The sound of Sloan’s chair told her he was coming toward her. She didn’t move.
A finger traced the pattern of the ugly bruise on her arm. “Did I do that?”
“Yes,” she answered without turning.
“Dear sweet heaven,” he muttered, his voice suddenly thick. “You must hate me.”
“No,” she replied softly, and turned her face to him. “I don’t.”
Again he ran his index finger along the bruise. His touch was gentle, almost a caress, as if he wanted to blot out the pain he had caused.
“I’m going out for a while tonight,” she announced.
He dropped his hand. “A date?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Just a movie. I’m going alone.”
His hands rolled the chair back a couple feet, then swiveled it around, presenting her a view of his back. “Have a good time, Joy.”
A frown creased her brow. She found it hard to understand this man. “Thank you.”
He hesitated for a second before wheeling into his room.
Joy watched him go. Sloan regretted the incident that morning with his father and later with her in the pool. He was a man driven to the limits of his endurance. Mentally, Joy pictured him standing at a crossroads. He would choose either life or a living death. Unconsciously, she brushed the hair off her forehead as a smile came to her. Interestingly, she had viewed him standing, and not in a wheelchair. Why such a nonsensical thing should lighten her spirits she didn’t know.
Joy was whistling on her way out the front door. She hadn’t been hungry and had skipped dinner. All of a sudden she felt ravenous. There wasn’t time to stop and get something before the movie, so she decided to wait until after.
The show was a light comedy that made her laugh, and heaven knew she needed a reason to smile.
On the way down the coast highway, Joy pulled off at a fast-food restaurant. She hadn’t paid much attention to the kind of food until she stepped out of the car. Fish. The tantalizing aroma of deep-fried fish and crisp french fries filled the air.
Joy read the menu and absently wondered if Sloan knew about this place. He would have, of course, since it was only a few miles from the house. But how long had it been since he’d tasted something like this?
“Can I help you?” An eager-faced youth leaned over the counter.
“Yes.” Joy’s eyes didn’t leave the menu that was painted in boldface letters over the grill. “I’d like a double order of fish and chips. And a Pepsi.”
“Will that be all?”
“No, make that two orders,” she added impulsively.
“To go?”
“Pardon?” Joy’s puzzled gaze found the girl’s.
“Do you want to eat here or take out?” she asked with an impatient breath.
“Take out.”
Even as she paid for the meal, Joy wondered what had possessed her to do anything so foolish. No use lying to herself—she’d bought the second fish order for Sloan.
The lights to his room weren’t visible from the front of the house. Joy carried the grease-stained white sack into her bedroom and immediately went out onto the balcony.
His draperies were open, but the room was dark. He often sat alone with the lights off. Sometimes she thought he preferred it like that. He could hide in the shadows, but not in the light.
Tentatively, she knocked on the sliding glass door and opened it just a crack.
Silence.
“Are you awake?” She whispered the question, not wishing to disturb him if he happened to be asleep. Her eyes adjusted to the dim interior and searched the room. He sat in the corner, his chin propped up by his fist.
“How was the movie?”
“Great.”
His chuckle was filled with quiet humor. “Why are we whispering?”
“I don’t know.” She slid open the door. “I didn’t have dinner, so I stopped off at a fish-and-chips place up the road.”
“Not Mobey Jake’s?”
“I didn’t notice the name, but it had a neon whale flashing off and on.”
“That’s the one. The food’s terrific.”
“I brought you an order back, too.”
An uncomfortable pause followed her announcement. “Isn’t that fraternizing with the enemy?”
“Could be,” she agreed, with a secret smile. “But my mother once told me I’d catch a lot more flies with honey than vinegar. But then, my mother never met you.”
Chapter Three
A contented feeling moved through Joy as she sat up in bed and stretched. Linking her fingers high above her head, she arched her back and released a long, drawn-out yawn.
