Bethany Campbell - P.s. Love You Madly

One already has, Sloan thought, opening an eye and regarding the bouquet of wildflowers.

“Where’d you get the bright idea of a trip?” Tom persisted. “I told you to stay put.”

“I was tired of staying put,” Sloan grumbled.

“Follow doctor’s orders, buddy. Or you’ll be staying put under a tombstone.”

“I’m sick of hearing about it,” Sloan said with distaste. And he was. He’d convalesced two endless months in Southeast Asia. When they’d finally let him come back to the States, he’d been given the impossible command to rest and mend for another three. He was a man built for action, not relaxing. Physical idleness was hellish.

“You been running?” Tom asked, his tone accusatory. “I told you to take it easy on the running. Jog a mile a day, at most. Have you been holding it down to that?”

Sloan thought of the five miles he had done the day before. His body had felt whole again, a strong, efficient machine, all pistons pumping and powerful as ever. “I did a little more,” he admitted.

“Hell, Sloan,” Tom said in disgust. “Have you got a death wish?”

“No. A life wish,” retorted Sloan. “I used to have a life, and I want it back, dammit.”

“It won’t happen overnight, Superman. Lord, Sloan, you’ve always pushed yourself harder than anybody I know. That’s not how you beat this fever. You’ve got to respect it. The Angel of Death passed you over once, buddy. Don’t give him the chance to make a U-turn.”

Sloan put his hand to his forehead, which was hot and sweaty and had started to bang again. “All right, all right,” he said impatiently. “How’d you find me, anyway? Did you implant a microchip in my ass last time you gave me a shot?”

“I ought to, you knothead. No. The hospital down there tracked you through your insurance card. I’ve talked to the admitting physician. He’s referred your case to a specialist in tropical diseases from the university.”

“I don’t want a specialist in tropical diseases from the university. I’ll stick with you. You play bad tennis and have good scotch. What more could a man want?”

“Listen, pal, you’ve already got a specialist. The name is Dr. Nightwine, and we’ve talked. You’ll get a visit by late this afternoon.”

“I want to be out of here this afternoon.”

“No way. You’re under observation.”

“Observation, hell. Come on, Tommy. Make them release me. I’ll come straight home. I’ll get in bed and pull the covers up to my chin. I’ll watch soap operas all day and take up knitting. Just get me out, will you?”

“You don’t travel until Nightwine says you can.”

Sloan swore, but Tommy was adamant. “Nightwine’ll keep you around a couple of days at most, it’s for the best. Another thing—I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’ve put off saying it long enough. I don’t think you should keep taking these extreme assignments. You get in these dangerous environments and—”

“It’s what I do,” Sloan said, cutting him off. “Changing is not an option. Don’t even mention it.”

There was a moment of awkward silence. Tom cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind my asking—exactly what made you take off for Austin like a bat out of hell?” He laughed. “A woman?”

Sloan looked at the vivid wildflowers in their odd yet perfect vase. A woman, he thought. He said only, “Family matters. That’s all.”

He said goodbye; he hung up. But in his mind hovered the image of Darcy Parker, her pert face and her cloud of dark hair.

What, in the name of all that was holy, was he going to say to her?

SUBJECT: Notes on a Prodigal Son

From: BanditKing@USAserve.com

To: Olivia@USAserve.com

Olivia, Beloved—

It was so good to hear your dear voice.

But you must stop apologizing about your housekeeper. If a strange man invaded my premises, I might brandish a golf club myself. It is altogether understandable behavior.

As for my son’s actions, I can only repeat, my sister has always tried to manipulate him, and this time she obviously caught him with his resistance down—both physical and mental.

I’ve talked to him just now for a second time. He still regrets the whole, embarrassing incident (and he damn well should).

Physically, he’s on the upswing, thank God. He’s seen a specialist, a Dr. Nightwine. With luck, he’ll be out of the hospital tomorrow, but he’s not to travel for a few days. Dr. Nightwine wants to do some blood work and to monitor a new medication.

I offered to go and keep him company, but he’ll have none of it. He says he’ll be fine, and the situation’s embarrassing enough without having his old man flying in to hold his hand.

Ah, would that I were closer to you to hold yours, my love, to take you in my arms, to kiss your deliciously kissable lips (and every other part of you, for you are infinitely kissable and delicious). I recall the sweet taste of you and feel as if I have savored the wine of the gods.

My dear, my own incomparable Olivia, I love you endlessly.

Devotedly,

John

P.S.—You were really only joking about your housekeeper once shooting a man—right?

SUBJECT: Arrangements, Winchesters, Etcetera

From: Olivia@USAserve.com

To: BanditKing@USAserve.com

To the darling bandit of my heart—

So glad to hear your son is better. And don’t apologize for him—it’s not his fault. That wretched mosquito made him do it.

Hope he’s out of the hospital as soon as possible. I’ve been in that very one. There used to be the tiniest little nun there with the coldest hands—even the memory chills me—brrr. Wish you were here to warm me, my sweetheart. You do light my fires, you know. (Yes, you know, you sexy devil.)

Oh, dear, I must watch what I say. This is how I got us in trouble in the first place.

So—explain to me about Sloan. If he’s released but has to stay in Austin, where will he stay? Does he have friends there?

Kisses and Caresses from

Your Own Olivia

P.S. No, I was not joking about Rose Alice. She shot off a man’s ear with a Winchester rifle. She’s never told me why, exactly, but apparently he irritated the very hell out of her.

SUBJECT: Hotel Rooms are Wonderful Places

From: BanditKing@USAserve.com

To: Oliva@USAserve.com

Darling Girl—

Just a note before I’m off for the evening’s work.

Your housekeeper is beginning to sound rather fearsome. Don’t you think your household might be more peaceful if you hired someone a little more, well, mellow? And without a felony conviction? Just a thought, sweet girl. I don’t mean to interfere.

Sloan says he’ll check into a hotel near the university. Don’t worry about him. Hotel rooms can be wonderful places—as you have proved to me beyond the shadow of a doubt.

I can’t wait until we can be together again. I will gladly come to Maine. Shall I tell you in minutest detail, the tender and pleasurable things I want to do with you?

Missing you body and soul—

John

SUBJECT: The Most Marvelous Idea!

From: Olivia@USAserve.com

To: BanditKing@USAserve.com

Dearest, most marvelous man—

You in Maine—how wonderful! I’ve got a new four-poster bed with a mattress soft as clouds. Would you like to play in a cloud?

As for Rose Alice, she’s mellowed considerably since her gun-slinging days. I’m sorry that when she backslid, your son was the target. I’ve already spoken to her about that.

And darling, about your Sloan—I have the most marvelous idea. I’ll call Darcy right away…

DARCY CLUTCHED THE PHONE so tightly that her fingernails paled. “What?” she asked in alarm and dismay. “What did you say?”

“I don’t want Sloan stuck in some impersonal hotel room,” Olivia said firmly. “I want him to stay at the lake house.”