by Nora Roberts
couple of names for you. People who might be interested in the other foal. I have a feeling he might be interested himself if his wife doesn't skin him. You can call him when you're on your feet. Satisfied?"
She closed her eyes and nodded. It was happening, at last it was really happening. The money from the foals would go a long way toward paying off the rest of the loan she'd been forced to take after Chuck's death. To be nearly out of debt, to know that in a year or two she'd be essentially stable again. Foolishly she wanted to cry. She wanted to burrow under the covers and weep until tears of relief washed everything else away. Keeping her eyes closed, she waited until she could compose herself.
An odd woman, Dylan thought as he watched her. Why should she get so emotional over the sale of a couple of horses? He was certain the price was right, but it could hardly be more than a drop in the bucket compared to the estate she must have inherited from Rockwell. Money must be important, he decided, though he'd be damned if he could see where she spent it.
The furniture perhaps. Her bed was eighteenth-century and not something you'd pick up at a yard sale. And the horses, of course. She hadn't bought that stallion for a song and a smite. He glanced over at her closet. He'd wager that a good chunk of the rest was hanging in there.
When she opened her eyes again, he plucked the thermometer out. "Dylan I don't know what to say."
"Um-hmm. A hundred and three. Looks like you win the prize."
"A hundred and three?" Her gratitude disappeared. "That's ridiculous, let me see it."
He held it out of reach. "Are you always such a lousy patient?"
"I'm never sick. You must have read that wrong."
He handed it over, then watched as her brows drew together. "Well, that should make you feel a whole lot worse." He took the thermometer again, shook it, then slipped it into its plastic case. "Now, can you feed yourself or do you want help?"
"I can manage." She stared without appetite at the soup steaming on the tray. "I don't usually eat lunch."
"Today you do We're pushing fluids. Try the juice first."
She took the glass he handed her, then sighed. No wonder he was treating her like one of the boys, she thought. She was acting like one. "Thanks. I'm sorry for complaining. I don't mean to be cranky, but there are so many things I have to do. Lying here isn't getting them done."
"Indispensable, are you?"
She looked at him again. Something moved in her eyes-emotion, hope, questions, he couldn't tell which. "I am needed."
She said it with such quiet desperation that he reached out to stroke her cheek before he thought about it. "Then you'd better take care of yourself."
"Yeah." She lifted the spoon and tried to work up some enthusiasm for the soup. "I am a lousy patient. Sorry."
"It's all right. So am I."
To please him, she began to eat "You don't look like you're ever sick."
"If it makes you feel better, I had the flu a couple of years ago."
She smiled, a self-deprecating humor in her eyes. "It does. Anyway, I'm more used to doing the doctoring. Both boys were down with the chicken pox in September. The house was like a ward. Dylan-" She'd been working up to this for some time. Now, idly stirring her soup, she thought she had the courage. "I'm sorry about last night, and this morning."
"Sorry for what?"
She looked up. He seemed so relaxed, so untouched. Apparently harsh words and arguments didn't leave him churning with guilt But he hadn't lied, and they both knew it. She figured they both knew she'd go on lying. "I said things I didn't mean. I always do when I'm angry."
"Maybe you're more honest when you're angry than you think." He was tense. However it looked on the outside, he was baffled by her, moved by her. "Listen, Abby, I still intend to push you and push you hard. But I've got some scruples. I don't intend to start wrestling with you until you can hold your own." She had to smile. "As long as I'm sick, I'm safe."
"Something like that. You're not eating."
"I'm sorry." She set down the spoon. "I just can't." He picked up the tray to set it beside the bed. "Anyone ever tell you that you apologize too much?"
"Yes." She smiled again. "Sorry."
"You're an interesting woman, Abby."
"Oh?" It felt so good just to snuggle back. Chilled, she drew the blankets higher. Incredibly, she was tired again, so tired it would have taken no effort at all to simply ease back and drift off. "I always thought I was rather humdrum."
