Читать книгу An Angel For Christmas - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 6

“What in the name of—” Mike MacDougal began, hurrying into the parlor as his sons stumbled in with the bleeding stranger.

Morwenna looked at her father; she was worried about what they were doing, herself, but to avoid a family argument over Shayne’s absolute determination to be a physician at all times, she waved a hand in the air.

“This guy was out there hurt, Dad,” she said. “We have to help him.”

Stacy, drying her hands on a dish towel, came hurrying into the parlor as well.

“Oh, no! The poor man. Get him onto the sofa, Shayne. Oh, he’s bleeding! I’ll get a clean washcloth and warm water. I’ll—” Stacy began.

“Hey!” Mike protested. “Bleeding, in the snow, in the middle of nowhere? How the hell did he get here? How do we know he’s not an escaped convict or mass murderer?”

“That’s what I said, Dad,” Morwenna replied, setting a hand firmly on his chest. “But your son, the physician, refused to allow anyone to bleed to death. Now, Dad—move, please!”

Mike groaned, staring at the man on the sofa. “If you saw everything that I saw, you’d be more careful,” he said.

“Dad?” Shayne said.

Genevieve and Connor appeared in the kitchen doorway—just their little heads popping out.

Morwenna hurried toward them. “Hey, little ones. Want to do me a favor? Run upstairs to my bedroom and bring me one of the pillows off my bed. And a blanket, huh? Can you do that?”

They both nodded at her gravely. “Don’t worry,” Connor told her. “My father will help that man.”

“Of course he will,” Morwenna said.

She went into the kitchen. Her mother was already filling a basin with warm water; she walked to the pantry and found a stack of fresh linens. “Mom, can I take these?”

Her mother glanced at her. “Of course! You can take anything. The guy’s bleeding!”

Stacy was ready with the basin. Morwenna grabbed the towels and they returned to the parlor. Shayne nodded his gratitude and took the basin and the towels. “Looks like he took a good wallop to the side of his head … and there, on his temple. I’m going to need my bag. It’s still in the car.”

“I’m on it,” Bobby said. He turned and exited by the front door.

“Don’t just hover!” Shayne said, looking up at Morwenna and his parents as he began to dab carefully at the stranger’s wounds. “I think he needs to breathe, too, you know?”

They all stared blankly at him for a minute, and then took a step back.

The kids came clunking down the stairway, bearing a blanket and pillow.

“Good, good, let’s get his head propped up,” Shayne said. He glanced at his sister, perhaps surprised she’d asked that one of her pillows be used for the cause.

She shrugged and watched her older brother as he moved the stranger’s head carefully. “His vital signs are growing stronger. I think the blow weakened him and the cold did the rest,” he told them. “Of course, I can’t make sure he hasn’t suffered any serious head trauma until we get him to a hospital.”

The stranger stirred. By now, Shayne had washed away the little trails of blood that had streaked down his face.

It was a good face, Morwenna thought. Nicely chiseled, a bit like the statues she’d seen of Greek and Roman gods. Except, of course, he had a slightly more rugged appeal. Actually, he was a very nice-looking stranger.

And still a stranger! she warned herself.

They needed him out of their house.

His eyes flew open as she entertained that thought. He was looking straight at her.

She was surprised when she knelt down and touched his cheek. “Hey, it’s all right. You’re all right. We’re the MacDougal family. We found you outside in the snow. Do you know who you are? Do you know what you’re doing up here? You’re hurt.”

“Morwenna,” Shayne said. “One question at a time for the poor man.”

The stranger struggled to sit up and winced. Shayne pressed him back down by the shoulders. “Don’t try to get up yet. Let’s see how you do. Someone hit you good.”

He eased back for a minute, closing his eyes again. “Yeah, someone hit me good. Um … my name is Gabe.”

They all looked around at one another. “I’m Gabe,” he repeated. “Gabe Lange.” He winced, and opened his eyes again. “Could I possibly have some water, please?”

“Water, of course,” Stacy said, and turned toward the kitchen.

“Move slowly, and when the water comes, take your first drink slowly,” Shayne instructed.

Stacy returned quickly with the water. Morwenna thought that actually, it must have been pretty scary for him to open his eyes, to find all of them looking down at him as if he were an unknown wounded creature they had dragged in.

But, then again, he was.

