CH02 - A Match Made in Texas

by Arlene James

  Kaylie chuckled. “True.”

  Conversation lagged for a few minutes, and finally they got to the crux of the matter. “Who is this Mr. Gallow you mentioned? I assume he is the reason you dumped me after church and raced off to answer your aunts’ beck and call.”

  Kaylie sighed mentally. Her father never used to be snide and self-centered. As a pastor, he had been one of the most caring, giving, selfless men she’d ever known, working long hours in the service of others. He had built Downtown Bible into a thriving, growing community of believers with vibrant worship, Scripturally sound doctrine and effective ministry. After choosing about a decade ago to allow a younger generation to lead the church into a new era, he had stepped aside as senior pastor, but neither the membership nor the new administration had been willing to truly let him go.

  At their urging, he had assumed the position of Pastor of Congregational Care. The church’s ministry to the home-bound and marginalized had expanded significantly under his tutelage. Part of the job had been organizing teams to check on, visit and minister to those sometimes invisible members, but Hubner Chatam had never been a mere administrator, and he’d often spent five, even six, days of every week in the field.

  Then her mother, Kathryn, had died, and Hub never quite seemed to recover from her loss, perhaps because he had been widowed once before. The mother of Kaylie’s two older brothers, Bayard and Morgan, had died of an accidental blow to the head when a hammer had fallen from a tall shelf. After losing his second wife, Hub had lost his zeal for ministry—and his zeal for life along with it. Chandler, her only full sibling, maintained that their father had grieved and resented his way into his heart attack. Kaylie only knew that he had become a very unhappy man, so she let go the remark about her “dumping” him.

  “The aunts have taken him in as a favor to Brooks,” she said, knowing that the doctor was one of Hub’s favorite people. The good doctor had also lost a wife, to an inoperable brain tumor, and that seemed to have formed a bond between the two men.

  Hub put down his fork thoughtfully. “Dr. Leland is not one to impose.”

  “No, he isn’t.”

  “What’s wrong with this Gallow?”

  Kaylie sipped water from the tumbler beside her plate and said, “He was seriously injured in an accident.”

  “What sort of accident?”

  Kaylie wrinkled her brow. “I don’t think anyone ever said.”

  Hub clucked his tongue and shook his head, muttering, “Gallow, Gallow, unusual name. Don’t believe I know any Gallows. Where is he from?”

  “Actually,” she answered with some surprise, “I believe he’s originally from the Netherlands.”

  “The Netherlands! You don’t say! Dutch then, is he?”

  “You wouldn’t know it to hear him speak,” Kaylie said.

  “What about his relatives? Surely you spoke with them.”

  Folding her hands in her lap, Kaylie shook her head. “Aren’t any. At least, none near enough to help out.”

  “Ah. So your aunts, at the urging of Brooks Leland, have opened the family home to him,” Hub deduced, “and now they find him more of a burden than they expected.”

  Kaylie nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  “And because you’re a nurse they expect you to deal with him.”

  “I do seem the logical choice,” Kaylie pointed out.

  Hubner waved a hand in agitation. “Do they not realize the level of your responsibilities?”

  “I would say that the ‘level of my responsibilities’ is extremely light,” Kaylie told him. “I’ve been thinking, in fact, that it might be time for me to go back to work at the hospital.”

  Her father sat back, clearly appalled. “But that would require shift work! You’d be gone all hours of the day and night.”

  Kaylie had considered that, and now she quite shamelessly used it. “Hm. Yes, I suppose that’s true. Taking care of Mr. Gallow would be much less time-consuming. His injuries are serious, and his meds must be administered by a professional, but he’s well enough to leave the hospital, at least. A couple hours in the morning, a couple hours in the afternoon and evening…I’d be home every night, free to get you your meals and your pills.”

  Hub considered, frowning at her, but eventually he accepted the obvious. Neither of them could, with a clear Christian conscience, say no. Hub grimaced.

  “I blame my sisters for this. Once again, their ‘project’ means work for others.”

  “Dad!”

