The Passion of Patrick MacNeill (5 page)

Under the old farm table, knees drawn protectively to his chest, hunched Jack MacNeill.

In spite of her pounding head and her awareness of the man behind her, Kate's heart twisted. "Hey, Jack," she drawled.

Turning his head on his knees, the boy regarded her warily through a fortress of chair legs.

"Come out and say hello to Dr. Sinclair," Patrick commanded.

Jack shook his head, arms wrapped around his legs.
"Won't."

"All right," Kate said swiftly, before Patrick could intervene. "How about I come see you?"

She dropped her purse on the floor and got down on her hands and knees. She wouldn't let herself think what kind of a view she was providing for Patrick, behind her. Crawling forward, she poked her head through the chairs.

"Is there room in there?"

Jack giggled. "Sure."

He scooted over. Kate wiggled in and flopped to a sitting position.

"Cozy," she remarked, looking out at Patrick's shoes. At least size
twelves
, she estimated. White
cross
trainers, with frayed laces. She craned her neck to study the boy beside her. "How are you doing, Jack?"

"Okay."

"Sure," she said.
"The Code of the Macho MacNeills.
Never speak under torture."

Outside the perimeter of chairs, Patrick's feet shifted and were still. Jack smiled wanly.

"I brought you something," Kate volunteered.

"What?"

"Putty."
Leaning forward, she snagged the strap of her purse and dragged it under the table. "I had a talk with Peg, your occupational therapist, today. She thought you might be able to use this." Pulling out the small plastic container of exercise putty, Kate handed it to Jack.

"It's purple," he said.

"The purple is for tough guys. Wimps get yellow."

"Really?"

"Sort of.
Yellow is softer, anyway. But they both make your hand stronger. Want to see how it works?"

Please, God, don't let him say no, she thought. She released her breath when he nodded.

"Great." She hoped she didn't sound too desperately enthusiastic. Pulling out a gob of putty, she started to demonstrate the simplest extension exercises she could think of.

Jack watched with interest as she wrapped a strand around her thumb and then straightened it. "It's like thumb wrestling."

"Oh, it's much harder than thumb wrestling," Kate said as coolly as she could. "You can only do this if you're really strong. You want to try?"

Jack regarded her from under thick, dark lashes like his father's. "Here?"

Kate looked to the shoes for help, but Patrick was silent. She was going to have to go with her gut on this one.
"Maybe not here.
Everybody should have a safe
place,
a place where they don't have to do stuff that bothers them. Why don't I crawl out and visit with your dad, and then when you're ready to play with the putty you can come find us. Okay?"

"‘Kay."

She navigated the chairs on all fours to find Patrick regarding her with an admiration that made her blush.

"How did you do that?"

She shrugged to hide her pleasure. "It's my job."

He helped her to her feet, his large hand cupping her elbow. "Not just your job. It's you. Thank you."

His open appreciation warmed and discomfited her. She wasn't used to masculine approval. Bending, she brushed at the knees of her slacks. "Is there some place we can go to talk?"

"The kitchen."

The kitchen was another revelation, immaculately clean, with old wood cabinets and an intimidating modern range. Both the solid quality furniture and the gleaming high-tech appliances were as far outside the orbit of Blue Moon Trailer Park as Saturn.

"Sit down," Patrick invited.

She sat at the round oak table, trying to resist the pull of the room and the tug of attraction. He poured her a glass of ice water and started to assemble various refrigerator items by the stove. Puttering, she supposed, except he was far too efficient in his movements for the word to apply.

"Well." She took a sip of water, trying to ignore the pangs in her stomach. When was the last time she'd eaten? She couldn't remember. "I spoke with the other members of Jack's medical team after I talked to you. Peg thinks we can reduce his splint time to two-and-two, two hours on and two hours off."

Patrick dropped butter into a skillet, swirling the pan with the grace of a short-order cook. "Good. That won't slow his recovery?"

"Peg doesn't think so. We'll see."

If it did, Swaim was going to have Kate's head mounted and on display in his office. But two-and-two had been the therapist's original recommendation, overruled by the surgeon's insistence that the boy make rapid progress. One more success story to write up for the medical journals, Kate thought bitterly, and never
mind
that the kinder, more conservative approach would yield the same results.

Patrick dumped the contents of a plastic bag into the frying pan. As it sizzled, the aroma of sautéing peppers and onions filled the kitchen. Kate's stomach protested. Her mouth watered.

"I should go," she said reluctantly. "I'm interrupting your dinner."

"No, you're not. Jack and I ate hours ago."

"Then—"

"Tell me how to use that putty stuff."

"Oh. Well." She grabbed at the question like a lifeline. She needed some distraction from the tempting aromas and her hungry reaction to the neat, quick movement of Patrick's big hands as he broke eggs into a bowl and whisked them. "It's simple, really. There's a pamphlet in my purse. Peg marked the exercises you should do with Jack."

She started to describe them, her gaze helplessly following his broad shoulders around the kitchen. As she talked, he tilted the eggs into the skillet and added more ingredients from the fridge. He wrapped something else in a napkin and popped that into the microwave. His utter confidence performing the smallest domestic chores mesmerized her.

Sexist, she jeered herself. Yet, watching his muscled forearms as he slid a spatula around the skillet's edge, she actually felt her pulse quicken. And so she concentrated on the dry details of Jack's physical therapy, painstakingly reviewing each exercise as if he couldn't see everything illustrated perfectly well in the booklet she'd brought.