She glanced at Bobby, who seemed to be a step ahead of her. “Hey, urchins!” he said to Connor and Genevieve. “Let’s give your dad the doc some space. I need some help upstairs with presents.”

“But … is that guy going to be okay?” Connor asked.

Genevieve’s little lips were trembling. Morwenna turned toward her niece. “Yes, of course, my darling. Go on up with Uncle Bobby. The nice man just needs some rest.” She glanced at Shayne. Was that all he needed?

“Come on, Lady Niece, Lord Nephew!” Bobby said.

The kids followed him up the stairs.

Morwenna suddenly found herself thinking all kinds of horrible thoughts. He wasn’t all right; he was bleeding internally, and he was going to die on her mother’s sofa on Christmas.

She lowered her head quickly. What a horrible concept! A man’s life could be in the balance, and she was thinking that his death might affect their Christmas!

The stranger’s gaze was on her when she raised her head again. A small smile tugged at his lips as if he had read her thoughts. “I’m strong, really. I’m feeling better already.”

“Well, lie still until I’ve gotten that wound cleaned up,” Shayne said firmly.

Gabe winced when Shayne laced the wound with disinfectant, but he didn’t let out a sound. “The thing is, you probably do have a concussion,” Shayne told him. “You’ll need to be careful.”

“One of us can stay with him and keep an eye on him,” Stacy said.

“I’m going to call an ambulance,” Mike told her, speaking up. “Any objections?” he asked. He wasn’t speaking to the stranger; he was looking at his wife, daughter and son.

“Not to an ambulance,” Shayne assured his father. “What the heck happened to you?”

“Obviously, he got into a fight!” Mike jumped in, his voice harsh.

“I’m with the Virginia State Police,” Gabe said. “I was after a man. He eluded me.”

“Gabe Lange, with the Virginia State Police?” Mike demanded. Her father sounded as if he was interrogating a prisoner of war. Maybe, in his mind, he was.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Gabe assured them. He looked at Morwenna and grimaced. “I was an idiot. I let him get away. But I crawled up here before I passed out. I’m sure that he’s long gone. In fact, I’m afraid that he’s long gone.”

“I’ll call that ambulance,” Mike said, reaching into his pocket for his cell phone. He stared at Gabe while he dialed. Nothing happened, and he frowned at his phone: “3G, 4G—10G! I don’t care how many Gs you have, the damned things never work in some places. They’re all full of it. Wenna, you’re on a different carrier—try your phone.”

“Okay, Dad, let me just see where I dropped my purse,” she said. She had dropped it inside, hadn’t she? Maybe not.

“I think it’s outside,” she said.

“Morwenna Alysse MacDougal!” her father said. “What have I taught you about—”

“Hurt guy on the sofa, Dad,” Morwenna said. “You always told me that human life was worth more than anything I could possibly own, remember?”

He scowled at her. She hurried outside. She had dropped her purse somewhere out there. It took her a few minutes, but she found it and walked back in the house, pulling her cell phone from it as she did so.

“What number do you want me calling?” she asked.

Mike MacDougal looked at their uninvited guest. “Nine-one-one, of course.”

She dialed. She looked at the phone—it, too, said that she was out of range. “Sorry,” she told him.

“Well, what the hell is going on?” Mike demanded.

“We always have decent satellite coverage up here.”

“Dad, calm down—it might be the storm,” Shayne told his father.

“Try your phone, Shayne,” Mike insisted.

Shayne sighed. He was standing again; he’d patched up Gabe Lange’s head nicely, and there was color returning to the man’s cheeks. He did look well enough to sit up. He might be entrenched on the couch with her blanket warming him, but she did think then that he must be wet and freezing beneath the covers.

“No bars, Dad. No coverage. It’s one hell of a storm brewing up,” Shayne said.

Mike snapped his fingers. “Let me see if I can get them out here online!”

He headed for the computer in his office, just down the hall from the stairway.

“Thank you,” Gabe told Shayne. “Thank you for patching me up—a stranger on your doorstep.”

“Hippocratic oath,” Shayne said, grinning. “We’re not supposed to trip over the injured and ignore them.”

“If I hadn’t fallen where I had … if you all hadn’t seen me …” Gabe said.

Mike came storming back in from the office. “The goddamn cable is down!” he said irritably.

“Mike! It’s Christmas. For the love of God—watch your language!” Stacy said.

“Mom, Dad, please, both of you!” Morwenna murmured.

