Zena Valentine - From Humbug To Holiday Bride

“So, who’s the one person who has successfully ignored her no-visitor plea?” she challenged.

When he did not reply, she charged ahead, “Who’s the one person she called when she needed help? Who’s there now trying to help her?”

He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes against the obvious. It was what he wanted. And feared. B.J. in his home day and night, needing him, goading and arousing him while she healed under his family’s care. B.J.—making him feel alive, so alive.

“It’s your decision, Hamish, but if you’re taking votes, you know which way mine goes,” Mrs. B said.

“We’ll see,” he muttered before he broke the connection.

Back in her room, B.J. once again sat on the edge of her bed, waiting for him. He patiently explained the benefits of the options available to her, avoiding her eyes and finally rising abruptly from the chair and walking to the window, turning his back on her again so that she wouldn’t see that his heart wasn’t in what he was advising.

“It’s your decision,” he said at last.

“Go away,” she rasped.

Rudeness. Now that was something he could handle. “So we’re back to that, are we?” he charged, swinging around to face her.

“Just go away. Who needs you?”

He moved to her bedside and saw what a fragile mask she was presenting to him, and something melted behind his ribs and seeped, burning, into his midsection. “You do,” he said finally.

“I never needed you,” she whispered, but her lips quivered, almost imperceptibly.

“I think you do,” he insisted, swallowing hard against the urge to gather her in his arms.

“I can’t go to one of those…places. I can’t. I won’t.”

“You can have private care in the comfort of your condo.”

“Strangers, all of them, changing shifts every eight hours, talking to me as if I’m six years old. Breakfast at eight, lunch at twelve. Oops, can’t fix dinner, that’s for the next shift. Prodding and poking, taking my blood pressure in the middle of the night. What kind of home life would that be? They would hate me. I’m not an agreeable patient. It wouldn’t work.”

He stared hard at the tangle of her hair. Her face was turned away from him. “Okay,” he said, more harshly than he intended. “Okay,” he amended, softening, “you can come home with me.”

She searched his face with despair and anxiety. She wondered if he saw what she felt, if he sensed how many sleepless nights she had tossed, dreading the dawn. Did he see that she was as near to defeat as she had ever been? Certainly she hadn’t tried to hide her wariness, but then she had called him, and that was because she had grown curiously attached to him. God knew, she didn’t want to trust anyone.

She watched him, the handsome, quiet strength in his face, the way he stood before her, unaware of how substantial and real he appeared, the only solid person in her life.

“Yeah, I’ll go home with you,” she said softly.

She stiffened when she saw a flash of regret, then thought suddenly that he was going to find a way to waltz around his decision. But the dreaded words did not come. If he thought he had made a mistake inviting her to his house, he wasn’t going to retract his offer.

Her body still tingled with the heady experience of being swept up in his arms when he’d charged in like an avenging angel at four o’clock in the morning. Now, she longed to be close to him, to feel the soothing power of his tenderness.

“There will be conditions,” he told her, his voice low, but not soft. This was a time for firmness and resolution, it seemed, a time for promises to be made.

“I’ll do whatever you say,” she conceded softly before he realized what she had said. He would never know the damage to her precious pride, she realized.

“You will give me your word,” he said, “your solemn and sacred word that you will be courteous and sensitive with my children and Mrs. Billings. And that you will not insult, or in any way offend, a single member of my congregation.” She looked at him in mute misery, trying to hang on to the self-sufficiency that had deserted her. “I promise to take good care of you,” he added, but his voice was little more than a whisper. “I will do the best I can.”

She felt the trembling in her chin before she felt the hated tears spring into her eyes, then she dropped her head and felt her body convulse in sobs. It was her surrender although she wasn’t sure exactly what it was she was surrendering to. Tenderness? Trusting herself to the care of another? The loss of her independence? Was she going to find his care an alternate imprisonment, second only to three shifts of paid professionals in her own condo?

He came to her and held her against him, stroking her hair as she wept into his shirt, and she succumbed to his reassurance. For the first time in her life, she felt the full weight of her body and spirit being shared by another.

“You’ll be free to come and go as you please. We’ll make sure you can continue your therapy. We’ll help you get well. It won’t be the best of accommodations, but at least you won’t have to worry about steps. You can help out around the house if you want to, whatever you can manage from your wheelchair. And you don’t have to be nice to me. You can be as insulting and rude as you like with me.”

She pounded her good fist against his chest. “Damn you,” she cried between sobs. “You’re the damnedest man I ever met.”

“We won’t make you go to church, either,” he added as she pulled away from him and her sobs began to lessen. “And you don’t have to pray if you don’t want to,” he said. She wanted to scoff at that. She knew he wouldn’t be able to live up to that promise.

She took one last weak swing at his arm. “You are the most infuriating human being. I can’t wait for the day when I can walk away from your house and tell you where to stick it.” Her words came from habit and confusion, and a kind of familiar shame because she was being despicably weak.

He laughed and ruffled her tangled hair. “Then you’ve given me your word? And we’re checking you out of here?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” she replied with renewed hope. “We have to stop and rent a wheelchair first. The crutches are mine. And I don’t have any clothes to wear. They cut me out of the ones I was wearing when I was brought in.”

“Like taking a new baby home,” he teased.

She didn’t like his reference, but she ignored it. She wanted to get far away from the hospital as fast as possible. “The key to my condo is in my purse. Maybe you could pick up a few things for me? It isn’t far.”

“I can handle that,” he said laughing. She thought she should be angry with him, but he was so damnably endearing. Most likely he would get all the wrong things, but she simply gave him the key.

Hamish Chandler had confounded, entertained, infuriated and motivated her from the moment she first opened her eyes and found him studying her face. She had fought him every minute, every inch of the way, over the past few weeks because it was her nature to fight for her independence and her achievements and any threat to them. And at the same time, she had found herself baffled that she could not imagine getting on with her life without his being a part of it.

The man was an enigma, and she wondered why she was so oddly attracted to him. Probably, she thought, because the car accident had addled her brain as well as damaged her body. And now she was going to his house because she had nowhere else to go.

She had seemed to come alive once the decision was made, although there seemed little of the feisty scrapper left in her, Hamish thought, as he drove to her condo.

His call to Mrs. B had been happily received. Things at home were even now being prepared for their new houseguest. He wondered if it was possible to prepare his family for B. J. Dolliver’s interesting personality and how long she would be able to abide by the conditions he had set down.