Читать книгу Christmas Eve Delivery - Connie Cox, Connie Cox - Страница 11

WATCHING DR. HART stride away, stretching out his steps, going over the pipe-rail fence in one fluid motion, making the most of those incredibly long, lean legs of his while seeming to be unhurried and in control, left Deseré feeling lost and alone.

But wasn’t that her status quo with men?

Not that Dr. Hart was a—Of course he was a man, but he wasn’t a relationship or a potential relationship, except purely in the professional sense.

And that’s the only sense she needed. Except for her common sense, which she seemed to have misplaced.

My nurse practitioner, Dr. Jordan had said. That meant she was hired, right?

She hadn’t been able to acknowledge her worries and doubt before, not even to herself, but now she could admit to herself that she’d had no other options if this one hadn’t worked out.

Going back the way she had come hadn’t been an option. She’d never been afraid of any man. Cautious, sure. Wary, always. But not out-and-out afraid.

Not until her brother-in-law had sidled up to her at her sister’s funeral and said he’d made arrangements out of state for an off-the-books abortion. They could call it a miscarriage, blaming it on grief.

When she’d refused, she’d seen pure evil in his eyes.

As time had passed, he’d changed his tune, deciding Deseré would take her sister’s place as mother to the child that wasn’t biologically his—and in his bed. He’d had it all figured out in that twisted mind of his, even down to the admiration of his friends when he’d magnanimously taken on the responsibility of his dead wife’s sister.

An icy chill ran down her spine as she remembered his threats, the least of which had been unemployment as he’d tried to wreck her financially so she would have to comply with his plans.

Her brother-in-law had made it very clear she would never work in New Orleans again. And the interviews she’d had at all the major hospitals in Louisiana, Mississippi and most of Texas had emphasized the reach of his power.

Thankfully, he had forgotten this tiny fly speck on the map. Hopefully, he’d never find it.

“Ma’am? I’m Plato.” The old cowboy she’d first seen in the parking lot was at her side. He tipped his hat as he officially introduced himself.

Deseré figured that meant something, some kind of acceptance into this world of boots and spurs.

“Deseré Novak.” She held out her dirty hand then tried to pull it back. “Sorry.”

He took her hand in his. His gnarled knuckles stood out as he gave her a light but firm pressure. “No, ma’am. The way I see it, that’s angel dust coating your hand, not dirt. What you did for Rusty, well …” He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand before he cleared his throat. “I’m sure one of the girls could come up with something for you to wear, if you wanted to change.”

Deseré looked down at her blouse and slacks, covered in red-tinged dust. “It’s a good thing I’m not a dry cleaning-only kind of woman.”

She brushed at her pants leg and her hand became as dirt-coated as her pants. Not that her hands or arms were especially clean after she’d lain on her belly in the dirt, stabilizing Rusty’s head and neck. She probably had red dirt all over her face, too.

Plato gave her a rueful look. “We’ve got iron ore in our soil around here.” He pointed to her pants. “That might not come out.”

Deseré categorized her limited wardrobe. Three pairs of slacks, two blouses, a set of very washed and worn scrubs, one little black dress inherited from her sister’s closet, a pair of jeans with the waistband already too snug, a pair of sweats and three oversize T-shirts she slept in.

“I’ve got it covered.” She turned to head toward her car in the parking lot but all she saw was a solid ring of pipe fencing.

And bleachers full of people watching her every move as she stood under the bright arena lights.

As she moved, the crowd erupted into cheers.

For her? She’d only done what any medical professional would have done.

Her heart beat as if pure energy surged through it instead of blood as she soaked in the approval. It had been so long since she’d felt like anyone was on her side. And now bleachers full of strangers were cheering her on.

It felt good, but overwhelming at the same time.

“This way, ma’am.” Plato put his hand on her elbow, making her feel like rodeo royalty.

Cowgirl princess had always been a fantasy of hers. But her cowboy prince had already left the arena.

Her cowboy prince? It must be the adrenaline swing, the sleepless nights—her stomach growled—and the hunger getting to her.

