CH02 - A Match Made in Texas Read online

  Obviously, she would do well to keep her distance for now. Tomorrow, she would reestablish a professional relationship, and that would be that.

  Meanwhile, her father undoubtedly needed mollifying. She regretted now the manner in which she had left him that morning. He had come to depend on her, after all, and she had impatiently blown him off. Yes, the situation had been an emergency, but now the crisis had passed.

  It was time to get back to her real life and let God work in both situations—without her silly overreactions getting in the way.

  “You really didn’t have to come,” Stephen said to Aaron, settling into the bed. Another day, another bed, he thought with a sigh. He was heartily sick of this state of affairs, but at least he wasn’t in pain. Oddly, the leg throbbed but it didn’t hurt. How weird was that?

  “Hey, I had to be sure my meal ticket didn’t get punched,” Aaron said, shaking a finger at Stephen. “I’ve still got a few more meals in you.”

  “Right,” Stephen drawled. It was a little late for Aaron to pretend that his only interest in Stephen was financial. “I appreciate it, man. I really do, but Kaylie says it’s going to be all right, so you really didn’t have to come all this way. Kaylie will take care of things here.”

  Aaron hunched a shoulder, a grim look on his face. “Yeah, well, she’s going to be taking care of them from a distance then.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She ran along home to daddy. He needs his lunch.”

  Stephen frowned then told himself not to be ridiculous. “She’ll be back after she gets him fed.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Aaron told him. “She said to tell you she’d see you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Confused and sluggish, Stephen shook his head. She hadn’t left his side all morning, and she had to know that he’d already come to depend on her. “I don’t get it.”

  Aaron brushed back the sides of his suit jacket and grinned, his hands parked at his waist. “Couldn’t have anything to do with ‘beautiful liefje.’ Nah.”

  “Huh?”

  “You don’t remember calling her beautiful or liefje?”

  He did, actually, but it had seemed perfectly natural at the time. Using his good hand, he rubbed the top of his head. “No big deal. I—I was dopey. Right?”

  “Right. Don’t worry about it,” Aaron advised, still grinning. “I’m just gigging you. Nurse Dear isn’t exactly your style. Right? Besides, it’s like she said, you don’t need a private nurse in the hospital.”

  That had not been Stephen’s experience. The longer he’d been hospitalized before, the greater difficulty he’d had getting the nurses to respond to him, but he said nothing. No reason to give Aaron more ammunition.

  “Say, speaking of Kaylie, she tells me that the paramedics who brought you in are expecting autographs,” Aaron said.

  Stephen nodded. “Yeah, I, uh, may even have promised them game tickets.”

  “Hey, if it’ll keep them quiet…” Aaron shrugged.

  Stephen agreed. Kaylie had said they wouldn’t talk, that they were bound by privacy rules the same as her, but it didn’t hurt to be accommodating. Besides, he owed them.

  “I’ve got some autographed pucks out in the car,” Aaron went on. “I’ll bring some in before I leave. Okay? It’s not like you can sign anything with your writing hand in a cast, after all.”

  “Always prepared,” Stephen said with as much smile as he could muster. “So how did it go with the team last night?”

  Aaron jingled the change in his pocket. “They lost, five to four.”

  Bad news. Or good, depending on how he wanted to look at it. He had a hard time thinking of it as good, even if it might mean that the team was missing him. “How’s Kapimsky doing?”

  Kapimsky was his replacement in the net, the young, untried backup goalie for the Blades.

  Aaron shrugged. “Like you’d expect, stiff and nervous.”

  That would change, Stephen knew, with experience. The pressure-cooker of the playoffs was a tough place to get that experience, though. Winning the Stanley Cup was the goal of all thirty NHL teams, the be-all and end-all of pro hockey. For a team to advance to the Stanley Cup series, they had to win four of seven games in each of three rounds of finals. The two teams not eliminated at the end of those three rounds, one team from each division, would then battle for the cup with another series of seven games.