“Dad, you don’t need the cops anyway—he is a cop,” Shayne said.

“Likely story!” Mike said.

“Mike!” Stacy gasped.

“Dad!” Shayne and Morwenna said in unison.

They didn’t deter their father at all. He turned on Gabe Lange. “I have a shotgun in this house, and I know how to use it. I’m a district attorney in Philadelphia, young man, and I know my way around crooks. And if you’re a cop, where’s your gun? Eh? Where’s your uniform?”

“My gun was lost quickly—I try never to use firearms. Innocent people get hurt as often as the bad guys, so it seems. But, yeah, I carry a weapon. Now it’s gone, somewhere in a bush halfway up the mountainside,” Gabe said. “Look, sir, I’m not here to hurt anyone, I swear it!”

“And so the devil swears!” Mike muttered, and walked away.

“Sorry, the lawyer side of my husband is always angry. But he’s a really good man,” Stacy told Gabe Lange. Then, she suddenly thrust her hand forward. “I’m Stacy, my husband is Mike. Your real live doctor is Shayne, and this is our daughter, Morwenna. She’s an artist and advertising exec. She took business as well as art. Don’t you think that was incredibly smart? She is able to use her talent and keep a job, and—”

“Mom!” Morwenna said, interrupting her quickly. She glared at her mother, meaning, Let’s not just air the family laundry.

“He doesn’t need a dossier on all of us!” she added and laughed to soften the statement. “To finish the introductions in the family, my little brother is Bobby, and Shayne’s kids are named Connor and Genevieve. Welcome to our home for Christmas. I’m so sorry about what happened to you. Won’t your family be worried?”

Gabe looked away from her for a moment. “I have a huge extended family, but my immediate family wasn’t expecting me. They’ll be fine without me—there’s a lot of work that goes on tonight. I’m grateful that you’ve taken me in.”

Shayne squeezed his shoulder. “I would be happier if you were in a hospital,” he said.

Gabe pushed back the blanket and sat up, despite Shayne’s protests. “I’m not even dizzy anymore. I swear,” he said. “I’m not sure I’d want to hit the ring for a few bouts or anything, but I’m doing fine.”

“Then sit.”

“I’m sitting,” Gabe said.

His teeth began to chatter.

Shayne brought out his little light, and told Gabe to follow the beam. He inspected their guest’s eyes with a serious expression, then let out a sigh and shrugged. “Your pupils are showing no signs of a possible problem.”

“He’s fine, but he’s freezing,” Morwenna said. “He must be soaked.”

“Oh, how very rude of us,” Stacy said. She looked at her oldest son. “Shayne, there must still be jeans and T’s and flannel shirts up in your room. Can you loan something to Mr. Lange?”

“Gabe, please,” their visitor insisted. “I am on your sofa.”

“Of course.” Shayne seemed troubled, but he shook his head. “We’ll head up to my old room. You can get out of those wet clothes, take a shower and then put on something dry and warm.”

“That would be great. My most sincere gratitude to you all,” Gabe said.

“I’ll give you a hand getting up,” Shayne said. “Use the banister—I’ll support you on the other side.”

Morwenna hovered, watching as they started up the stairs. “Great kids,” Gabe told Shayne.

He didn’t ask about their mother; somehow, Shayne volunteered information.

“Yes, they’re great kids. They’ve stayed that way through the divorce,” Shayne said.

“Most important thing to remember in a divorce—your children still have you both as parents, the people they love most in the world. I’m glad to hear that you and your ex are respecting one another. You should be proud.”

Morwenna didn’t get to hear her brother’s answer; they were already up the stairs.

Her father emerged from the kitchen, a glass in his hand.

“What the hell is going on?” he demanded.

“Honestly, Mike, it’s Christmas!” Stacy said.

“Shayne is giving him something to wear that isn’t soaked with snow,” Morwenna said.

“I’m getting the shotgun,” Mike said. “I just don’t trust that guy. I’m going to have it on hand at all times.”

Genevieve, unsurprisingly for her age, was not an ace at wrapping packages. In a few instances when he didn’t cut the paper quickly enough, she cut pieces that were too small. Small items, stocking stuffers, were wrapped in enough paper to conceal a small elephant.

“Wow, there’s a lot of stuff here!” Connor told Bobby, his eyes wide. Then they clouded. “I guess we won’t get much here,” he added.

“We won’t get presents?” Genevieve asked.