She didn’t believe in princes on white horses rescuing damsels in distress. She didn’t believe in damsels in distress, either. All she believed in was herself—and some days that was hard enough, without trying to add fairy-tales to the mix.

As they reached a part of the fence that looked as solid as every other part, Plato swung a gate open. It creaked and squealed on its hinges, proving it didn’t get much use.

A woman in her forties, or well-preserved fifties, with big white-blonde hair and huge diamonds at her ears, neck and fingers, met her at the gate. She could have been the mother of any of the blonde cowgirls now crowding the rail.

“I’m Gayle-Anne.” Her smile was orthodontia perfect. “Honey, you can use my trailer to change in. It’s not very big but it’s private.”

Deseré bet it was a lot bigger than the bathroom stall at the discount department store where she’d last changed.

“Thanks. I’ll just get clean clothes from my car.”

If the woman wondered why Deseré had a wardrobe change in her car, she was polite enough not to ask about it.

How long did rodeos last? Hours?

Squeezing into her tight jeans had no appeal, especially if she was going to be stuck on one of those wooden benches for any length of time.

Too tired to give fashion decisions any more thought, she unzipped her bag and grabbed the first thing that came to hand, her sweats and a T-shirt.

The promise of comfort more than made up for her lack of ability to make a better decision.

Digging into the bottom of the bag, she snagged her tennis shoes and exchanged them for her useless sandals. The beat-up shoes had seen better days but, then, so had she.

And so had Jordan Hart.

She might have been the one lying in the dirt, but he was the one walking through hell. She’d seen it in his eyes as he’d gazed down at his cousin. Being a stoic medical professional worked just fine until it was someone close to you who needed your care.

She’d felt so helpless. So useless. The only thing she’d been able to do for her sister had been to promise to take care of her baby, a promise she’d given without reservation, then had had to fight dirty to keep.

She didn’t regret the loss of her home or her career even a fraction as much as she grieved the loss of her sister.

Inside, baby James moved. Everyone would tell her that he was too small to feel, but they would all be wrong. She might not feel his tiny body, but she felt his great soul inside her.

She would keep her promise. She’d given her word.

And right now her word was the only significant thing she had to call her own.

Jordan paced the hallway, waiting, waiting. X-ray. CT scan. Radiologist report.

Rusty.

And the woman he’d left behind. What had he done, hiring her like that? Being impulsive wasn’t like him. Had never been like him.

While it was true that he hadn’t been himself in a while now, had he completely lost his mind?

He stopped pacing. Maybe.

Pain arced through him, starting in his heart and spreading through his veins. The pain of fear.

Not now. Now was not the time to have a panic attack.

Through sheer force of will he made himself start walking again. Walk. Breathe. Don’t think.

Don’t think about the woman waiting at his house, confused. Needing a job. Desperate.

He’d seen it in her eyes.

What had she seen in his?

Deseré’s back screamed in pain from sitting on that hard wooden bench so long and her stomach burned with indigestion that had to rival the pits of hell.

The old cowboy had brought her a hot dog and a Frito pie, both covered in spicy chili, apologizing that this was all the little makeshift food stand had to offer.

She’d eaten them, of course. Even if she hadn’t been starving, turning down free food would have been foolish in her financial situation.

But now, if she could go back in time, she probably would have done the same thing. Heartburn would eventually fade away and she needed the calories and scant nutrients the food provided.

As for going back in time—if she had that ability, she’d certainly take herself back a lot further than a few hours ago.

But how far back? Back before their father had died in Hurricane Katrina’s flooding and Celeste had taken on the responsibility of raising her younger sister? Would that be far enough back?

What part of her history would she be willing to accept as her starting point for life?

Here and now. That’s all she had. That’s all she’d ever had.

But Dr. Hart had given her a future. My nurse practitioner, he’d said, giving her his stamp of approval, his acceptance and his protection all in one hasty pronouncement.

In a small community like this, everything he’d said and done was significant. Even now, she’d bet plenty of folks were dissecting and discussing every nuance.

