by Barbara Lohr
Shifting didn’t help. In fact, the ladder tilted more. Paint slopped from one side of the bucket. Stomach lurching, Phoebe clutched the sides of the old wooden ladder. This wasn’t looking so good. As the tilting continued, her paint can flipped off. She was going down. Panicked, Phoebe grabbed at a gutter but it ripped off in her hand. Falling faster, she wound both legs around the ladder and closed her eyes.
When she hit the ground, pain ripped through her body. In the middle of her blood curdling scream, Phoebe heard something snap. Flat on her back, she stared up at the trees spinning overhead. The heavy ladder had landed on top of her and wouldn’t budge. She wasn’t going anywhere, and panic clawed at her throat. The wet grass soaked through the back of her shirt. Why didn’t she carry her cell phone with her? Every time she tried to move, the pain dug deeper, like it was there to stay.
She would not cry. She just would not.
Squirrels chattered in the trees as if even they were concerned. Somewhere a phone rang. Was that hers? She might be here for a while, at least until the mailman came. But the mailboxes were out at the road. Maybe a family would pass by on their way to the beach. Her panic mounted, almost shutting out the sound of the Harley rumbling up the drive.
Perfect. The last person on earth she wanted to see. And she’d been feeling so I-am-woman-hear-me roar until now. The sound of the engine cut out. “Phoebe?”
“Over here.” She tried to wave an arm. “I’m on the ground.”
His boots drew closer. Ripping off her painting goggles, she twisted to meet his eyes.
“Phoebe...what the hell?” Taking in the situation, Ryder’s eyes grew round. Was he going to laugh at her? Pink paint had splattered everywhere. The gutter was twisted on the ground. She was a total mess.
“Please help me.” Her roar had become a whimper.
Whipping out his phone, Ryder punched in some numbers. Phoebe knew from his expression that something was seriously wrong. “Just give me a moment, darlin’. We’ll have this fixed in no time. I’m here and everything is going to be okay.”
Ryder had always liked to be in charge. Back when they were married she’d liked that. Was she a total wimp to feel comforted by his take-charge attitude now? The pain wouldn’t quit and she was in no position to argue. “My leg, my leg,” she moaned.
She’d never seen Ryder so upset. He dropped to his knees next to her. Her bandana had slipped over one eye and he flipped it off. “I know, darlin'. I know it hurts.”
“My shoulder too, Ryder. This ladder’s so heavy.”
Sitting back on his heels, he sized up the situation. “Now, what I'm about to do is going to hurt but just for a second. I think.”
“You think? That’s not comforting, Ryder.”
“This ladder has to come off, but I’m not a goddamn EMT. They’re coming.”
“Okay, okay. Just do whatever you want to do.” Phoebe prepared to grit her teeth.
He lifted a brow. “Whatever I want to do?”
“I mean when it comes to the ladder.” Did she really say that?
Working slowly and gently, he lifted the ladder and tossed it to the side like a toothpick. “Damn thing. I thought we got rid of this.”
How many times had he dragged this ladder out to the road for the trash? He’d been so mad when he found it back in the garage. “You’re too stubborn for your own good,” he’d tell her.
That sure applied today. He’d told her not to do any painting. Hadn’t he left a check for all that? Covering her eyes with her hands, Phoebe wanted to die.
“The EMTs should be here soon.” Ryder cradled her head in his lap. The sun slanted through the trees. Everything felt cozy and warm. Maybe she was dying.
Then the wail of a siren split the summer air.
Nope, she wasn’t going to die. But right now? She wished she had.
Chapter 4
What could be worse than being at the mercy of a man she’d kicked out a year ago? Stretched out on a bed in the ER of Memorial Hospital, Phoebe stared at her white cast. The past hours had been a nightmare. She felt so stupid. But Ryder hadn’t said “I told you so.” At least, not yet. The staff told her how lucky she was that Dr. Swanson was on call. An orthopedic surgeon, he had come in to set her leg. Feeling woozy, Phoebe didn’t remember much about it.
