idea. Nevertheless, the thought of going to any institution filled him with dread. He’d been in way too many of them over the years, and probably should have been in others.
Flashes of his early teen years kaleidoscoped behind his eyelids. Boys’ homes, therapeutic homes, group homes for troubled kids. He’d battled his way through dozens, fending off bigger, meaner boys, learning to steal and smoke. Learning which illegal drugs manifested what effect.
He’d tried everything and then some but had gone cold turkey after the fire….
He slammed the door right there. Sweat broke out on his body.
Not the fire. He didn’t ever think about the fire.
He wasn’t that wild, undisciplined kid anymore. He was Drew Michaels, professional photographer. Disciplined, controlled.
Jaw set, he bit down almost hard enough to break a molar. He could do this. He could go to a rehab center for a while and then get back to work where he belonged. And Larissa was not going to interfere.
Larissa stood outside Drew’s room, glad to have encountered Dr. Spacey in the hallway so they could speak candidly. According to the nurses, he was the physician in charge of Drew’s case.
“As sorry as we are to admit this, Mrs. Michaels,” the bespectacled doctor said after listing Drew’s many injuries, “our hospital is at capacity. We have to move patients out as quickly as possible—without jeopardizing care, of course. Your husband is well enough for release.”
“He can’t take care of himself.” She stated the obvious.
“Not for some time, I’m afraid. His body has been through a lot, and he’ll need several months of healing to get his strength back.”
“That’s why I’m here. I’m taking him home.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Have you spoken with him about this?”
“Do I have to?”
He looked amused. “Any man that didn’t want to go home with you would be crazy, but he has a right to make that decision.”
Larissa played the only card she had. She only hoped it worked. “I thought you said he had a severe concussion.”
“That’s true. He does. It’s healing but he’s still suffering some aftereffects.”
Larissa filed that piece of information away. Maybe the aftereffects were adding to Drew’s reluctance. “Then, are you certain he’s capable of making the appropriate decisions about his health?”
Dr. Spacey studied her behind black-framed glasses. Graying blond hair peeked out from beneath a green scrub cap. “What do you have in mind?”
“I can charter a plane whenever you say he’s ready. We have a large home, easily accessible to the best physicians in the Southwest. I can hire nursing care, physical therapists, whatever you think he needs. No expense will be spared. I can give him much more personalized care than any facility in this country. If his head is giving him trouble, what better place than home and familiar surroundings to help him recover?”
Dr. Spacey rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, thinking. “You have a valid point. The best thing for your husband would be home and familiarity. Patients who’ve been through great trauma usually recover faster and with less psychological effect among family and friends.”
Larissa felt a victory coming on. If she could just keep pushing, she might pull this off. “What do I need to do first?”
“Take him home and let him rest. The leg is non-weight bearing for at least six weeks anyway, but a physical therapist will have the details about that after you get him settled. He needs time more than anything else.”
She smiled, weary to the bone, but satisfied that she was doing the right thing, whether Drew liked it or not. “I have all the time in the world.”
The doctor patted her shoulder. “With that attitude, your husband will get along just fine. Let’s go in and talk with him about this.”
“But—” She stopped the protest rising in her throat. How did she tell him that her husband preferred a cold, sterile institution to any place with her?
She couldn’t. She could only pray that she’d been persuasive enough here in the hall to counteract anything Drew might say in the next few minutes.
Dr. Spacey pushed open the door and went inside the room. There was nothing for her to do but follow, carrying the balloon and box of chocolates picked up at the gift shop.
What would she do if Drew refused to come home with her? How would she manage to convince the doctor that Drew was too ill to know what he was doing?
Whether he wanted to admit it or not, Drew would heal more quickly in her care. If she was injured, she would want someone familiar to care for her. She’d want to be home with her family, her friends, and her animals.
Drew had nobody else but her to turn to. Right now he needed her too much to refuse.
The man she’d promised to stand by in sickness and in health had nearly died. And she was not about to abandon him, no matter how much he protested.
Drew was seething. Seething. Larissa and his doctor were conspiring against him.
He stared at the squat surgeon standing over him. “Do you have that rehab set up?”
“Actually, your wife has a better plan.”
He refused to look at Larissa, though he could feel her in the room. If he looked, he might weaken.
“I don’t like her plan. Send me to rehab.”
“You have a healing concussion. I can’t be certain you’re able to make the best decisions for yourself at this time.”
“Meaning?”
“In my judgment, since Mrs. Michaels is your legal wife, she is the more appropriate decision-maker at this time. I’m going to dismiss you tomorrow morning into her care.”
Drew shot upright but pain slammed him right back down. He lay back against the pillow, too breathless to speak.
“Everything will be fine, Mr. Michaels. Just be sure to see your doctors in Tulsa. Have them call for your records.” He took a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Larissa. If Drew had been able to get a good breath, he would have complained. This was his life. What was the matter with this crazy doctor?
Giving him a pat on the shoulder, the doctor departed. Drew was furious.
Larissa, her perfume pure torture, moved closer to set her gifts on the nightstand. A teddy bear balloon. Normally, he’d make some wise remark about that, but he was too angry. She was destroying his plan.
“I hope you’re not upset.” She fiddled with the balloon.
By now, he’d found his breath and his voice. “Just what do you think you’re trying to pull?”
“Dr. Spacey and I were
