"Damn Jarrod," he muttered as he put aside the glass. But even as he cursed his friend, his mind put the lie to the words. Luke was a hell of a good doctor, as conscientious and cautious as any Boyd had ever known. Stacy had had all the expert attention and care that medical science could provide. What she needed now was rest.
"Easy, honey," he murmured, settling next to her on the couch with as much care as he could manage. The cushion dipped under his weight, nudging Stacy toward him. It seemed as natural as breathing to slip his arm behind her slender back and pull her even closer.
She murmured something he didn't catch before letting herself relax against him. Even with the added bulk of her pregnancy, she felt fragile in his arms. Like an angel he'd seen in one of the museums in New York Karen had dragged him through on their honeymoon. An angel with smudges under her eyes where the bruises were fading and life quickening in her belly.
Without intending to, he smoothed his hand over her hair before tugging it back from her face. Silky and cool, the soft strands caught in the tiny nicks of his fingertips before slipping away.
She stirred, then sighed and settled more firmly against him, like a child snuggling down for a nap. Or a woman offering her trust to a man she only barely knew.
He felt humbled and honored, emotions he'd felt only once before, when Karen had offered her heart and her innocence to him one rainy night an eternity ago.
He wasn't a man who put much store in answered prayers, or even second chances. A man was lucky if he loved once in a lifetime, even luckier if his love was returned. Twice wasn't in the cards. Not the hand he'd been dealt anyway.
Slowly, carefully, his big hand holding Stacy's silky head steady, he eased back to rest against the cushions. Beneath hers, his body felt acutely sensitive, his blood surging in rhythm with her breathing. Between them, the baby pressed snugly against his rib cage.
Boyd closed his eyes and breathed a prayer he wished rather than believed might be heard. One more month. One lousy, short month is all I'm asking. Give the kid a chance, okay?
Please.
* * *
Eight
« ^ »
Stacy woke up to the inner pummeling of little fists, with a few hard kicks thrown in. Eyes still closed, she imagined Tory's tiny features screwed into an impatient frown and smiled.
"Good morning, sweet pea," she murmured, her voice still rusty from sleep.
"How are you feeling?" replied a deep voice.
Startled, she snapped open her eyes and shot a fast glance toward the sound. To her surprise, she discovered it wasn't morning at all, but evening, although she was too groggy to guess how long she'd been asleep. Not too groggy, however, to realize she was in a strange bed in a strange room that was in semidarkness, the only illumination coming from the hall beyond. Boyd was standing by an open closet door, a towel slung around his neck, watching her with intense gray eyes. He must have carried her into his bed, she realized—while she'd been completely oblivious.
She let out her breath slowly, far too conscious that he was wearing little more than a tattered pair of gray running shorts, slung precariously low on his hips where the elastic had stretched. Worn as thin and as slippery as silk, the soft-knitted cotton concealed little of his blatantly male form. Stacy felt her mouth go dry.
"I … must have fallen asleep," she said with a shaky smile.
"Out like a light." His mouth slanted. "I figured the meds you took put you down for the count, so I carried you in here to sleep it off. That sofa's pretty, but it's a bitch to sleep on."
She nodded and glanced around. In contrast to the lush living room, Boyd's bedroom was decidedly Spartan with white walls and simple furniture. The only color came from the books crammed into a floor-to-ceiling bookcase opposite and an exquisitely stitched quilt bunched at her feet.
"What time is it?" she asked when she realized he was watching her beneath drawn brows. She was beginning to get used to that tight little crease his frowns wedged above his nose whenever he was concentrating—or annoyed.
"Just past midnight."
He stepped closer, bringing the scents of a recent shower and shave with him. His hair was tousled and damp. Tendrils clung to his strong neck and curled against his forehead where the towel had left them. His chest was bare, save for the shimmering fan of sun-bleached hair. Like golden moss on a rock, it swirled around the tiny nipples before narrowing to a silky line that bisected his flat, corrugated midriff, then flared to encompass his navel where droplets of water shimmered like diamonds against his bronzed skin. Stacy felt her fingers pressing the sheet as a longing to swirl her fingers through that silken thatch swept through her.
"How's the head?" he asked, his voice thoughtfully muted.
"Still attached, but barely." She managed a laugh that proved to be a grave mistake when pain stabbed.
"Best not to move if you can help it." His bronzed face still wore a frown, and he looked tired and just a little harried. Guilt scurried into her mind and stayed as he pressed a broad, warm palm to her forehead. His touch was gentle, testing. His hand was rough, like velvet sandpaper, she thought, and wondered how those strong blunt fingers would feel against her ultrasensitive breasts.
"No fever," he said before withdrawing his hand. Her pulse, however, was rocketing.
"I'm fine, really," she murmured. A thread had raveled free at the hemline of his shorts, drawing her gaze to the perfect symmetry of strong, supple thigh muscles beneath the taut sun-burnished skin. A sprinkling of hair bleached nearly white curled like soft fuzz, tempting her to trace patterns against his flesh with her fingertips.
