reining in his thoughts. “Doctors’ reports.” He shoved a sheaf of papers toward her. “Notes from the last two PTs.” Two different physical therapists. Two failures. He was running out of patience, which he’d already admitted to her two weeks ago when he’d flatly told her why the other two hadn’t worked out; and he was definitely running out of money, which he had no intention of ever admitting to her.
He watched Belle’s long fingers close over the papers as she drew them closer to read. He pinched the bridge of his nose before realizing he was even doing it. Maybe that’s what came from having a headache for so many months now.
“Your last therapist—” Belle tilted her head, studying the writing, and a lock of tangled hair brushed the table, clinging wetly “—Annette Barrone. This was her schedule with Lucy?” She held up a report.
“Yeah.”
She shook her head slightly and kept reading. “It’s not a very aggressive plan.”
“Lucy’s only twelve.”
Belle’s gaze flicked up and met his, then flicked away. He wondered if she thought the same thing he’d thought. That Annette had been more interested in impressing her way into his bed than getting his daughter out of her wheelchair.
But she didn’t comment on that. “Lucy’s not an ordinary twelve-year-old, though,” she murmured. The papers rustled in the silent kitchen as she turned one thin sheet to peruse the next. Her thumb tapped rhythmically against the corner of the folder.
“My daughter is not abnormal.”
Her thumb paused. She looked up again. Her eyes, as rich a brown as the thick lashes that surrounded them, narrowed. “Of course she’s not abnormal. I never suggested she was.” She moistened her lips, then suddenly closed the folder and rested her slender forearms on top of it, leaning toward him across the table. “What I am saying is that Lucy is highly athletic. Her ballet dancing. Her riding. School sports. She is only twelve, yes. But she’s still an athlete, and her therapy should reflect that, if there’s to be any hope of a full recovery. That’s what you want, right?” Her gaze never strayed from his.
He eyed her. “You’re here.”
She looked a little uneasy for a moment. “Right. Of course. You wouldn’t keep hunting up therapists who are willing to come all the way out here to the Lazy-B on a lark. But my point is that you could just drive her into town for sessions a few times a week. She could even have her tutoring done in town. All of her teachers want to see her be able to start school again in the fall with her class, rather than falling behind.” Her lips curved slightly. “The cost for the therapy would be considerably less if you went into town. You could have a therapist of your choice work with Lucy at the Weaver hospital. I know the place isn’t entirely state of the art, but it’s so new and the basics are there—”
“I’ll worry about the cost.” That faint smile of hers died at his interruption. “You’re supposed to be good at what you do. Are you?”
Her expression tightened. “I’m going to help Lucy.”
It wasn’t exactly an answer. But Cage cared about two things. Lucy and the Lazy-B. He was damned if he’d admit how close he was to losing both. Like it or not, he needed Belle Day.
And he hoped his father wasn’t rolling over in his grave that this woman was temporarily living on the ranch that had been in the Buchanan family for generations.
He stood, unable to stand sitting there for another minute. “Set whatever schedule you need. Your stuff is in the room upstairs at the end of the hall. Get yourself dry. I’ve got work to do.”
He ignored her parted lips—as if she was about to speak—and strode out of the room.
The sooner Belle did what he hired her for and went on her way, the better. They didn’t have to like each other. The only thing he cared about was that she help Lucy and prove that he could provide the best for his daughter.
Once Belle Day had done that, she could take her skinny, sexy body and interfering ways and stay the hell out of his life.
Chapter Two
The rain continued the rest of the afternoon, finally slowing after dinner, which Belle and Lucy ate alone. Cage had shown his face briefly before then, but only to tell Lucy to heat up something from the fridge and not to wait on him. Belle had seen the shadow in Lucy’s eyes at that, though the girl didn’t give a hint to her father that she was disappointed. And it was that expression that kept haunting Belle later that evening after Lucy had gone to bed. Haunted her enough that she didn’t close herself up in the guest room to avoid any chance encounter with Cage.
Instead, she hung around in the living room, knowing that sooner or later he would have to pass through the room in order to go upstairs. But, either she underestimated his intention to avoid her as much as possible, or he had enough bookkeeping to keep him busy for hours on end in his cramped little office beyond the stairs.
When she realized her nose was in danger of hitting the pages of the mystery she’d borrowed from the hallway shelf, she finally gave up and went upstairs. Walked past the bedroom that Cage had traded with his daughter. The door was open and she halted, took a step back, looking through the doorway. There was only the soft light from the hall to go by, but it was enough to see that the room was pink.
He hadn’t painted over the walls in Lucy’s original room as if she was never going to be able to return to it.
She chose to take that as a good sign. All too many people entered physical therapy without really believing they’d come out on the other side.
Though the room was pink, it still looked spare. All she could see from her vantage point was the bed with a dark-colored quilt tossed over the top, a dresser and a nightstand with a framed photograph sitting on it. The photo was angled toward the bed.
“Something interesting in there?”
She jerked and looked back to see Cage stepping up onto the landing. He looked as tired as she felt. “Pink,” she said, feeling foolish.
His long fingers closed over the newel post at the head of the stairs. He had a ragged-looking bandage covering the tip of his index finger. She’d noticed it earlier. Had squelched the suggestion that she rewrap it for him, knowing it wouldn’t be welcomed.
His eyebrows pulled together. “What?”
She gestured vaguely. “The walls. They’re pink. I was just noticing that, I mean.”
“Luce likes pink.” His lashes hid his expression. “She’s a girl.”
“My sister likes pink.” Belle winced inwardly. What an inane conversation.
“And you?”
“And I…what?” He probably thought she was an idiot.
“Don’t like pink?”
“No. No, pink is fine. But I’m more of a, um, a red girl.”
His lips lifted humorlessly. “Pink before it’s diluted. You fixed pizza.”
She blinked a little at the abrupt shift. “Veggie pizza.
