“It shouldn’t have taken a pretty girl to get me to check on you. I apologize for that. But now we’re truly neighbors again, I won’t make that mistake again.”
Am I the mistake? Claire tensed, but his expression was a mystery in blackout.
“If you want to ride to the hospital with Ms. Meadows, you should change into dry clothes, Claire,” Holt said.
“What happened?” Ms. Meadows asked.
“The stream was rain-swollen and deeper than I expected. I got a soaking.”
Ms. Meadows reached out a pale hand, and Claire took it. Her hand was thin, but her grip was gratifyingly strong. A siren cut through the silence, growing louder. Flashing lights reflected through the open front door and down the hall.
Holt guided the emergency personnel inside and to Ms. Meadows’s room. Space was scarce, so Claire made her way to her small bedroom to change clothes. Another wave of relief almost drowned her. Ms. Meadows was in the hands of the professionals. Everything would be okay. Wouldn’t it?
Her wet jeans were shrink-wrapped to her legs, and they fought her every inch as she stripped them off. Grit and leaf litter were stuck to her clammy skin. She did her best to brush herself clean. What she needed was a hot shower to banish the chill she couldn’t shake, but there was no time for niceties. Fumbling for clothes, she pulled on whatever her hands landed on first.
Bumps and squeaks and the murmur of conversation increased her urgency. She needed to be ready to leave with the ambulance. The noise in the hallway increased in volume. She eased her door open.
Ms. Meadows was half reclined and strapped on a gurney. A woman pushed from the head and a man pulled at the foot of the contraption. They both had radios strapped to their belts with a mouthpiece lashed close to their shoulders.
Claire grabbed clean socks and her still-wet boots to pull on as she followed them outside. Holt stood out of the way at the bottom of the porch stairs. “They’ll take good care of you, ma’am.”
Claire hopped as she pulled on her socks and stuck her feet in her boots, leaving the ties flopping. Water from the soles and sodden leather seeped through her socks. “Wait! I need to go with Ms. Meadows.”
Holt grabbed her wrist and halted her rush forward. “Let them have the room to work. I’ll give you a ride to the hospital.”
The flashing red and white lights of the ambulance gave his expression a sinister cast. She swallowed and said, “I’ve already asked too much of you.”
He gave a slight shake of his head. “Maybe I asked too much of you.”
The cryptic retort left her nonplussed.
“We’ll follow you, Jennifer,” Holt called out.
The EMT shot a grin at Holt. “Good luck keeping up.”
Either the situation wasn’t as dire as Claire feared or the EMT was into gallows humor. Claire acquiesced and climbed into Holt’s truck. The seat was damp and chilly from her earlier ride.
Holt followed the ambulance, which had its lights flashing but had not turned the siren on. Claire kept her gaze fixed on the lights. Several minutes passed before she worked up the courage to ask, “What did you mean back there?”
She half expected Holt to play dumb, but he didn’t. “I meant, maybe I was asking for more than you’re able to give. Maybe I don’t deserve your truth.”
The words were like a hammer to her heart, cracking it wide open. He deserved so much more than what she could offer him.
The bright lights of the hospital drew her insides as tight as a bowstring, and part of her welcomed the worries about Ms. Meadows. It made her own fears seem insignificant.
The ambulance pulled up to two glassed automatic double doors. The EMTs had Ms. Meadows out and were entering the emergency area by the time Holt had parked the truck in the main lot.
They trailed the gurney inside, and Claire didn’t have time to whisper words of encouragement to Ms. Meadows before they rolled her out of sight for evaluation. Her eyes were closed and her hands crossed at her waist in the standard funeral positioning. An oxygen mask obscured most of her face, but her chest rose and fell in a now steady, unlabored rhythm.
With tears springing into her eyes, Claire teetered on her feet. Big warm hands cupped her shoulders from behind, and any strength deserted her in the face of such temptation. She leaned into Holt.