  “You know it’s true. Oh, I’m sure their hearts are in the right places, but never do their good works consist of labor only for them.” He tossed up a gnarled hand. “Whatever they take on, it always requires teams of volunteers and committees of…committees! They’re never satisfied until the whole of Buffalo Creek is involved. I suppose I should be thankful that we don’t live any closer to Dallas. Imagine what causes they could get embroiled in there.”

  Kaylie bit back a smile, partly because he was right. Somewhat. The aunts did tend to take on huge schemes like raising funds for the Buffalo Creek Bible College and the local free clinic. Lately their pet project was one that Hub had once championed himself, ministries and services aimed at single-parent households. The aunts were preparing, as Hypatia put it, to take that initiative to a “whole new level.”

  “Maybe Mr. Gallow is more than they can manage on their own,” she said, “but this time it’s just me involved, and I expect to be paid for my expertise.”

  “Oh, yes, throw money at the problem,” Hub said, “as if the Chatam well will never run dry. Your brother Bayard has warned them time and again.”

  A staunchly conservative banker, Bayard constantly harped on the idea that the aunts, now approaching their mid-seventies, could outlive their inheritance, as if they lived profligately. The aunties and most of the rest of the family, including Hub until recently, pretty much just tuned him out.

  “You misunderstand. The aunts aren’t paying me, Dad. Mr. Gallow is.”

  “Oh. Well, I suppose that if he’s getting free room and board, he can afford to pay for private nursing care.”

  Kaylie supposed that he could pay for a lot more than that, but she didn’t say so. Why open the door for questions that she would rather not have to answer? Like where Stephen Gallow’s money came from, for instance. Having run out of reasons for complaint, at the moment, Hubner went back to his meal, and Kaylie turned her silent thoughts to how best to serve her new patient.

  “Good morning.”

  Stephen opened his eyes to the now familiar sound of the gentle, slightly husky but decidedly feminine voice. He’d been awake for some time, actually, the throbbing in his bones keeping him still, while he worried about his situation with the team.

  The playoffs were now officially under way, and though he had been the goalie to get the team there for the first time in their short history, he had been out of the pipes for nearly two weeks now, with weeks more to go before he could even think about starting rehab. He wasn’t going to see ice time again this season, so should the team actually win the Stanley Cup—a long shot but feasible—his part in the triumph could well be forgotten. Of course, it was entirely possible that, given the good conduct clause in his contract, the team might cut or trade him regardless of what happened in the playoffs, especially if his backup, Kapimsky, proved able to get the job done.

  Stephen had expected Aaron, bleary from a night spent in a strange bed, to be the first person he saw this morning, and though he would never admit it, Stephen dearly wanted his agent’s reassurance. Instead, he would have to settle for the ministrations of the new nurse. At least he hoped that she had decided to take the position. He turned his head slightly to find Kaylie Chatam regarding him serenely from the open doorway.

  He smiled, for two reasons. One, the petite nurse’s soft red hair hung down her back in a thick, straight tail of pure silk at least as long as his forearm. Secondly, she was dressed for work in shapeless pink scrubs with surfing pengu
ins printed on them.

  “In the Netherlands,” he told her, “they say ‘Goedemorgen.’”

  “Gude morgan, then.”

  He tried not to correct her pronunciation, covering his amusement by saying, “Penguins?”

  She plucked at the fabric of her loose top, looking down at a penguin tumbling through a cresting wave. “Best I could do. No skates, but at least they’re creatures that are comfortable on the ice.”

  He laughed. And regretted it. Squeezing his eyes shut against the sharpened pain, he hissed until it subsided to a more bearable level. When he opened his eyes again, Kaylie Chatam was standing over him, pill bottle in hand.

  “Mr. Doolin’s gone down to ask for your breakfast tray. Let’s get these into you so you’ll be up to eating when it’s ready. All right?”

  “Fine,” he grumbled. “But then I need to get to the bathroom.”