“Of course you’ll get presents,” Bobby told him.

But Connor shook his head knowingly. “We did get presents, Genevieve. Remember? Daddy and Gram and all sent them before, and we opened them at home.” He looked at his uncle apologetically. “We got good presents, Uncle Bobby. Gram likes to give presents, huh—is that why there are so many here?”

“Gram has always loved to make everyone a stocking,” Bobby said, “including Gramps. But I wouldn’t worry—you’ll get presents.”

“Yes!” Genevieve said. She had a little lisp. Her front tooth was loose. “Santa Claus will come here, right?”

Shayne knew that Connor didn’t believe in Santa Claus, so he brought a finger to his lips and winked.

“That’s right. And Santa Claus can find any house,” he assured Genevieve.

Connor rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure.”

Shayne poked his head in the doorway. “Hey, Bobby, thanks. Want to take over in my room for a minute?”

“Sure. Take over what?”

“Watching our—guest. The guy we picked up—Gabe—is freezing. The snow soaked through his clothing. I’ve got him in my room, but I need you to stand by the door while I dig in my closet for something for him to wear.”

“I can find him something—” Bobby said.

“No, that’s cool, I still have you by an inch or so in the shoulder and chest region, and the guy looks like he’s about my size. I just don’t want to leave him standing there. Connor, you can watch your sister for a minute, huh?”

“Yeah, sure, Dad,” Connor said. He made a face. “Bobby still has scissors from when he was in grade school. Can you believe that Gram keeps stuff that long?” he asked with a laugh. “I’ll watch her, but I don’t think Genevieve can hurt herself.”

“I can cut paper!” Genevieve announced proudly.

Shayne walked over to ruffle his son’s hair. “Thanks,” he said. “And, of course you know how to cut paper, Genevieve. You’re a very bright little girl.”

“Mommy taught me,” she said.

“Yell if you need me,” Bobby said, rising quickly to follow his brother out to the hall and to Shayne’s room. Shayne’s room. None of them lived there anymore; actually, they’d never lived there. Well, Mom had, and they had often spent summer months and spring and Christmas breaks there. This place evoked a lot of good memories. His parents were in Philadelphia, Shayne was in Pittsburgh and Morwenna was in New York. Not that far, as the world went. But this was where they had always gathered.

Where it seemed their mother had created a memorial to the past, when they’d actually been a family.

Bobby was suddenly ashamed of his thoughts. They were a family.

The bathroom door was ajar.

“He took a serious crack on the head,” Shayne said when Bobby crooked a brow at him. “He could fall—he could need help. Look, none of us are in high school football anymore. Just hang around outside the door and be ready to rush in if you hear him slip or scream or rip out the shower curtain, huh?”

“Fine, I’ll be ready,” Bobby said. He leaned against the wall by the door that was an inch or so open. The water started to spray.

He heard his brother fumbling around in the closet. Shayne emerged. “I’m just going down to toss this stuff in the dryer—freshen it up. I’ll be right back.”

“Big bro, you’re the M.D. Don’t be gone long,” Bobby said.

“Two minutes. Just going to toss the stuff around because it’s been in a closet,” Shayne said. Two minutes? Hell! What if something happened? What if the guy did fall? Shayne was right—they weren’t accustomed to showering in a mass steam room of sweat anymore.

Awkward.

He could hear the shower spray, and nothing else.

He tapped lightly on the door. “You all right in there?” he asked.

“Yep, fine, thanks.”

“Yell, if—”

“Thanks!”

Bobby was startled when the shower stopped. He backed into the foot of his brother’s bed and sat with a plop.

Gabe Lange came out from the bathroom, one towel tied around his waist as he used a second to dry his hair.

“I can’t tell you how good it feels to be warm,” Gabe said.

“Ah, great. Yeah. I can imagine.”

“Are you from here? Winter can be pretty brutal, huh?”

“My mom is actually from here. I was born in Philadelphia. We were all born in Philadelphia. I mean, Shayne, Morwenna and I,” Bobby said. “What about you?”

“Down in the city,” Gabe said. “Richmond.”

“Nice. So—how did you come to be out here in the mountains?” Bobby asked.

“State police—we go wherever. Within the state, of course. So, are you a college student?” Gabe asked him.

Bobby couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Yes, and no. I’ve just applied again. I’ve been to Columbia and Northwestern.”

“Those are good schools. Where are you trying to go now?”