Claire couldn’t help Ms. Meadows, and Holt couldn’t help Claire. What was the point of having friends if they only brought heartache? She’d been part of the Scunners, yet apart from them at the same time. It had been easier that way and yet …
Maybe the point wasn’t to help Ms. Meadows or to expect Holt to help her. The point was to have a hand to hold through the rough spots.
“My family should have been better neighbors to Ms. Meadows. When Dad comes home, I’m going to sit him down and give him a good talking-to,” Holt said.
The parental tone he took made her smile through her worry. Holt would make a good father. She stiffened against him even though she hadn’t voiced her opinion aloud. Holt could never be more than her friend, and even that had an expiration date.
His arm snaked around her chest to pull her even closer to him. His body felt heavenly against hers. She fit against him like she was the lost puzzle piece finding its match. “You’re an ice cube. Can I warm you up?” His breath tickled her ear and sent a different sort of shiver through her.
Okay, maybe they could manage friends with benefits.
The notion was forgotten when a black woman in a white coat came into the waiting room with a brisk efficiency that left Claire half intimidated and half in awe. Without stopping, she scanned the room and changed course on spotting them. Claire stepped out of Holt’s sphere toward the doctor.
With a smile, the doctor held out a hand, shaking first Claire’s then Holt’s hand. A smile was a good sign. No one smiled politely before delivering tragic news, right? Except they were in the South, where, according to Ms. Meadows, bless your heart wasn’t a Christian blessing at all.
“Good to see you, Holt. How’re your parents?” The doctor’s accent was honeyed Southern but crisp like the comb. DR. MARILEE IVEY was embroidered across the pocket.
“Fine. Dad semi-retired and is taking Mom on a sojourn around the country in an RV. They’re down in Florida basking like lizards for Christmas.” Holt and the doctor were obviously friends of long standing.
“How’s Ms. Meadows?” Claire interjected impatiently.
Dr. Ivey tapped the e-tablet she held. “You must be Claire, Ms. Meadows’s caregiver.”
“Is she going to be all right?” Claire was seconds away from stomping her foot.
“With the right treatment, she’s going to be fine.” Finally, Dr. Ivey looked up and met Claire’s eyes with an earnest transparency that set most of Claire’s anxiety at ease.
“What treatment? What is wrong with her?”
“Ms. Meadows’s heart went into atrial fibrillation.”
“That sounds serious,” Holt said.
“Left untreated it can lead to stroke, but you did the right thing in bringing her to the hospital. We are going to try to get her heart back in rhythm using drugs, and if that doesn’t work, then we’ll use a small electrical shock.”
“And that’s it? She’ll be as good as new afterward?” Claire asked.
“Well…” The drawn-out qualifier from the doctor threw a match on Claire’s worry, making it flare once more. “She’ll have to take blood thinners for some time to avoid clots, and it seems her blood pressure isn’t well controlled at the moment. But, yes, she’ll be as good as new after some tweaks.”
Claire drew in a shuddery breath. “How long will you keep her in the hospital?”
“At least overnight. The cardiologist will see her tomorrow to decide the next steps.”
“Can I see her?” Claire asked.
The doctor shook her head. “We’ll start pushing the anti-arrhythmics through her IV shortly, and she’ll need continuous monitoring. I’m afraid you’ll be in the
way. She told me to tell you to head home and to get some sleep.” Dr. Ivey’s smile was kindly.
Claire voiced her worst fear in a whisper. “She’s not going to die?”
Dr. Ivey reached out and squeezed Claire’s hand. “Not on my watch. I’ll call in the morning with an update. What’s your number?”
Claire glanced over at Holt helplessly. Holt cleared his throat and rattled off his number. Dr. Ivey nodded and strode through the automatic double doors. The doors shut with a clack.
Holt’s voice was firm and ready to repel her arguments. “You are coming home with me.”
Strangely, she didn’t want to argue. “I hate to keep asking for favors, but that sounds great.”
She almost smiled at his shocked glance toward her. “You must be exhausted. Let’s go. You can get cleaned up at my place. With luck, the power will be back on.”
Claire hoped her relief wasn’t as palpable as it felt in the sterile waiting room. “Only one night, though. I don’t want to impose.”
