Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 (17 page)

The nurse barreled into the room, her angular face white. “What's wrong?”

“Zane squeezed my hand! I'm sure of it, he pressed my hand.” She began to cry. “D-does that mean he's better?”

“Maybe. Let me get Doc Graham.”

Less than a minute later, Zane's partner stepped into the room. He lifted Zane's eyelids and studied his pupils, then slapped his stethoscope onto his bare chest.

“Hmm. You say he squeezed your hand?”

“Y-yes,” Winifred sobbed. “I know I didn't imagine it. I stepped outside to speak to Mrs. Bledsoe... I'm afraid our voices were very loud, and when I came back—” She couldn't go on.

“Hmm,” Dr. Graham said again. “Glad you got rid of Darla Bledsoe.” He bent again over Zane's body.

“Keep talking to him if you can manage it, Winifred. Even if he is very deeply comatose, he can still hear.” He shot her a look. “But before you do, I want you to go home and get some rest. You've been here most of the day. Eat something. You're not going to do Zane much good if you collapse.”

Winifred nodded. “I will. Just let me stay a few more minutes.”

Dr. Graham pulled a gold watch from his pocket. “Five minutes, Winifred. Or I'll come back and carry you up the hill myself.” He laid his hand briefly on her shoulder on his way out.

She waited until the door closed behind him. “Zane,” she breathed. She lifted his hand again. “I'm going to keep talking to you, and maybe it will drive you crazy, and maybe I will run out of things to say, but I'm going to keep talking until you can answer me.” She drew in a shuddery breath.

“Oh, Zane, I refused to let Darla see you. I hope I didn't overstep, but, well, even if I did, I don't care.”

She pressed his hand to her forehead and brushed tears off her cheeks with her free hand.

And then he squeezed her fingers again.

Four hours later Winifred returned to the hospital to find Elvira Sorensen waiting for her in the entryway, mopping at her eyes with a sodden handkerchief. Winifred's heart rolled up into her throat.

“He's dead, isn't he?” Oh, God, she couldn't bear it.

Elvira enfolded her into her muscular arms. “Oh, no, dear, he's not dead. An hour ago he opened his eyes. He really did! I think he was disappointed to see my face and not yours, but he looked right at me and tried to smile.”

* * *

Zane cracked open one eyelid and immediately snapped it shut. Blinding sunlight poured in the window and waves of pain washed over the back of his head. Where the hell was he?

Then he heard Elvira Sorensen's scratchy voice. “Zane? Zane, can you hear me?”

A groan was the only sound he could produce. He hoped she understood.

“Zane, you're in the hospital. There was an accident at the sawmill and Ike Bruhn was pulled into a belt saw. When they stopped it, you pulled him away and the log rolled over onto you. Do you remember any of this?”

He shook his head once and wished he hadn't. His skull felt like the entire sawmill had smashed into it. Elvira was snuffling, and that was odd. All his nurses were trained to hide their emotions; he'd have to speak to her about the lapse.

He'd swear he had heard Winifred's voice, but he must have dreamed it. Did he also dream that he heard an argument between Winifred and Darla Bledsoe? Winifred's words had made him want to cheer, but he found he couldn't utter a sound.

He felt Elvira move away from him. Someone else was in the room, but he couldn't tell who it was. Doc Graham?

No. Whoever this was smelled good.

Then he heard Winifred's voice again. “Zane.” That was all she said, but it was enough. With an effort he opened both eyes and squinted against the light.

Her face was blurry, but her touch on his hand was real enough. He tried to say her name.

“Zane, you are going to be all right. I know you are.” Her voice sounded so calm, so sure. He prayed to God she was not lying to him. His right temple felt like it was exploding and he couldn't keep his eyelids open.

“Head hurts,” he managed to say. “Get Samuel.”

He sensed her leave his bedside and heard the door open. “Get Dr. Graham,” she said to someone. A moment later someone bent over him and he smelled the antiseptic of Graham's hospital smock. A cold stethoscope settled on his chest.

“Samuel,” he murmured. “Bad headache.”

“Small wonder,” the physician muttered. “I'll get some laudanum.”

Winifred settled again by Zane's bedside, listening to his ragged breathing. She knew he was in pain; his almost bloodless lips were pressed into a thin line and one hand opened and closed convulsively. Dr. Graham returned with a half glass of something in his hand and helped Zane to raise his head and swallow it down.

“How's Ike?” Zane murmured.

Dr. Graham straightened. “His arm's broken in two places. But you'll like this, Zane. His wife's expecting. Ike said if it's a boy he's going to name him after you.”

A fleeting smile curved Zane's mouth. “Austen,” he muttered. “Nathaniel hard to say.”

