Authors: Ingrid Weaver
Tags: #mobi, #Romantic Suspense, #Paranormal Romance, #Fiction, #Shadow, #epub
Delaney's Shadow (30 page)
A nurse rushed in, probably alerted by the dead monitor. Max waved her away when she moved to reattach it. “Get this needle out of my arm.”
“Sir—”
“If you don’t, I will.”
Dr. Yarrow returned. She ordered Toffelmire out as well as the nurse, then came to Max’s side and laid her hand on his injured wrist. “Calm down. We can remove the IV. It was only a routine precaution.”
“Fine. Do it.”
She eased off the tape that held the needle in place, pulled it out, and pressed a cotton ball against his arm. “You need to rest, Mr. Harrison.”
“I’ll get more rest at home.”
“I can’t in good conscience discharge you.”
“I’ll sign a waiver. Whatever you want. Just give me the bill.” He slid down the bed until he was past the railing and swung his legs over the side of the mattress. He sucked in his breath at the pain the movement caused, then flicked his mind away until it eased. He’d had plenty of experience handling pain. He hadn’t needed to do it for decades, but it was just like riding a bike.
“Mr. Harrison . . .”
“Where the hell are my pants?”
“DID THEY GET THE GUY YET?” PHOEBE ASKED, FOLDING the edge of a pillowcase over the clothesline.
“Not that I know.” Delaney handed her a clothespin. “Detective Toffelmire promised he’d call me if he learned anything.”
“Last year some guy got drunk enough to put his car in the lake. It was a slow-motion disaster, like a clip from one of those home video shows, and we all laughed at him, but what happened to you wasn’t funny.” She shook her finger in a gesture reminiscent of something Helen might have done. “You know what? Maybe at next year’s festival they should make people hand over their car keys before they can get a beer. They don’t get them back unless they can prove they’re sober or they have a designated driver.”
“That is an excellent suggestion.”
“Really? You think they’d go for it?”
“It’s worth a try. Willowbank could set a new trend.”
“Sure, why not? It was horrible luck, though. I mean, of all the people in the park, why you? After the car crash you’ve already gone through—” She stopped. “Sorry, that was a dumb thing to say.”
“Why? It’s true.”
Phoebe leaned across the wicker laundry basket at her feet to give Delaney a quick hug, then gasped and jumped back. “Ohmigosh. Did that hurt?”
It had, but only a little. Compared to the battering her body had taken six months ago, the few bruises on her hip and shoulder that she’d sustained yesterday were nothing. The aches were already fading. It was fortunate she hadn’t landed on her hands, though. That might have undone months of healing. She picked up another clothespin. “The hug was worth it.”
“I can’t believe how well you’re taking it all. You’re so brave.”
“Me? Hardly. It’s John Harrison who was brave.”
“I still can’t believe that part, either. He
rescued
you. Wow. Who would have thought?”
rescued
you. Wow. Who would have thought?”
“People should do more thinking where he’s concerned. What he did was completely selfless. Even heroic.”
“That’s what I mean. From what I’ve heard, he’s more the type to do the hit-and-run than to push someone out of the way.”
As much as Delaney was growing to love Phoebe, she had a sudden urge to shake her. “Then you’ve heard wrong.”
“Sorry.” She twisted her lips into an exaggerated grimace. “It’s kind of hard to think of him as a good guy. My friends and I used to scare each other with stories about him when we were kids.”
“Like the boogeyman in the woods?”
She reached into the basket for a sheet. She concentrated on aligning the corners together before she spoke again. “It probably wasn’t fair, but that’s how kids are.”
“I know. You likely picked up on the attitudes of your parents.”
“Maybe. But he did go to prison for beating up his mother. We didn’t make that up.”
“People can change.”
“I guess.”
“He was very kind to my grandmother’s friend Ada.”
“Oh?”
“He also volunteered his time to help support the town’s summer festival. That doesn’t sound like boogeyman behavior to me.”
Phoebe laughed. “Okay, okay. I won’t let my little brothers soap his windows this Halloween.”
“Good.”
She clipped the sheet to the line. “But I still say he’d make a good Heathcliffe.”
Delaney rolled her eyes. “He’s just a man, Phoebe, and I owe him my gratitude.”
HALF AN HOUR LATER, DELANEY STOOD ON THE EMBANKMENT behind John Harrison’s house and reminded herself of what she’d told Phoebe. John Harrison was just a man, not a figment of her imagination or the embodiment of her fantasies. He lived in a real building. There was nothing mysterious about sensing that he was at home; she could see the evidence of it: his windows were open, and a patch of daylight showed through the screen door that overlooked the deck, so the interior door must have been left open as well. Apparently, he enjoyed the warmth of sunshine and the freedom of fresh air.
Part of her couldn’t believe she was here. Less than a day ago she’d been trying to get as far away from this man as she could. He was still a veritable stranger.
Yes, but he’d saved her life, she reminded herself. She owed him some courtesy, didn’t she? If he’d been anyone else, she wouldn’t be hesitating to call on him. She wouldn’t have fled his hospital room yesterday, either. Not that she could begin to explain her behavior to him. She couldn’t very well admit it wasn’t his reputation that had bothered her, it was his resemblance to her dream lover.
Before she could change her mind, she found a path down the embankment and crossed the yard to the house, picking her way around the puddles that remained from the weekend’s rain. As she was trying to decide whether or not to go around the house to look for a front door, a large figure moved behind the screen door.
Well, there was no turning back now. He’d obviously seen her coming. She walked toward the stairs that led to the deck.
John pushed open the door and regarded her in silence.
