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Another time her face was turned to the side offering a clear view of her profile. Thick lashes framed eyes crinkled with worry. The perfectly straight bridge of her nose suited her firm jaw. Both probably genetic signs of stubbornness, from her mother’s side of the family.
She shoved a hand through her hair tucking curls behind one ear. Her head was covered with the same kind of ringlets that he’d teased Casey about for years. He still remembered the wallop his youngest sister had delivered to his gut the day he’d called her Corkscrew one too many times. At the memory he felt an uncontrollable grin of brotherly love.
“Wanna share the joke? I could use some humor right now.”
He glanced over his right shoulder briefly, training his smile her way. What she returned was a watered-down imitation. The effort stirred sympathy in his heart.
“Your hair reminds me of my kid sister, and I was just remembering how I used to make fun of it.”
Her eyes widened, brows rose in an exaggerated manner as she attempted to look offended. “So you think I have funny-looking hair, huh?” She shook her curls at her son, who burst into high-pitched giggles. “Well, you’re not the only one.”
“My sister’s curls are wild and corky, she’s always trying to squash them into submission. But yours are…” Their eyes met in the mirror. Hers filled with anticipation of what he might say. “Nice.”
She stared for a couple of seconds then smiled and ducked her head as if no one had complimented her for a long time.
Unbidden, protective warmth surged in his chest for this young woman. Her quiet modesty reminded him of Kate, one of his older sisters, the busy mother of four boys and an incredible wife in the mold of their beloved mother.
With so many great examples of married couples in his family, it was odd—even to him—that he truly had no need whatsoever to experience that for himself. Not that there was any chance of it with his work schedule. As vice president of corporate expansion, he was on a tight schedule to open an H&H Super Center in a new city every twelve months. He’d be buried with projects through the end of the decade.
“Thank you. A girl will take nice over wild and corky, any day.”
“Actually, Casey’s hair is part of the reason she’s the prettiest of my sisters, though I’d never admit that to her,” he said as he took the final turn that would lead them to downtown Austin’s premier emergency-care facility.
“How many sisters do you have?”
“Five,” he said into the rearview mirror.
“What are their names?” Abby’s wide eyes were back.
“I won’t bore you with the long versions. But they go by Meg, Kate, Andrea, Tess and Casey. I came along between Andrea and Tess.
“What was it like growing up in a house with that many women?” She seemed amused at the thought. The tiny glimmer of humor in her eyes was charming.
“Brutal.” He chuckled. “They spoiled me rotten. Between Mom and the girls, every need was met before I could ask a second time. By grade school I’d figured out that the kid-glove approach with my sisters would always get me what I wanted.”
“Well, I hope Dillon has a sister to be soft on some day. But not five,” she teased and again his heart surged with compassion. This young woman had so much on her mind yet she was putting him at ease.
“Here we are,” he warned as he pulled into the hospital’s emergency entrance.
The ambulance attendants had already wheeled their patient through the automatic doors and disappeared into the triage unit. Guy hurried around to help his passenger step down.
“I’ll be right in as soon as I park.”
With an efficiency that amazed him, Abby slung the heavy-looking bag over her shoulder and propped the boy on her hip. She offered a grateful smile and hurried into the building.
Forty-five minutes later there was still no news. Guy checked the time on his watch against the display on his cell phone. Two o’clock. He returned it to the clip-on holster and shifted in the waiting-room chair that was far too low and narrow for the comfort of a man of his stature. Once again he reminded himself that he had to do something about the extra ten pounds that years of eating on the run had added to his six-foot-one frame. But his mother was constantly telling him he looked better with a little more meat on his bones. He stretched his long legs and crossed one ankle over the other to admire his newest pair of custom-made cowboy boots, constantly impressed with the craftsmanship of Texas boot-makers. The kangaroo leather of the handmade Luccheses had molded nicely to his size-twelve feet during the four months he’d worn them. Soon they’d be stretched by cedar shoe trees and lined up with a dozen other pairs made of everything from ostrich to boa constrictor. It would be a pity to retire these boots but that was his way of marking the end of a project, acknowledging it was successful.
Though he’d consumed his weight in antacids, a new H&H was open and running relatively smoothly.
Until today.
Well, he’d remain prayerful and positive, put this minor crisis behind him and be moving on to the next site in no time. In a couple weeks Casey would arrive to take the handoff. He’d head home to Iowa where he’d jump knee-deep into new construction planning for the Galveston location. Austin had been nice but he was eagerly looking forward to fishing the waters of the bay during his tour of duty in Galveston.
A fussy-baby wail interrupted his personal musings. He glanced up and spotted Abby heading his way with little Dillon clinging to her for dear life. Guy jumped to his feet and took several steps in her direction.
“Any news?”