His blue eyes scrunched at the corners as if he was suppressing a smile. “We’ll see. Hospitality is what we Southerners are known for, after all.”
His drawl dripped with innuendo. Or was that her imagination? Or more likely, wishful thinking. He turned and rocked toward the exit, his brows raised in an unasked invitation to follow.
Resistance was futile. Her body was already moving alongside his before her brain had the chance to consider the implication. Exhaustion rose up in the silence that blanketed them in the cab of his truck. She sank into the buttery leather of his seat and let her eyes drift shut.
The truck’s engine spooled down, and the lack of movement made Claire jerk to consciousness. Disoriented, she looked around but didn’t see the comfort of lights coming from Holt’s cabin.
“The power is still out, then?” She rubbed her eyes.
“Looks that way. I have a gas water heater, though, if you don’t mind showering in the dark.”
“A shower would be amazing.” Sandy grit made her scalp and clothes itch.
The darkness inside the cabin was dense and even though she followed Holt closely, she stubbed the toe of her boots against the edge of a couch and the leg of a side table.
“Do you have a torch?” she asked.
“A torch? No, I’m not a caveman. I do have candles and I might be able to dig up a flashlight.”
A slight laugh whispered past her lips. “A torch is a flashlight.”
“Ah. Scottish speak.” He walked with more confidence than she felt in the unknown layout. “Hang on, let me find some matches.”
Claire waited.
A few curses punctuated the sound of Holt rummaging through drawers. “Remind me not to store the matches with the scissors.”
The flare of a match broke the blackness and illuminated his face. A candle sputtered to life. Holt lit a second candle with the match and offered one of the jars to her.
“You know where the bathroom is. I’ll grab you a T-shirt and shorts to change into. Once the power is back, we’ll do a load of laundry.” He disappeared into his bedroom, one poster of his bed visible through the crack in the door.
Nerves in her stomach sizzled like sparklers. Their night together had left an indelible memory, but she needed to put his bed out of her head and focus on the couch. That’s where she should sleep tonight.
He returned holding a bundle. She took the clothes and hugged them to her chest. Their scent was fresh and masculine. She should have gone back to Ms. Meadows’s house because if she was ready to bury her nose in a T-shirt he wasn’t even wearing, what was she likely to do to him?
She accepted the truth. She wanted Holt. She wanted to trust him. She wanted to share everything with him. She wanted to take his hand and lead him to his four-poster bed.
Instead, she backed into the bathroom and shut the door.
Chapter Thirteen
Claire sped through her shower, not sure when the hot water would give out. Washing away the dirt and grit was heavenly. Being surrounded by the smells of his shampoo and soap was strangely comforting. Or perhaps not so strange when she really wanted to be surrounded by the actual man.
She dried off and slipped the shirt and shorts on sans knickers or bra. Not surprisingly, Holt’s clothes were too big. The neck of the shirt slipped toward one shoulder, and she had to roll the waistband of the shorts to keep them up. Even so, they hung low on her hips. Using his comb, she cleared the snarls in her hair. Between the weak candlelight and the fogged mirror, she could do little else in terms of her appearance.
She balled up her clothes for the washer and cracked open the bathroom door to assess the situation. Cooler air streamed over her and made her shiver. Candles lit the room in a soft glow from the coffee table. Holt was on his haunches, blowing on the beginnings of a flame in the stone fireplace.
She allowed herself a moment to admire the curve of his muscled thighs in his jeans. He was barefoot and had changed into a soft-looking long-sleeved T-shirt, although he’d shoved the sleeves up his muscled forearms. His back moved with his efforts to start the fire. He was one giant, beautiful muscle.
The rich scent of food made her stomach growl. A faint hint of steam wavered in the candlelight from two large mugs. The promise of hot food swept away any self-consciousness, and she stepped out of the bathroom and toward the couch. It appeared to be some sort of soup or stew in the mugs.
“How did you manage to heat up food?” Her fingers itched to take up one of the mugs and start shoveling the soup in a manner unbefitting her birth.
