01 Do You Believe in Magic - The Children of Merlin (7 page)

She settled in against the seat
and pulled her hat down against the rising sun.

She sure as hell was
not
coming all the way back into Reno just to visit some guy she’d met
twice. Well, three times if you counted the accident and saving his
life.

No sirree.

*****

Tris flipped the channel
restlessly on the overhead TV. He was alone in the room, the other
occupant having been released this morning. Day three had seemed
like day twenty. He felt like he’d been on the wrong end of a
mugging. He’d never appreciated his mother’s power enough when he
was a kid. No broken bones or chicken pox for the Tremaine kids. Or
not for long. That was the benefit of having a mother who was a
Healer. Of course you also had to put up with a father who was an
Adapter. Bastard could do anything once he saw it done, or even
read about it. Languages? A snap. Tennis? None better. Running a
multinational conglomerate? Like he was born to it. No wonder his
second son was such a disappointment. Opting for metal shop instead
of college prep. Fights, smoking (though he gave that up later),
drinking, and sneaking out by the time he was twelve. Everything
his father hated. Everything that kept his mother up nights. Unlike
the Prince of Wales, his older brother Kemble. Or Drew, who was so
sure of her destiny. They believed their latent gifts were there in
their DNA, ready to spring forth when they found someone who shared
that particular gene. All it took was true love, according to his
mother. Yeah. Right. Maybe for the other Tremaines. But he wasn’t
even sure he was a Tremaine. He certainly had almost nothing in
common with any of his family.

Sheriff had come by to say
they’d hauled his cycle in. It was totaled. Too bad. Harley Softail
Night Train. He’d personally customized it with a big bore kit,
drag bars, and pipes. It had been his only companion for a year.
Hell, that bike was the closest thing he had to a friend.

The sheriff brought him the few
personal items he’d had in the saddlebags. A couple of changes of
clothes and a worn copy of
On the Road
he’d picked up at a
used bookstore were all he had to show for a year of travel. His
helmet was toast. He had no phone. And no one was coming to see him
in the hospital. Was he drifting away again?

The officer got his story, such
as it was. The doc told the deputy amnesia was an effect of the
concussion and he might or might not remember later. He wasn’t sure
the deputy believed Maggie’s report that a semi hit him without
even braking. He got the feeling they thought he’d just spun off
the road while driving drunk and Maggie was covering for him.
Figures.

So he was hurting. They’d
removed the morphine drip tube in his shoulder today. Hurting and
bored stiff. He didn’t care that the young nurses flirted with him.
He’d finished his only book. He was sick of television. Here he
was, flipping channels between depressing news, more depressing
news,
Jeopardy
, and a documentary on sharks. Hell, even
sharks couldn’t keep him from thinking about Maggie. Why in God’s
name was she so compelling? Because she saved his life? But he’d
been on the way to obsession before she half dragged him up that
embankment. His attraction had been so immediate it was almost
creepy.

Immediate or not, she was gone
from his life.

Only if you let her be
gone.
When the sadistic, pretty surgeon discharged him, he
could hop a cab to a motel and hole up until he healed enough to
drive himself out to Austin. Get directions to the O’Brian place.
She was a wanderer. But she did come back once in a while.

Damn
. He was planning to
stalk her.

He just wanted to talk to
her.

Liar.
He’d always wanted
to do more than that, since the first time he saw her. He’d had an
erection that wouldn’t quit at the diner. And at the ranch. He
imagined what she’d look like without those jeans and shirt. She’d
have a hard little body, muscled. But those breasts and hips, there
was nothing hard about those. She’d have practical underthings. No
lace cup bras for Maggie O’Brian. Unless he bought them for
her.

He’d like to buy things for her.
Nice things. She seemed like she didn’t have enough nice things in
her life. He’d like to put his hands on her. He could practically
feel his palm on her hip. Or her breast. Just the thought of her
riding bulls and stallions, her legs wrapped around them, the big
animals bucking under her.…

Shit.
Why was he
torturing himself? Now the outline of his hard-on was clearly
visible under the thin hospital blanket. Let’s hope it wasn’t time
for more pills or anything.