Her face warmed at the thought, and she took a breath to steady herself. Darn those rampaging hormones. If she wasn't careful, she'd be salivating soon.
Arcing her gaze upward, she found him studying her with hooded eyes. "Are you up to eating something?" he asked when their gazes met.
"I'm not hungry." Worse, her stomach was still queasy from the pills. "But hold that thought," she added after a moment's reflection. "By tomorrow morning I'll likely be hungry enough to eat this pillow."
One side of his mouth curled upward. "How about oatmeal instead?"
"Believe me, I'll never be that hungry." But she might be if she didn't find work soon, she admitted with a silent pang of raw panic.
"Maybe some tea?" he persisted. "I think I have some of the herbal stuff I keep around for Prudy in case she drops in to deliver one of her motherly lectures."
Stacy curved her lips into a smile at the thought of her diminutive friend laying down the law to a man twice her size. "All I really need right now is to sleep off the aftereffects of those blasted pills."
She felt a cramp threatening in one calf muscle and stretched out her leg, drawing his sudden gaze. Except for her shoes, she was lying fully clothed under the pale blue sheet, yet when he looked at her, she felt a blush climbing from a spot between her breasts to blanket her face. His expression didn't change, but suddenly she felt the crackle of electricity in the air. Like a sea change right before a storm, she thought.
"I didn't mean to wake you," he said, shifting his attention from her body to her face. "Karen always said I was more bull than cat, especially when I was trying to be quiet."
It was the first time he'd ever mentioned his wife to her, but she detected nothing more than a burr of self-mockery in his tone. "Don't apologize, please," she murmured, pushing to her elbows. "This is your house. Stomp around all you want. I promise I won't complain." Somehow she levered herself to a sitting position without too much huffing and puffing. "Tomorrow first thing, I'll start calling on apartments for rent."
He shifted, his hands wrapping around the ends of the towel still slung around his neck. When he moved, his muscles bunched and flexed in a dance of tightly wrapped power that fascinated her. Len had been a strong man, but Boyd's body was a magnificent sculpture of grace and controlled force.
"Don't take this wrong, but when I stopped by your place this af
ternoon, your landlord told me you hadn't been able to make the rent."
Wattchel, you bigmouthed bastard, Stacy thought, grinding her teeth. Then, realizing that Boyd was watching her, forced herself to relax. "I admit I came up a little short this month." She shrugged. "The usual post-divorce regrouping. Friends who've been through it assure me this too shall pass."
"Any idea when?"
Stacy glanced at the firm set to his jaw. Leave it to him to cut straight to the question she'd asked every day since the accident. "Actually, I've been toying with the idea of asking a psychic."
He offered her a sardonic look. "Look, if it would help—"
"You've already helped," she hastened to assure him. Since Len's illness, she had lost a great deal that mattered to her. Pride was one of the few things she had managed to salvage.
"Stacy, I'm not offering charity. Just a loan."
"And I'm declining your offer." She drew breath. "With thanks."
"Damn it, Stacy, I'm … I was a doctor. I know what damage the kind of trauma you suffered can do. Only a few hours ago, you damn near passed out from pain. Right now you've got about much color in your face as the wall behind you."
Stacy drew a breath. His anger was palpable. She refused to accept that it was justified. "I admit I'm a little shaky, but that's because of the pills. By tomorrow morning I'll—"
"Tomorrow morning you'll still only be three days out of the hospital. Most patients with your history take a good month to regain even a decent amount of strength." Boyd raked an impatient hand through his hair, leaving it even more tousled. "Jarrod never should have discharged you."
Stacy felt herself coloring. She considered lying, but her gratitude to Dr. Jarrod wouldn't allow her to let him take the blame. "It wasn't his fault. I … asked to leave." She steeled herself to meet Boyd's accusing gaze. "My bill was already so high." Even with liberal repayment terms, she'd be sending the hospital a check once a month for years—and she'd yet to find a job.
He muttered an obscenity that made her wince. "So bottom line, in order to save money, you're willing to risk your baby's life."
She gasped. "No, of course not! I love Tory."
He narrowed his gaze, searing her. "Sure you do, but hey, you have your pride, right? Maybe you don't have a place to live or food to eat or even a blanket for the baby, but by God, you've held on to those almighty principles of yours." He offered a grunt of disgust. "Way I see it, I figure the odds at ten to one against your carrying that baby more than two weeks longer. And I'm being generous."
Stacy stared at him, unable to speak as tears welled in her eyes. "Don't say that," she whispered brokenly. "D-don't even believe that."
Boyd felt a hand squeeze his heart. He hadn't intended to come on so strong. But somehow, once he started, he couldn't seem to stop. Sickened by the things he'd said to her yet unable to take back the words, he walked to the window and drew back the curtains.
As a kid, he'd loved to sit on the roof outside his attic room and watch the stars. He tried to count them once, but there had been too many. All those wishes just waiting to be granted, his grandmother used to say. If there were stars up there now, he couldn't see them.