But she wasn’t feeling lucky. Lucky would have been not having this happen. Lucky would not be not sitting here with Ryder, who was looking a little pale himself. Poor guy. He probably had a million other places he’d rather be than this blindingly bright ER. Overhead lights bounced off a lot of serious looking stainless steel equipment. And all that tubing on the walls? She didn’t even want to go there.
“I’ll be right back.” Ryder got up with a distracting stretch of his muscled arms. “Want anything?”
“No, I’m fine.” Her eyes went to the cup of crushed ice on the tray.
“Are you thirsty?”
“A little.” Was that her voice? So tiny and weak.
When he handed her the cup, she thought he might try to feed her the chips and grabbed the spoon herself. “I’ve got it.”
Backing up, Ryder held up his hands. “Okay. Okay.”
“Hey, I’m sorry, Ryder.” But he was gone and Phoebe felt terrible. After all, she’d still be sprawled in the grass under the darn ladder if he hadn’t come along.
A pretty blonde nurse bustled in. “Dr. Swanson should be here any minute to check on you. You’ll like him. He’s an excellent surgeon and cute too,” Blondie told her with a wink as she left.
“Terrific.” Phoebe stared at the empty doorway. The anesthetic hadn’t worn off and the room felt like it was moving.
Before long, an attractive man in a white coat swept into the room with Ryder right behind him. “Hello, I’m Dr. Swanson.” Giving Phoebe a quick smile, he turned to Ryder. “How’s the wife doing?”
She pointed to herself. “Me? I’m not his wife and I’m fine. I was just painting, you know. Should have gotten a new ladder, I guess, but no. Got right up there and...” Ryder was looking at her like she’d lost her mind and so was Dr. Swanson.
Mercy. She was blabbering
The doc smiled like a father whose daughter just put her face in her birthday cake. “The anesthetic,” he said to Ryder, who had the nerve to nod.
Okay, maybe it was the anesthetic. Maybe it was Dr. Swanson’s amazing good looks muddling her mind. Dr. Swanson was a Dr. McDreamy. A surgery mask hung from his neck, and his hair was matted from the cap surgeons wear. She’d seen this all on TV. He even managed to wear those white booties without looking silly.
While Phoebe tried to straighten out her mind, Ryder shook the doc’s hand. “Thanks for helping us out.” Cripes, he even sounded like a husband.
Phoebe cleared her throat. “He's not my husband. He's my ex.”
For a second the poor doctor looked confused. “Oh, I see.” But it was clear he did not. For the next ten minutes he talked to Ryder as if she wasn't even there. Pain pills were handed over. Snatching them from Ryder’s hands, Phoebe set them on her tray. She wasn’t one for a lot of pills, but the insinuation that Ryder would be in charge of anything infuriated her.
Finally getting the message, Dr. Swanson gave her his full attention. “Stay off your feet at first. The nurse will bring some crutches and show you how to use them.”
“I can show her,” Ryder said. Oh, he sure could. How well she remembered that July 4 when he’d had a few too many brews down on the beach. Ryder had tripped on the steps carrying their cooler back up to the house. The cast had slowed him down for the rest of the summer.
Now the cast was on the other foot. Well, person. Technically, it was her right femur. She wouldn’t be doing any painting anytime soon. Tears welled behind Phoebe’s eyes. No way would she let Ryder see her cry. Dropping her head, she picked at the paint splattered on her arm.
“Excellent. You can handle the crutches, and let me know if you have any questions.” Dr. Swanson edged toward the door
.
She waved good-bye to Dr. McDreamy-Swanson. And then they were alone. “Do you feel ready to go home?” Ryder asked.
“Absolutely. When can we leave?” Said boldly but how was she ever going to handle this?
“Soon. They said soon.” Sure enough, Blondie reappeared with a pair of crutches.
After a quick crutch demonstration, Phoebe was trundled off to the exit in a wheelchair. “I'll just wait right here with your wife, Mr. Hunicutt,” the pretty nurse said when they reached the front entrance, batting her lashes at Ryder.
The nurse nearly ran into him when Ryder stopped and pivoted. “Name’s Branson, ma'am.” He was all business today.
“Of course.” Practically purring, Blondie beamed up at him.