"Humdrum." He glanced down at her elegant hands and remembered how competently they had worked. He remembered the woman in mink, diamonds glittering at her ears, and thought of how she had folded laundry. It didn't add up to humdrum. It simply didn't add up at all. "I've got a picture of you in my file that was taken in Monte Carlo. You were wrapped to the eyebrows in white mink."
"The white mink." She smiled drowsily as the energy drained from her degree by degree. "Made me feel like a princess. It was fabulous, wasn't it?"
"Was?"
"Mmm. Just like a princess."
"Where is it?"
"The roof," she said, and slept.
The roof? She had to be delirious if she was picturing fur coats on the roof. She murmured a bit when he settled her more comfortably.
A very interesting woman, Abby, he thought again as he stood back to look at her. All he had to do was fill in all the blank spaces.
When Dylan heard the first crash, he was in the middle of transcribing his notes on Rockwell's first year of professional racing. He swore, though without heat, as he turned off the typewriter. Leaving the half-typed sheet in the machine, he went downstairs to greet the boys at the front door.
"It wasn't my fault." Ben glared at his brother, his arm around the dog.
"It was, too, you-" Chris reached into his vocabulary and brought out his top insult "-Idiot."
"You're the idiot. Just because-"
"Problem?" Dylan asked as he opened the door. Both boys had fire in their eyes, and Chris was covered with mud from head to foot, as well. His bottom lip trembled as he pointed a dirty, self-righteous finger at his brother.
"He pushed me down."
"I did not."
"I'm telling Mom."
"Hold it, hold it." Dylan blocked the door and got a smear of fresh mud on his jeans. "Ben, don't you think you're a little too big to be pushing Chris down?"
"I didn't." His chin poked out. "He's always saying I did things when I didn't. I'm telling Mom."
Big tears welled up in Chris's eyes as he stood, a major mess, on the porch. Dylan had a strong and unexpected urge to hunker down and hug him. "Look, it'll clean off," he said, contenting himself with flicking at the boy's nose with a finger. "Why don't you tell me what happened?"
"He pushed me down." The first tears spilled over. He was still too young to be ashamed of them. "Just 'cause he's bigger."
"I did not." Not far from tears himself, Ben stared at the ground. "I didn't mean to, anyway. We were just fooling around."
"An accident?"
"Yeah." He sniffled, embarrassing himself.
"It never hurts to apologize for an accident." He put a hand on Ben's shoulder. "Especially when you're bigger."
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, shooting a look at his brother. "Mom's going to be mad 'cause he's got mud all over. I'm going to get in trouble. And it's Friday."
"Uh-huh." Dylan considered. Chris was over his tears now and running his fingers curiously through the mud on his coat. "Well, maybe we won't have to tell her this time."
"Yeah?" Hope sprang into Ben's eyes, then was quickly displaced by mistrust. "She's gonna see anyhow."
"No, she's not. Come on." Seeing no other way, Dylan hoisted Chris up. "We'll dump you in the washing machine."
He giggled and swung a friendly, filthy arm around Dylan's neck. "You can't put people in there. It's too small. Where's Mom?"
"Upstairs. She's got the flu."
"Like Mr. Petrie?"
"That's right."
&
nbsp; Ben stopped as they entered the kitchen. "Mom's never sick."
"She is this time. Right now she's steeping, so let's try to keep it down, okay?"
"I want to see her myself."
Dylan stopped in the act of pushing the door to the laundry room open. He glanced back and saw Ben just inside the kitchen, his mouth set, his eyes defiant. Though it disconcerted him, Dylan found himself admiring Ben's determination to defend his mother.
"Don't wake her up." He swung through to the laundry room. "Okay, tiger, strip."
Ready to oblige, Chris struggled out of his coat. "My teacher had the flu last week, so we had a substitute. She had red hair and couldn't remember our names. Is Mom going to be sick tomorrow?"
"She won't be as sick tomorrow." Dylan found the soap and began figuring out the mechanics of the washing machine.
