boots were muddy.
“Tad?” Her heart knocked hard. Her limbs felt leaden. She slinked forward, using the railing as a crutch. “Tad?”
“Taryn,” he croaked. He took two steps forward, then stopped. His eyes looked desperate. He braced himself as if for a blow. She knew then that her world was about to come apart.
“Chance?”
Tad nodded. “He’s had an accident.”
Taryn’s ears rang. Her heart stopped beating, then made up the lapse in double time. Her legs shook. Despite the heat that slicked her skin, a cold shiver racked her body. She held on to the deck railing with all of her strength. “No, God, no. What happened? Where is he? How is he?”
“He’s alive,” Tad said in a rush. He climbed the three steps to the deck, started to reach for her, then drew back. “He drove into the river.”
“The river?” She frowned, not understanding. No, no, no. Not the river. Chance was a cautious driver, an expert diver. No river, not even Red Thunder, could get the best of him. Tad had made a mistake. Chance was too strong, too good to be taken by the river. Then why couldn’t she stop shaking? “What happened?”
“We’re not sure. They took him to Beaumont.” Tad put his hand on Taryn’s trembling shoulder. “I’ll drive you.”
She nodded and let him lead her to his truck.
This was not happening. This could not be happening.
He’s mine, she told the river. You can’t have him.
As Tad drove, her world unraveled until Taryn’s mind became nothing more than a snarl of worries.
She could not lose Chance. Not now. Not with a baby on the way.
“HELLO, darlin’.” Garth Ramsey drawled the endearment because he’d learned the ladies liked the sound of his voice deep and gravelly. The performance wasn’t so much for the body on the bed as for the staff tending to it. Image, he’d learned the hard way, bought you more than truth.
He handed a plate of oatmeal cookies to Jessie Ross, the night nurse. “I brought a treat for my wife.” He smiled and whipped his other hand from behind his back. “And for you wonderful Florence Nightingales, a box of chocolates.”
“Aren’t you the sweetest man?” Jessie gushed. She placed the plate of cookies on the nightstand beside the bed and the box of chocolates on the dresser by the upholstered glider she was using. A canvas sack with knitting lay beside the chair. Pale blue wool ran from the bag to a set of knitting needles that held what looked like a sleeve for a baby sweater.
“Now you make sure you leave some for the day staff or I’ll never hear the end of it,” he teased.
“This box is big enough to entertain an army.” She smiled at him and he knew he could have her if he wanted. All he’d have to do is ask and she’d fall into his arms. But his taste didn’t run to short, skinny brunettes with no figure, even when the room’s low light gave her pretty-enough features a soft golden glow. Besides, as part of his image of devoted husband, he’d decided it was best not to fool around with the staff at the Pine Creek Home. Finding a willing partner was never a problem.
“How’s she been doing this week?” he asked. He sat on the teal leather chair by the bed and stroked his wife’s silky blond hair. They’d wanted to cut it to make it easier to tend, but he’d insisted they leave it long and loose.
“No change really,” Jessie said, and popped a chocolate in her mouth. “She’s been a little more active during the day.”
“How so?”
“She likes to sit outside and puts up a fuss when we take her in.”
“Ah, yes, she was always one for the great outdoors.”
“She’s been more fussy about food, too. We practically have to force-feed her. She’s come up a touch anemic on her tests, but don’t worry, the doctor’s got her on iron. She’ll appreciate those cookies. They’re her favorite.”
“Well, in her case, it’s the little things that make a difference.”
“You’re so good to her. I’ll leave you alone and take my break now,” Jessie said.
“That would be great. Take your time. My wife and I have a lot of catching up to do.”
Smiling and all but batting her eyelashes, Jessie tiptoed out of the room.
They all thought his twice-weekly visits were husbandly devotion. In truth, they were an inspection of his investment. As long as his darling wife was nothing more than a body going through the motions of life, he was free to live as he pleased. Her vacant mind bought him immunity.
He scooted the chair closer to the bed, held her hand in case someone should happen by and peek through the glass window on the door, and whispered in her ear, “Remember, darlin’, when you thought you could manipulate me as easily as you did your sweetheart? You learned your lesson, didn’t you? I always win.”
She turned her head at the sound of his voice and opened her eyes. There beneath the dull veneer in her gray-green eyes was a spark of something that needed to be nipped before it got out of control.
“I’ve noticed more light in your eyes lately and this longing for the outdoors isn’t good. I’ve got just the thing. My friend says that one extra dose should keep you right where you are.”
With his back carefully hiding his activity, he swabbed the crook of her elbow with an alcohol pad and injected a small dose of an experimental drug. The needle was so tiny it left no mark on her delicate skin. She mewled like a kitten in pain, tried to twist away, but she was too weak and there was nothing she could do to stop him.
“That’s it, darlin’, take it in. Let me take care of you. Let me shelter you from the real world. You were always too good for them.”
He returned the syringe and the used alcohol pad to a sunglasses case in his blazer pocket.
As long as Ellen’s brain misfired, there was no one to deny any of his claims, there was nothing to stop him. He was on top of the world and climbing higher every day.
“Sleep well, darlin’.”
Chapter Two
The gash on Chance’s head worried Taryn. The swollen blue and purple mark curved from temple to temple. Five stitches pinched the skin above his left eyebrow.
Watching him so still and white beneath the hospital sheets made her soul wither by inches. The emergency-room doctor had told her Chance had regained consciousness for a while before he’d slipped into a coma and that he might also be suffering from traumatic amnesia. He’d told her not to worry, that Chance’s injuries probably weren’t life-threatening. But how could she not worry? The man she’d thought invincible was lying in a hospital bed unconscious.
“The chili will keep,” she told him, trying to keep up a one-sided conversation to fill the silence that was otherwise too heavy to bear. “Probably taste even better tomorrow. So will the pie. And I’m
