Promise Me Forever (Debbie Macomber Classics) (6 page)

“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.

Sloan 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 lack 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.”

Together they laid down the thick boards of wood. Paul insisted on wheeling Sloan down, and Joy didn’t argue. She didn’t feel like arguing with Sloan, not today. Her hand throbbed; foolishly, she’d refused anything for pain when Dr. Phelps offered it. Sitting and soaking up the sun sounded far more appealing than a verbal battle with Sloan.

“I suppose this was your idea, Nielsen,” Sloan ground out, as Paul pushed the chair down the wooden planks.

She pretended the wind had blown the words away by cupping a hand over her ear.

“You heard me.”

“Could be.”

Paul glanced from one to the other and chuckled. “He’s all yours. Let me know when you need me.”

“Thanks, Paul.” She watched as her friend headed back to the house.

“You enjoy doing this, don’t you?”

“Doing what?”

“This kind of garbage!” He hurled the words at her savagely, as if venting his anger would lessen his confusion. “You seem to have the mistaken impression that once thrust into the beauty of nature, I’ll forget all my troubles and thank God for the gift of life.”

“No.” She sat in the sand beside him, her bare toes burrowing under the granules. “I
thought a little sun might add color to your face.”

“You’re lying.”

“If you say so,” she agreed pleasantly, tilting her face upward and coveting the golden rays. “You know, Whittaker, if you didn’t work so hard at disliking this, you could come to enjoy it.”

“Never.”

“Want me to bury your feet in the sand?”

“No,” he hissed.

“Then be quiet. You’re destroying my peace.”

“Good. I haven’t had a peaceful moment from the day you arrived.”

She ignored him, pretending not to hear his movements.

“Nielsen.”

Opening her eyes, she quirked her head inquiringly. Sloan dumped his sweater over her head. “That’s what I think of your loony ideas.”

“For a cripple, you’re mighty brave.”

“And you’re a sad excuse for a woman. Don’t you wear anything but pants? What’s the matter, are you afraid to let a man see your legs?”

“Legs,” she cried dramatically. “You want legs, I’ll give you legs.” Rolling to her feet, she pulled her pants up to her knees and pranced around like a restless filly. The sight of Paul escorting a tall blonde halted Joy in midstride. Stopping completely, her hands fell lifelessly to her sides and she took a huge breath. “It looks like you’ve got company.”

“Company?” Sloan barked. “I don’t want to see anyone. Send them away.”

“It’s too late for that.” Joy studied the other woman. She would have killed for a figure like this blonde’s. Tall. Willowy. Every brick stacked in the right place. And a face that would stop traffic.

As the two drew closer, the woman’s pace increased. “Oh, my darling, Sloan. No one told me. Oh Sloan.” She fell to her knees and buried her perfectly shaped head in his lap. The delicate shoulders shook with sobs.

Sloan’s hand lifted, hesitated, then finally patted the blonde’s back.

Joy took a step in retreat, not wishing to be a witness to this scene. Sloan’s eyes found Joy’s and cast her an unmistakable look of appeal.

“I’ll leave you two alone.”

“No,” Sloan barked, demanding that she stay.

“Maybe you’d enjoy some iced tea? I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

“Nielsen?” Sloan’s low voice threatened.