"She can use my crayons." Chris plopped down on the floor and began yanking at his boots. "And we can read her stories. She reads me storks when I'm sick."
"I'm sure she'll appreciate it."
"If she feels real bad, I can let her have Mary."
"Who's Mary?"
"Mary's my dog, the one Aunt Maddy gave me when I was little. I still steep with her, but don't tell Ben. He teases me."
Dylan smiled and sent water gushing into the machine. It was nice to be trusted. "I won't say anything."
"If she's better tomorrow, do you think we can go to the movies? She said she'd take us to the movies on Saturday."
"I don't know." Turning back, Dylan saw that the boy had taken him at his word. He'd stripped down to the skin. His sturdy little body was covered with goose bumps and dirt. "I don't think we have to go that far." After taking a folded towel off the dryer, Dylan bent down and wrapped the boy in it. "You're going to need a bath."
"I hate baths." Chris tilted his head and gave Dylan a solemn look. "I really hate them."
"Trouble is, you were right." Dylan dumped the rest of the clothes in the machine and closed the lid. "You won't fit in the washing machine."
Laughing, Chris raised his arms in an open, uncomplicated gesture that left Dylan speechless. Helpless to do anything but respond, Dylan lifted him up. Good God, he thought as he nuzzled him, I've managed to keep things in perspective for over thirty years and now I'm falling for a six-year-old kid with mud on his face.
"About that bath."
"Hate them."
"Come on, you're bound to have a boat or something to fool around with in there."
Resigned, Chris let himself be carried toward the inevitable. "I like trucks better."
"So take a truck."
"Can I take three?"
"As long as there's room for you." He set Chris down again by the bathroom door. "Now you've got to be quiet, right?"
"Right," Chris returned in a whisper. "Are you going to help me wash my hair? I can almost do it myself."
"Ah-" He thought about the work waiting on his desk. "Sure. Get yourself started."
Baby-sitting, Dylan thought as he hesitated in the hall, hadn't been part of the deal. Still, he knew Abby wasn't enjoying it any more than he was. He glanced at Ben's room. The door was closed. His first thought was to leave the boy to himself and deal with the less complicated task of washing Chris's hair. Swearing at himself, Dylan walked over and knocked. "You can come in."
Dylan opened the door to see the boy sitting on his bed, an army of miniature men spread out in front of him. "Did you see your mother?"
"Yeah. I didn't wake her up." He sent two of the men crashing together. "I guess she's pretty sick."
"She just needs to rest for a couple of days." Dylan sat on the edge of the bed and picked up one of the men. "She'll probably want some company later."
"Once I came home from school and she was on the couch because she said she had this headache. But I knew she'd been crying."
At a loss, Dylan lined up men in tandem with Ben's. "Moms need to cry sometimes. Everybody does, really."
"Not guys."
"Yeah. Sometimes."
Ben digested that, but he wasn't ready to believe it. "Was Mom crying again?"
"This time she's just sick. I guess she'll feel better if we don't give her any trouble."
"I don't mean to cause trouble.'' Ben's voice was very young and very small.
"I'm sure you don't." Dylan thought of himself, of how he'd pushed and tugged and pressured. His job. But it didn't go very far toward the guilt.
"I didn't really mean to push Chris down in the mud," he mumbled.
"I didn't think you did." But Dylan had meant to push Abby up against a wall.
"Mom would've punished me."
"I see." Dylan found himself admiring Ben's candor, but now he'd have to do something, and what the hell did be know about handling kids? He dragged a hand through his hair and tried to be logical. "I guess we'll have to think of something. Want me to go push you down in the mud?"
Ben glanced up warily. After meeting Dylan's eyes, he laughed. "Then Mom would be mad at you."
"Right. Why don't you do Chris's chores tonight?"
"Okay." That was no big deal. He liked spending time with the horses, and Chris usually got in the way.
It both pleased and surprised Dylan that he could read the boy's mind. "That includes the dishes-it's Chris's turn."