She couldn’t remember an evening she’d enjoyed more than the one spent with Sloan. He had chuckled when she relayed the movie plot and the antics of the characters. It was the first time Joy had heard the sound of his laughter. The feeling it had produced was warm and pleasant. She had seen him grit his teeth and muffle groans as she manipulated his legs, but never his amusement. How much more she preferred dark eyes that crinkled with laugh lines to ones that struggled to disguise pain.
She dressed in jeans and a loose-fitting T-shirt. Some of the fish fillets had been left over, and she wanted to see if Long John would eat out of her hand. Great strides seemed to have been made with Sloan, and she was eager to see if the injured gull was willing to accept her as his friend.
“Good morning, L.J.,” she greeted as she let herself into the yard. The gate latched behind her as she stepped to the food bowl and bent down, extending her hand. “See what I’ve got here? Fish,” she answered her own question in reassuring tones. “And I happen to know gulls are particularly fond of fish. I’m not so sure about fried fish, but I think you ought to give it a try.”
With an ambling gait that reminded her of Clara Barnes, the bird took a step in her direction.
“Obviously you’ve got keen eyesight,” Joy encouraged her feathered friend.
When the bird was only a few inches away, she edged closer, wanting him to take the fish from her. Almost immediately Joy realized her mistake. The razor-sharp beak sliced into the back of her hand instead of the food. Blood gushed from the open cut. Inhaling a sharp breath, Joy dropped the fish and jerked upright. In a protective movement she held her hand to her body and hurried out through the gate. Blood seemed to be everywhere. The gull had apparently cut a vein. The pain was sharp as she quickly stepped back into the house. Clara wasn’t in the kitchen. Joy was grateful she didn’t have to make unnecessary explanations. From the flow of blood, it looked as if she might need a suture or two.
Intent on escaping unseen into her bedroom, Joy nearly stumbled over Sloan, who was wheeling down the wide hallway.
“Joy, why the rush?”
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, pressing her hand to her shirt. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You’re hurt.”
Sloan’s pallor became sickly. He swallowed and narrowed his gaze on her hand.
“I’m fine.”
“You need a doctor.”
“What I need is to see how deep this is.”
Stepping into her room, she moved directly to the bathroom sink and held her cut hand under a slow faucet. In the background she could hear Sloan yelling for Clara. Within moments the red-faced cook came rushing into the room.
“I got cut. It’s no major catastrophe. Darn, it looks like it may need to be sewn up.” Angry at herself for her own stupidity, Joy felt like stamping her foot. Didn’t she know better than to rush something as delicate as trust? As an injured bird, she would have probably reacted the same way.
“I’ll get Paul to drive you to urgent care.” With agitated, worried movements, Clara rushed out of the room.
The fuss everyone was making didn’t lessen Joy’s feelings of self-reproach. A small towel was wrapped around her fist and held protectively against her stomach. Joy grabbed her purse off the dresser, fumbled with the clasp, and took out her car keys.
S
loan was gone, but she could hear him speaking to someone on the phone. His voice was angry and urgent. Footsteps could be heard rushing up the stairs.
“What happened?” Paul directed the question to Joy.
“I got cut. It’s my own stupid fault. But it looks like I’m going to need a few stitches. A vein’s been sliced.”
A pale Sloan rolled his chair from his room. “Dr. Phelps is on his way.”
“Dr. Phelps,” Joy repeated, aghast. “You didn’t call him, did you?” The whole situation was quickly becoming ridiculous. “You don’t ask a noted surgeon to make a house call for a few stitches,” she shouted sharply.
“Paul,” Sloan shouted, no less calm, “get her into my room.”
With a supportive hand under her elbow, Paul led her into Sloan’s quarters.
“This is ridiculous,” she hissed under her breath.
Sloan wheeled in after her. “Sit her in my chair.”
“I might get blood on it,” she protested.
“For once, just once,” Sloan ground out between clenched teeth, “will you do as I say?”
