Thoroughbreds and Trailer Trash (12 page)

“That would be great. Appreciate it.” He gave another polite smile, and she rushed off in her thick-soled white shoes

He pulled out his phone and checked his messages. Smiled triumphantly at the email from the hay man confirming a contract frozen at last year’s prices.

Fast work, indeed. Leo obviously had plenty of clout and hiring his daughter had been an excellent move, a small price to pay for stability.

The nurse rushed back, her face still flushed. “She’ll be right out. They’re finding a wheelchair.”

“A wheelchair?” Burke frowned. “Are you sure you have the right girl? Mine had a hand injury.”

“It’s the pain medication, sir.”

“I see.” He stiffened as an orderly opened the swinging doors, pushing an ancient wheelchair. Jenna’s head lolled to the side and her eyelids drooped. A bulky white bandage covered her right arm, hand to elbow.

He strode toward Jenna and the long-faced doctor who’d materialized by her side. “She’s okay, right?” Burke asked, appalled at her drowsiness. “Maybe it’s best if she stays the night?”

The doctor shook his head and held up a fistful of papers. “Everything’s fine. Prescription for pain pills. Start in four hours. Also directions for some hand exercises and basic info on burns.

“It’s important to keep the skin from tightening,” he went on, “although she shouldn’t apply much pressure. Damage was reduced because of the cold-water application. However, there’s still a risk of scarring. Some good creams are on the market. If she’s careful, especially the first week, there should be no residual damage.”

Burke gulped, pocketing the material and bending toward Jenna. “Hey, Jenna. Feeling better?”

She opened her eyes, tried to focus, but her lids almost immediately shut again.

“She’s had some morphine,” the doctor said with a slight smile. “Be sure to give her a couple pain pills in four hours. She’ll be hurting then, but for now she’s not feeling a thing.”

Burke nodded then rushed out and moved his car to the front entrance. He swooped around to open the passenger door while the attendant bumped the wheelchair to the curb. “Easy,” he snapped, reaching past the bald man to ease Jenna from the chair.

“Just putting you in the car, Jenna,” Burke said, but she seemed oblivious to her surroundings. He tilted the passenger seat so her head wouldn’t loll, slid into the car and headed south.

Her eyes remained closed the entire trip.

He turned into her driveway, pausing to stare in consternation at her trailer. Damn. He had no key. It wouldn’t be hard to kick in the flimsy door although he doubted she’d be pleased. Probably she had a key in her purse but that was back at the Center.

No, he paused, remembering she hadn’t been carrying anything as she sauntered from the parking lot. Those hips and arms had been swinging—exactly what had caused this mishap in the first place. When she was by the Center’s door, she’d only been holding the tea.

She must have stuck the keys in her pocket.

He leaned over, sliding his hand over her left leg, feeling for a bulge. Nothing. He ran his hand over her other leg and around her hip, patting her pockets.

“I can’t believe you’re trying to feel me up.” Her voice was so weak he could barely hear. “Asshole.”

He jerked back, bumping his elbow on the steering wheel. “No. I’m just looking for your house keys.” But her eyes had already closed. Perfect. Now all she’d remember was that he’d groped her. Which he hadn’t, not all—not even close.

He hadn’t noticed the firmness of her ass, the curve of her hip, her enticing smell. Hadn’t made one single move, not even over the last few days when it had been increasingly hard to keep his hands in his pockets.

He reached over and shook her shoulder. No reaction. Wiggled her head, her left arm. Still indignant, he lightly slapped her cheek.

“What the hell…stop bothering me, Burke.” Her words jumbled, like she had gum in her mouth, but at least she was awake, her eyes a frosty blue.

“Jenna, I was
not
feeling you up. I’m trying to find your keys.”

“Not locked,” she muttered. Her lids slipped shut again.

“Your door’s not locked?” He jerked from the car and stalked up the steps. Pushed open the screen door and turned the knob. Shook his head as the inner door swung open. Probably nothing to steal, but from a security standpoint an unlocked door was rather foolish.

He returned to the car and unclipped her belt. Didn’t try to wake her, just swung her in his arms, still feeling aggrieved. Goddammit, he
hadn’t
been feeling her up.

