Spurs and Lace (Lonely Lace Series Book 1) Page 5

  Eyes wide, Amelia clasped a hand to her throat. “You’re leaving? You can’t leave.” Her words matched the shakiness in Becky’s knees. “I’m so sorry I slapped you. We need you here.”

  The simple dressing Becky had applied removed easily. Small fresh brown stains from betadine around the sewn area dotted the white cloth. Stitches tugged his skin neatly together. His scar would most likely fade after a few years.

  Mac would make it and nothing she did the next twenty-four hours would help him if he got worse or got better. She retrieved the strap of her bulging bag. “I’m not upset, Amelia. Emotions run high in situations like this. You won’t be the last parent who gets frustrated with me, I bet.” Becky smiled to soften her words. “I need to leave you and your family alone, give you time to rest. I’m only a phone call away. Can I walk you through some things to watch for? Or should I talk it over with Slate?”

  She longed to ask why Amelia wore a wedding ring and Slate didn’t, why Amelia’s son’s first name was Slate’s last name and not vice-versus and why, oh why, did Amelia let Slate out of the house looking the way he did? Becky doubted she’d let him leave the bedroom. Inappropriate, Dr. O’Donald.

  Amelia straightened and wiped the damp skin under her eyes. “No, the mother should take care of things like this. Let me get…” She ducked down behind the counter. The sound of rustling paper and clicking reached Becky across the boy whose eyelids fluttered in sleep. Amelia reemerged, pen and paper in hand. “I don’t want to forget anything.”

  Impressed with Amelia’s thoroughness under stress, Becky ticked off on her hands the signs and symptoms to watch for. “Watch for increasing fever, excessive vomiting – not slight amounts, because that’s to be expected, but for the kind that projects out – increasing headaches or extreme lethargy. Give lots of fluids, if he can tolerate it. Apple sauce would be good food to start or a banana. If you have children’s ibuprofen, that’d be best to begin immediately when he wakes up.”

  Mac rolled his head from side to side, a small groan ending on a whimper. Amelia emptied her hands and grabbed his. “Mac? Mommy’s here.”

  Moments passed as he came through the fog of ether. Becky had never been under its effects, but she’d done extensive research for a paper and he would feel out of it for quite a while. But her concern wasn’t his balance or state of mind – he was three for crying out loud, how oriented could he be? – Becky worried more about his fever and new pain.

  She pressed her palm to his forehead.

  Startling blue eyes turned her way… eyes she’d seen before and not just that day. She’d never forget those eyes. Had considered those eyes.