“Hello, Mr. Tremaine,” the
orderly said brightly, wheeling in a cart full of dinner trays.

Tris felt himself flush. Of
course she had to be female. Name tag said, “Teresa.” Couldn’t they
muster male nurses and orderlies for male patients? A guy would
understand his problem. She bustled over and pulled out the rolling
tray table next to his bed. She was a tall and gangly girl in her
late twenties.

“Oh!” she gasped as she saw his
“issue.” She swung the table hastily over it. “Well, we’re feeling
better, are we?” Thank God she didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s
meatloaf tonight. The Jell-O of the day is green.” She fussed over
arranging his plates and taking off the plastic wrap, though he was
perfectly capable of doing that himself. Well, maybe not with only
one hand. When she couldn’t think of anything else to do, she
glanced up at him, a speculating look in her brown eyes. She took a
pen from her breast pocket (it had to be her breast pocket, didn’t
it?) and wrote a number on the sheet that had his meal order on it.
“Well, if you need follow-up care after you’re discharged, call
this number.” She tucked the paper under his plate. “I do house
calls.” She grinned and turned, pushing her towering cart out the
door.

Tris sighed in relief and tried
to find a more comfortable position. Impossible when he couldn’t
take his weight off his butt because his leg was elevated. His butt
was currently numb and a half, though the rest of him, sadly,
wasn’t. Clumping footsteps sounded in the hall.

Nurses wore rubber soles. Was it
the sound of boots? He glanced up. Maggie stood in the doorway.

He froze. So did she.
Crap in
a hat.
He just blinked at her, words stuck in his throat. Some
welcome. She looked ready to turn and run, like she was sorry she
came. She also looked, well, wonderful. Her hair was back in the
same low ponytail. She fumbled with her worn western hat, held now
in front of her. The plaid shirt she wore was kind of sagebrush
green and navy blue over a faded tee the color of her jeans. She
must wear sunscreen religiously, he thought, to no particular
point, because her cheeks were creamy and just sun-kissed in spite
of how much time she must spend in the sun. The freckles stood out
across that little nose. She wore not a trace of makeup, but
suddenly he couldn’t think why he had ever thought she was nothing
special. Maggie O’Brian had a natural, unspoiled beauty.

“Uh, hi,” they both said at
once. His came out kind of a croak. The newscaster on the
television was saying something about the unusual number of
hurricanes this season. He fumbled for the remote and cut the guy
off in mid-sentence. “Come in. Come in,” he managed, just as she
looked like she’d decided to bolt.

She took a step into the room.
“I was in Reno, uh, for some... some supplies and I thought I’d
just see if you turned out paralyzed or something.” She closed her
eyes, looking disgusted. “Sorry.”

So tact wasn’t her strong point.
“Nope.” He managed to move his very swollen and discolored toes on
the foot that was suspended. “Soon to be fully functional.”

“Good.”

The silence stretched. Tris felt
his erection bob under the blankets. Thank God for the tray. He
didn’t want her coming too close. She might see it. She’d think he
was a pervert or something. Especially if she knew it was because
he’d been thinking about her. She shifted her weight from foot to
foot.

“Well. That’s what I wanted to
know. Hope you get well soon.” She turned.

“Wait,” he called, racking his
suddenly wooden brain. “Wait.” She half turned. Was that relief
warring with the doubt in her expression? “You can’t go because …
because I’m bored stiff,”
real stiff,
actually,
“and
I’ll probably slit my wrists if I have to watch any more TV.”

“I’m interrupting your dinner.”
She made a little gesture at his tray. How had he not noticed what
delicate hands she had? Strong, sure. Short nails. But still small
and … feminine. Really feminine.

“You call this dinner?” He
shrugged with his good shoulder. “I guess.” If you happened to like
Jell-O and overcooked green beans and meatloaf made with sawdust.
He almost pushed the tray away to show her he didn’t care about it
until he remembered why he needed that tray.

She stood on tiptoe to peer at
his dishes and gave a wry smile of agreement. “Too bad I didn’t
bring you something from Jake’s. You seem like a steak kinda
guy.”

