Читать книгу A Marriage Worth Waiting For - Susan Fox P. - Страница 8

SELENA KEITH had never been seriously injured before the wreck. She’d been waiting to make a left turn at an intersection when another car had run a red light and hit the driver’s side of her car just behind the door. Though she hadn’t broken any bones, her body had been soundly pummeled, as had her head. It felt at least six sizes too large, and the pain in it could go from dull to blinding in a punishing flash if she moved too suddenly or exerted herself at all.

She’d been in the hospital since late afternoon the day before. Little more than a half hour ago that morning she’d managed, with help, to get out of bed and sit in a chair for twenty whole minutes. The difficulty she’d had doing that small thing was as frightening for Selena as it seemed pitiful.

Where had her strength gone? Always vital and physically active, she was stunned at the helplessness she felt now. The stark realization of her own mortality had already laid her spirits as low as her battered body, but this weakness was truly alarming.

Her surprising depression over it mixed toxically with the homesickness she’d kept at bay for two years, and it took most of her puny strength to keep both in check. An ocean of tears churned like bile in her chest, threatening to drown her, but as she’d discovered, giving in to them drained what little energy she had and sent her body and head into such spasms of agony that she’d resolved not to cry.

If she’d sustained something more serious than a concussion, she might be able to accept a hospital stay with a bit more patience, but lying around so much over a knock on the head and a spectacular collection of bruises made her feel like a malingerer.

Selena’s eyelids dropped heavily shut barely a moment before she heard the door to her private hospital room open. She’d already grown accustomed to the relentless intrusion of nurses and medical staff, and since it was early yet for visitors, she didn’t bother to open her eyes. Perhaps one of the two nurses who’d just settled her back in bed after her little adventure had returned for something, but she was too exhausted to care.

It was the sound of boot heels on tile instead of the smart swick-swick of nurse’s shoes that alerted her. And then her heart registered the silent thunder of the one presence she’d never forget if she lived to be a hundred.

The approaching boot steps halted at her bedside. The subtle scents of leather and sunshine and the remembered hint of musky aftershave reached for her and sent a wave of longing and dread through her heart. The ocean of tears swelled higher to send a few stinging drops upward in a geyser that made her eyes burn.

“You look like hell.”

The gruff words were as gravelly as they were blunt. Morgan Conroe wasn’t the sort of man who used soft platitudes or made tactful observations, at least not with her.

That’s why she’d left Conroe Ranch. The fact that Morgan had never made a single effort to contact her since the day she’d driven away confirmed she’d made the right decision.

He’d never change his mind about her and she’d never been able to change what she’d stupidly felt for him, so the only sane thing to do had been to clear out. She rallied to protect herself.

“No one asked you to look,” she said, then forced her heavy eyelids to open. She knew she looked as weak and pitiful as she felt, so she needed to give some sign of strength to ward him off. “If you came to gloat, go ahead. Take a few jabs then go away.”

She made herself get the bold words out before she let herself focus on him, and she was instantly glad she had because the sight of him gave her a disheartening jolt. If she hadn’t already been weak, seeing him again would have made her weak. For women like her, men like this one defined the very essence of masculinity.

Hard-bitten and rugged, Morgan Conroe was the quintessential Westerner, a purebred Texan from the crown of his outlaw black Stetson to the bottoms of his underslung heels. Tough, masculine and arrogant, Morg was the kind of man who’d bleed Texas dirt or Lone Star crude if scratched. Part protector and defender of the weak, part vigilante, as autocratic as an old time cattle king, and far too volatile to trifle with or cross. And so overwhelmingly male that he was at least half Neanderthal, though far less predictable and safe.

His weathered face was so permanently tanned that it hinted at a Spanish ancestry, and his expression was, as usual, set in harsh lines. His high cheekbones and black hair emphasized those hints of ancestry, but his eyes were a deep, dark blue that could either frost the soul, or glow like blue flame. Rarely, oh so very rarely, did they go soft with tenderness or sparkle with amusement. It was far more common to see them glitter with irritation or displeasure. Or only a bit less often, to show a blue lightning flash of temper.

He had a certain gruff charm when he wanted to charm, but that was a rare thing, easily overlooked or forgotten since his no-nonsense, my-way-or-the-highway disposition was so prominent. It wasn’t in Morgan Conroe’s nature to be passive or ambivalent, or to bow or bend to anything or anyone less than his Maker. How she’d survived living under the same roof with him that last five years after she’d fallen so out of favor might qualify as the eighth wonder of the world.

His low, gravelly drawl sent a bracing chill through her heart. “I came to take you home.”

It took her a dizzy moment to register the shocking words. The hurt and frustration of both the present and the past reared up, and the pain in her head bloomed so quickly that she reflexively jerked up a hand to make it stop.