“Still waiting on a doctor to read the X-rays.” She jostled the boy and shushed him, having no apparent impact at all as his complaints grew louder. She pressed his face to her shoulder in a useless effort to muffle the sobs.
“I’m sorry, it’s way past his nap time and he’s had all the cookies he’s going to get until he eats some vegetables.”
“Can I give it a try?” Guy raised his arms, hands open, ready to take Dillon. With ten nieces and nephews, he was handy with a cranky toddler if he did say so himself.
“I don’t think so.” The skepticism on her face almost made Guy want to laugh. “He won’t let you hold him. My dad’s the only man Dillon’s used to.”
“Your husband’s not good with little ones, huh?”
“I’m a widow,” she said softly.
His jaw clenched along with his insides as he realized his verbal gaffe and the complicated facts that accompanied her simple response. She was a young woman alone, so much weight on her slender shoulders and without the love and support of a husband, that treasure the married women in his family prized above all else.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make things worse for you.”
“Don’t feel badly. It’s been nearly two years and it’s a common assumption when you have a toddler, so I’m almost used to it.”
The boy whined louder.
“I really am pretty good with a grumpy baby,” he assured her, remembering his sister Tess’s wedding day when he’d been officially appointed to make sure none of the little ones got out of sorts during the reception. Good thing it was his policy never to take a date to a family function, because these days the girls expected Uncle Guy to be their babysitter.
Dillon strained against his mother’s efforts to rest his head on her shoulder and his blubbering continued with gusto. His face was contorted in aggravation when he turned his head toward Guy.
“Hey, little pal,” Guy used his best cajoling tone and nodded toward the nearby glass wall that over-looked the hospital’s courtyard. “Wanna go look out the window?” He held his palms out, but not too close.
Briefly distracted from his misery, Dillon’s crying stopped. He snuffled and hiccupped while his mother smoothed the face that was remarkably free of tears. He peered at Guy, who used the positive sign to take a small step closer and smile. The boy looked to his mother for guidance.
“Go see birdies?” she encouraged. “Tweet, tweet, tweet.”
His head bobbed and he leaned away from his mama, reaching chubby arms outward. Guy scooped up the boy, amazed by how heavy the little tyke felt.
“Whoa, this fella is solid.”
“Tell me about it.” Her eyes were round. She was clearly surprised that Dillon had left the security of her arms. She shrugged, then dropped her large purse on a nearby chair and rotated her shoulders. The latest revelation as well as the creases across her forehead told Guy the contents of the bag were nothing compared to the weight on this woman who was not much more than a girl herself.
“Mrs. Cramer? Dr. Cabot is ready to speak with you now,” a nurse called.
Abby turned toward the voice, then back to Guy and her son. Worry deepened the lines in her pretty face. She leaned to retrieve the bag and Guy knew Dillon would naturally be next.
“Go ahead. Leave him with me. We’ll be fine and you can give the doctor your undivided attention.”
She squinted, seemed unsure what to do.
“Weet, weet!” Dillon squealed and pointed toward the window.
“You betcha.” Guy smiled and repositioned the boy to face the wide pane of glass and the oversize birdbath outside that held his attention. “He’s happy, so we’ll wait right here.” He tipped his head toward the waiting nurse. “Go.”
Abby let the bag fall back on the floor and turned away. Her low heels tapped a rapid beat against the linoleum floor as she hurried to learn the condition of her mother. After she disappeared through the gray swinging doors, Guy carried Dillon for a closer look at the pair of daredevil mockingbirds at play.
Twenty minutes later she was back. Her fair skin had lost its appealing color. She pinched her bottom lip between her teeth and wrapped her arms across her torso, as if holding in what strength she had left. Dillon’s head had slumped to Guy’s shoulder, heavy with the need for a nap. Guy folded himself into a nearby chair and motioned for Abby to join him. She collapsed on the next seat and accepted her sleeping boy.
“Her hip’s broken,” her voice quavered. “It’s called a spontaneous fracture.” She dipped her face to kiss Dillon’s head, blocking Guy’s view of her private emotions.
“Oh, no.” He spoke softly, understanding the implications, sending up a silent prayer for God’s healing mercy. He knew from the experience with his paternal grandfather that the injury could be a long painful recovery, a permanent disability or even worse if complications set in. The outcome for her family could be dire.
“And they’d moved her around so much it was obvious she was suffering. That was hard to watch.” Her voice was a whisper.
If she’d been one of his sisters, Guy would have wrapped Abby in his arms and rocked her along with the sleeping toddler. But she was a customer whose mother had just suffered a major injury on his family’s property. He didn’t dare touch her for fear of further complicating an already difficult situation that could potentially impact the lives of his family, the H&H shareholders and their employees.