  How could she have forgotten?

  ~~~

  Leaving Mac settled with his mother, Becky ducked out the front door.

  And gasped.

  The wind whipped against her from above, below, and sideways. She’d never been undressed by the weather, but jeesh apparently there was a first time for everything. The cold bit through her clothes, making her knees and hands ache. She couldn’t smell anything.

  One foot in front of the other, knees pulled high, Becky trudged through the piled, drifting snow – like the white mass couldn’t make up its mind what it wanted to do. She squeezed her fingers and tucked them into the sleeves of her coat. Each step carried her closer to the truck’s electrically warmed leather seats, heated vents, and her wool-lined gloves on the dash.

  Lights lining the driveway penetrated a foot into the night around them, creating iridescent balloons. The effect added a Narnia sensation. A closetful of fur coats would be the perfect prescription.

  In seconds that sliced through her overcoat, she reached the Dodge and climbed in. Slamming the door and locking the wind and snow outside relieved her from the clutches of the biting blizzard but the cold increased.

  Hands rubbing together, Becky huffed into her cupped palms. Dang, had she just stepped into an icebox? She rotated the key, once, twice and vroom, her trusty rig started. Becky pressed every button she could find. Cold air frosted around her legs, but the seats warmed up and her rear was the hottest part of her body. For once.

  “Let’s do this.” No one around to hear her or see her teeth chattering, Becky backed up and then pulled forward. She was like Superwoman in her truck. Invincible.

  The engine took its sweet time warming the heater. And dang her legs shook. The speedometer reached twenty as the white washed landscape let her pass. Shifting snow and squirrelly maneuvering of the truck gave the sensation of being on a freeway with skates strapped to the tires.

  Coin-sized flakes pummeled the windshield, confusing the length of time she drove. Before she knew it, she’d reached the curve - well before expected.

  Becky pressed on the brake but a harsh shiver spasmed down her thighs. Her foot slammed onto the pedal. Headlights carved through the blizzard, highlighting the dark split-rail fence which disappeared under the hood. The truck rocked on impact.

  Becky closed her eyes. Pain shot down her arm and behind her neck. She didn’t move her head from the hard edge of the wheel. She’d forgotten her seatbelt. Twenty miles an hour. Hell, she’d slid into the fence faster than that.

  She leaned back in her seat, slow and deliberate. Yep, she was hurt, but not sure how bad – Bang! The airbag exploded and pressed her into the chair, pushing the cloth over her face. Gasping, she turned her face the barest inch. The truck must be on Pacific Standard Time. She got in the accident on Mountain Standard Time.

  Soft whirring from the engine fan buzzed into the sudden quiet. Had the motor shut itself off? Another delayed safety feature. The air bag exploding might have fractured her cervical spine. She couldn’t see the storm or what was going on outside the car with the blown up pillow blocking her view. And her airways.

  She fumbled for the keys, eventually securing them in place to poke a hole in the back of the bag. She didn’t need any of the white powder all over her.

  The soft material billowed down, releasing the pressure and sinking to hang dejectedly from the hole where the missing steering wheel cover had been.

  Becky tried the key in the ignition, but nothing. No click. No whir. Nothing.

  Rolling her shoulders, lifting her arm, and carefully rotating her neck, Becky decided the lack of pain cleared her of any serious spine injuries. Nothing even really hurt. Her main concern was going to be hypothermia.

  Okay. Now what? The curve was by Lacey Caverns Ranch. Or should be. In the light of day she had a hard time spotting the buildings from the sharp curve. Add the storm and absent sunlight and there wasn’t much luck on her side. Would the fence lead her to the gate at least?

  Gloves. She’d need her gloves. Reaching for the dash compartment, she exhaled heavily. A light cloud formed before her. Crap. The temperature was already dropping in the truck. How long did she have until it would be a freezer again? If she stayed and ran the fuel in her rig to stay warm – well that’s assuming her truck would run, she didn’t really have the heart to try – the storm might worsen. If she left right then, she might make it to the house, she might not. At that point, her odds were slim to none and slipping with every new snow flake outside her window.

  She pulled on her gloves. Fancier than practical, they still covered her skin and provided a barrier, no matter how slight. Even gloved, her hands still found their way to tuck between the warmth of her lower thighs.

  Think, Becky. What did she have? Preparedness. She’d been spoon fed that her whole life by her grandparents. Be prepared. Oh, right. She’d tucked a woolen blanket to cover the TV under the back seat when she moved to Montana. She crawled over the seat and yanked the gray material from its cubby. Dust puffed into the dim air.

  She wrapped it around her. Staying wasn’t an option. She’d never make it. Getting out and moving would be doing something.

  Genetically, she couldn’t sit there doing nothing. The tendency was ingrained. Becky had to do something. That’s why she’d become a surgeon and not a famil
y practitioner or gynecologist. She needed a scalpel in her hand, hacking away at the problem. Sitting on her tush in the truck was like knowing a patient’s diagnosis and watching them die.

  Her bag would have to stay. Energy waning from the cold and lack of food, Becky couldn’t lug the over-packed bag with her and hold onto the blanket. At that point, the wool was more valuable. Dirty tools would be a hazard more than anything.

  Anything else she needed? Nope.

  Quit stalling, Becky. Get your butt out there. She rubbed her hands together, leather whispering, and glanced out the window again. Dark. Cold. She knew how cold, she just didn’t know how far. Better get moving. Symptoms of hypothermia were hard to decipher, but if she got going and moved fast, she shouldn’t need to watch for more than the shivering.