“Go away,” she whispered, and pressed a palm to her forehead as if to contain the explosion.

The big fingers that closed around her wrist as her weak arm gave out were hot and hard with thick calluses. Morgan lowered her arm to the bed and those hard fingers shifted to warmly clasp her hand. But then his other hand brushed lightly over the top of her head.

“Hurts, don’t it, baby.” The calm, growling statement sent a warm breath of comfort through her. “Just relax,” he said then murmured, almost to himself, “These damned concussions…”

The way he’d said it gave the impression that he was on her side, fighting the injury with her. Which put her heart in peril, though the hurt in her head distracted her from the full impact of that wary observation.

Remarkably, the harsh pain began to subside, and then that big, hard palm began to move in gentle, soothing strokes that avoided the tender place on her skull and reduced the knife blades of pain to a much less awful ache.

Memories of watching Morg with an injured or frightened animal ghosted through her thoughts. There was no one better with animals than Morgan, especially the little ones. For all his brusqueness with people, he had a certain magic with animals and children. The smaller and more helpless or hurt they were, the more they instinctively trusted him.

That was one of the many reasons she’d loved him once upon a time. At twelve, she’d idolized him. She’d been a skinny city kid whose flighty, neglectful mother had married his father. She’d been painfully shy and terrified of horses and cattle and the frightening roughness of ranch life.

But the much older Morg had been kind to her, and so patient that she’d followed him around and hung on his every word. He’d taught her the manly arts of riding, roping, fly-fishing and target shooting, but he’d also instructed her on how well-brought-up young ladies were expected to behave in public.

He’d passed judgment on the length of her hems, had private “man talks” with the boys who’d dared to take her on dates, and he’d taught her to dance. He’d taught her everything she’d needed to know, and he’d made sure she’d had a secure place in his family and in his world.

But all that changed a handful of years later when she’d developed a crush on him. As if he’d sensed it, he’d begun a subtle withdrawal. She no longer got to go everywhere with him. And then he hardly ever let her be around him in situations when they’d be alone.

Hurt by his remoteness, and those first inklings of rejection, Selena had tried all the more to be with him and take part in everything he did. Until that awful, awful time when she’d been seventeen, and frustration, youthful stupidity, and the excruciating pain of unrequited adolescent love had driven her to corner him and confess.

Even now, she couldn’t bear to let that memory come. But turning her mind away from it put her attention right back on the soothing movement of his hand. And the wild, sweet stirrings of the soul-deep feelings for Morgan Conroe that had matured years past adolescence and promised to be even more dangerous to her heart than ever.

Selena found the strength to pull her hand from his and weakly move her head. “S-stop. Please.”

Oh God, that had sounded just as forlorn as she felt. But it was torture to have him touch her like this—to touch her at all—when she knew there’d inevitably come a time when he’d again withdraw from her. And then if he somehow sensed how besotted she was—and in spite of everything, she was still besotted—he’d reject her as brutally as before.

“All right, little one.”

The low rasp went through her hurting body like a warm balm, and she felt the hypnotic pull on her heart. His big hand shifted away from her head, but the back of a knuckle trailed lightly down her cheek. Selena was too weak now to control the flutter of her closed lashes as the pleasure of that registered.

“Get some sleep. Everything’s taken care of.”

The gruff words sent a quake of happiness and relief through her groggy mind.

Everything’s taken care of translated to I’ll take care of you. Words she might have died to hear from him again, words that common sense warned her to immediately protest, but words too formidable to either reject or ignore in her feeble physical state.

Mercifully, the blackness dropped over her then and dragged her to a place where Morgan Conroe couldn’t follow.

“Mr. Conroe made arrangements for you to recover at your family’s home. I understand you’ll have someone nearby around-the-clock.”

The doctor’s statement rocked her, but before Selena could protest, his added words kept her silent.

“Otherwise, I couldn’t release you for at least another day.”

One of the cardinal rules she’d lived by all her life—to keep family dirt private—ensured her silence now. Growing up, she’d never mentioned family problems to outsiders because she’d been ashamed of her mother’s behavior and their gypsy life. Then after her mother had married Morgan’s father, she’d kept silent about her mother’s secrets, the fibs, the infidelities, the little manipulations.

She’d suffered her crush for her stepbrother without telling anyone, not even her mother, until she’d made the colossal mistake of telling Morgan himself. And of course, keeping to habit, she’d never told a soul about his angry rejection either.

So Selena felt even less inclined to inform the doctor that she had no “family” home. There was no reason for him to know that the only home she counted these days—or wanted—was her apartment.

The goal now was to get out of this depressing place. Once the doctor authorized her release, she’d call a cab and make a quick escape before Morgan came around again. He’d only been here that one time yesterday morning, so if she was lucky, she could be gone before he showed up again.