  If the Blades advanced, management might start thinking young Kapimsky could handle the job and exercise the clause in Stephen’s contract that allowed him to be cut. On the other hand, if the team lost, they might blame Stephen for not being in the net when they needed him most. Either way, it looked like a lose-lose proposition for him.

  Still, he had gotten the team to their first playoff position. The franchise was only four years old, and he’d been guarding net for them for three. That had to count for something. If not, at least the possibility existed that he would be able to play elsewhere next season.

  He wondered how much Kaylie’s prayers had to do with that, but then he turned off that line of thought. He didn’t want to think of Kaylie or her God just now. Her absence smarted in a way that he didn’t want to examine too closely. It would pass. In all likelihood, it was nothing more than a result of his debilitated condition, anyway. That didn’t keep it from stinging, a circumstance he found completely unacceptable.

  After everything else that had happened, he knew better than to open himself up to that kind of disappointment. Especially now, with all he was currently going through and his future hanging in the balance, the last thing he needed was an emotional involvement. All he needed was a nurse. And peace. What, he wondered, made him think that he could have both in one small, wholesomely pretty woman?

  “Aunt Hypatia, I’m sorry, but I’m bound by ethics and regulations. I can’t discuss any specifics concerning my patient. I just wanted to let you know that Ste…Mr. Gallow’s injuries and pain have been addressed.”

  “Well, of course, they have,” Hypatia said with a sniff, waving her teacup at the other occupants of the sunroom. “That’s what hospitals—and nurses—are for, and I understand that you have professional limitations, dear. My question is about his nightmares. Do you have any idea what is behind them?”

  Kaylie shifted uncomfortably on the round seat of the high-backed, barrel-shaped rattan chair. “Ah, it’s possible that the cause relates to his medical care.”

  Actually, inducing nightmares was a known side effect of at least one of Stephen’s—Mr. Gallow’s—pain medications. She probably should have mentioned that possibility to the doctors today, but it hadn’t seemed as important as making sure that Stephen received the proper diagnosis and treatment for his injuries. If she had stayed, she most definitely would have asked that a notation to that effect be put in his chart, but tomorrow would surely be soon enough to mention it. The staff at the hospital, who had a complete list of his medications, would not give him the suspect drug while he was using intravenous painkillers anyway, so she really had no reason to feel guilty for leaving him. Yet, she did.

  Hypatia set aside her teacup, making an uncharacteristically unladylike snort. “The cause relates to some trauma in that young man’s past.”

  “Rooted in an unhappy childhood, no doubt,” Odelia said, clasping her hands together, a lace hanky caught between them. “Oh, that poor dear boy.” She was dressed almost solemnly today in a double-breasted, royal-blue pantsuit with gold buttons and earrings the size of small saucers. Kaylie could imagine demitasse cups sitting in their centers. Still, for Odelia, this was positively funereal, especially as compared to the backdrop.

  The sunroom at the rear of the house was a large, glassed-in space right next to the kitchen. Filled with pieces of bamboo and wicker furniture upholstered in a vivid floral pattern, it was a bright, restful space. A ceiling fan rotating lazily overhead stirred the fronds of palms and ferns scattered artfully about the room in large pots.

  “There is
more,” Magnolia pronounced thoughtfully, munching on a gingersnap, “to our young Stephen than meets the eye.”

  Smiling wanly, Kaylie said nothing, glad that professional strictures prevented her from mentioning to her aunts what Stephen had said in the ambulance. It would only confirm their assumptions. On the other hand, their concern for him was genuine.

  Hypatia sighed. “We’ll just have to continue praying for him as best we can.”

  “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that,” Kaylie said, rising to her feet. “Now I’d better get home. Dad is probably anxious. I just wanted to check in with you.”

  “And when will you see Stephen again?” Odelia wanted to know.

  “Sometime tomorrow.”

  “Give him our very best wishes,” Magnolia said.

  “And tell him,” Odelia chirped, “that his room here is waiting for him.”

  “I will. It shouldn’t be long before he’s back,” Kaylie assured her. “Day after tomorrow at the latest, I imagine.”