Pinching her mouth tightly shut, Joy plopped down on the expensive leather recliner. Paul hovered over her, and Sloan rolled his chair back and forth across the room.
“For heaven’s sake, you two look like you expect me to keel over dead any minute.” Her wit didn’t please Sloan, who tossed her a fiery glare. “Look at you.” She directed her words to Sloan. “You’re absolutely pale. Do you mean to tell me that after everything you’ve gone through you can’t stand the sight of blood?”
“Shut up, Nielsen.” The authority in his voice brooked no resistance.
“Well, for heaven’s sake, would you stop doing that? You’re making me nervous.”
“Doing what?”
“That.” She pointed her finger at his chair. “You’ve got to be the only man in the world who paces in a wheelchair.”
Paul chuckled, and she tipped her head back and rolled her eyes expressively. “How could you have phoned Dr. Phelps?” she asked, and groaned with embarrassment.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood.” His voice pounded like thunder around the room.
“I’m fine,” she nearly shouted, and bounded to her feet, stalking to the far side of the room. Her angry glare met Sloan’s as they stared at each other, the distance of the room separating them.
“How’d it happen?” Paul inserted, apparently in an attempt to cool tempers.
“It was my own stupid fault.” She watched as Sloan’s hands tightened around the arms of his chair in a strangling hold. “I tried to get L.J. to eat out of my hand—”
“L.J.?” Sloan interrupted.
“The seagull I found.”
“She named him Long John,” Paul explained, with a trace of humor. “Rather appropriate, I thought.”
“I didn’t ask what you thought.” Sloan’s mouth twisted sarcastically. “I want that bird destroyed.”
“No.” Joy’s voice trembled with rage. “You can’t kill something because it was protecting itself. I told you, the whole thing was my fault.”
“I don’t want the seagull around,” Sloan shouted.
“Then I’ll find someplace else.”
The air between them was as cold as an arctic blast.
Paul moved to the center of the room. “Interestingly enough, I happened to read the other day that there aren’t such things as seagulls. Kittiwakes, black-backed gulls, and herring gulls, but technically there are no seagulls.”
Speechless, Joy stared blankly at her muscular friend until she recognized that he was placing himself between her and Sloan, granting them each the space to cool their tempers.
Clara could be heard fussing in the hall. “This way, Dr. Phelps.”
Everyone’s attention was centered on the door as the tall, dark-haired doctor entered the room.
“Dr. Phelps,” Joy began, “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Anyone who lets a stupid bird slash their hand in two deserves to be,” Sloan inserted dryly.
Joy darted him a warning glance.
“Now that I’m here, I might as well have a look.” Professional and calm, Dr. Phelps set his bag on the desk and hung his light coat over the back of the chair.
“And since you’re here, you might as well check Mr. Whittaker,” Joy suggested. “I’m sure he’s due for an enema or something.”
The good doctor chuckled as he removed the towel from her hand. A fresh supply of blood oozed from the laceration as he prpded it gently with his fingers. “Nothing a couple of stitches won’t cure,” he murmured.
“I have most of the supplies you’ll need in my room,” she told him, and stood, leading the way.
The necessary equipment was laid out across the small tabletop as Dr. Phelps injected the topical anesthetic. Nonplussed, Joy watched him work. Having seen this so many times in the past, it amazed her how unaffected she could remain when it was her own hand.
The dull ache continued after he bandaged the hand in white gauze.
“How’s it going with Sloan?” he asked, as he worked. They’d talked briefly only one time since she’d taken over the assignment.
“I’m not sure,” she answered honestly. “I’m beginning to think some progress is being made, but it’s too soon to tell.”
“I don’t know of anyone else who could reach him.” His compassionate gray eyes searched hers. “Have you told him yet?”
“No, but he’ll see soon enough.”
The dark head bobbed in agreement. “If you have any problems, don’t hesitate to call me.”
“I won’t.”
“And listen, it might not be a bad idea to keep this hand out of the water for a few days.”