He was dressed in blue jeans and a plain white shirt that he wore untucked. A navy blue sling supported his forearm horizontally across his waist. The bandage that was taped to his forehead was almost hidden by the lock of hair that had fallen across it.
Her steps faltered. She knew it was impossible, but he looked so much like Max, she called to him anyway.
Max!
Max!
Not a flicker of reaction crossed his face. He seemed to be studying her as intently as she studied him.
“Good morning,” she said aloud. “I hope I’m not visiting too early. How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine. Why are you here?”
His attitude was as much like Max’s as his appearance. “I phoned the hospital to see how you were, and they told me you’d left,” she said.
“Couldn’t see the point of staying.”
“I’d be the last person who would want to spend any more time in a hospital, so I understand why you wouldn’t want to stay. I just thought I’d make sure you were okay.”
“I’m fine,” he repeated. “I settled the bill myself. You didn’t need to pay.”
“It doesn’t come close to what you did for me.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need your gratitude.”
“And besides, we’re neighbors.” She held out the towel-wrapped loaf that she carried. “I bake for my grandmother’s guests. I made some extra banana bread today, so I brought it over. I realize it can’t repay you for your quick thinking yesterday, but I hope it makes up for the hospital food you’re missing.”
The lines beside his mouth deepened briefly. She couldn’t tell whether he was clenching his jaw because he was annoyed or because he was suppressing a smile. A day’s growth of beard stubble bristled from his skin. Along with the bandage on his forehead, it gave him a faintly piratical appearance. “Banana bread?”
“It has fruit, eggs, and whole wheat, three major food groups, so you can call it breakfast if you want. Or have you already eaten?”
He wiggled the fingers that poked above his sling. “Haven’t gotten around to it today.”
An image stole through her mind. Max leaning against a willow tree, his fingers hooked through the handle of a coffee mug. “Then let me fix breakfast for you,” she said.
“Why?”
“It’s the least I can do, since your arm’s in that sling because of me. I shouldn’t be keeping you standing around like this to talk to me, either. You should probably be in bed.”
He lifted one eyebrow, as if her suggestion had been an invitation.
That reminded her of Max, too. So did the flutter of her pulse. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I know how frustrating it is not to have the full use of your hands. Please, let me help you, Mr. Harrison.”
“Most people call me John.”
She smiled. “John.”
He focused on her mouth.
She started. She could have sworn she’d felt a touch on her lips.
Max?
Max?
John held the door open and motioned her inside.
Delaney took care not to brush against him as she walked past. He had a sprained wrist, and his bruises were likely ten times more painful than hers. The compulsion she felt to lean on his chest and press her face to his shoulder was completely irrational.
The interior of his house was a surprise. Apart from some scattered pillars, the ground floor appeared to be all one room. Sunlight poured through long, deep windows and reflected from the wood floors. Two sleek, reddish brown leather sofas stood in front of a stone fireplace that stretched across one wall while floor-to-ceiling bookshelves flanked the windows of another. Only the placement of the furniture and a few low cabinets defined the separate areas of use, so it all flowed together, as unimpeded as the sunshine. The effect was airy and inviting. She wouldn’t have expected that, considering how inhospitable John was being.
Still, no one would be in the mood to socialize less than a day after being struck by a car. It had been more than six months since her own accident, and she hadn’t yet had any desire to resume her social life. Not the one she’d had, anyway.
Her gaze returned to the fireplace. The painting above was the only one she could see. Even from a distance, it was impressive. Phoebe had called his work intense, and she could understand why. The storm on the canvas seemed poised to stretch past its frame. She would have liked to study it more closely, but he led her in the opposite direction, past a spiral staircase and a door she guessed led to a bathroom until they reached the kitchen area.
A counter of amber-colored polished stone nestled in the angle between two of the outside walls. It extended beneath a window, where it formed a small bar. A glass half-filled with orange juice rested on the bar in front of a padded stool. She placed the loaf beside it. “You have a lovely home.”
He grasped the edge of the bar for support and lowered himself to sit on the stool. It was the first sign he gave that his injuries affected him. The pain that clouded his gaze was quickly extinguished. “You’ve been here before,” he said.
“What? No, I—”
“Out there,” he said, nodding out the window. It overlooked the deck, giving a clear view of the embankment and the trees beyond it. “You were on the old track bed last week. I saw you from my studio upstairs.”
She took a few moments to unwrap the loaf. Great. He’d seen her spying on him. Added to the way he’d caught her staring at him yesterday, was it any wonder he’d hesitated to let her inside? “Yes, I was going for a walk when I noticed this house.”
He studied her again, as if he were waiting for her to say more.
“I used to work in real estate, and I can appreciate the craftsmanship that went into this home. The design is unique.”
“Should be. I built it.”
“Really? I should have recognized it had an artist’s touch. It’s beautiful, especially the interior. Walking inside is like taking a deep breath.”
“Why didn’t you come in last week?”
“What?”
“You knew who I was then, didn’t you?”
“I, uh, wouldn’t presume—”
“Or is that why you didn’t come in, because you did know who I was?”
There was a challenge beneath his words. She wasn’t sure how to respond. “I, uh, couldn’t. I was meeting someone later.”
His jaw flexed. This time she was almost certain he was suppressing a smile.
“I’d better get busy,” she said. “Would you like something besides that banana bread? Do you have any eggs? I make a mean omelet.”
“What you brought is plenty. You’ll share it, right?”
“Thanks. Where do you keep your coffee?”
The question was unnecessary. The cabinets that ranged along the wall above the counter were glass-fronted. She got the coffee started, found a cutting board, and took one of the knives from a wooden holder to slice the banana bread. She took out some plates and reached back into the cupboard for the mugs.
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