Heaven Sent (45 page)

Aubrey knew where she’d come up with
it. Guilt smacked him in the conscience, making him
cringe.

“
Bobby Collins wanted to
marry her just this last year,” Florence went on, sounding
reminiscent. “Callie laughed and told him he’d get over it. He said
his heart was broken, but Callie didn’t believe him. I guess she
was right, because he proposed to the Zellweiger girl just this
past week, and they’re planning a wedding in the
spring.”

Aubrey didn’t care. His fear for
Callie was gnawing at his innards. Between fear and guilt, he
wasn’t sure he’d survive until the doctor came out of Callie’s
room. He wanted to barge in and demand to know what the prognosis
was.

Florence rambled on. Her gentle voice
had a calming effect, which was a good thing, since it kept him
from rampaging through the hospital and tearing his hair out. “She
is the youngest, you know, and she was hit hardest when our mother
died. She’s very sensitive.”

Oh, God. And he’d all but
flayed her alive last night
. He buried his
head in his hands and was startled when he felt Florence’s hand on
his shoulder.

“
Please don’t despair, Mr.
Lockhart. She’s a strong girl. If anyone can survive such a blow,
it’s Callie.”

Aubrey only stared at her, wishing he
could do as she’d suggested. But the thought of losing the second
woman he’d ever loved was too difficult to bear, and he despaired
in spite of Florence.

Chapter
Twenty-One

“
Ohh.” Callie tried to lift
her hand to her aching head, but it wouldn’t cooperate. She felt as
if her body had been pumped full of something very heavy. Lead,
perhaps. She heard what sounded like a rustle of skirts and opened
her eyes. Her eyelids felt heavy, too.

“
Miss Prophet,” a soft,
sweet voice said, sounding tentative.

Callie tried to agree, but didn’t have
any luck. She tried again and managed to croak, “Yes.” She wanted
to ask where she was and why she hurt so badly, but such a
complicated communication was beyond her at the moment.

“
Do you hurt?”

Stupid question. Because her head hurt
so much and she feared she’d only make it hurt worse if she nodded,
Callie whispered, “Yes.”

“
Doctor gave me instructions
to give you another dose of morphine if you were in pain if you
woke up, so I’ll be right back with it. Then I’ll run to get
Doctor, because he’s been very worried about you.” The rustle of
skirts came again, retreating this time.

Who in the name of mercy was “Doctor”?
Callie wondered. Dr. Marshall? Why did this person call him
“Doctor”?

And what was this
if
she woke up nonsense?
And why was this woman giving her doses of morphine? Morphine was
pretty strong medication for a headache.

When she thought, her head throbbed,
so Callie decided to save all of her questions until later. She did
wish she knew where she was and why she hurt so
terribly.

“
Here we go,” came the
voice.

Maybe it belonged to a nurse? But why
would she be attended by a nurse? And, if she was being attended by
a nurse, who was paying for it? She didn’t remember much about
anything, but she seemed to recall she’d done something bad to
Aubrey. Her heart joined her head in throbbing, and she wished she
hadn’t thought about Aubrey.

Thoughts fled when the woman lifted
Callie’s head, precipitating a flood of anguish throughout her
entire body, and especially her head. She felt stupid when tears
leaked from her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. Callie Prophet
didn’t cry for no reason, but she was crying now, from pain, and
she felt silly about it. She’d always been strong. Something very
bad must have happened.

The nurse lowered her carefully to the
pillow once more, and Callie could do nothing but suffer for
several minutes. She was vaguely aware of the skirts rustling away
from her bed.

Everything went black for a period of
time, and when Callie opened her eyes again Dr. Marshall was
looming over her. Seeing him surprised her. “H’Io, Doc.”

Was that her voice? It sounded
odd.

She was reassured slightly when Dr.
Marshall grinned at her. “Howdy-do, Miss Callida Prophet. I can’t
tell you how happy I am that you’ve opened your eyes at
last.”

“
At last?” Whatever did that
mean?