The question was entirely innocent, and a natural get-to-know-you question. Bobby looked at the door; he didn’t want Shayne to hear him.

“They don’t know it—none of them know it—I applied to Juilliard.”

“Ah. For—”

“I’m a guitarist, and I want to write my own music,” Bobby said, warmth entering his voice; he was speaking quickly. “My family—they’re all superachievers. My dad could write his ticket anywhere, though he’s stayed with the D.A.’s office. Maybe he’ll run for something someday, who knows? My brother is, as you know, an M.D., and my sister, bless her heart, is an executive with one of Manhattan’s finest ad agencies. All respectable moneymakers.”

“And are they happy?” Gabe asked him.

“Well, yeah, I think. Shayne loves medicine. I know—through the years—that my folks have talked about his work every time he got an offer to go into private practice. And Morwenna …”

“Yeah?”

“She was an artist once. A really good artist.”

“Doesn’t she get to use that talent at the ad agency?”

“I think that was the idea. But I think it got lost in one of the executive meetings,” Bobby said wryly. “I loved it when I was a kid. She was always drawing fantasy creatures for me. Being snowed in up here isn’t really anything all that new. It’s happened before. God forbid they sell this place and head south!”

“Would you want them to?” Gabe asked him.

Bobby thought about that for a minute. “Palm Springs, Daytona Beach … snowbound mountains!” He laughed. “No, I don’t suppose I would want them to sell. The house is historic—really historic. You can tell by the horrible plumbing and the really bad electricity. But the place really means something to my mom. And, in all honesty, I guess it means something to me, too.”

“That’s nice to hear. But, what’s the story with your music?” Gabe asked.

“According to my father, music is a hobby. Not a career. You go to school for a career.” Bobby looked at the door again. “I’m an adult. If I really want it, I can just stop taking parental financial aid and go it on my own. It will be much harder, but I’m willing to give it go. The thing is …” Bobby trailed off.

“Yeah?” Gabe pressed.

He laughed suddenly. “I guess it’s a good thing. We fight like cats and dogs, and it’s hard to plan a family dinner with a pack of overachievers … but, still, my parents always loved us. It’s the way that they look at me that kills me. It’s the disappointment.” Bobby shut up, wondering why the hell he had just kind of spilled out so much to a stranger. Maybe, he thought, because he’d needed to tell someone, but he didn’t want to tell them until he knew what might happen. He knew the odds were against him; getting into Juilliard was a numbers game, and there could only be so many people who got into the school. There were other music schools—if he didn’t make it, he’d try again.

But he didn’t want to tell anyone in the house that he’d auditioned. He didn’t want them to see his hope, or, his disappointment if he didn’t make it. Even though it meant they were sure to lecture him through the holiday, he was sticking with the story that he’d gotten a job working in New York City for the coming semester, until he figured out just what he did want. It wasn’t a lie; he did have a job offer working with a group of musical waiters at a place called Napoli. They waited on tables, stopped, picked up their instruments and did quick numbers in between.

Even if he made it into Juilliard, Mario, the head of the group and a great vocalist, had assured him they’d be happy to work with his schedule.

It was all okay, really. But he could just hear his father’s voice: “A singing waiter? What kind of life is that, Bobby? What if you want a family, kids? There’s no advancement, Bobby. Nowhere to go.”

“Sounds to me like you know how to get where you want to go—just have to hang in and take those first steps. So,” he said loudly, “Christmas here every year, huh?”

Bobby realized that Shayne was coming back with clothing for their guest.

He’d told a stranger, and not his brother, what he was hoping to do with his life.

“Yep, every year,” he said.

As Shayne walked in, Bobby walked out. “Patient seems to be fine,” he said.

Back in his own room, he found Genevieve and Connor sitting in the midst of a massive pile of wrapping-paper scraps. Rudolph was dancing here and there, and little blue snowflakes lay in strips across the floor.

“Nice job,” he said cheerfully. He looked around at the mess. “I think I hear Gram calling you from the kitchen!”

He led them back past his brother’s door, and could hear the drone of Shayne’s voice. No surprise. Shayne was willing to talk about the difficulty of the divorce at the drop of a hat.

Except that Shayne didn’t seem to be doing all the talking. He stopped speaking now and then, and Bobby could hear the stranger’s voice.

That he was speaking wasn’t odd at all.

That Shayne apparently stopped speaking to actually listen was odd indeed.