  Sometimes hope was blind.

  Crap.

  Come on. Go.

  A shoulder against the door while she yanked on the handle invited bitterness in like a vampire. She’d read a romance novel once where the vampire had to be invited in and he’d done all sorts of intriguing things to the heroine. Her obsession with vampire novels had inflamed her interests for a stint.

  She wouldn’t mind the bite of a delicious man, like Slate – no, not Slate – on her neck versus the storm’s teeth attacking her whole body.

  And not the man she’d helped during medical school in eastern Washington. Her memory must be slipping, because he’d looked like Slate. Exactly.

  But Slate didn’t remember her, or seem to anyway, and she remembered the patient vividly after a bit of mind jogging. Not his name. Not even what he’d been wearing, but he’d dislocated his shoulder and it’d been the first one she’d ever seen reduced without sedation, anesthesia or tears. Amazing. He’d flirted during the whole procedure. Not even a flinch to indicate they’d busted the temporary scar tissue built up around his socket. She’d been tempted to see if he’d uphold his promises of what he could do to her. Extremely.

  But that man had had a scar on his face where Slate’s skin was flawlessly stubbled and clear from previous injury.

  She slammed the door and shut off the dome light, blanketing herself in dark churning ice. “It’s not that cold.” Becky laughed into the wind and choked on the freezing air. Son of a Speedo-wearing-suture-knitting-physician’s-assistant, it was cold!

  Backed against the truck, she pulled the blanket around her cheeks and covered her mouth. Dang. Not enough. She rolled it over her head, tight like a poncho, and stumbled forward.

  First reach the fence. Medical school had been a day at the beach compared to the gumption she needed to walk from her spot. She wanted back inside the truck she’d just abandoned more than she wanted air.

  Leaving the protection of the truck, she winced as an image of Slate’s warm house, large kitchen, and smiling son flashed in her mind. He’d offered. They probably had down-comforters and bathtubs in every room.

  Step by step, her stomach curdled. He probably served flavored hot chocolate – her downfall. Maybe cookies.

  She slipped in the ditch and fell to her knees. Wet snow soaked through the denim. “Crap.” The dark outline of the fence mocked her, just inches from her face. Reaching out, she gripped the sturdy railing. Much longer and her eyelashes were going to freeze – wait, too late.

  One hand clutched the blanket and the other acted as her life-line. In no time, she hunched over and leaned on the rough wood like an immovable walker. Steps shortened and slowed. But she pulled and pushed.

  Becky had to get there. No way would they find her body in the spring and give Slate the opportunity to say “I told her she’d never make it. I even offered her a room.” Nope. Numbness may be tingling in her feet, her hands might have lost all feeling, but her stubbornness was just enough to fuel her pride. She’d make it. No other option existed.

  Step. Step. Push. Was she even moving? Well, she’d run out of fence. What did that mean? Wait, focus. Slow thinking was a sign of hypo… hypo… hmm. Hypothermia.

  Becky reached up and slapped herself across the face. The slap stung but warmed the spot and snapped her drooping eyelids open. Slate had given in when he’d fallen off the horse, but he hadn’t been walking and he wasn’t a doctor. The symptoms were difficult to spot in others let alone one’s self.

  Illusional warmth spread outward. Uh, oh. She had to hurry. But to where? The end of the fence… must mean that she’d reached the gate and the driveway. Did Lacey Caverns have a gate door? She couldn’t remember.

  A tentative step from the post, then another and she scraped her boots on the hard blacktop of the drive. She’d have to stay on it. The direction wasn’t hard to guess, but the distance – well, the distance could mean the difference between dying or being in a warm house. She’d prefer the house. The warmth. Why hadn’t she chosen door A when Slate offered it?

  She pushed forward without her “walker”. Nothing to support her. Crossed arms held her blanket tight around her, but how much was it doing? She didn’t care. No way was she testing how warm it made her by removing it. She was hypothermic, not stupid.

  A little bit of warmth, that’s all she needed. Becky picked up her knees like a hurdler. Up. Up. Up. Her breath warmed her face and energy pushed at the tingling in her limbs. Keep the knees up.

  Should she count? Count what? Her steps, breaths, heartbeats, snowflakes? Ridiculous. Why would she count? “To stay awake.” She answered herself and laughed. Normally she counted backward to get to sleep.

  Trudge. Knee up. Knee – who was she kidding...

  Bonk. She walked head first into a building. Couldn’t be anything else. Hallelujah.

  Becky ignored the throb in her forehead where she’d smacked the wall and pressed her fingers along the surface, searching for a seam, frame, anything to get her to a door or a window. She needed help. Get out of the cold.

  Her elbow bumped a round handle. “Dang it.” She twisted the knob, praying it was unlocked, and yanked. The door opened and she slid through the small hole, slamming it behind her.

  Nothing white blocked her vision, but she couldn’t see. A switch met her searching fingers. She flipped the switch and blinked against the sudden fluorescence.

  Tack. Walls and walls of tack. Reins, hats, saddles, shovels, rakes. Rustling past the open door drew her deeper. Musty warmth seeped past the tingling in her bare flesh. Soft snorts reached her through the peace in the building. She’d walked into the barn.

  The house would be close enough in the morning she could walk there and get help. As it was, the fight against the ice had sapped her strength. She leaned against the wall, sinking into a pile of hay.

  For once she didn’t care about the dirt or the scratchy pokes from the straw. It was cushy and soft – and warm.

  The storm raged outside. But Becky gave over to the calm inside. She’d deal with the rest in the morning.

