wrinkled her brow. “I don’t think anyone ever said.”
Hub clucked his tongue and shook his head, muttering, “Gallow, Gallow, unusual name. Don’t believe I know any Gallows. Where is he from?”
“Actually,” she answered with some surprise, “I believe he’s originally from the Netherlands.”
“The Netherlands! You don’t say! Dutch then, is he?”
“You wouldn’t know it to hear him speak,” Kaylie said.
“What about his relatives? Surely you spoke with them.”
Folding her hands in her lap, Kaylie shook her head. “Aren’t any. At least, none near enough to help out.”
“Ah. So your aunts, at the urging of Brooks Leland, have opened the family home to him,” Hub deduced, “and now they find him more of a burden than they expected.”
Kaylie nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“And because you’re a nurse they expect you to deal with him.”
“I do seem the logical choice,” Kaylie pointed out.
Hubner waved a hand in agitation. “Do they not realize the level of your responsibilities?”
“I would say that the ‘level of my responsibilities’ is extremely light,” Kaylie told him. “I’ve been thinking, in fact, that it might be time for me to go back to work at the hospital.”
Her father sat back, clearly appalled. “But that would require shift work! You’d be gone all hours of the day and night.”
Kaylie had considered that, and now she quite shamelessly used it. “Hm. Yes, I suppose that’s true. Taking care of Mr. Gallow would be much less time-consuming. His injuries are serious, and his meds must be administered by a professional, but he’s well enough to leave the hospital, at least. A couple hours in the morning, a couple hours in the afternoon and evening…I’d be home every night, free to get you your meals and your pills.”
Hub considered, frowning at her, but eventually he accepted the obvious. Neither of them could, with a clear Christian conscience, say no. Hub grimaced.
“I blame my sisters for this. Once again, their ‘project’ means work for others.”
“Dad!”
“You know it’s true. Oh, I’m sure their hearts are in the right places, but never do their good works consist of labor only for them.” He tossed up a gnarled hand. “Whatever they take on, it always requires teams of volunteers and committees of…committees! They’re never satisfied until the whole of Buffalo Creek is involved. I suppose I should be thankful that we don’t live any closer to Dallas. Imagine what causes they could get embroiled in there.”
Kaylie bit back a smile, partly because he was right. Somewhat. The aunts did tend to take on huge schemes like raising funds for the Buffalo Creek Bible College and the local free clinic. Lately their pet project was one that Hub had once championed himself, ministries and services aimed at single-parent households. The aunts were preparing, as Hypatia put it, to take that initiative to a “whole new level.”
“Maybe Mr. Gallow is more than they can manage on their own,” she said, “but this time it’s just me involved, and I expect to be paid for my expertise.”
“Oh, yes, throw money at the problem,” Hub said, “as if the Chatam well will never run dry. Your brother Bayard has warned them time and again.”
A staunchly conservative banker, Bayard constantly harped on the idea that the aunts, now approaching their mid-seventies, could outlive their inheritance, as if they lived profligately. The aunties and most of the rest of the family, including Hub until recently, pretty much just tuned him out.
“You misunderstand. The aunts aren’t paying me, Dad. Mr. Gallow is.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose that if he’s getting free room and board, he can afford to pay for private nursing care.”
Kaylie supposed that he could pay for a lot more than that, but she didn’t say so. Why open the door for questions that she would rather not have to answer? Like where Stephen Gallow’s money came from, for instance. Having run out of reasons for complaint, at the moment, Hubner went back to his meal, and Kaylie turned her silent thoughts to how best to serve her new patient.
“Good morning.”
Stephen opened his eyes to the now familiar sound of the gentle, slightly husky but decidedly feminine voice. He’d been awake for some time, actually, the throbbing in his bones keeping him still, while he worried about his situation with the team.
The playoffs were now officially under way, and though he had been the goalie to get the team there for the first time in their short history, he had been out of the pipes for nearly two weeks now, with weeks more to go before he could even think about starting rehab. He wasn’t going to see ice time again this season, so should the team actually win the Stanley Cup—a long shot but feasible—his part in the triumph could well be forgotten. Of course, it was entirely possible that, given the good conduct clause in his contract, the team might cut or trade him regardless of what happened in the playoffs, especially if his backup, Kapimsky, proved able to get the job done.
Stephen had expected Aaron, bleary from a night spent in a strange bed, to be the first person he saw this morning, and though he would never admit it, Stephen dearly wanted his agent’s reassurance. Instead, he would have to settle for the ministrations of the new nurse. At least he hoped that she had decided to take the position. He turned his head slightly to find Kaylie Chatam regarding him serenely from the open doorway.
He smiled, for two reasons. One, the petite nurse’s soft red hair hung down her back in a thick, straight tail of pure silk at least as long as his forearm. Secondly, she was dressed for work in shapeless pink scrubs with surfing penguins printed on them.
“In the Netherlands,” he told her, “they say ‘Goedemorgen.’”
“Gude morgan, then.”
He tried not to correct her pronunciation, covering his amusement by saying, “Penguins?”
She plucked at the fabric of her loose top, looking down at a penguin tumbling through a cresting wave. “Best I could do. No skates, but at least they’re creatures that are comfortable on the ice.”
He laughed. And regretted it. Squeezing his eyes shut against the sharpened pain, he hissed until it subsided to a more bearable level. When he opened his eyes again, Kaylie Chatam was standing over him, pill bottle in hand.
“Mr. Doolin’s gone down to ask for your breakfast tray. Let’s get these into you so you’ll be up to eating when it’s ready. All right?”
“Fine,” he grumbled. “But then I need to get to the bathroom.”
She dropped the pill bottle into one of the cavernous pockets on the front of her smock and slid her small but surprisingly strong hands beneath his arms, helping him into a sitting position on the side of the bed. He tried to bite back the groan that accompanied the action, but the pain was breathtaking. It eased as soon as he was still again. She quickly gave him the pills. After swallowing a pair of them, he was