She laughed softly. “Sloan will love that.”
“Speaking of the man, I’ll check him, since I’m here.” He discarded the items he’d used and closed his bag. “I’ll give you a call later in the week.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“I’m glad to finally be in your debt. You’re the one who continues to save me.” The good-natured smile left him as he noted her hand. “Go ahead and remove those sutures yourself in a week or so. Use your own judgment.”
Dr. Phelps left a few moments later, and Joy laid back against her pillow, intent on resting her eyes for a bit. Before she was aware of it, it was afternoon and she’d been asleep for hours.
A blanket had been laid over her, and she recognized it as one from Sloan’s room. How had he gotten in? The door to his quarters had been widened to accommodate the wheelchair, but hers hadn’t. A gentle breeze ruffled the closed draperies, and she realized the sliding glass door had been left open.
What a puzzling man Sloan Whittaker was. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Joy sat up and swung her short legs off the mattress. Already, half the day had been wasted.
Someone knocked softly on her bedroom door.
“Come in,” Joy called.
Clara opened the door and came in carrying a large tray. “I thought you might like something to eat.”
“But you didn’t need to bring it to me,” Joy protested. “I’m not incapacitated, you know.”
“Mr. Whittaker insisted that you take the rest of the day off. You rest and I’ll bring in your meals.”
“But, Clara, that’s ridiculous.”
“Mr. Whittaker was real worried about you. I can’t remember a time he acted like this.”
Leaning against the pillows the cook had fluffed up against the headboard, Joy laughed. “For all his bark, our Mr. Whittaker is a marshmallow. Did you see how pale he got when he saw the blood on my shirt? For a minute I was afraid he was going to pass out.”
Clara’s look was thoughtful. “Mr. Whittaker doesn’t like the sight of blood. At least not since the accident.”
The humor drained out of Joy’s eyes. She was being callous. Of course seeing all that blood had bothered him, especially since he’d lain helplessly in a pool of his own.
The la
ck of sensitivity robbed Joy of her appetite. She made a token attempt to eat so as not to arouse Clara’s suspicions and tucked a few items inside a napkin to give to L.J.
After changing into a clean blouse for the second time that day, Joy carried the half-empty tray into the kitchen. “Thanks, Clara. Lunch was delicious.”
“Since you’re up, I think Mr. Whittaker would like to talk to you. He’s in his room.”
“Sure,” she agreed, and swallowed tightly.
With the blanket clenched to her breast, Joy tapped lightly on Sloan’s door and waited for his answer before entering.
They eyed each other warily. “You wanted to see me?”
“Not particularly,” Sloan snapped.
Shrugging off his gruff welcome, she laid the blanket at the foot of the bed. “I’ll see you later. By the way …” She hesitated, her back to him. “Thank you for putting the blanket over me.”
“I didn’t.”
Joy frowned curiously. He was lying, and she didn’t know why. Later, as she walked along the windswept shore, Joy guessed that he didn’t want her to know he was concerned.
Paul saw her and waved as she climbed atop a sand dune. Joy raised her good hand and returned the gesture. It was another gorgeous April afternoon. How quickly she was coming to love this beach, this house, this … Her mind refused to form the word man. So much of herself was tied up with this case: her skill, her ego, the almost desperate desire to help lift him from the mire of self-pity. The dangers were clear, but as long as she was aware and protected herself, she would be safe.
With long-legged strides, Paul raced to her, feet kicking up sand as he ran.
“How do you feel?” she queried.
“Great.”
“Feel up to another confrontation with the master?” she asked in a teasing voice.
“Naw, it’s much more fun watching you two argue. But since you’re a bit under the weather, what would you like?”
“You’ve still got that plywood around, haven’t you? Let’s get him down here on the beach.”
“He isn’t going to like it,” Paul warned.
“Heavens. So what’s new? Sloan Whittaker doesn’t like anything.”
Promise Me Forever (Debbie Macomber Classics) Page 4