  ~~~

  A gentle nudge of her boot was the first indicator she wasn’t alone. Gruff words tinged with amusement her next one. “I expected to find my witch of a wife hiding out here, but instead I find an angel. Is everything okay?”

  Becky opened her eyes, startled to see the next best-looking man she’d ever seen in her life.

  Chapter 8

  He’d tossed and turned all night.

  Slate hadn’t slept well between worry over Mac and Amelia, the storm, a foal having issues with a respiratory infection and, of course, the irritating She-Doc. She’d roared out of the driveway before he could offer assistance with chains. His pride refused to allow him to call the number she’d left to see if she’d made it back alright.

  Professional courtesy dictated he worry, but that was it. It couldn’t be concern over a woman that had such conflicting traits all wrapped into a delicious package he didn’t have the guts to get close to. And why had she irritated him so easily? She seemed like a know-it-all, but had earned the deserved respect he wanted to hold back.

  Arms behind his head, Slate stared at the ceiling and nodded
. Of course he didn’t really care if she made it back or not. He had more brains than to get involved with anyone when he had concerns that reproduced like rabbits.

  The sound of a cough traveled down the hall. Slate rolled from his bed. Hopefully Mac was okay, but if not, then Slate had a reason to call the doctor.

  Slate’s long strides thudded down the hardwood hall. Mac shared a small suite with his mother and while Slate owned the house, he didn’t take well to intruding on someone’s privacy. A soft rap on the door to her rooms announced his arrival.

  “Come in.” Amelia’s soft voice carried through the wooden panel.

  Slate pushed the door enough to lean through the opening.

  A desk light shined from beside the windows opposite the door and cast long shadows in the deep room. Amelia’s profile bent over the mound in the “Cowboy and Indian” themed blankets set up on the small loveseat in the center of her sitting area.

  “How’s he doin’?” Slate’s whisper sounded harsh in the peaceful quiet. He ducked his head. The boy just had surgery. Slate needed to work on being quieter.

  Amelia brushed Mac’s hair from his forehead. “He’s good. His fever is down and he’s been sleeping. Actually coughed. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not, but I’m happy with it.” She kept her tone low, palpable excitement lacing her words. “Do you think the stitches will pull out?”

  “I’m sure they’re just fine.” Slate smiled to no one in particular.

  Amelia hadn’t torn her gaze from her son and Mac didn’t move.

  Another moment spent soaking in the tranquility of the scene allowed Slate time to regret allowing the doctor’s departure. Jubilation at Mac’s well being filled him. He glanced at the glow-in-the-dark clock on the wall. Only a few hours ‘til sunup.

  Slate needed to rescue Pig. He’d check on She-Doc then.

  ~~~

  Early morning light filtered through the floral ice patterning the window beside the door. Slate shrugged into his Sherpa-lined coat. A faint rumble crept through the cold glass. Slate tilted his head to listen closer.