“How did your truck get here?” Phoebe asked. Ryder had insisted on coming to the hospital with her in the ambulance.
“My dad drove it down. Mick took him back to the shop.”
“Aw. Stanley’s so sweet.” Phoebe had been crazy about Ryder’s father. Losing him almost hurt as bad as losing Ryder.
“Right. And he’s plenty concerned about you. I’ll be right back.” Ryder held up a finger as if he was afraid she’d scurry off. Glancing down, she knew her scurrying days were over for a while.
“That man is so sweet.” The nurse’s eyes followed Ryder while he loped across the parking lot, sun beating down on his broad shoulders and casting a copper glint to his hair. Uncomfortable as all get out, Phoebe fidgeted in the chair.
“So how did you break your leg?” the nurse asked, the sexy purr gone.
“I was up on a ladder, painting my house.”
Her lips formed an O. “You kidding me? Why would you do that when you have...” She nodded toward Ryder, now getting into his truck. Obviously Blondie wasn’t a woman who took things into her own hands, not a paint brush at least.
“I don’t have him.” Not that this was any of her business. “I like to do things myself.”
“Oh, well. He sure acts like he’s your husband. But he’s not, huh?” She moistened her lips.
Phoebe snorted. “Nope. And he's all yours. Open season.”
Although the nurse didn’t seem to find that funny, Phoebe was still chuckling when Ryder pulled up in the pickup. Jumping out, he came around, opened the passenger door and adjusted the front seat. Then he turned to her, holding his arms out like a forklift.
“Stop.” Phoebe tried to push him away. “I can do this myself.”
“Isn’t that how this whole thing started?’ Ryder muttered. But he stepped back.
Pushing herself up, Phoebe began to sweat. This might be harder than she figured. “Hand me those crutches, please.”
But Blondie was still transfixed, holding Phoebe’s purse and crutches while she stared at Ryder. Phoebe had to grab the crutches from her hands, fit them under her arms and swing herself over to the SUV. The two steps felt like a mile. Watching her all the way, Ryder seemed to be biding his time.
“Has your truck always been this high?” Helpless, she stared at the black leather seats, about shoulder level. Ryder didn’t say a thing.
He was going to make her ask for help. Or not. When he scooped her up, she squealed. Blondie stepped back and Phoebe felt strangely satisfied. After getting her situated in the front seat, he snapped her seatbelt shut. Then he tucked the crutches into the back seat and nodded to the nurse. “Thank you ma'am.” Blondie got the message. Reaching up, she handed Phoebe her purse. Then she stepped back and waved goodbye.
For a second Phoebe fell back against the headrest and closed her eyes. The truck must have been in the sun but she welcomed the warm seat. The smell of leather and Ryder’s soap lulled her. Her eyelids felt so heavy.
“You cool enough?” Ryder asked, slamming his door shut behind him.
“Kind of.” She fanned herself with a hand that felt like a wooden paddle.
All the exciting plans she’d had for the summer had been ruined. There would be no strutting down the beach looking for Mr. Right. No running through the shallows before diving into the waves. No picnics watching a fabulous sunset. The cast had made a lot of her former plans impossible.
By this time Carolyn was in Santa Fe with Brody, facing an exciting summer. Diana was still on her honeymoon. Kate was very pregnant and Chili was busy at Ignacio’s produce store. Sarah had her hands full with the boys. Who would help her? Her parents couldn’t leave the Christmas tree farm untended. Some pranks had been pulled in the past. Anyway, she didn’t want them clucking over her.
Hands fiddling with the knobs, Ryder was all business. Closing her eyes, she tried to pretend this was two or three years ago. Back then she’d been tickled pink by everything he did. Every arch of his brow, every shrug of his shoulders, every touch from those sensitive but large hands shot her to the moon.
She’d been in the luminescence.
One of her customers had used that term one day, referring to the beginning of the relationship––the time when the man can do no wrong. That’s before the woman remembers she has her own checkbook, and she really doesn’t like sharing a bathroom.
Back then Phoebe had been just plain crazy about the man.
But that was then. “I'm fine now.”