"Karen wanted to stay another night at the coast," he said, staring out into the murky darkness beyond the streetlight. "She was crazy about the ocean. But I said no, we couldn't afford another night. What I meant was I couldn't afford it. She offered to pay from her own account. I said no." Remembering that last bitter argument, he let his voice trail off until he'd sorted through all the things he could say. Should say.
"And then she'd cried," he said, feeling his way. "I compromised and said we could stay the day, drive home that night." He felt his throat close up and took a breath. "It was foggy and cold, a lousy time to be driving narrow roads. I remember reminding myself to watch out for deer, and the next thing I remember headlights were coming right for us, and Karen was screaming."
Stacy heard Boyd's voice change and bit her lip. She wanted to tell him to stop torturing himself, that he didn't have to go on. But some sixth sense kept her silent. Perhaps, by listening while he purged himself of black memory she could repay him in some small measure for all he'd done for her.
"We'd gone off the road, down into this gully. It was like some kind of weird carnival ride, only in slow motion. A thicket of blackberry bushes stopped us at the bottom." He fell silent, swamped by memories of a fog-enshrouded nightmare—struggling to push his way out of the car, thrashing his way through the tangle of thorns and cane in order to extricate Karen from the passenger side. She'd been dazed. In shock. Her eyes accusing him in the light reflected by the car's headlights.
"God, it was cold," he remembered aloud. "Karen kept apologizing because she couldn't make her teeth stop chattering." He'd wrapped her in his jacket and tied his sweatshirt around her neck, but nothing had stopped the violent shudders racking her body. The baby, she'd cried, digging frantic fingers into his shoulder even as he lifted her into his arms. Somehow he'd staggered up the incline, praying with every step that someone would come along to help. A trucker, a tourist, a local resident returning to a house tucked into a wrinkle in the wild landscape. Someone. Anyone.
But there had been no one. Nothing but an icy fog and a road stretching into darkness. They told him later that he'd walked five miles with Karen in his arms. Endless, cold miles. Taking a breath, he willed steel into his voice. There wasn't much to tell. "The contractions started before she got to the hospital. She … never lost consciousness. Luke did everything he could, but it was too soon."
Stacy realized she was holding her breath and rationed it out slowly, afraid to make even the slightest sound. For reasons of his own, Boyd had opened up to her, telling her things she suspected he'd never told anyone else. A lump formed in her throat when she realized he was offering her something she sensed he rarely gave—his trust.
"If we'd been closer to the hospital, if Karen had gotten immediate help…" He shrugged and turned to face her. His face was impassive, his eyes darkened nearly to black and heartbreakingly remote. Stacy clamped down hard on her lower lip in order to keep from crying out.
"The official cause of death was internal injuries caused by the accident, but I know better." His words were close to lifeless now, as though he'd shut himself off from everything but the need to finish his story. "Karen died because I couldn't swallow my damned pride and let her pay for another night at the coast. A lousy eighty dollars, Stacy. That's all it would have cost. I make more than that in a couple of hours now, for all the good it does me."
He closed his eyes, his throat working as he battled emotions she suspected he had kept hidden for a long time. "I wake up every morning knowing that I killed my wife and child," he said when he had himself under control again. "I don't want you to have to live every day in that same hell."
"Boyd, it wasn't—"
He cut her off, his voice rasping over each word. "I'm offering you a place to stay until you're strong enough to handle things on your own. And a job if you want it—helping me sort through months of paperwork I've been putting off. Nine dollars an hour, the going rate for temporary clerical help, last time I checked."
Eyes bleak, jaw hard, he strode past the end of the bed to the walk-in closet and disappeared inside without giving her a chance to respond. Seconds later, he returned, his long legs sheathed in jeans, a cotton work shirt hanging open over his chest. He had his shoes in one hand, the blue towel in the other. A twist of his wrist sent the towel looping over a chair across the room.
"Where are you going?" Stacy cried, her voice shaking.
Boyd saw the fatigue under the tears glistening on her white cheeks and felt like a heel. Worse.
"You need rest, and I need to walk off some steam."
He yanked open a drawer, pulled out a pair of socks and sat down on the chair to pull them on. Each movement he made was controlled, his lean body radiating tension. Stacy could only guess at the anguish it had cost him to br
eak open old wounds.
After freeing herself from the covers, she went to him just as he got to his feet. "I'm sorry about Karen and the baby," she murmured. "But you have to know it wasn't your fault."
"Yes," he said quietly, firmly. "It was." He would have walked around her, but Stacy caught his arm, halting him. His gaze was remote, his face stony, as though he were already having second thoughts about opening the door to his past even a little.
"I…" She stopped, let out an unsteady breath. There was no sense arguing with him. Not about his mistaken feelings of guilt. Not about her mistaken pride. He was right. She'd been foolish to insist that Dr. Jarrod release her. Foolish and selfish.
"I'm scared, Boyd," she admitted, her voice trembling and thin. "Scared that you might be right. That I might lose my baby, too. I know I should have stayed in the hospital, but…" Her lips trembled, and her eyes filled. "I swore I was through crying."
Daddy by Accident Page 9