The doctor nodded, so Callie guessed
his phrasing hadn’t been a mistake. “You’ve been out cold for a
week now.”

A week! Good heavens! “What
happened?”

“
You, dear lady, had a
confrontation with Billy Simpson’s Clydesdale. You
lost.”

“
B-Billy Simpson? But . .”
Billy Simpson drove the milk wagon. How could Callie have annoyed
Pete, Billy’s huge horse, so badly that Pete had clobbered
her?

Dr. Marshall patted her shoulder and
turned away, presumably to do something of a doctorly nature. “It
wasn’t anybody’s fault, Callie. It was too foggy to see anything
that morning.”

That was minutely reassuring, Callie
guessed, although why she should have been out in the morning fog
was still a puzzle. Evidently, she was still in a fog. She decided
that was an amusing thing to say, so she did. “I think I’m still in
a fog, Doctor.”

He chuckled, which made the pain of
speaking almost worthwhile. “You’re getting your spirit back.
That’s good, Callie. We’ve all been very worried about
you.”

If whatever had happened had
occasioned this much pain, Callie guessed she’d have worried about
herself, too, had she been in any shape to do so. “What happened?”
Had she already asked that?

Oh, yes. She had. But Dr. Marshall
hadn’t given her a satisfactory answer.

“
Billy’s horse and you ran
into each other on the road to town, and you scared the horse as
much as he scared you, I guess. Unfortunately, he’s bigger than you
are, and has iron-shod hooves. According to Billy, the horse reared
up and hit you with a hoof when it came down again.”

Ow. No wonder her head hurt so much.
Callie pondered Dr. Marshall’s explanation for several seconds. The
longer she pondered, the more amazed she was. “I’m lucky to be
alive, I guess. That’s one big horse.”

Dr. Marshall’s grin was broader when
he turned and loomed over her again. “You’re very lucky to be
alive. And your family and Mr. Lockhart and Becky have been camped
in here and in the hallway for days now, worried about
you.”

Callie seized upon the name that
struck her with the greatest force. “Mr. Lockhart?”

“
Mr. Lockhart. He’s been
practically living in your room, Callie. He’s paying for
everything. Even called in a trauma expert from San Francisco.” Dr.
Marshall’s grin took on an ironic twist. “And I didn’t even resent
it. I know how worried he’s been.”

Callie blinked up at him. “The trauma
expert?”

“
No, you goose. Mr.
Lockhart.”

“
Oh.”

“
He left you a letter for
when you’re well enough to read it.”

“
A letter?”

Wait a minute. Wasn’t it letters that
had got her into trouble with Aubrey in the first place?

Oh, Lord, yes it was. Callie shut her
eyes and tried to think, but couldn’t. All she knew for sure was
that she’d read Aubrey’s letters to his dead wife, they’d been so
beautiful that Callie had fallen in love with Aubrey, and she knew
full well no man would ever love her as Aubrey had loved his Anne.
His “Darling Annie.”

What was worse was that Callie didn’t
blame Aubrey. Not a bit. She’d be furious with anyone who read her
private letters, too. Bits and pieces of her last day and night at
the Lockhart mansion began finding each other and adhering into a
coherent picture in her brain. Ah, yes. She’d made a fool of
herself, Aubrey had been justifiably angry, and Callie had run
away.

That must have been when she’d
encountered Billy’s horse. She had a vague recollection of fog. And
unhappiness. And loss.

And if that wasn’t a dismal thought,
she didn’t know what was.

“
Why did Aubrey come here?”
she asked, curious. If he hated her, he wouldn’t have chased after
her, would he? Callie could more easily understand him paying for
her care, because he was a kind man, even if he didn’t like her any
more.

“
You’ll have to ask him,
Callie.”

As Callie had been thinking, Dr.
Marshall had been checking her pulse, examining her head—which
required a good deal of pressing at a tremendously sore spot above
her right eye—and pressing his ice-cold stethoscope against various
regions of her chest. She probably should have been embarrassed,
but she was too weak.