Obviously Morg had talked to the doctor about her release, but she hoped he’d done that over the phone. She’d had a friend bring her a set of clothes last night, though Selena hadn’t known for sure that she’d have a chance of being released today.

That morning she’d awakened with a bit more energy, so she felt more eager than ever to leave the hospital. Her IV had been removed, her take-home med would be ready soon, so the moment the doctor strode out, she called a cab company and gingerly slipped out of bed.

As she quickly discovered, it was a challenge to dress. The stiff pain that plagued her every move left her sitting weakly in the chair, her head spinning and her skin lightly sheened with perspiration.

If she could get to her apartment, she’d be fine. She’d be able to lie down and sleep uninterrupted. A day or so of quality rest and her body would surely begin to make real progress toward recovery. Just being home was bound lift her dismal spirits.

A nurse came in with a clipboard of papers for her to sign, and the flowers and plants that friends had brought or sent were loaded onto a cart while an aide gathered up a bag of her things, including her clothes from the wreck and the take-home painkiller.

In the midst of the efficient activity a wheelchair was brought into the room, and Selena gratefully moved to it from the chair. The tiny parade of cart and wheelchair rolled rapidly through the maze of corridors and elevators to arrive on the sidewalk outside the outpatient door.

She’d made it. There was no sign of Morgan and neither the nurse nor the aide commented on the taxi, so perhaps they’d either not been informed of the doctor’s requirements for her release or they’d assumed the taxi would take her to the “family” home.

Selena was certain she could manage on her own, whatever the doctor thought, as long as she didn’t have to go out for anything. Friends had already volunteered to come by and give her a hand or pick up a few groceries when she needed them. All she had to do was get home.

Just then a dark green Suburban pulled into the pick up zone and glided to a halt behind the taxi. Selena didn’t need to see the Conroe Ranch logo on the side to know Morgan had arrived to thwart her plan.

He left the engine running and got out, taking a moment to walk briskly to the cab driver. A quick word and a handshake, which she knew would discretely pass the driver a large denomination bill for his trouble, effectively closed her single avenue of escape. And then Morg was striding around the back of the taxi to where she and her things were parked by the curb.

Morgan’s low, “Hey there, Selly,” and the faint smile that softened the harsh line of his mouth implied friendship and closeness, and Selena’s gaze shot away from his. The sweet nostalgia of hearing him call her by the old nickname caught her by surprise and brought back a wealth of good times best forgotten that contrasted sharply with her anger at him now.

The weariness that gripped her only stoked her outrage at his high-handedness and her failure to thwart it. Both the nostalgic feelings and her anger combined to create a churn of upset that drained her even more. Her head was pounding again, and all she wanted to do was crawl into a cave somewhere to escape both the pain and all things Conroe.

As Morgan directed the nurse and the aide to wheel her and the cart to his SUV, Selena felt her frustration rush higher. She couldn’t imagine what all this was about. For more than two years, she’d heard nothing directly from Morg, though she knew he had her address because she received profit checks from her small share of Conroe Ranch.

In two years there’d been no communication, certainly no apology or overture of friendship, but suddenly here he was, barging into her life as if he had some right to. That was hard enough to understand, but he clearly meant to take over.

Because she wasn’t certain how much the nurse knew about the conditions of her release, the last thing Selena wanted was for her to involve the doctor, so it was best to say nothing now. Morgan had easily guessed that, and she hated the power that gave him.

Morgan handled the nurse with the gallant good ol’ boy charm he used to his advantage, and Selena waited impotently as the nurse set the wheelchair brake and flipped the footrests out of the way. With the woman’s help, Selena stood to her feet.

Morgan opened the passenger door, then turned to her. Selena tried not to flinch when he took her elbow.

Her quiet, “I want to go home, Morg,” made his faintly smiling expression harden the tiniest bit. No one looking on would note that, but she had because she’d learned well from long experience to recognize that first wisp of storm cloud.

“We’ll stop by your place to pick up a few things.”

Selena didn’t say another word, but she had no intention of picking up anything or going anywhere but her apartment. The ride to her building wouldn’t take too long. Once she was there and no one was around to hear, she’d simply make it clear to Morgan that she wouldn’t go to the ranch.

If all else failed, she should at least be able to lock herself in her bedroom and climb into bed. It aggravated her to think she was capable of so little, but since she was fading fast now, she was certain to fall instantly to sleep the moment she laid down. And once she was comfortably settled, she doubted very much that Morg would take her out of bed and carry her off. He was familiar enough with injuries and concussions to know how vital rest was.

Selena was forced to allow Morgan’s supporting hand as she took the two small steps from her wheelchair. Once she had, she pulled away and tried to get a handhold to climb up into the tall vehicle.

Morgan gently caught her, managing to pick her up and place her on the seat without hurting her. Though she would have liked to object, the rational part of her brain was grateful she hadn’t had to climb up under her own power.