He sat straighter in his chair, pushed aside his own concerns. His worries were insignificant compared to Abby’s.
“Did they give her pain meds?”
She glanced up, nodded. “Something really strong so she’d rest. But she was rattling off instructions for me and the nurses when she fell asleep.” A sad smile flickered across her face and Guy mirrored her expression, imagining his mother doing the same, ordering the hospital staff about if the situation were reversed.
“Will she need surgery?”
“Dr. Cabot doesn’t think so. He says she’ll be in the hospital for a few days and if everything goes well she’ll be released to a rehab facility for extended physical therapy. As usual, she’s more worried about Daddy than she is about herself.” Abby sighed and rested her head against the back of the chair. “In forty-eight years of marriage my parents have never spent more than a few days apart. I don’t know how I’m going to keep them both occupied for six weeks with everything else I’ve got to do, but I’ll manage somehow.”
“Abigail?” A heavyset woman in a floral-print housedress hurried toward them.
“Oh, thank you for coming, Mrs. Eller.” Abby rocked forward and used momentum to swing Dillon onto her shoulder as she stood. Guy hopped to his feet as he was introduced to Abby’s neighbor. The two women exchanged a quick hug over the sleeping boy.
“What room is your mama in? I’ll sit with her so you can go tell your daddy.”
“You didn’t say anything to him, did you?” Abby sounded worried.
“Goodness, no. Now you hurry on home before he gets suspicious about what’s taking so long.”
Guy lifted Abby’s blue fabric bag sprinkled with dozens of fuzzy yellow chicks and slung it across his shoulder then followed her through the hospital’s emergency exit.
“Would you like me to take you straight home?”
“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll need my van to bring Daddy back to the hospital.”
“I can give you both a ride,” Guy offered as he held open the door of the Hearth and Home SUV.
She shook her head, blond curls bobbing. “Dad’s in a wheelchair and the side door of the van is outfitted with a lift.”
Guy grimaced at the new information. Another hardship for this small family. How would Abby cope with the situation? You never knew the true measure of someone until their back was against the wall and their only choices were to crumble or come out fighting.
No matter the circumstances of the injury, the corporation bore certain liability for accidents on their property. In this case it would be Guy’s responsibility to do everything possible to avoid litigation. The fact that the potential threat came in such a charming form would have nothing to do with his desire to help a woman out of a crisis.
Or would it?
He glanced at Abby Cramer. The sheen in her brown eyes said she needed more than assurances that medical expenses would be covered. Staying close to this situation would allow him to do two things—watch out for his family’s business interests and give Abby someone to lean on.
She squared her shoulders in a proud profile that suggested she’d carried her burden alone for a long time.
Would she be as stubborn as her mother or would Abby Cramer let him help her?
Chapter Two
On Monday afternoon, Guy stood on the porch steps of the Reagans’ modest brick home.
“I’m coming! Hold your horses,” a male voice called from behind the front door.
Guy shifted the box of bulky plumbing supplies to his left arm and stuffed his right hand into the front pocket of his store apron to deposit his keys. He glanced toward the driveway where he’d parked the Hearth and Home truck. He’d planned to bring the purchase by after church the previous day but his phone calls had gone unanswered. Since he’d concluded Abby and her father must be spending all their time at the hospital, he was surprised to get a response when he’d punched the doorbell three times in quick succession.
The door creaked open an inch but no face appeared. Guy squinted to see inside the dark house.
“Down here, drugstore cowboy,” the aggravated voice grumbled an obvious reference to the fancy boots.
Guy glanced down, his gaze locking with dark eyes beneath an overhang of bushy gray brows.
Abby’s father.
Guy estimated the man to be in his late seventies, but the long, thin body sunken into the inexpensive low-slung wheelchair could have made him look older than his years. Guy extended his hand.
“Guy Hardy, sir. Hearth and Home Super Center.”
“Pete Reagan. Friends call me Shorty, mostly because I’m not.” His eyes raked Guy up and down. “Guess you can, too.”
The old fellow kept the handshake brief.
Needing an excuse to be standing on the man’s porch, Guy nodded toward the box he carried. “I brought the supplies your wife and daughter left at the store on Saturday. Thought you might need them.”
“Women.” Shorty shook his head. “You can’t live with ’em, can’t trade ’em for catfish bait.” A rusty hinge complained as he pushed the door wider and maneuvered his chair to the left. After moving a few feet he stopped, leaned to one side and pulled a thin wallet from his hip pocket.
“How much?”
Guy watched as bony hands counted out several bills.
“That’s covered, sir. I’m just making the delivery.”
The bushy brows drew together. “Then how much for the delivery?”
“There’s no charge, Mr. Reagan.”
Shorty folded together a couple of one-dollar bills and thrust out the offering. “Then take this for your trouble. I insist.”