“Glad to hear it.” Ryder pulled away from Memorial Hospital. “Don't suppose you want to tell me what you were doing up on that ladder.”
“You’re not my father, Ryder.”
His lips flattened into a thin line. “Don’t even bring up your dad. He’d have a fit about this.”
He had a point. “I was painting my house. Didn’t I tell you that was my plan for the summer? Fix up the place.”
“Well if you took a look at the check I left on your kitchen counter, you could have hired someone to do the work.” That twitching muscle in his jaw said it all. He was steamed.
“I ripped it up.” Her voice was a whisper and Ryder bent his head to hear.
“You ripped it up. Whhhhy?” Throwing back his head, he roared like an angry lion. Kind of resembled one too, his hair all wild and woolly. Blondie would like this look. Phoebe was over it.
Looking out the window, she saw Highway 12 streaming past. Mario’s Italian restaurant, Skip’s Other Place, all the shops and places she knew like the back of her hand. The tourist season would be starting soon and these parking lots would be packed. She’d be stuck at home. “In case you missed the memo, I don't want your help. I'm fixing the cottage up just the way I like it. Myself.”
“And in case you missed the memo, I still own half the place.”
“But I have custody…”
He glowered at her in the mirror. “What are you talking about?”
Custody. Habitation. Divorce. All angry words. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe in so she’d make sense. How she wished the house was all hers and hers alone. The screened porch came to mind. That was her peaceful place where she could curl up on the futon with a book or an electronic reader in her hands. A summer breeze would cool her, while tree branches rustled overhead, an acorn dropping onto the roof now and then. Her muscles relaxed and her mind cleared. Eyes flagging, she felt like she was all alone, drifting on an inflated raft. The sun smiled down on her.
“Take a little rest now, Sweet Cheeks.”
The words came to her through a fog. “Don't call me…” She must have drifted off. Did she imagine that pat on her hand?
In her dream she was splashing along the shore, the waves lapping over her toes. She could taste the lake breeze on her tongue, feel the sun on her shoulders and smell the coconut sunblock.
Next thing she knew the passenger door was opening. A gust of warm air hit her. She struggled to sit up, licking her dry lips. Wearing a smile that used to melt her clear to her toes, Ryder held out a hand.
“No, really. I can do this.”
Stepping back, Ryder looked like he was waiting for her to fall. Phoebe sucked in some fresh air to clear her head. Turning slightly, she scooted down on her stomach, reaching
with her good leg for the ground. Pretty gutsy or pretty stupid. Sometimes it amazed her how she could be both at the same time.
“Guess it's easier to slide out than it is getting in,” Ryder said, watching her maneuvers.
“Right. You should know all about that.” What was she saying? Smoothing a hand down her paint-stained T-shirt, she caught his hurt expression. What was wrong with her? What if he hadn’t happened along? “Could you hand me those crutches please, Ryder?”
His face taut, he opened the back door and grabbed them. But he’d paled beneath his tan, as if she’d just backhanded him. Guilt splashed over her like a cold wave on a windy day. He handed her the crutches but didn’t meet her eyes. Reaching in, he grabbed her purse.
“Sorry, Ryder. If it weren’t for you, I'd still be stretched out on the ground.” He was studying his boots. “Could you just help me get inside? Then you can head on your way. By the way, you look nice with my purse.” She’d insisted that he bring it since her wallet had her insurance card.
“Thanks.” He glanced down with a twisted smile. They'd bought that leather shoulder bag with the fringe at the Sturgis motorcycle rally. He'd paid for it, and she couldn’t recall when a gift had pleased her so much.
As Phoebe made slow progress to the house, the beautiful day almost broke her heart. Sunshine poured through the trees, and the birds hopped from branch to branch. They moved so freely, but she sure wasn’t. Glancing at the yard, she tightened her hold on the crutches. What a mess. Pink paint had splashed all over the brown siding as it fell. The ladder was caught in a bush, where Ryder had heaved it. And to top it off, she’d done a terrible job with the small area she’d painted. While they were at the hospital, it must have showered. The rain had taken some of the paint with it. Pools of pink floated in her weed strewn flower beds.