He tramped down the narrow hallway, over the uneven floor, looking for a bedroom. The first one was frilly and pink, with a lingering hint of cheap perfume, and the girl in the picture had garish makeup. Definitely the little sister. He backed out, careful to keep Jenna’s bandaged arm from hitting the wall.

There were only two other rooms: a tiny bathroom with a green shower curtain and a smaller bedroom with a blue bedspread and the smell of fresh flowers. He laid her on the bed, stepped back and folded his arms. There. All done. Finished.

He could get back to work now. Had already lost half of a day. But maybe he should cover her up first, although she probably wouldn’t be comfortable if it turned too hot. Forecast was for sunny, seventy-five degrees. No air conditioning in this ancient trailer so it probably boiled in the afternoon.

He tilted his head, oddly uncertain. Maybe it would be best to cover her with one sheet. She only wore jeans and a T-shirt, and her shirt had drifted up, exposing her flat belly. The sight of that smooth skin made him scowl. Short T-shirts would have to be banned at the Center. He could see the hint of her navel, enough to make any man ogle. No wonder Terry had been serving her tea, probably hoping to soften her up. Ask her out.

He edged closer. Looked like there was a hint of blue on her hip too. Some sort of tiny tattoo, but it was half covered by her jeans. What the hell was it? A butterfly maybe? He stepped around the bed but the different angle didn’t help. Maybe it was a butterfly. Could be anything really but suddenly it was important to know.

She shivered, rolled to her side and her bandaged arm knocked the headboard. At her shocked gasp of pain, he leaped forward. “Lie on your back, Jenna. Keep your arm still.” Her eyes were wide open now and she gulped but nodded. He pulled the sheet up and tucked it tightly around her, watching her face.

“I’ll be back in a few hours with some pain pills, okay.” He paused, trying to think what she might need. “Maybe some chicken soup?”

“That would be nice,” she whispered, her voice scratchy. “Did your mom give you chicken soup when you were sick?”

“My mother wasn’t the type to make soup.”

“We were lucky.” She gave a wan smile. “My mom made us chicken soup when we were sick.”

“Then you were very lucky.” He reached out and awkwardly patted her hair. “Don’t worry about anything. Try to sleep, and I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for trying to feel me up?”

“I was not. I told you…”

But she closed her eyes, her lips tilted in a teasing smile, and went to sleep.

Chapter Twelve

Pain jerked Jenna from a muddle of disjointed dreams. She sat up, struggling against the sheet that was tucked so tightly it felt like a straitjacket. Her hand and arm throbbed, a sharp knifing pain that made her stomach roil and left her cursing.

Terry had promised the tea was hot, made just the way she liked it. Heck. She should have been more careful. Had never expected the door to swing open so violently. At eight am, people were supposed to be rushing
into
the building, not out. If it had been anyone else but the owner, she would have chewed him off a strip.

Clearly though, Burke felt bad. She figured the blame was fifty-fifty even though she’d never suggest it was even partially his fault. He already was very apologetic, a rare occurrence for a man such as him.

She just had to figure a way to get through the next couple of weeks. Each massage would take twice as long—she’d only be able to use one hand—but since the Center was only accepting fancy clients now, the work shouldn’t be a problem. Lately, she only had three horses a day anyway, not counting the neighborhood animals on the weekend. They might be tough to look after but she didn’t want to disappoint anyone; some of them were planning to ride at the Stillwater Fair, part of the annual steeplechase festivities.

And it would be a good incentive to strengthen her left hand. She’d always thought it would be helpful to be ambidextrous. Now was her chance to learn. If only it didn’t hurt quite so much.

She eased from the bed, pausing to lean against the wall, briefly amazed that burn victims—real patients with third degree burns—could be so stoic. It was tempting to remove the bandage and check her skin, but she didn’t think she was prepared for the sight. Maybe tomorrow.

The floor tilted as she staggered down the hall, and she dropped gratefully into a kitchen chair. They must have given her some powerful drugs. Her tongue was thick, her mouth cottony, and she craved a drink. But walking the five feet to the sink suddenly seemed like a marathon.

She laid her head on the table, feeling weak, vulnerable and alone. Closed her eyes, trying to fight her exhaustion.

“Jenna. You asleep?”