"But-"
"It's a tough old world, kid." Dylan tugged his earlobe and went to see to his other charge.
Abby awoke to the sounds of an argument. An argument in whispers was still an argument. Opening her eyes, she focused on her sons, who were standing at the foot of the bed.
"We should wake her up now," Ben insisted.
"We should wait until Dylan conies up."
"Now."
"What if she still has a temperature?"
"We'll take it and find out."
"Do you know how?" Chris demanded, ready to be impressed.
"You use that little skinny thing. We just put it in her mouth, then wait."
"While she's asleep?"
"No, dummy. We have to wake her up."
"I'm awake." Abby pushed herself up against the pillows while both boys eyed her.
"Hi." Not at all sure how to deal with a sick mother, Ben fooled with the bedspread.
"Hi yourself."
"Are you still sick?"
Her throat was so dry that she was surprised she could talk at all. Every muscle in her body rebelled as she pushed herself up a bit higher. "Maybe a little."
"Do you want my crayons?" Not one to stand on ceremony, Chris crawled onto the bed to get a closer look.
"Maybe later," she told him, running a hand through his hair. "Did you just get home from school?"
"Heck, no. We've been home forever. Right, Ben?"
"We had dinner," Ben confirmed. "And did the chores."
"Dinner?" After she'd cleared her mind of sleep, she saw that the light was dim with evening. A glance at the clock had her moaning. She'd lost another three hours. "What did you have?"
"Tacos. Dylan makes them real good. Do you have a temperature?" Interested, Chris put his hand on her head. "You feel hot. Do you have to take medicine like Ben and me did? I can read you a story after."
"You can't read," Ben said in disgust.
"I can too. Miss Schaeffer said I read real good."
"Kid stuff, not Mom's kind of stories."
"Fighting again?" Dylan walked in with another tray. "It's nice to see everything's normal. Scoot over, Chris. Your mom has to eat."
"We all made it,'' Chris told her as she shifted aside. "Dylan made the eggs and Ben heated the soup. I made the toast."
"Looks great." She wished she could toss it, tray and all, out the window. When Dylan arranged the pillows behind her, she glanced up and saw the grin. Apparently writers read minds. Since he did, he'd also be aware that she had no choice but to eat.
"Dylan said you need your strength," Ben put in.
"Did he?"
"And Dylan said we had to be quiet so you co
uld rest. We were real quiet." Chris waited for his mother to sample the toast he'd smeared overgenerously with butter.
"You were very quiet," Abby told him, washing down the soggy toast with juice.
"Dylan said he'd play a game with us later if we didn't mess up." Chris sent him a sunny smile. "We didn't, did we?"
"You did just fine."
Unwilling to let Chris get all the attention, Ben moved closer. "Dylan said you'd probably be too sick to go to the movies tomorrow."
"It seems Dylan says a lot," she murmured, then reached out to touch Ben's cheek. "We'll have to see. How was school?"
"It was pretty good. A bird got into the classroom during math and Mrs. Lieter chased it around. It kept crashing into the windows."
"Pretty exciting."
"Yeah, but then she opened one of the windows and got a broom."
"Tricia fell on the playground and got a big bump on her head." Chris leaned over to fuss with the thin gold chain his mother wore, which had fascinated him since childhood. "She cried for a long time. I fell down and didn't cry at all. Well, not very much," he corrected meticulously. "Dylan was going to put me in the washing machine."
Abby stopped running a hand over Chris's hair. "I beg your pardon?"
"Well, there was all this mud and stuff and-" Dylan interrupted before Chris's storytelling got his brother in deep water. "A little accident, it's still pretty slippery outside."
As Abby looked on, Ben tilted his head and sent Dylan a quick sidelong look. A mixture of guilt and gratitude. "I see." At least she thought she did. She was also wise enough not to pursue it. "This is a great dinner, you guys, but I don't think I can eat any more right now."
Dylan took the remaining juice off the tray and set it on the nightstand. "Why don't you two take the tray down? I'll be along in a minute."