  She dropped the pill bottle into one of the cavernous pockets on the front of her smock and slid her small but surprisingly strong hands beneath his arms, helping him into a sitting position on the side of the bed. He tried to bite back the groan that accompanied the action, but the pain was breathtaking. It eased as soon as he was still again. She quickly gave him the pills. After swallowing a pair of them, he was ready to go forward. He shoved up onto his good leg, jaw clamped.

  Moving effortlessly into a supportive posture, Kaylie slid her arm up over his back to his shoulder, her own shoulder tucked neatly beneath his arm. Hopping and hobbling, he inched toward the bathroom door. Small bathrooms, he mused a few minutes later, had their good points, as the close confines allowed him to manage for himself. Afterward, the little nurse made a very welcome suggestion.

  “Maybe you should eat your breakfast in the sitting room.”

  Stephen looked into the sitting room and smiled. Comfortable as it was, the bed had already begun to feel like a prison to him.

  “If it’s any inducement,” she went on in a teasing voice, “there’s a large cup of coffee in there.”

  Stephen eagerly slung his arm around her shoulders. “Lead me to it.”

  Chuckling, she eased him forward. By the time they reached the near end of the sofa, some three or four yards, his head swam. Bracing her feet wide apart and gripping his one good arm, she helped him lower into a sitting position in the corner of the comfortable couch before fetching a small, brocade footstool for his injured leg.

  “How’s that?”

  He waited until the pain subsided enough that he could get his breath. “Guess I’ll live. What about that coffee?”

  While she went to the small writing desk standing against one wall and retrieved a tall, disposable cup with a cardboard sleeve, Stephen looked around him. Oddly elegant paintings that featured game birds, dogs and tools of the hunt from a bygone era covered the walls of the room. In contrast to the antique artwork, he noted, with relieved satisfaction, a flat-screen television hung over the mantel. The old girls didn’t have their heads entirely buried in the past, then. The screen was nowhere near as large as the one in his media room back at the house in Fort Worth, but it would do for watching the playoff games.

  Stephen took the coffee container from Kaylie with his good right hand, turning it with the aid of the fingertips of his left to get the drinking slot in the plastic top adequately positioned. Taking a careful sip, he sighed with satisfaction.

  “I have cream, if you’d like,” she said, reaching into her pocket once more and drawing out the tiny containers.

  “Black is fine.”

  Nodding, she parked her hands at her slender hips and glanced around before snapping her fingers and hurrying back into the bedroom. “Hang on.”

  Like I’m going anywhere, he thought wryly. She returned an instant later with one of the bed pillows and a bath towel.

  “We’ll have to keep using this as a lap tray until I find one,” she explained, placing the pillow across his lap. She covered both it and his chest with the towel.

  He slugged back more of the coffee. It was still hot but thoroughly drinkable, and he moaned in delight as the silky brew flowed down his throat.

  “Wonderful,” he said, using his thumb to tidy the corners of his lips. “This is the best cup of coffee I’ve had in weeks. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” she said, smiling down at him, and oddly enough, he thought that it just might be. She actually seemed pleased that he enjoyed the coffee. Something about that struck him as…Well, it just struck him.

  He had little time to puzzle over the matter as Aaron carried his breakfast tray into the room just then. Despite being rumpled and unshaven, Aaron whistled cheerily as he crossed the floor.

  “It’s a good thing I’m a married man again,” he said at his jocular best, “or else I’d have to take that Hilda away from poor old Chester. That woman can cook! Mmm-mmm.”

  At the word again, Stephen saw Kaylie’s eyebrows rise ever so slightly. Silently amused, he glanced innocently at Aaron as Kaylie moved aside so he could deposit the tray on the pillow across Stephen’s lap.

  Belgian waffles, still steaming from the iron, sliced strawberries, maple syrup, ham and—Stephen couldn’t believe his eyes—gele room. Kaylie touched the rim of the fluted cup of thick, sweet, golden cream with the tip of one finger.

  “Clotted cream, a bit of England right here in the very heart of Texas.” Her dark eyes twinkled merrily. “My aunts are devoted to all things English.”