Dr. Marshall straightened, and held
out a hand so that Callie was staring straight up at it. “How many
fingers am I holding up, Callie?”

“
Five, but three are bent.
There are only two straight out.” She wondered if he wanted her to
be so literal.

He only smiled some more, so she
guessed it was all right. “Right. How about now? How many fingers
are straight?”

“
Four. Your thumb is still
bent.”‘

“
Excellent, How about
now?”

“
None.”

“
Good. And now?”

“
Three.” This was the
strangest test Callie had ever been asked to take, but she wasn’t
up to questioning the doctor about it.

“
Perfect. You’re progressing
nicely. How do you feel, Callie? Do you think you can sit
up?”

Sit up? Callie tested the notion and
found it disagreeable. On the other hand, she’d been promised a
letter from Aubrey and, while it might contain horrid news, it
might say something conciliatory. Maybe they could at least be
friends, even if he’d never renew his offer of marriage.

Her eyes began to fill with tears.
Shoot, when had she become such a weeping lily? Since the horse
beaned her, she guessed. “Sure,” she said, and started struggling.
Instantly, her body and head protested.

“
Wait a minute, Callie,” Dr.
Marshall said. “You can’t do it on your own. Let me help
you.”

Thank goodness. Callie was glad for
the doctor’s assistance. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt so weak,”
she admitted.

“
Small wonder.”

With the help of Dr. Marshall and a
nurse—Callie wondered if it was the one who’d spoken to her of
morphine—Callie maneuvered herself into a sitting position. The
nurse fluffed pillows at her back, and Dr. Marshall settled sheets
and blankets over her.

When she looked at the bed, she saw
very few wrinkles. Evidently, she hadn’t done much tossing and
turning during her stay in—“Where am I?” she asked
suddenly.

“
You’re in the Santa
Angelica Hospital, Miss Prophet,” the nurse said. She looked
familiar; Callie recalled seeing her in town a couple of times,
although she’d never really met her.

“
How long have I been
here?”

“
Seven days,” the nurse
answered.

Dr. Marshall had started fiddling with
his little black bag. “And I don’t mind telling you that we were
afraid you wouldn’t pull through for a while.”

“
Oh.” Sounded serious. No
wonder she hurt so much. “Urn, did you say there was a letter for
me?”

The doctor chuckled again. “There are
lots of letters for you, my dear, although I’m sure there’s one
you’re asking about particularly.” He shut his bag with a snap.
“Too bad your sister Alta finally managed to persuade him to go to
Alta’s house and get some sleep. Otherwise, he’d be here now. Did I
tell you he’s been practically living in your room?”

“
Urn, I think
so.”

“
Even made us put a cot in
here so he could stay overnight. Didn’t trust the nurses to see to
you properly, I guess.” Dr. Marshall went back to Callie’s bed and
winked at her. “Although, I think there was probably another
reason, too.”

Probably wanted to scold her some
more, Callie thought peevishly. She didn’t care to be the object of
speculation of so nice a man as Dr. Marshall.

Besides, Callie had ruined any chance
of a romantic liaison with Aubrey because she’d allowed herself to
behave in a despicable, sneaky way. She sighed, and realized her
chest hurt, too. “Did the horse kick my chest?”

She saw the doctor’s eyes open wide.
“Good God, no. If he had, he’d probably have crushed you. I keep
telling everyone that it’s a good thing he only kicked your head,
since that’s the hardest part of your body.” He laughed.

Callie didn’t think it was especially
funny, but she managed to produce a smile.

“
I’ll get your
correspondence, Miss Prophet,” the nurse said, and bustled off to
return in a moment, bearing several letters.

Listening to the nurse’s white skirts
rustle, Callie vaguely recalled hearing that noise a lot recently.
Seven days. Good heavens.

Finally Dr. Marshall left the room
and, after puttering around the room for another little while,
during which time Callie wanted to shriek at her to go away, the
nurse left, too.