Even after she was invited to the announcers’ booth, their flimsy metal chairs weren’t an improvement over the hard wooden benches and the staleness of the booth, the odor of burnt coffee mixed with dust and sweat that had built up over the years made her stomach roil.

She swatted at a gnat on her neck, one of millions in league with the mosquitoes that flocked to taste any sliver of exposed skin.

She’d opted to sit outside as the night air brought the heat and humidity down a few degrees. The perspiration soaking her shirt chilled her, making her shiver.

And she was so tired she was having difficulty deciding if she was awake or asleep. She wrapped her arms around herself, surprised to find a blue jean jacket awkwardly draped around her chair and over her shoulders.

That answered it. She’d been asleep—asleep enough that she was startled when the older cowboy, the one she recognized from the parking lot, cleared his throat.

“Ma’am?” Plato’s volume, a touch above a normal speaking voice, firm but still calm and gentle, clued her in that this wasn’t the first time he’d tried to awaken her.

She blinked, trying to bring his leathered face into focus.

Pasting on the best smile she could, even though it felt extremely weak to her, she answered in kind, “Sir?”

Relief showed in his rheumy blue eyes.

Cataracts? Glaucoma? The medical professional started to evaluate diagnoses.

But the exhausted woman overruled them, appreciating the concern and sympathy she found in those bloodshot, yellow-tinged eyes.

“Ready to go home now?” His words made his rough voice sound sweeter than any angel’s song.

Home. Had she finally found home?

“Yes.” Awkwardly, she gathered her purse, trying to hold the jacket around her shoulders while she wiggled functionality into her swollen feet.

He reached out for her.

As an independent woman, she usually waved away the courtesy.

But tonight, his hand on her elbow, guiding her, steadying her, gave her more comfort than she would ever have imagined.

Gratefully and graciously, she accepted the other hand he held out for her as she made the step from the second-row bleacher to the ground.

“You can follow Sissy, or I can drive your car for you and catch a ride back here for my truck.”

Her car. All that she owned was in that car. The stark reality was enough to push away the blanket of sleep that weakened her.

Her brain jump-started and she remembered who Sissy was—Jordan’s sister.

Jordan. When had he become Jordan in her head instead of Dr. Hart?

“I’ll follow Sissy.”

Deseré should have let the old man drive her.

Bleary-eyed, she slammed on her brakes and slowed enough to just miss the bumper of Sissy’s truck as the vet turned off the two-lane road onto a crumbling black-topped street that had deteriorated on the edges so that it was only the width of a car and a half.

Carefully, she put distance between her car and the truck in front of her, on alert for sudden brake lights.

And her caution was validated when Sissy slowed her truck to a crawl and turned into a dirt and gravel drive without bothering to use her blinkers first.

Trees crowded the driveway—and Deseré used the description of driveway very loosely. How far away from the street was the house?

And then they turned a steep curve and there it was, a farmhouse that could have come from a movie set, or her dreams.

Headlights showed a huge, two-storied, white-painted wooden house with gray shingles and a darker gray double door centered under a deep covered wraparound porch. Rocking chairs promised the good life once the grimy cushions were replaced and they were swept clear of cobwebs.

If Deseré had to pick out the perfect picture of a potential home, this would be it.

Which meant she immediately put herself on guard.

Nothing was this easy. This neat. This perfect.

Where was the catch?

Ahead of her, Sissy had her arm stuck out her truck’s window as she wildly gestured to an empty carport that branched off from the drive.

Deseré interpreted that to mean, “Park here.” She could always move it later if she was wrong.

She pulled into the expansive parking place, taking up most of the room by sloppily not squaring her car with the open space. The lack of order felt off, but not as off as her head, which chose that moment to swim in that dizzy, depleted way that meant she’d gone as far as she could today.

Sissy inspected her parking job and clearly found it lacking. With a frown, she shrugged and said, “Jordan will just have to deal with it.”

Deseré knew she should ask for clarification but right now she didn’t really want to know. Knowing might mean exerting more energy than she had to give.