She straightened, blinking, and was swept with an odd rush of relief at the sight of Burke. “Hi.” Her voice cracked and she tried again. “Hi.” The second time it sounded much better, not quite normal, but much better. “I must have fallen asleep,” she said.

His arms were loaded and he dropped the bags on the kitchen table, his gaze on her face as he pulled out a case of water. He lifted a bottle, cracked open the top and moved to the cupboard. Found the glasses on the first try.

He had a good memory, she noted, trying to sit straight and not slump. And she was perfectly fine. It would be no problem working tomorrow. She’d show him.

“Here,” he said.

She automatically reached for the water glass with her right hand then paused in dismay. He scowled and she switched to her left. “I got it, thanks,” she said and drank the entire glass.

“Save room for soup,” he said, turning away.

He was pissed about something and she squared her shoulders, wishing she had more energy. She should tell him it was all right to go but conversely didn’t want him to leave. Her hand burned, the pain escalating with each endless minute, and even though she rarely cried, her eyes felt oddly itchy.

The smell of soup abruptly overpowered the hot airless kitchen, and her stomach lurched with nausea.

He pressed a spoon in her left hand, his face dark and unsmiling. “Eat,” he snapped, shoving a plastic container in front of her.

“I think maybe later,” she managed, trying not to breathe, trying to avert her nose from the steaming soup. God, the smell clogged her nose, her throat—she feared she’d vomit.

“It’s five o’clock. You haven’t eaten since breakfast. Eat while it’s warm.”

“I…” She shivered, fighting the overwhelming pain in her arm and the horrible feeling she might throw up. He looked angry. He’d obviously taken the time to send someone for groceries and he had driven her to the hospital and even though he was acting like a bully, she wanted to please. Her mother had probably felt this exact same way, every time her dad picked a fight.

A tear pricked the corner of her eye. She tried to wipe at it, but her bandage was too bulky, and it slid down her cheek. Oh, God, he saw. She reached up with her left arm but was trembling too much—

“Damn.” His face darkened and he turned and walked out, slamming the screen door behind him.

She wiped at her face and rose, unsteadily. Her hand gripped the edge of the table, and then he was there again.

“I’m sorry, honey. The doctor said to give you these pills. Here.” He twisted the cap off a vial and shook out some blue tablets. “Take two. Maybe even three.” He stuck them in her mouth and waved a bottle of water by her face. “Drink.”

She was shivering so much that he missed her mouth. Water dribbled down her chin, but he brushed it away with a gentle knuckle.

“I can do a much better job of taking care of you.” His voice roughened. “Really I can.” He scooped her up, his body so big and healthy and comforting, she just wanted to burrow close.

And then they were on the bed and he’d pulled the sheet around them. “It’ll get better. I promise.” His breath was warm and minty on her forehead. “Those pills will kick in, probably about fifteen minutes. Not long.”

They must have already kicked in because she felt much better. Her arm no longer throbbed with the same intensity. His hand splayed beneath her hair, rubbing the back of her neck. She hadn’t dropped her defenses in a long time but she liked his touch, the feel of his chest. Sighing, she closed her eyes and surrendered to a bone-deep exhaustion.

***

Someone was talking and she cranked her eyes open. The room was dark. A fat moon gleamed yellow through the narrow window. Her arm hurt but not the excruciating pain from the morning, or had it been the afternoon? Details blurred. She remembered the doctor’s needle though, that wonderful needle and the rush of relief.

Burke had been wonderful too, driving to the hospital, staying with her, giving her water…holding her. Her cheeks flamed, and she jerked her head sideways, checking her bed. Empty, thank God. He must be in the kitchen, talking on the phone.

She rose and went to the bathroom. Struggled to brush her teeth and hair, awkward with one hand. Walked down the hall.

He greeted her with a smile, his gaze scanning her arm, but he continued talking on his phone. “Okay. We’ll show them the facility. See what happens.” Cutting the connection, he uncoiled from the chair.

“Pain pills first, I think,” he said. “Then how about some soup?”

“Okay,” she said, oddly shy, even though this was her kitchen. “Wish I could have another needle like the one the hospital gave. But really, I’m feeling much better now. Thanks…for everything.”

He passed her two blue tablets and a bottle of water, his expression inscrutable. She couldn’t imagine paying good money for bottled water—their tap water was fine and actually tasted better—but she obediently drank and swallowed the pills.