Hey, this was a fantasy. She could give him any life she wanted because it was doubtful she’d ever see him again.
In fairness to both of them, he’d also exhibited traces of humor that appealed to her, and she hadn’t missed the speculative nature of his perusal of her. She knew he was brave and selfless because of the lightning-fast way he’d stepped in to save the little girl, and she knew he was resilient because of how quickly he was attempting to put this behind him and move on. How horrible it must be for a man of action to be frozen in one place and in one moment. It must be like walking out of a warm, cozy room into a blizzard and having the door slam and lock behind you.
Bill Dodge’s house was an old Victorian painted a ghastly purple that Kinsey imagined had actually improved as the sun faded the color and the trees matured and concealed the full impact of all that paint. The roofs were steep and Kinsey knew the top floor and attic were seldom used anymore. At eighty years and ailing, Mr. Dodge was too feeble to climb the stairs and slept in a downstairs room that had once been his den. Her mother slept in the housekeeper’s room located behind the kitchen. The arrangement seemed to work for both of them.
Kinsey climbed the stairs onto what had once been a beautiful wraparound deck, screened in for summer sleeping when the house was too hot. The screens were torn now and the deck was wobbly. The neighborhood was still good, and while this house had probably once upon a time been a showpiece, now it was like the poor, shabby relation. In some ways, the house reminded Kinsey of an elegant woman who slept on a park bench—still lovely, but rumpled, worn, tired.
At least there was a slight breeze blowing now, making the air bearable. Kinsey wished she’d gone home first to change out of her cocktail dress into shorts because she’d known the downstairs of this house could get stifling. Hopefully, she’d be out of here and on her way home in a few minutes. The day seemed to have lasted a week and she was tired.
Before she announced her presence, she took a deep breath. Dealing with her mom was never easy, and doing so when something had prompted her to call three times suggested trouble.
As Kinsey raised her hand to knock, the door flew open.
Zane. The name was growing on him, settling into the creases of his very empty brain.
Kinsey Frost’s face flashed in his mind and he suspected there was a silly grin on his face as he reconstructed her. She was so darn pretty. There was something else about her, too, something kind of sweet and innocent. Or maybe his response had more to do with the fact hers was the only face he could conjure that wasn’t related to people employed to take care of him. She’d come to help out of kindness and perhaps curiosity, which was totally understandable, considering they were strangers.
But, brother, she’d looked hot in that dress with her ruby lips and wavy hair....
Was she attached to someone else? For that matter, was he? On one hand, if he had a wife, hopefully she’d expect him to return to her and come looking for him when he didn’t. The flip side was this pull toward Kinsey. If he had his phone he could do an online search of her name and find out more about her. Frustrated and bored, he went the old-fashioned route and found a phone book in the drawer by the bed. He just wanted to see her name, just to reassure himself he hadn’t made her up. There was a map in the front of the book and he found her street, Hummingbird Drive, curious as to how far away she was. Not more than two or three miles, he discovered, and for some reason, that created a warmth in his heart where it had only been cold before.
Hummingbird Drive. That’s where a woman like her should live, he decided. Someplace that sounded as small and lovely and vibrant as she was.
Feeling way too restless to stay in bed, he’d pushed his IV stand around the looping corridors right after Kinsey left and then again after dinner when the sedative they gave him had little effect. He was supposed to spend a week here? The idea made him crazy. But if things didn’t change, where exactly did he go next?
He finally decided to give sleep another chance and settled back into the bed, but the oblivion he’d so looked forward to continued to elude him. Eventually, the hospital began quieting down. A nurse gave him another pill, and it was with relief when he felt his eyelids grow heavy. He stirred sometime later, awoken by the telltale swishing of the door that alerted him someone had entered his room.
He lay there for a second, expecting a cheery voice to announce it was time to check his blood pressure or take his temperature, but the room was eerily silent and the shadows too deep to make out a human shape.
“Who’s there?” he asked.
The silence remained and Zane realized he must have woken up as someone left his room. Maybe a nurse had come in to take his vitals and found him sleeping soundly. Either that, or his drugged brain had created the noise.
Settling back against his pillow, he soon fell asleep again. This time he actually had a dream with substance. A wolf chased him through tall, golden grass. He panted from the effort to escape merciless fangs. And then suddenly, he was hanging from a tree, a noose around his neck. The tree was big and black with sprawling branches that scratched at the underbelly of the clouds. Its roots spread below him like an old man’s hands clinging to the cracked earth. His neck hurt. He reached up to yank the rope away. He couldn’t breathe.
His eyes finally opened but the nightmare didn’t stop. A man stood over his bed, two big hands around Zane’s neck. The pressure increased as the man pressed down harder and harder, grunting with the effort to strangle Zane who, between blankets and tubes, couldn’t move. And he couldn’t budge those merciless hands from their deadly grip, thumbs pressing into his windpipe.
The light suddenly went on. “Hey! What’s going on?” a female voice yelled.
The hands instantly released Zane, who grabbed at his throat and gasped for air. He caught a glimpse of a man with shaggy white hair, horn-rimmed glasses and a bushy white mustache. The guy instantly turned toward the woman and pushed her hard. She went down amid a clatter of trays and equipment and the man disappeared out of the room.
Zane finally untangled himself and got out of bed. The nurse who had been knocked down struggled to sit up. He bent to help her just as an orderly arrived. “What are you doing to her?” the orderly demanded, trying to loosen Zane’s grip on the nurse’s arm.
“Tom, don’t be silly, he’s trying to help me,” the nurse said as she finally got to her feet. She was a solidly built middle-aged woman with a no-nonsense approach. Her forehead was bleeding, but she paid it no attention. Fury raged in her eyes, but her expression changed to one of horror as she looked at Zane’s throat. “Oh my gosh,” she said. “That man was trying to choke you.” She directed her next comment to the orderly. “Don’t just stand there, Tom. Alert Security. Have them call the police.”
The orderly took off back down the hall.
“The man who attacked you looked like Mark Twain,” the nurse said as she blotted her forehead with a cloth. Her gaze dipped to Zane’s neck again. You’d better get back into bed.”
Zane shook his head and wished he hadn’t when the room spun. “I think I’ll sit for a while. I’m not anxious to lie down again.”
“The stitches on your face look red. I’m calling the doctor right now.”
“Please, I’m fine.”
She