Morgan swiftly buckled her seat belt before she could do it for herself, then backed away to firmly close the passenger door while Selena struggled against the excitement that lingered simply because she’d been in his arms a few seconds. She’d actually felt the tingling heat through her clothes when the back of his fingers skimmed across her stomach and hip as he’d secured her seat belt.

After days of hurting and years of secretly missing him, being held and touched by Morgan had been completely welcome and wonderful, so wonderful that she’d have to work harder than ever to keep him from guessing his effect on her.

Selena waited, her head leaned against the headrest and her eyes closed as Morg opened the back of the big vehicle to put her flowers and plants inside. She heard the rattle of the plastic bag, then the solid thud of the door closing. A few seconds later, Morgan was getting in on the driver’s side. He buckled up then slowly pulled the big vehicle away from the curb. The effortless movement of the SUV as it accelerated pressed her back into the seat.

Her headaches had been mellowing, but after this small exertion just now, her head ached with a vengeance. That’s when the significance of riding in a vehicle struck her and she opened her eyes to uneasily watch the street beyond the windshield, particularly upcoming intersections.

Though the high profile SUV was quite unlike her much smaller car—her totally wrecked car—she was on edge. And though the big vehicle moved smoothly, the growing dizziness the movement caused made her faintly nauseous.

It seemed to take forever to go the three miles to her apartment building, and by the time they got there, Selena was carsick. Reluctant to move even after Morgan parked at the curb, Selena concentrated on breathing steadily as she waited for the nausea to calm.

“Why the hell didn’t you say something?”

There was a wealth of impatience in Morgan’s growl, but also a wealth of regret that Selena tried to ignore. The good part about getting carsick was that Morgan would surely see that she’d never be able to tolerate the long drive to the ranch. At least there’d be no need to summon the energy to oppose him.

“You told me never to give the time of day to men who swear in my presence.” She took what satisfaction she could in the brief silence before he spoke.

“You’re like a cat in the wild that’s got hurt and can’t afford to look weak. Puff up and growl as much as you like.” The blunt words were, as usual, dead on. “How much food have you got on your stomach?”

“Want to find out?” The bit of defiance actually helped mellow her roiling middle. The interior of the big vehicle went silent again except for the muted rumble of the engine and the faint whir of the air-conditioning.

The subtle vibration of the idling engine probably prevented a quicker recovery from the nausea, but at last it ebbed and Selena wearily lifted her head from the headrest and forced her eyes to open.

Morgan took that as a sign she was ready, because he got out of the truck and came around to her side. She managed to get her keys out of her handbag, but when he opened the passenger door, he smoothly took them. She was about to climb down on her own when he reached for her.

Selena braced a hand against his chest to ward him off. “I can walk.”

Morgan took her hand and cautiously lifted it to wrap her arm around his neck.

“That hurt?”

Selena glared into his blue gaze. “I said, I can walk.”

“It’ll hurt less to pick you up from here than it will be when those knees give out.” With that, Morg plucked her off the seat, stepped back, then pushed the passenger door closed with his boot.

This time his musky aftershave scent filled her nostrils and the sensation of being cradled securely against him made her hurting body forget its various aches and pains.

The cotton of his shirt did little more than add a textured veneer over the warm, hard flesh and iron muscle of the shoulders beneath her bare forearm and palm. Selena tried to keep her gaze away from Morgan’s harsh profile as he effortlessly strode up the front walk to the door of her building.

She was a flyweight for a man like him, and the stark awareness of his brutelike masculinity made her feel fully feminine and helplessly attracted.

In no time they were past the security door. Morgan, of course, had managed to use her passkey to open the door without putting her down. When they reached her first floor apartment, he did the same thing.

Selena expected him to set her on her feet once they were inside her door, but he walked through the tiny entryway into the living room then on toward the short hall that led to her bedroom.

Her soft, “Wait,” brought him to a halt.

“You need a nap.”

Selena made a restless move, and was relieved when Morgan set her on her feet.

“After you’re gone,” she told him, then moved to a nearby armchair to sit down. “I’d be grateful if you’d bring in my things before you start back to the ranch.”

Selena heard the impatient rattle of her keys in his hand and she knew the significance of his silence in the wake of her none-too-subtle invitation to leave. He’d not responded to it verbally because he didn’t waste breath on what he called “pointless arguments.”

Of course, Morgan Conroe defined “pointless arguments” as ones that centered on what he called “settled facts,” which was something akin to the legal term “settled law.”

And on Conroe Ranch, Morgan’s word was very much settled law. That attitude had been bred into him by generations of autocratic forbearers, and made him almost too formidable to take on. But she’d have to.

Selena could only hope to somehow scrape up the strength—and sadly, the will—to stand up to him. She couldn’t allow herself to be dragged back into his sphere of absolute rule.