Connie Cox – Christmas Eve Delivery (страница 7)
For her? She’d only done what any medical professional would have done.
Her heart beat as if pure energy surged through it instead of blood as she soaked in the approval. It had been so long since she’d felt like anyone was on her side. And now bleachers full of strangers were cheering her on.
It felt good, but overwhelming at the same time.
“This way, ma’am.” Plato put his hand on her elbow, making her feel like rodeo royalty.
Cowgirl princess had always been a fantasy of hers. But her cowboy prince had already left the arena.
She didn’t believe in princes on white horses rescuing damsels in distress. She didn’t believe in damsels in distress, either. All she believed in was herself—and some days that was hard enough, without trying to add fairy-tales to the mix.
As they reached a part of the fence that looked as solid as every other part, Plato swung a gate open. It creaked and squealed on its hinges, proving it didn’t get much use.
A woman in her forties, or well-preserved fifties, with big white-blonde hair and huge diamonds at her ears, neck and fingers, met her at the gate. She could have been the mother of any of the blonde cowgirls now crowding the rail.
“I’m Gayle-Anne.” Her smile was orthodontia perfect. “Honey, you can use my trailer to change in. It’s not very big but it’s private.”
Deseré bet it was a lot bigger than the bathroom stall at the discount department store where she’d last changed.
“Thanks. I’ll just get clean clothes from my car.”
If the woman wondered why Deseré had a wardrobe change in her car, she was polite enough not to ask about it.
How long did rodeos last? Hours?
Squeezing into her tight jeans had no appeal, especially if she was going to be stuck on one of those wooden benches for any length of time.
Too tired to give fashion decisions any more thought, she unzipped her bag and grabbed the first thing that came to hand, her sweats and a T-shirt.
The promise of comfort more than made up for her lack of ability to make a better decision.
Digging into the bottom of the bag, she snagged her tennis shoes and exchanged them for her useless sandals. The beat-up shoes had seen better days but, then, so had she.
And so had Jordan Hart.
She might have been the one lying in the dirt, but he was the one walking through hell. She’d seen it in his eyes as he’d gazed down at his cousin. Being a stoic medical professional worked just fine until it was someone close to you who needed your care.
She’d felt so helpless. So useless. The only thing she’d been able to do for her sister had been to promise to take care of her baby, a promise she’d given without reservation, then had had to fight dirty to keep.
She didn’t regret the loss of her home or her career even a fraction as much as she grieved the loss of her sister.
Inside, baby James moved. Everyone would tell her that he was too small to feel, but they would all be wrong. She might not feel his tiny body, but she felt his great soul inside her.
She would keep her promise. She’d given her word.
And right now her word was the only significant thing she had to call her own.
Jordan paced the hallway, waiting, waiting. X-ray. CT scan. Radiologist report.
Rusty.
And the woman he’d left behind. What had he done, hiring her like that? Being impulsive wasn’t like him. Had never been like him.
While it was true that he hadn’t been himself in a while now, had he completely lost his mind?
He stopped pacing. Maybe.
Pain arced through him, starting in his heart and spreading through his veins. The pain of fear.
Not now. Now was not the time to have a panic attack.
Through sheer force of will he made himself start walking again. Walk. Breathe. Don’t think.
Don’t think about the woman waiting at his house, confused. Needing a job. Desperate.
He’d seen it in her eyes.
What had she seen in his?
Deseré’s back screamed in pain from sitting on that hard wooden bench so long and her stomach burned with indigestion that had to rival the pits of hell.
The old cowboy had brought her a hot dog and a Frito pie, both covered in spicy chili, apologizing that this was all the little makeshift food stand had to offer.
She’d eaten them, of course. Even if she hadn’t been starving, turning down free food would have been foolish in her financial situation.
But now, if she could go back in time, she probably would have done the same thing. Heartburn would eventually fade away and she needed the calories and scant nutrients the food provided.
As for going back in time—if she had that ability, she’d certainly take herself back a lot further than a few hours ago.
But how far back? Back before their father had died in Hurricane Katrina’s flooding and Celeste had taken on the responsibility of raising her younger sister? Would that be far enough back?
What part of her history would she be willing to accept as her starting point for life?
Here and now. That’s all she had. That’s all she’d ever had.
But Dr. Hart had given her a future.
In a small community like this, everything he’d said and done was significant. Even now, she’d bet plenty of folks were dissecting and discussing every nuance.
Even after she was invited to the announcers’ booth, their flimsy metal chairs weren’t an improvement over the hard wooden benches and the staleness of the booth, the odor of burnt coffee mixed with dust and sweat that had built up over the years made her stomach roil.
She swatted at a gnat on her neck, one of millions in league with the mosquitoes that flocked to taste any sliver of exposed skin.
She’d opted to sit outside as the night air brought the heat and humidity down a few degrees. The perspiration soaking her shirt chilled her, making her shiver.
And she was so tired she was having difficulty deciding if she was awake or asleep. She wrapped her arms around herself, surprised to find a blue jean jacket awkwardly draped around her chair and over her shoulders.
That answered it. She’d been asleep—asleep enough that she was startled when the older cowboy, the one she recognized from the parking lot, cleared his throat.
“Ma’am?” Plato’s volume, a touch above a normal speaking voice, firm but still calm and gentle, clued her in that this wasn’t the first time he’d tried to awaken her.
She blinked, trying to bring his leathered face into focus.
Pasting on the best smile she could, even though it felt extremely weak to her, she answered in kind, “Sir?”
Relief showed in his rheumy blue eyes.
Cataracts? Glaucoma? The medical professional started to evaluate diagnoses.
But the exhausted woman overruled them, appreciating the concern and sympathy she found in those bloodshot, yellow-tinged eyes.
“Ready to go home now?” His words made his rough voice sound sweeter than any angel’s song.
Home. Had she finally found home?
“Yes.” Awkwardly, she gathered her purse, trying to hold the jacket around her shoulders while she wiggled functionality into her swollen feet.
He reached out for her.
As an independent woman, she usually waved away the courtesy.
But tonight, his hand on her elbow, guiding her, steadying her, gave her more comfort than she would ever have imagined.
Gratefully and graciously, she accepted the other hand he held out for her as she made the step from the second-row bleacher to the ground.
“You can follow Sissy, or I can drive your car for you and catch a ride back here for my truck.”