Dakota Love (44 page)

He had private items packed in that bag.

Walt gulped the last of his water as he reached for his bag with his free hand. “Scoot that over here. I can do it.”

His fingertips grazed the rough tapestry on the side of the bag as Lil, elbow deep in his valise, pulled the bag closer to her.

“You need to save your strength.” She paused long enough to shake a warning finger, then returned to her invasion of his privacy.

Walt gritted his teeth as a wave of weakness washed over him. Humbled at not being able to care for himself, his palms ached with the engraved memory of the slick varnished doorframe when his fingers, digging into the grooves of decorative trim work for traction, became no match for his legs, growing limp like noodles in boiling broth.

“Here they are!” Lil’s booming voice bounced off the walls of the tiny room. She held up the worn leather Romeos and clapped the slipper soles together as if applauding her victory cry.

Could a woman be any louder and pushier? He shouldn’t feel that way. After all, without her broad shoulders to lean on, literally, he’d be zipping north on the interstate, en route to the VA hospital. He preferred a slight slice of a woman like his Nancy, but the sturdiness of Lil’s structure was just what he’d needed to take the last few steps to the bed. His body’s husky pressure would have laid a slender girl low like prairie grass bucking gale-force winds.

Lil might grate on his nerves, but she’d proved her nursing abilities, earning his respect.

The intruder rounded the end of the bed, knelt down, and held a Romeo steady for him to slide on. “Right foot first?”

“Put those down. I’ll slip them on myself.”

“No, now lift your foot up.” Lil reached down and lifted his heel for him.

He fisted his hands at her clipped words. A man should be able to put on his own slippers.

“I want to make sure they’re on secure.” She guided his right foot into the soft leather then held out the other Romeo.

Walt placed his slippered foot on the floor and stretched out his other foot.

“Do you feel like Cinderfella?”

A Jerry Lewis fan. At least they’d have that in common. He owned the DVD. Maybe she’d like to watch it tonight. Before he could respond, Lil began talking again.

“Remember that movie? It was a comedy but I can’t place the star.”

Ready to jump into the one-sided conversation, Walt opened his mouth.

Lil lifted her head, perhaps searching his face for an answer before looking directly into his eyes.

His reply lodged in his throat. His heart started beating at marathon speed as if he was running through that field again. Lil had green eyes. Just like the ones in his latest dream.

A
loud
tsk
stopped Walt in the middle of a hitch step.

“What are you doing?” Lil’s megaphone voice sounded behind him.

He flattened his right foot as she quick-stepped around him. Irritated at having to be reminded, he drew his brows together and shot her a look.

She raised a brow and crossed her arms over her chest, catching and tossing his attitude back at him with her deep green eyes. His heart fluttered as his dream scene played through his thoughts.

The upper tips of his ears warming, he dropped his focus to the front bar on the walker.

Heel to toe he stepped, hoping this concentrated effort would halt the wildfire spread of a blush from his ears to his cheeks.

Lil seemed to have lost interest in his every move. When he looked up, she stood in front of the range with her back to him, fumbling with a cast-iron skillet.

“That’s better.”

Walt frowned. Did the woman have eyes in the back of her head?

Continuing his slow pace, Walt aimed the walker at the bathroom door at the opposite end of the wall from the bedroom door.

Holding up the pan and waving her hand above the electric burner element, Lil let out a snort. “I thought that bathroom was a pantry.” She giggled. “Was I surprised when I opened the door! Although it reminds me of the girls’ locker room at my high school, the walk-in shower with no tub is a good setup for you.”

She held her hand closer to the burner. Obviously satisfied with the heat level, she centered the pan on the burner.

Heel to toe, heel to toe
. Walt fumed, repeating his walking instructions faster while his walker clacked, like typewriter keys, on the linoleum flooring. She’d snooped through everything while he rested.

He reached the narrow door and stopped. Why did they make walkers wider than doors?

“Let me help with that.”

Fear banged his heart against his chest. It was one thing to snoop through cupboards, but this? Walt placed a hand on the counter for balance.

“I’ve got it,” he declared louder than he intended. He gripped the middle of the upper bar on the walker and gave it a quick twist.

Stepping carefully and using the door for stability, Walt followed the walker through the door, slamming it shut just as the squeak of Lil’s footsteps grew closer.

He’d dodged a bullet. Leaning against the door, Walt sucked in air, hoping to calm the panic coursing through him. If the last four hours were any indication, he’d never make it through the six-week convalescent period.

He needed to set some ground rules. He’d have a talk with Lil.

“You and I need to talk.” Lil pointed the blunt end of a wooden spoon at him.

The hiss of the frying pan called her attention back to its contents. She twirled the spoon like a baton before dipping the rounded end and swirling it around the pan.

“I know we do.” Walt hoped she’d heard his I-mean-business tone over the sizzle of the vegetables hitting the pan.

Steam rose and filtered through the air, assaulting his nostrils. His stomach gurgled its approval of the sautéing onions.

“I hope you like veggie and cheese frittata.”

“Fra-what-a?” Walt frowned. How could he know if he liked it if he couldn’t even pronounce it? “I don’t eat fancy food.”

Lil turned from the stove, giving him a deadpan look. “A frittata is not fancy food.”

The pressure on the ball of Walt’s right foot reminded him to flatten his step as his walker and stomach raced to the range.

Bits of translucent onions popped in a greenish oil.