“Yeah.” They were having a
conversation. An actual conversation. That felt … good. He pushed
the plate away on the tray table so she wouldn’t feel like she was
interrupting anything.

“No, you should eat.” She took
another couple of steps into the room. “When you’ve got an injury,
you need to keep your strength up.”

Oh, good. It was the feminine
impulse to take care of wounded things. He knew that one up close
and personal, from his mother. “Keep me company while I try to
choke this stuff down.”

Her suspicious smile was at
least a little wry. He gestured to a chair. She inched around the
perimeter of the room and sat on the edge. “Okay,” she said.

He pulled the plate forward and
dug into the meatloaf. “Not sure I really thanked you the other
night. I was, uh, kinda out of it.”

“You did.” She made a
deprecating motion with her head.

Okay, she didn’t want to talk
about that.
God, the meatloaf is awful
. “You get the horses
back to your place okay?”

“Yeah. Gonna head out for LA
with the first load pretty soon.”

“Long drive with a trailer.”

“Not too bad. Five hundred miles
or so. Takes about nine, ten hours in my truck with stops and steep
grades and such. No speeding with a load of horses.”

He nodded, racking his brain.
“You said you were in Reno for supplies?”
Brilliant comment,
Tremaine.

She looked uncomfortable. “Had
my eye on some … some automatic waterers. Got to come into the city
to one of the big suppliers for those.”

“Oh.” What did he know about
ranch equipment?
Nothing in common with her. Isn’t that a
familiar
feeling?

She glanced around nervously
before she come up with a question.“Your bike totaled?”

“Yeah. Sheriff said they’d take
it over to a scrapyard for me.” Or he could have it shipped to the
shop in LA. José could probably put it back together. Couldn’t
leave a friend to be scrapped in some foreign place like Reno.

“Good thing you’ve got your
family to come and get you, being without a ride and all.” Her face
was bland, but her eyes were … speculating, maybe.

“Yeah.” Like he’d ever call
Kemble or his father. Wouldn’t want to worry his mother. His sister
Drew
might
not tell their parents. She was the closest thing
he had to an ally in the family. His cousin Devin was seventeen. He
could drive. But neither could just disappear. Their father would
have the Marines out looking for them. Big families knew each
other’s business. Except, no one knew him. And now no one even knew
where he was.

“So, you call ’em?” Maggie
pressed, trying to sound casual.

“Yeah.”
Lie.
He’d even
lied to the doc. She’d threatened to make him go to a nursing home
with a bunch of old people if he checked out without support. His
plan was to tell her his family was here, wait until she released
him,
then
order the cab. Push came to shove, he’d check out
AMA. If she sicced social workers on him, well, they’d have to find
him first.

She lowered her chin and gave
him a challenging look. “Two parents and six brothers and sisters
including the adopted guy, and not one could be bothered to fly up
and see you in the hospital? And don’t tell me they’re all afraid
of flying. In two days, they could have driven.”

She remembered his description
of his family? That was good, wasn’t it? “They’re, uh, real busy
people.”

She sighed. “Yeah. I guess Elroy
would be just that much of a jerk.”

The last thing Tris wanted was
to talk about his family. “You … you got any rodeos coming up?”
Talk about her. That was better.

“Three weeks. Over in Denver.”
She cleared her throat. “I want that one bad.”

“It’s important?”

“Yeah. Prestigious. They’ve got
some real mean bulls. I figure if I can win the women’s division
again, the promoters might let me compete in men’s.”

The thought of her endangering
herself by riding mean bulls made him want to shake her. Or forbid
her to go just to protect her. “You could get hurt. People get hurt
rodeoing.”

She laughed a little then. That
was the first time he’d heard her laugh. It was like what he
imagined her singing voice would be, throaty and sensual. “If you
grow up riding wild or half-broke horses, by the time you get to be
my age you’ve fractured a lot of bones.”

“That’s awful.” The thought of
her suffering any kind of pain was painful in itself.

“Seems like cycles are worse
than horses,” she threw back at him.

“Not worse.”

“But not better.”

He couldn’t argue. “Guess we’re
both a little addicted to the wild side.”