Grabbing her backpack and wriggling her arms through the straps, she breathed deeply to gather her strength for wrestling her rolling suitcase from the back seat.

“Since Jordan has hired you sans interview, Nancy said to bring you here and she would get everything sorted out later.” Sissy swept her hand to indicate the house before her. “Home, sweet home.”

Deseré felt like Sissy was waiting for a reply.

“It’s large,” she answered politely, reserving judgment until she saw the inside of the house.

Sissy nudged her aside and pulled the suitcase out for her, handling it like it was full of popcorn. “I’ll carry this one for you.”

Normally, Deseré would have protested, but she didn’t have it in her. Instead, she muttered a tired “Thanks” and pulled her purse and smaller duffel bag from the front seat of the car.

On autopilot, she followed Sissy up the three steps to the front porch then through the wooden and etched-glass front door.

Sissy paused as she looked down the short wing to the left then up to the second floor. She bit her lower lip and her brow creased as she seemed to be puzzling out a dilemma. “I’m not sure where to put you.”

“Anywhere is fine.” Deseré mustered up a polite smile, wondering how many other tenants shared the boarding house.

Sissy quit deliberating and nodded her head. “Okay, then. This way.” She headed up a staircase lit with just enough wall sconces to cast shadows on the floral patterned carpet runner covering each oak-plank step, dragging Deseré’s large suitcase over each one.

Deseré didn’t need to respond. She would only have been talking to Sissy’s back. Instead, she meekly followed the diminutive woman hefting the large suitcase to the end of the hallway to the left.

Sissy swung open the last door to reveal a bedroom. The room was enormous, bigger than the whole living room and den combination in Deseré’s old apartment.

The sight of that luxurious bed put the rest of the room into the background. A huge queen-size bed held a half-dozen big pillows propped against the headboard and the promise of sweet dreams.

A calming lavender color scheme and trophies and blue ribbons displayed on every inch of shelf space gave the room a mixed attitude of super-girly but highly competitive.

“This was my room before I moved out. I should probably pack up some of this stuff, huh? But the closet’s cleared out so at least you can unpack.” She pointed to a closed door next to a substantial desk. “The bathroom’s through that door.”

Sissy dumped the suitcase outside the bifold louvered doors of a closet then shoved aside a group of trophies on a wide chest of drawers, took Deserés duffel bag from her and plopped it onto the cleared space.

An unexpected expression of doubt crossed Sissy’s eyes. “I hope this will do.”

“It’s great.” Deseré didn’t need to dredge up a fake smile. It came quite naturally as she emphasized her answer. “Really. It’s wonderful.”

“Well, okay, then.” Sissy looked out into the hallway, obviously ready to make her exit. “I’m sure Jordan will straighten out any questions you might have in the morning.”

Absently, Deseré nodded, wishing Sissy would leave. Falling into that lovely bed and stretching out her back was the only thing she wanted to straighten out right now.

“Good night, then.” Sissy didn’t wait for a reply. Her duty done, she started out the bedroom door.

“Good night,” Deseré said to Sissy’s retreating backside, then closed the door as soon as she thought it polite to do so.

Her first inclination was to fall into that bed and sleep for a week. But her mouth had a sour taste that couldn’t be ignored and grit coated her face and hands.

Cleanliness warred with exhaustion. A quick wash-up would be worth the extra time and energy.

Opening the solid door next to the desk, Deseré was sure she’d opened the door to bathroom heaven.

The modernized bathroom was the size of a normal bedroom, with two basins and a huge vanity. The size of each of the basins put the discount store’s basins she’d been spot-bathing in to shame. A wall-to-wall mirror hung over the vanity, reflecting the light from nickel-plated fixtures that caught the atmosphere of farmhouse yet produced enough light for professional make-up application.

An alcove held the toilet separately from the frosted glass doors, which must hide the shower enclosure.

Immediately, every inch of skin on Deseré’s body wanted scrubbing. She couldn’t stop herself from wondering where Jordan would be showering tonight. Would anyone be washing his back?