Ranch At River's End. Brenda Mott
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Darci day and night for the past several months.
“Looks like you could use a couple of stitches,” Jordan said, jarring her from her thoughts. “Or maybe we can put some butterfly clamps on the laceration. Less scarring that way.”
“Sounds good,” Darci said. She tried not to flinch as he tended to her wound.
“There, that should do it. Don’t get it wet for a few days, and let me know if you notice any heat or further swelling. If the pain gets bad, take some Tylenol.”
“What—not two aspirin and call you in the morning?” Darci blamed her head injury on the lame quip. Just because he’d eyeballed her a little when she’d first come in…or had he? Maybe she’d imagined it. But it didn’t matter anyway. Just didn’t mean a thing. For all she knew there was a Mrs. Cowboy Boots in the picture.
So why couldn’t she quiet that damned imp in her head?
Jordan studied her as he peeled off his gloves, then reached for a pen and notepad. He scribbled something, and Darci spoke quickly. “I don’t need a prescription. It doesn’t hurt that bad.”
He handed over the scrap of paper and Darci looked at it and nearly choked. He’d jotted down a pair of phone numbers in a neat, looping scrawl unlike the stereotypical hard-to-read doctor’s handwriting.
“Call me if you have any complications—excessive headache, vomiting, that sort of thing,” he said. “Either Dr. Samuels or I will be on call.”
“Thanks.” Darci folded the slip of paper and put it in her purse.
She could’ve looked up the hospital number in the phone book. Had he given her his home number?
Don’t be silly.
Maybe she could ask him to write out a prescription for her after all. One for a woman who’d been too long without a date. An anti-man drug. Maybe an antihistamine. Inwardly she snickered at her own lame humor.
Lord, she’d had no idea a head injury could turn her into a ditz.
CALL ME?
Jordan put his key in the front-door lock and opened the dead bolt. What had he been thinking? There was no reason to have given Darci Taylor his home phone number in addition to the one at the hospital. At least it wasn’t his cell. He didn’t need to be bothered day and night with minor medical emergencies.
But then, she probably wasn’t the type to do that anyway. Darci seemed like a strong, confident woman who took matters into her own hands.
You want her to call.
The voice inside his head taunted him as he deactivated the alarm and called out to Michaela that he was home.
Darci had looked vulnerable as she sat in the exam room with a head injury, though. She obviously wasn’t cut out to work in the E.R. admittance. Maybe she’d get a job elsewhere and then he could stop thinking about her.
Besides—he hadn’t been interested in a woman since Sandra had died. No point in starting now.
“Mac!” he called again, using the nickname his daughter preferred.
“In the kitchen, Dad.”
She was at the table, eating a frozen yogurt and working on her laptop. The way her head was tilted, with her long, light brown hair caught up in a ponytail, she looked so much like her mother.
Jordan’s chest tightened.
“Is that homework?” She was allowed online, but with limited access.
He had to protect his daughter.
Michaela nodded. “I’m writing a report on the opening chapter of a book we’re reading.” She rolled her eyes. “Why do teachers always make us read boring things instead of something we’d actually like?”
“Good question.” He bent and kissed the top of her head. “One that kids asked even in my generation.”
“They had books back then?”
“Very funny. What’s this?” He picked up a piece of paper from the countertop. A flyer about parent-teacher meetings and an open house being held at the school a week from Tuesday.
“It’s a welcome-to-the-school-year thing,” Michaela said. “Sorta lame, but I guess we’re supposed to go.”
“They’re serving refreshments,” he said. “At least we can score some cookies.”
Michaela returned his grin. “You’ll like my homeroom teacher. She’s cool.”
“Awesome. Can’t wait. How about we go out on the boat this weekend?”
“Cool! Can Jenny come? We want to check out some new horse magazines.”
The cabin cruiser slept four, and Michaela’s best friend often came along on overnight excursions as well as day trips.
“We’ll see. Right now, why don’t you just worry about what you want on your pizza.”
“We’re going to Trail Inn?”
Restaurants in River’s End were a scarce commodity, but Trail Inn was the best pizza joint within fifty miles, and his daughter’s favorite. “You’d better know it,” Jordan said. “As soon as I change out of my scrubs.”
“And after I check on Chewy again.” The stray dog Mac had begged him to take in that summer had come with a surprise—puppies, born a week ago.
The medium-sized, red-and-white dog had turned out to be a blessing. Caring for Chewy and her puppies had been the best form of therapy for Michaela—something that made his little girl smile more than she had since her mother’s death. And Chewy was a good watchdog—something he’d wanted to get Mac, though he’d been a little leery of the more aggressive breeds.
Chewy had quickly become a spoiled family member, temporarily distracting Mac from her obsession with horses. She’d been trying to talk Jordan into buying her a horse like her friend Jenny’s, which Michaela wanted to ride. Her hip injury would likely never get much better, and Jordan was worried that a fall from a horse might make it worse.
“I’ll run next door and say thanks to Louise.” The neighbor kept an eye out for Michaela, even kept his daughter at her house at times, when Jordan wasn’t home. “Then we’re off. We can swing by and rent a couple of DVDs—heck, it’s Friday night. I’ll even watch The Sisterhood of the Traveling Trousers again.”
Friday nights had always been pizza and movie night for Mac and Sandra.
“Da-ad.” His daughter snickered. “It’s Traveling Pants, and there’s a part two, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. Hey—even better. We can watch both of them.”
“I know what you’re trying to do,” she said, quirking her mouth into a crooked little pucker—a Sandra habit. “And I love you for it, Dad. Thanks.” But her eyes held sadness.
“I love you, too, snicker-doodle.”
AS SOON AS JORDAN DRAKE had finished tending to her injury, Darci had insisted on going right back to work, but Shirley demanded she take it easy. “You just watch me work, and you’ll get the hang of things,” the older woman said. “We’ll worry about the details when you’re feeling better.”
Things had been fairly slow for the rest of the morning, though they picked up in the afternoon. By the time four-thirty rolled around, Darci was ready to go home. She was tired, her head was throbbing, and she was worried about Christopher. She’d asked Stella to keep an eye on him at the ranch after school until she could make other arrangements, and Chris had been furious.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” he’d said. “I’m old enough to stay home alone for a couple of hours.”
“Yes, you are,” Darci had told him.