Holt turned, still squatting, and smiled at her. “Gas stove. Having hot water and hot food makes our plight a bit less torturous, doesn’t it?”
“It’s not tortuous at all. It’s—” She almost bit her tongue to stem the word romantic. It was dangerous to think that way.
The silence between them wasn’t quiet in the least. It was filled with words unspoken and feelings unnamed. Finally, Holt rose and gestured toward the mugs.
“Give me your clothes and then eat before it gets cold.” His voice was rough, as if the words had tried to claw their way out.
She sank onto the couch and wrapped both hands around the nearest mug. The aroma of beef and vegetables tickled her nose. After putting her clothes in the wash for later, Holt returned and set a bottle of Glennallen Whisky on the table along with two glasses.
He dropped into the nearest armchair, his knee close enough for her to reach out and touch, and picked up the other mug of stew.
Doing her best to ignore the bottle of whisky mocking her from the table, she stared into the mug and tucked in. After the last spoonful, she set the mug back down and scooted into the corner of the couch, searching for warmth.
“Has it turned colder or am I a wimp?” She aimed for jovial and landed somewhere near a whine.
“There’s a blanket behind you. You definitely don’t qualify as a wimp after your adventure tonight. The temperature dropped fast after the front moved through. We’ll be in the thirties by the time the sun rises.” As if on cue, the wind whistled down the chimney and made the flames dance and crackle.
“And when will that be? Ten minutes?” Claire had lost all sense of time since waking with Ms. Meadows. The night had felt interminable. She was exhausted, yet wired at the same time.
“A few hours yet. It’s not quite two AM.”
“You haven’t heard from the doctor?” The fleece of the blanket was soft and warm against her bare legs.
“I doubt we’ll hear anything before shift change in the morning, but Marilee is one of the best. She’ll take good care of Ms. Meadows.” His confidence did little to soothe her worry. He lifted the whisky bottle and she tensed, half expecting him to present it to her as Exhibit A of her trial. Instead, he raised his brows. “Interested in a glass?”
“No.” The words came out with a virulence that would be difficult to explain. She tempered her voice and returned to her own line of questioning. “You and D
r. Ivey seem to know each other well.”
“When you grow up in a small town, you tend to know everyone well. Sometimes too well.” Regret and amusement warred in his voice.
Claire straightened on the couch, getting more than she’d expected with the simple observation. “Were you and the doctor a … a thing?”
Of course Holt had dated other women. She had no right to feel territorial considering she had been the one to push Holt away. He would be better off with a woman like Dr. Ivey. She was smart, capable, and not hiding any secrets.
Holt’s eyebrows quirked. “We saw each other a few times. It was years ago and fizzled out. Our schedules never meshed.”
“Oh, good.” As soon it was out of her mouth, she realized how petty it sounded. “I mean, not good that it didn’t work out. That’s too bad. You should really go back after her.”
“I should?”
Of course he shouldn’t. What drivel was coming out of her mouth? The last thing she wanted was to push Holt into the lovely, capable doctor’s arms for comfort.
“No, you shouldn’t.”
Holt knocked back the last of the whisky in his glass, stretched his legs out in front of him, and linked his hands over his stomach. “You are the most frustrating, confusing, fascinating woman I’ve ever met.”
A laugh-sob rose up and escaped from her throat. The prickle of tears was as unwelcome as it was unexpected. The amber whisky reflected her guilt in the candlelight. “I know. I’m a terrible person.”
“That’s not what I said at all.” He sat forward, his forearms braced on his knees as if he wanted to touch her, but was unsure of his welcome.
She stared at his hands, strong and capable. Even as she told herself she didn’t deserve him, she longed for him to lay those hands on her—in comfort or desire, she wasn’t picky.
With a muttered curse, he hauled himself up, sat next to her, and pulled the blanket over his legs. The heat of his body and the familiar scent of whisky on his breath blasted away her rickety defenses.
“You’re right. My name isn’t Smythe. It’s Glennallen. Claire Glennallen.” Her long exhale was one of relief. She’d told the truth.
A Highlander is Coming to Town Page 18