  “Yes, they don’t keep anyone in the hospital very long these days,” Hypatia said disapprovingly.

  Kaylie let that go and passed out farewell kisses. “In case I haven’t told you,” she said, on her way out of the room, “I admire what you’re doing for Stephen.”

  “Oh, we’re thrilled to do it,” Odelia trilled, causing her sisters to aim very pointed looks at her. Subsiding into a meager smile, she waved her hanky at Kaylie, who went out mentally chuckling to herself.

  She marveled that the sisters had agreed to take in an injured professional hockey player who was a complete stranger to them, but surely the whole thing had been directed by the caring hands of God.

  “This is no good to me!”

  Kaylie heard Stephen’s voice raised in anger even before she pushed through the heavy door to his room early the next morning. A dark-haired nurse in violet scrubs straightened from a bent position and turned. She had a folded newspaper in her hands and an exasperated expression on her face, a face that Kaylie knew well.

  “Hi, Linda. Problems?”

  Linda Shocklea was an old schoolmate and a fine nurse. She rolled her eyes at the bed, flourishing the newspaper. “His Highness asked for a newspaper. I brought him a newspaper.”

  “There are no hockey scores in that local rag!” Stephen snapped. “I need a real newspaper.”

  Linda slapped the offending paper under her arm, saying, “I have explained that the local paper is all we get delivered up here and I cannot leave my post to go downstairs to find him a Fort Worth or Dallas paper.”

  Stephen ignored her, gesturing heatedly toward the television mounted high in one corner of the room. “They don’t even have a sports channel on the TV!”

  Kaylie smiled apologetically at the other nurse. “I’ve been hired to care for Mr. Gallow. Leave this to me.”

  Heaving a relieved sigh, Linda pulled open the door. “Gladly.”

  Obviously, Stephen had been making a nuisance of himself. Kaylie turned to face her employer, her hands linked together at her waist. For a long moment, he would not meet her gaze, just sat there in the bed fuming.

  And to think, Kaylie mused, that I had such a difficult time staying away last night.

  It hadn’t helped that her father had been in such a surly mood. He had started out sounding concerned and solicitous, his earlier pique ameliorated by his delight that she had returned home in time to see to his lunch. He had even asked about Stephen’s condition. She had answered as well as she was able, mindful of Stephen’s privacy concerns. The problem had come when her father’s queries had turned to Stephen himself, or, more to the point, when she had answered them, particularly the question about Stephen’s age.

  “So young?” her father had said, frowning. “I thought Mr. Gallow to be an elderly individual.”

  She had been somewhat taken aback by that, but even more so by her father’s rapidly darkening mood. By dinner, she had resorted to keeping out of her father’s way, and she had quickly found herself thinking that she could serve better at the hospital. But she had stayed at home, judging it the wiser action. Evidently, she had been right to come this morning, however, rather than wait until the afternoon.

  “I’ll go down and get you a paper,” she told Stephen quietly.

  He folded his arms mulishly. The gesture lost something due to the fact that his left arm was already bent at the elbow, set in a cast and strapped to his chest. She disciplined a smile. Suddenly his hand shot out.

  “Forget the paper. Give me your phone. I’ll look up the scores on the Internet.”

  “No,” she said calmly, “you can’t.”

  His face, already shadowed with two days’ growth of beard, darkened. “Why not? I bought that phone. I can use it if I want.”

  “Cell phone use is strictly forbidden in patient and treatment areas, no matter who owns the phone.”

  He glared at her, slapped the heel of his hand against his forehead and literally growled. “Raaaaagggh!”

  “I’ll go now so I can get back before the doctors make their rounds,” she said.

  “Fine,” he snapped. “Go. Go! You’re good at that.”

  That hit home. Obviously, he had missed her yesterday. She didn’t know whether to be pleased or troubled. Ducking her head, she quietly slipped from the room. Hurrying down to the gift shop, she picked up both the Dallas and the Fort Worth papers, then swiftly returned to Stephen’s room. He seemed somewhat mollified when she handed over the newspapers. At least he didn’t bite her hand.