The door closed behind him, and Winifred tried to stop the tears stinging her eyes. Dear God, would he really recover? She watched his bare chest rise and fall as his breathing slowed. His tense mouth began to relax and the frown creasing his forehead smoothed out.

She brushed her lips lightly against the cool skin of his cheek, then let her head droop forward until it rested against his rib cage. His hand settled against her hair.

“You really are here,” he said, his words slurring. “Thought I was dreaming.”

She couldn't answer. Behind her the door opened and Elvira tiptoed in and touched her shoulder. “Come and rest, Miss Von Dannen. I'll make some tea.”

Winifred nodded, swiped at the tears coursing down her cheeks and followed the nurse into the hallway.

“Doc Graham thinks the worst is over.”

The nurse's words brought a fresh onslaught of weeping and while the water heated in the tiny nurse's room, Elvira joined her in a good cleansing cry.

* * *

The following morning Winifred stepped into the hospital entryway to find Rooney Cloudman pacing up and down outside the door to Zane's room, a bouquet of yellow roses in his gnarled hand. He thrust them at her.

“These are for you, Miss Winifred.”

She buried her nose in the blooms. “Oh, Rooney, they are beautiful.”

“I heard about what you said to Darla Bledsoe t'other day. Just wanted you to know you done right.”

Winifred gulped. “Perhaps I shouldn't have stopped her that way, but I just couldn't... Heavens, it's probably all over town.”

“Yep, it's all over town all right. Haven't heard so much cheering since Thad MacAllister brought in his bumper wheat crop last summer.”

Winifred's face heated. “I should not have presumed.”

“Aw, now, Miss Winifred.” He laid his arm across her shoulders and squeezed. “Me and Sarah, we think you should presume all to hell.”

Winifred laughed in spite of herself. When a chuckling Rooney left the hospital, she entered Zane's room and received her second shock of the morning. Zane was propped halfway up in bed, laboriously spooning oatmeal into his mouth.

“Oh, Zane! You're sitting up.”

“Damn right. Head still aches, but—” He broke off to drag in a breath and plunged his spoon into the bowl. Winifred noticed his hand was shaking. She reached to take the utensil.

“I can feed you, Zane.”

He batted her hand away. “No. It's good practice.”

He ate so slowly Winifred gritted her teeth to keep from snatching the bowl away. “Good practice for what?”

“For coming home. Not an invalid.”

She noticed his frown deepening and guessed his headache was back. Still he doggedly finished the oatmeal, slid down on the pillows and closed his eyes with a sigh.

“Get Samuel, will you?”

Dr. Graham administered another dose of laudanum, and Zane slept. Winifred read some Wordsworth, paced up and down the hallway outside his room, had tea with Elvira and sat by Zane's bedside and read until her eyes burned.

Late in the afternoon she looked up to find Zane watching her.

“Who brought the roses?” he asked, tipping his chin at the vase on the side table.

“Rooney Cloudman. I was so touched I forgot to ask about their honeymoon trip.”

One of Zane's eyebrows rose. “None of our business.”

“It seems everything that happens in this town is everybody's business.” But she decided not to tell him of the gossip circulating about her encounter with Darla.

“Tell me about Rosemarie. Is she all right?”

“She is just fine. Sam and Yan Li keep her entertained, but she asks and asks where her papa is.”

“What do they tell her?”

“They say you are...traveling.”

“Good.”

“I think it might reassure her to see you.”

“No. Don't want her to see me like this. Might frighten her.”

“But—”

“Don't.” He almost snapped out the word, and Winifred was torn between joy that he had enough energy and breath to do so and annoyance at his order.

She drew in a slow, calming lungful of air and folded her hands in her lap. “I suppose it is a good sign that you are—”

“Bad-tempered?” he inserted.

“Irascible. You are never like this, Zane. Do you want some more laud—?”

“No.”

She rolled her eyes. “Goodness, one would never mistake you for a soft-spoken man, now would they?”

Zane just groaned.

“Really, Zane, don't you think—?”

“Dammit, Winifred, I'm not used to being sick.”

“You're not ‘sick,' Dr. Dougherty. According to Doc Graham, you have had a severe head trauma.”

“Hate being down,” he grumbled.

Winifred resisted the impulse to laugh. It was the first and only time she'd ever seen a chink in the gentlemanly good humor Zane always exhibited. Maybe it was a good thing for him to realize he was as human as everyone else. That even a physician had vulnerabilities.

But enough was enough.

Chapter Nineteen

T
he next afternoon Winifred rebelled. Yan Li dressed Rosemarie in a ruffled pink pinafore, and hand in hand Winifred walked Zane's daughter down to the hospital and into Zane's room. He was sitting in a chair by the window and Rosemarie made straight for him.