Removing a plate from the refrigerator, Patrick swept off its plastic wrap. Expertly, he slid the contents of the pan onto it and set the plate in front of her.

Kate blinked at a fluffy yellow omelette flanked by a green salad and a soft roll. "What is this?"

His voice was amused.
"An omelette."

"No, I meant—"

"I figured you hadn't had time for dinner. It's the least I could do."

"But—"

"Eat," he ordered.
"Before it gets cold."

Obediently, she took a bite. The eggs were moist and seasoned with a melting white cheese that made her close her eyes in ecstasy. Swallowing, she opened them to find Patrick watching her with a peculiar expression on his face.

She reached for her water glass in embarrassment. "This is very good."

His mouth quirked.
"Don't sound so surprised. I can also make my bed and match my socks."

Kate busied herself with her omelette. "I just meant it's unusual to find a man who can cook."

"Not that unusual." With a gleam, he added, "All the MacNeill men are domesticated."

She doubted that. There was a wild streak in him that sorrow hadn't broken and fatherhood hadn't tamed. "Housebroken, too?" she asked dryly.

He laughed, squirting detergent into the sink.
"Pretty much.
My mom insisted we all pull our weight and keep our rooms and noses clean. Dad was overseas a lot, and she had better things to do with her time than ride herd on three rowdy boys."

She smiled. He made it sound so nice, a family working together. She forked up a man-sized chunk of red pepper, wondering if she dared to eat it. "So you learned to cook."

"We all learned to cook, but dinner was my responsibility. I was the oldest."

"Me, too.
And did I ever hear about it." She heard the faint bitterness in her voice and tried to lighten it with a teasing imitation of her mother's voice. "
Watch your sister, Katie Sue, you're the oldest. Make dinner, you're the oldest. Set an example. Watch your mouth. Don't make your father angry, you're the oldest
."

Patrick turned from the sink, eyebrows raised. "That bad?" he asked with unexpected sensitivity.

Kate's cheeks heated as she looked away. She didn't want his sympathy. She didn't want this fellow feeling. "No.
No, of course not.
I'm sorry, I'm just tired tonight." She seized on the Irish mother as a safe topic of conversation.
"So.
What did your mother do?"

His smile was wry.
"Trauma nurse,
Quincy
Community
Hospital
."

She stared at him in astonishment before she remembered to close her mouth. "Well, that helps explain your attitude toward doctors," she said.

He chuckled.

"Ready," Jack announced, dragging his feet in the kitchen doorway.

He didn't look ready to Kate. He looked apprehensive and forlorn. If she gave him half an excuse, he'd bolt.

Briskly, she nodded, pretending she had his complete enthusiasm. "Sure. You can't play for long, though. Isn't it almost bedtime?"

She held her breath as Patrick's blue gaze measured her over his son's head. "That's right," he concurred. "
Nine o'clock
."

"How about five minutes with me, and five with your dad," Kate proposed with a warm smile. "You can do more tomorrow."

Now that he had a definite time limit, Jack looked more at ease. "‘Kay."

He hopped up on the chair beside her, sneakers dangling above the floor.

Swallowing past the constriction in her throat, Kate pushed her plate away and rummaged in her purse for the putty.
"All right.
Try this."

And for five minutes after that, Jack did try, his face scrunched with effort. As Kate had hoped, the novelty of the colored putty made the exercises easier. With more control over his own movements, his cooperation increased. Even when Patrick took over, flexing the boy's fingers and thumb through a passive range of motion, Jack tried not to resist.

As they worked, Patrick kept up a stream of quiet nonsense to distract the boy. Kate tuned out his soothing rumble, observing his technique as his long, strong fingers pressed and stretched his son's hand. She couldn't see his face.
Only the top of his dark head as he bent over his son, and the supporting curve of his broad shoulder, and the play of his hands.

He looked up, and her cheeks got hot, as if he'd caught her spying.

"Am I doing it wrong?" he asked.

"No." Her heart was pounding. She felt like an idiot. "No, you're doing fine."

His smile gleamed with satisfaction. "Good. Okay, Jack-o.
Time for bed."

"‘Kay." His sneakers thumped on the floor.

"This won't take long," Patrick said, standing. "He's already brushed his teeth. I'll be right back."

"I can let myself out."

"I'll be right back," he repeated firmly.

Before she could protest, he'd followed his son from the room, leaving her alone at the kitchen table. Well. Kate exhaled, unsure if she were amused or offended by his unthinking faith in her compliance.

"I guess I'll wait," she said to the empty room. But she couldn't sit still. Her headache was gone. Her stomach was satisfied. But a peculiar energy had seized her. Her blood fizzed with unrest. Her skin hummed, as with static. She fidgeted with her fork and knife and then stood, depositing her dirty dishes in the sink. How long did it take to put one small boy to bed?

She prowled into the dining room, clasping her arms under her breasts, as if she could trap her skittishness inside her. As she circled the table, something gave underfoot. Kate stumbled and jerked back.

Under the chair, plush arms wide, sprawled Jack's teddy bear. She scooped it up and set the shabby how to rights.

Didn't Jack need it? Had he forgotten it?

Wandering into the hall, she glanced up the darkened stairs. She ought to take it up to him. And yet, did she really want to intrude any further? Interrupt their precious bedtime ritual? Could she risk getting closer to Patrick MacNeill and his son?

She didn't know. Supremely confident at work, she was a muddled mess of insecurities when it came to personal relationships. She couldn't escape the feeling that by going up those steps she was stepping off her chosen path and into the unknown.