“Legs feeling stronger?” Lil looked over her shoulder at Walt.

He nodded as he inhaled deeply. A low rumble started in his stomach and built to a full-fledged growl.

“Here.” Lil stuck the spoon handle out. “Stir these while I add the other ingredients. By the sounds of it”—she jerked her head toward his midsection—“I should have started this earlier, but I didn’t know what time you ate supper.”

Walt bore his weight on his left leg as he stirred the onions around the pan. “What are you frying these in?”

Lil dropped in a handful of sliced mushrooms. The off-white pieces looked nothing like the golden bits he dumped out of a can.

“Olive oil.”

“I told you I don’t eat fancy food.” His stomach rumbled its plea for a taste. Traitor.

“Stir,” Lil commanded.

Walt dragged the spoon around the edges of the pan, then through the center, watching the meat of the mushrooms darken.

The
tap-snap
of eggshells competed with the continued sizzle of the frying pan.

“That’s what we need to discuss.” Lil rapidly moved a fork through a bowl, the tinkle of metal on glass keeping a steady beat.

She set the bowl on a cool burner. Green specks swirled through the settling mixture then began to float to the top of the frothy beaten eggs.

“That looks fancy.”

“They’re dried herbs. You need to change your diet.”

Walt tapped the spoon on the side of the pan, freeing a stuck cluster of mushrooms and onions. “What makes you say that?”

Apparently oblivious to the gruffness in Walt’s voice, Lil added a tight ball of something green to the pan.

“The lard in your fridge. I didn’t even know they sold that anymore.” Palm up, she wiggled her fingers at Walt, signaling she wanted the spoon back. Walt acquiesced then watched as Lil broke up the green lump, spreading it through the pan.

“What’d you do to that spinach?”

“Squeezed out the moisture so our eggs aren’t runny.” Lil dumped the contents of the bowl into the pan and gave it a quick stir before sprinkling it with white cheese. Then she covered it with a beat-up pizza pan.

“I hope this makeshift lid works. Your kitchen utensils are sparse, but then again, it doesn’t take much to heat up processed food.”

Walt jutted his jaw in defense. Obviously, she’d poked around in his cupboards. That was the conversation they needed to have. Respect for others’ privacy. “I eat a varied and balanced diet.”

“
Of canned, processed food
. You need to eat fresh food, organic if available so you can control the sodium and soak up the nutrients.”

Lil waved Walt away from the stove then stuck the pan in the oven to finish the cooking process.

The burst of heat from the oven warmed Walt’s pant legs. “I have a serving of each food group, just like they taught in school.”
Argue with that one
.

“Fruit laced in corn syrup packs more calories than the sugars in fresh fruit, and if I remember right, you are a borderline diabetic.”

Lil beat Walt to the table, where she pulled a file from her bag.

Jaw clenched, Walt gingerly sat down. He narrowed his eyes, focusing on the calendar hanging above the wall-mounted Princess phone.

Six weeks, forty-two days, one thousand eight hours…

“Walt.”

The soft warmth of Lil’s hand on his forearm stopped his calculations and trembled his insides, her plump fingers pillows against his sun-crinkled skin. Those pain meds must have heightened his sensations instead of dulling them.

The slight pressure of her squeeze pulled him back into the conversation.

“What?” He meant the answer to be gruff; instead the word came out husky.

“I’m not trying to be critical. It’s just that proper nutrition helps a body to heal.”

“Faster?” Walt relaxed his face into a smile, the first since his surgery.

“Can’t hurt,” Lil answered with the gusto of a person who thought she’d won the argument. Victory dancing through her green eyes, she returned his smile.

Walt’s smile widened as his mood brightened. The sooner he could get his solitary lifestyle back, the better—even if it meant eating new-age food.

A week later, Lil cut the last petal piece of her Rose of Sharon quilt project from the bright yellow cotton fabric while Walt paced through the living room.

Up and down the short piece of clear walking path he went for what seemed like the hundredth time this hour. He was antsy. They’d watched all his Jerry Lewis movies. Walt needed a hobby to pass the time.

“Walt, does your incision hurt? Are you in pain?”

“Nope.” The walker clacked across the living room floor, stopping by the window, also for the hundredth time in an hour. He peered out at the same not-yet-harvested cornfield that Lil could see from her vantage point.

“Anything changed out there since five minutes ago?” Lil picked at the loose threads that had been made by cutting the fabric and were now scattered on her jeans.

Walt leveled her with a look.

“Guess not.” She laughed then picked up a piece of dark green material and began to cut around the tracing of the stem pattern. “Want to help?” She held out the scissors and fabric to Walt.

He frowned and shook his head. “Looks like a nice day. I’d like to go for a walk.”

“Good idea.” Lil put her fabric on the wide arm of the sofa then rocked forward, lifting herself off the couch.

“Can’t though. I’m housebound.”

“Who said that?”

“The nurse at the VA hospital.”

“There’s nothing in your file about it,” she said, pretty sure the confusion on Walt’s face mirrored hers.

“Well”—Walt’s voice held a gruff edge—”
I’m
not senile. I know she said that while I recovered at home, I’d have to stay inside the house.”

Lil’s hackles rose at his inference that
she
was the senile one. “And I’m telling you the doctor’s instructions say normal activity as tolerated.” Pleased that her tone held just the right amount of authority, she gave a quick nod of her head for emphasis.