“Papa! Papa!”

Winifred lifted her onto his lap. Zane clasped his young daughter in his arms and held her tight. Over her pink pinafore-covered shoulder, he caught Winifred's eye and tried to frown. Then he tried to smile and couldn't do that, either. A fist closed around her heart.

Zane closed his eyes and rocked Rosemarie to and fro, murmuring things Winifred couldn't hear while Rosemarie played with the buttons on his pajama top and chattered on and on in a spate of nonsense syllables. Zane responded as if they made perfect sense.

Finally he set her onto the floor and she toddled over to Winifred and threw her little arms around her knees. “Up,” she demanded.

Winifred shot a look at Zane and caught her breath. His gray eyes were wet and shiny. Oh, dear Lord, had she done the right thing in bringing his daughter? Zane had been so...so... Well, lately it was hard to know what was best to do.

Rosemarie sat on her lap, playing with the buttons of the blue dimity shirtwaist she'd donned this morning, until she grew drowsy. She lifted the baby to kiss Zane, took her tiny hand and walked back up the hill to the house for lunch and a nap.

When she returned to the hospital that evening, Zane was wide awake and waiting for her.

“Tell me about you, Winifred,” he said with no preamble.

“Me?”

“How is it that you are here?”

“On the train, as usual. That seems an odd question from someone who's met my train on a number of occasions.”

“I mean, why did you come?”

She stiffened. “Zane, I cannot believe you are asking this. I came because Samuel wired me you had been injured.”

“Ah,” he said.

“Oh, Zane, I came because I couldn't bear to
not
be here.”

“Better,” he breathed. “Much better. Kiss me, Winifred. Gently. My head aches if I move it.”

She bent and softly pressed her mouth to his and heard him make a small noise deep in his throat.

“Now,” he murmured, “keep on talking.”

* * *

Zane had walked halfway up the hill from the hospital before he realized he'd pushed too far, too fast. He stopped and puffed hard for a few minutes.

What am I trying to prove?

That he was still young and strong and could recover from a head trauma. That he didn't give up without a fight. That he'd be damned if he'd be cooped up in a hospital room for one more hour on this glorious fall morning.

He moved slowly forward. The air smelled of burning leaves and fresh bread from Uncle Charlie's bakery. He dragged in a deep breath and sent up a quiet prayer of thanks that he was alive and well. Relatively well, anyway. At least he would be in a day or two.

That thought stopped him cold a scant three yards from his front porch steps. When Doc Graham assured her Zane was well, Winifred would return to St. Louis. His chest ached at the knowledge.

It was pure hell saying goodbye to her after each visit to Smoke River. After she climbed on that train and rolled away from him he couldn't sleep for days afterward. Or eat. Or stop thinking about her.

He forced his legs to carry him up the six steps, and sank his shaking frame onto the porch swing. His pulse pounded, but at least his head didn't ache.

Samuel told him he was lucky he hadn't woken up blind or unable to talk or impaired in some other way from a brain injury. He wondered if he could still make love.

Might be too soon to explore that possibility.

He leaned his head back against the cushion and thought about it. Under the freshly laundered and ironed shirt he'd borrowed from Samuel he could feel sweat rolling down his chest. Elvira confessed she had burned his own shirt after the accident. He wore his own trousers; at least they hadn't been blood-soaked. The knee was ripped, though. Wing Sam could mend it.

The smell of coffee drifted to his nostrils and suddenly he was hungry for anything as long as it wasn't hospital oatmeal. Maybe Yan Li would make those little flavorful pancakes. He'd try standing up in another minute; if he could make it through the front door, he could feed Rosemarie her breakfast.

A smile tugged at his mouth. He slipped inside the house and dropped quietly into his chair at the head of the dining table. From the kitchen came the soft chatter of Sam and Yan Li, punctuated by the clank of pots and the hiss of the teakettle on the woodstove.

Dear God in heaven, thank You for my life
.

Sam stepped in to lay out plates and napkins and swallowed a cry of surprise. “Boss! What you doing here?”

“Waiting for breakfast,” Zane said as calmly as he could.

Yan Li appeared behind Sam and gave a yelp. “Oh! Oh!” she cried. She clapped her small hand over her mouth and tears sparkled in her dark eyes.

“Missy upstairs with daughter,” Sam volunteered. “You want coffee?”

“I want coffee all right. Lots of it.”

Sam disappeared into the kitchen and after a moment Yan Li stepped forward and set a plate and a cup and saucer before him. “Very glad to see you,” she said softly. “I make pancakes?”

