffed.

  "Possibly someone who's right under your nose. I thought she sounded quite familiar. Surely you can think of someone who meets that description."

  Quietly stepping into the open doorway in time to hear Clara's end of the conversation, Becca took in the cards spread out on the bed tray and didn't know if she wanted to laugh or die of mortification. Shaking her head over her own stupidity—she should have known better than to leave Clara and her cards alone with Riley for five minutes, let alone the forty it took her to run to the store and back—she bustled into the room, smiling as if she hadn't heard a thing.

  "Sorry I was gone so long," she said brightly, "but the store was packed with people buying soup and crackers. Well, I see our patient is awake and feeling better."

  Turning to Riley, she noted the wicked humor in his eye and.... knew she wasn't fooling anyone, least of all him. He knew damn well she'd heard enough of the conversation to realize that Clara was up to her matchmaking tricks and that he was thoroughly enjoying himself. Her gaze not quite meeting his, she turned away, silently cursing the heat warming her cheeks.

  "You must be hungry."

  "Actually, I" — She didn't give him a chance to finish before she briskly turned to her neighbor.

  "Clara, would you mind fixing Riley a tray while I put the groceries away? I know he's - got to be starving, and it’s going to take me awhile to put all the perishable items away."

  Of course, dear. I’d be happy to. Gathering up her tarot cards as surreptitiously as possible, she hastily stuffed them in the pocket of her robe and plastered on an innocent smile that would have done an angel proud.

  "I believe there's some chicken-and-rice soup left from lunch. I'll just go 'heat it up."

  Feeling like the ugly stepchild, Riley watched her hurry out into the hall, with Becca right on her heels.

  "Hey," what if I'm not hungry? "

  "Then you must still be sick," Becca countered, glancing back over her shoulder at him.

  "I'll bring you another glass of grape juice."

  "No, no!" he groaned.

  "Anything but that!" Laughing, she followed C
lara into the kitchen, but her smile fled the second the older woman told her in a pleased voice, "I think it's just wonderful that you and Riley are getting along so well. And Chloe seems to thrive in his company. I tried to tell him that the two of you were made for each other" — Becca winced.

  "I thought we agreed not to mention that, remember? You promised you wouldn't tell him about my reading. It was going to be our little secret."

  "Oh, but that's just it," she exclaimed excitedly.

  "It was his future I was reading, not yours. I couldn't believe it myself when I saw the way his cards fell. They were just like yours.

  It's really fate, dear. Written in the stars. You must be soul mates.

  That's the only explanation."

  She'd said something similar before, so it wasn't what she said that horrified Becca. It was the ring of truth in her words. Fighting panic, she searched for an explanation.

  "I know you believe in the cards, Clara, but you must have made a mistake. I'm not looking for a soul mate and neither is Riley."

  Her smile incredibly sweet, Clara patted her arm soothingly, not the least bit concerned with such trivialities.

  "That's the beauty of it, Becca, dear. Even when we're not looking, someone higher up is. Trust me. You and Riley are meant to be. I think it's just fascinating."

  She was so pleased with herself, Becca didn't have the heart to tell her that wasn't exactly the word she would have used to describe her attraction to Riley.

  "Wonderful," she agreed through clenched teeth.

  "Just wonderful."

  Clara meant well, but after that, Becca wasn't going to let her and her cards near Riley again, so she was the one who brought him a small bowl of homemade chicken-and- rice soup a few moments later. With color still flushing her cheeks, she set it on the tray across his lap, then took the chair next to the bed that Clara had occupied only moments before.

  "I know you said you weren't hungry , but you really do need to eat something," she said stiffly. "Only if I get to keep it for a while instead of renting it," he retorted with a crooked grin.

  "I've had enough of tossing my cookies to last me a lifetime."

  She chuckled.

  "You were one sick puppy, but I'd say the worst is past." Unthinkingly, she leaned over to lay her palm against his forehead to check for fever, just as she had countless times during the night. But this time, she found her hand caught in his. Startled, she raised her eyes to his.