  Digging through the pile, he found the sports section of one paper and clumsily began spreading it out on the bed. Kaylie stepped in and turned the pages for him until he found what he wanted. Then she folded the paper, with the story exposed, and placed it in his good hand. He read earnestly for several minutes. Finally, he closed his eyes and let his head fall back on the pillow.

  “You’re pleased,” she said, smiling as a warm glow filled her chest. It seemed ridiculous to feel so delighted at evidence of his pleasure, but she couldn’t help herself. He thrust the paper at her. Taking that as an order to read it, she did so.

  From what she could gather, the team had lost the first game of a series, despite some excellent penalty killing and other things she didn’t understand. Finally, she hit upon the paragraph that she thought might have so pleased Stephen.

  “Most said it would be enough for this young team to make it to the playoffs for the first time in their short history,” she read aloud. “Today, despite this loss out of the starting gate, expectations are building. The one flaw in that scenario is the position of goalie. Abel Kapimsky, 24, is a promising young goaltender and shows flashes of pure brilliance, but he’s no Stephen Gallow. Then again, who in this conference is?”

  She went on to read in silence how Gallow’s goaltending had lifted the general level of play for the whole team and been instrumental in winning that first playoff berth. The writer noted that the mysterious injury which had taken Gallow out of the lineup could have also taken the wind out of the team’s sails. That, to the team’s credit, had not happened. After the loss, the team captain had, in fact, admonished his team to go out there and win the next one for the Hangman.

  Smiling, Kaylie tossed the paper onto the bed. “Well,” she said blithely, “that ought to lighten your mood.”

  Those gray eyes tried to freeze her where she stood. “I have good reason for my mood.”

  “Mmm, and I suppose the same goes for your attitude,” she ventured softly. Those icy eyes narrowed, but for some reason Kaylie found herself smiling.

  “What’s wrong with my attitude?”

  “Oh, please. A little honesty, now.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Has no one ever told you that you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar?”

  “Has no one ever told you that you look better with your hair down?” he sniped.

  Kaylie’s hand went automatically to the heavy twist of hair at her nape. She almost
always confined it when she was working. Otherwise, it got in the way. Self-consciously, she dropped the hand, dismayed to find that her first impulse had been to dig out the pins and clips that maintained the chignon. She didn’t know what was worse—that he thought her unattractive with her hair confined or that she cared what he thought about her looks.

  “Sorry,” Stephen muttered, having the grace to shoot her a sheepish glance. “You look fine. I only meant that you have gorgeous hair. How you wear it is none of my business.”

  He thought she had gorgeous hair! Her hand once more sneaked up to touch the offending chignon, and she quickly turned away, unwilling to let him see how much his opinion affected her. “Thank you,” she murmured, trying not to feel too pleased.

  “I said I’m sorry, all right?” he grumbled.

  Nodding, she bent to check the drip rate on his intravenous unit. “No problem.”

  “Arrrgh!”

  She turned to find him beating his fist against his forehead. Alarmed, she asked, “Are you in pain?”

  He dropped his hand, glaring at her. “No, I’m not in pain. Not much, anyway. I am in a foul mood. I admit it. Okay? I hate hospitals, and I hate not being able to get out of this bed! I’m bored out of my gourd and I’m worried—” He broke off.

  “Worried about your career,” she surmised.

  “Wouldn’t you be?” he shot back.

  Kaylie didn’t bother answering that. Instead, she sent up a silent prayer as she sifted through the second newspaper on the bed. Finding the sports section, she thumbed through it until she came to the hockey report. Quickly scanning the article, she saw that this reporter was not nearly as sanguine about the loss and the team’s chances, for one pertinent reason. Reading aloud from the article, she pitched her voice to a strong, authoritative level.

  “As thrilled as the fans may be at the team’s long overdue entry into the playoffs, the hope of the Blades began and ended with goalie Stephen Gallow, who has had his problems off the ice in the past but rarely on it. Hurry back, Hangman! We need you.”