  Stephen had no idea why that might be, but he didn’t care. Setting aside the coffee, he picked up his fork with his left fingers and his knife with his right. It was awkward, and he got cream on the edge of his jacket sling, but he managed to cut up the waffle. Nurse Kaylie watched intently, but she did not offer to cut up his breakfast for him. He liked her for that.

  Aaron took his suit jacket and tie from the desk chair and began putting them on, chatting happily. “Our darling nurse has given me a shopping list, Steve-o. I’ll just make a quick run into the picturesque town of Buffalo Creek, and then it’s home to the little bride.” He clapped a hand on Stephen’s shoulder. “I leave you in capable, if dainty, hands.” He bowed over one of those dainty hands like some sort of old gallant, saying grandly, “I’d kiss your pretty little pink toes, darlin’, if I wasn’t married.”

  “Again,” Kaylie chirped, looking a bit startled with herself, as well as amused.

  “Hey,” Aaron quipped good-naturedly, “third time’s the charm, right?”

  He waved and strode happily from the room. Kaylie pressed a hand to her chest and looked at Stephen.

  “Has he really been married three times?”

  Stephen nodded, going to work on his ham. “Never knew the first one, but anyone could have told him that was a nogo. She was, er, an exotic dancer. The, um, second wife,” he went on, “used him as a stepping stone to the bigger things.”

  “Bigger things?”

  Putting down his knife, Stephen took up his fork with his right hand, though he still had some difficulty eating that way. “Aaron’s second wife left him for a hockey player,” he told Kaylie bluntly, “after Aaron negotiated a six-million-dollar contract for the guy.” He gave her the name, but since it obviously meant nothing to her, he added, “The creep’s a starting center on the East Coast now.”

  “Ah.”

  “I think Aaron maybe got it right this time,” Stephen went on. “I think Dora loves him. She sure acts like it. Behaves as if he’s the cleverest, wittiest thing she’s ever met.” He shook his head.

  Nurse Chatam slid her small hands into her big pockets. “He is kind of funny.”

  Stephen chuckled and forked up another bite. “He is, really, especially when you get to know him. Fact is, Aaron’s a good guy.”

  “But you give him a hard time anyway,” the little nurse remarked softly.

  Stephen stilled. He did. He really did give Aaron a hard time. He wondered why. But then he knew. He gave Aaron a hard time because Aaron did not give him one when he clearly deserv
ed it. Suddenly chilled, tired and irritated, Stephen dropped his fork and tugged at the neck of his T-shirt, the armhole of which had been slit to accommodate the cast on his left arm before the jacket sling went on. The back of the sofa had tugged it askew, and the stupid thing was choking him.

  Seeing the problem, the little nurse leaned close and reached behind him to pull up the fabric of his shirt, loosening the pressure on his throat. She smelled clean and sweet, like the air after a spring rain, and Stephen felt a sudden longing. In some ways, that longing made him think of his boyhood and his mother, but the feeling was in no way childlike. He suddenly wondered just what the next several weeks might hold. Who was this petite, Bible-quoting lovely, anyway, and why did she make him feel clumsy and ignorant?

  Waiting until she straightened, he turned a bland face up at her and asked, “What should I call you? Nurse seems a bit impersonal.”

  “Kaylie will do.”

  “All right, Kaylie. And I’m Stephen. Or Steve, if you prefer.”

  “But not Stevie,” she said, a quirk at one corner of her lips.

  “Not Stevie,” he confirmed. Stevie had been a boy whose parents had tugged him this way and that between them, an innocent who had ceased to exist decades ago, mourned by no one, not even him, though he had been that boy. “So, Kaylie,” he said, changing the subject, “tell me something about yourself.”

  “Not much to tell. What do you want to know?”

  He really wanted to know if she was married or involved with anyone, but he had more game than to ask outright. “Well,” he said, pondering his options, “so, um, where do you live exactly? I know you don’t live here.”

  She shook her head. “No. No, I don’t live here. I live with my father, about three miles across town.”

  With her father? Interesting. Odd, but interesting. What woman her age lived with her father? That brought up another question.

  “And, uh, how old are you?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  That was about what he’d figured, despite the air of inexperience about her.