Zane could only nod. Damn but it was wonderful to be home, hearing his daughter's prattle from upstairs, and Winifred's quiet responses. One of these days maybe he'd understand more of Rosemarie's rapid-fire sentences. Winifred's were clear enough, but he wondered how on earth she knew what Rose was chattering about.

And then there she was in the doorway, radiant in a yellow shirtwaist and a dark skirt. “Zane!”

He tried to rise to his feet but gave up. His legs were still trembling after the climb up the hill. “I'd get up, Winifred, but I don't think I can.”

“Are you crazy? However did you get here?”

“Walked. I've been practicing. Every time Samuel left the hospital I walked up and down the halls.”

Rosemarie squealed and wanted to crawl into his lap, so he bent to lift her up. She twined her tiny hands into the overlong hair at his neck and he laughed with pleasure despite his burgeoning headache.

Sam brought coffee, filled their cups and disappeared into the kitchen. They drank in silence, listening to the baby's stream of unintelligible syllables.

“Oh, Zane, it is so good to hear you laugh.”

“It's good to be able to laugh without my head feeling like a rocket's gone off inside. I've never been more aware of the blessings in my life.”

“It is unfortunate one has to get himself almost killed to gain such a perspective,” she said drily. “Now that you are well, or almost well, I can allow myself to feel all the anger and fear I've stuffed down over the past seven days.”

Zane set his coffee cup carefully onto the matching saucer. “Anger about what, Winifred? I am well aware the new term must have started at your conservatory.”

“Yes, it has. A week ago.”

“And you are missing it.” He couldn't look at her, afraid of what he would see in her face.

“I...I sent the director a telegram.”

Zane lifted his cup, cradled it in both hands and waited. He didn't think he could stand letting her go back to St. Louis, at least not until he was stronger.

Maybe never. What the hell kind of life was this with Winifred in St. Louis and him here in Smoke River?

No life at all.

“I can't ask you what you said in that telegram. Don't tell me now. Let me have just a bit more time with you without knowing when it has to—”

Winifred sent him an oddly naked look and his breath stopped.

“Rooney Cloudman mentioned the Jensens' harvest dance, this Saturday, Zane. Do you think you will feel up to going?”

“What day is today?”

“Tuesday.”

Four days. He'd give anything to dance with Winifred again, hold her close in his arms and feel her warmth against his body. “I'll be there.”

A deeper, unspoken question lay between them and Zane knew she wondered about that, too. He wondered about it, as well. But by God if he could dance in four days, he might be able to...

There was no way to practice for what he had in mind, he acknowledged with a wry smile. He'd just have to wait and see.

* * *

Winifred watched Zane stagger in with a double load of firewood and dump it in the kitchen wood box with a thump. She tried to tamp down her fury at his pushing himself. At this rate he would be back in the hospital by Saturday, not at the Jensens' barn social.

The man was maddening. He refused to listen when she urged him to rest, avoided any mention of the headaches she knew still plagued him and resolutely shut his ears at her cautionary remarks.

Sam took her aside after breakfast, his face worried.

“Boss do too much, missy.”

“I know, Sam. But just try and stop him. Zane is more stubborn than...than...”

“Bull ox,” the Chinese man supplied.

“Two bull oxen,” she added in exasperation.

Sam lifted his hands in a gesture of resignation and headed back to the kitchen. Winifred stepped into the library, opened the volume of Sir Walter Scott and pretended to read.

Rosemarie was napping. Zane, too, should be resting, but instead he plopped down in his favorite wingback chair opposite her and waited until she glanced up.

“I'm going swimming.”

“Whaaat?”

“I said I'm going swimming. Alone.”

She stared at him. “Why?”

“Why am I going swimming or why am I going alone?”

She clapped the book closed. “Both,” she retorted.

“Because I need to swim laps to build up my strength and because I won't want you nagging at me to stop.”

“When have I ever nagged at you?” Her voice, she noted, had gone up an octave.

“It's true you don't nag, Winifred. But you would this time, and I don't have the energy to both swim and argue with you.”

Fury swamped her reason. “You are the most unreasonable, difficult, pigheaded—”

He stood up suddenly, seized her by the shoulders and pulled her out of her chair. “Tomorrow's Saturday. I intend to dance with you. All night.” He caught her face in his hands and kissed her, hard.

“At least take the buggy, Zane,” she said when she could breathe again.

“Nope. I'm taking the horse. Need the exercise.” He kissed her again, more slowly. “Go ahead and nag, Winifred. I'm getting to like it.”

Out at the swimming hole he swam twenty laps, rested an hour, then swam another twenty. He was dead tired afterward, but he wasn't sorry. If Winifred had come with him he would have spent all his time looking at her and forgotten why he needed to do this.

Tomorrow night at Jensens' dance he would look his fill.