Heather's Song

She shook her head, reaching for the pad and pen. “Hasn’t been time,” she wrote.

“I’ll bring your things,” he said. He stood up, flexing his shoulders as if he hadn’t had much rest. Probably he hadn’t had any, she thought, studying him. Cole went like a dynamo, all the time. Her gaze was caught by the attractive brown Western-cut suit he was wearing. She couldn’t help noticing the way it emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow waist and hips, the way it clung to his powerful thighs like a second skin. There was something so sensuous about Cole, about the way he moved….

She squashed the disquieting thought. “Home?” she mouthed.

One dark eyebrow went up. “Your apartment or the ranch?” he asked.

She stared down at her fingers and her mouth pouted. “The ranch,” she scribbled, hating her own weakness.

“It won’t be that bad,” he promised. “Emma could use the company. I’ve been away a lot.”

“Not with cattle,” she wrote on the pad, flashing him a knowing look. “Not in winter.”

A rare smile touched his hard, chiseled mouth for a second, and she caught herself wondering if he ever used that smile on other women. It was devastating.

She shifted slightly in the bed, trying to ease the ache that seemed to affect her whole body. He leaned down and his long, brown fingers touched the white bandage that covered one of many abrasions on her arm. “Does it hurt, baby?” he asked.

He was the only man who’d ever called her that. It wasn’t an endearment she particularly liked, but Cole made it sound special.

She shook her head, reached her own fingers up to cover his, and caressed them lovingly.

The gesture seemed to bother him. He drew back as if she’d burned him and quickly moved away from the bed, ramming both hands into his pockets as he prowled around the small hospital room.

Heather felt rejected. Cole was acting so distant tonight. It was as if he didn’t want to be in the same room with her.

He drew a sharp, impatient breath, and when he turned back to her, his firm lips made a thin line. “How can I talk to you like this?” he growled.

She lifted her pad and wrote him a note. “I can write,” she scribbled, showing it to him with a smile.

“I know,” he said, “but it’s not the same. How long will it be before you can talk?”

She shrugged. “They aren’t sure,” she wrote.

“I’ll talk with the doctor,” he said, taking over, as usual. He looked so impossibly arrogant that she smiled at him, her whole heart in her adoring eyes.

His own silvery eyes snapped at her. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said abruptly.

She gaped at him, the confusion plain in her wounded eyes.

He turned away, grabbing up his Stetson. “I’ll be back in the morning,” he said without facing her. “I’ll bring you a gown when I come.”

She stared after him in bewilderment. Something must be very wrong for Cole to treat her so coolly. She only wondered what it was.

* * *

He was back the next morning, after she’d had her bath and her breakfast, with a small overnight bag that held a gown and some cosmetics.

“You can leave tomorrow,” he said curtly, dropping down into the armchair beside her bed. “I’ve told your doctor we’ll let our family physician take charge of your treatment.”

She hid a grin behind her hand. She could see Cole having it out with the wiry little doctor on her case.

“I’ve got to fly down to New Orleans for the day,” he continued. “But I’ll try to stop by before they put you to bed for the night.”

He made her sound like a toddler who needed a teddy bear and a bottle, and she glared at him.

One dark eyebrow went up. “Want to scratch me, kitten?” he asked.

“Yes,” she mouthed angrily.

His pale eyes slid down over the sheet that covered her thin young body. “You’re not up to my weight,” he remarked.

She hit the bed with a clenched fist and he threw back his head and chuckled softly, the sound oddly pleasant in the stillness of the room. As he stood up, she noticed how striking he looked in a gray suit that matched his silver eyes. He fumbled at his shirt pocket for a cigarette and then brought one to his beautifully chiseled mouth.

“Habit,” he growled, lighting the cigarette. “I don’t even like the taste of them anymore.” He leaned down and carelessly brushed her cheek with his firm lips. “Don’t give the doctor any trouble while I’m gone,” he warned.

“That’s your department, not mine,” she wrote saucily.

“You little brat,” he said, making an endearment of it. “See you tonight.”

She beamed at him, but she didn’t reach out to touch his hand, as she would have a day earlier. It was becoming increasingly obvious that he didn’t want to be touched.

Gil visited her later on, and leered at the picture she made in the pale blue chiffon gown Cole had brought.

“Talk about seductive,” he said in a theatrically husky voice. “You look good enough to eat.”

“Hospital food will give you indigestion,” she scribbled with a grin.

He laughed. “Yes, I suppose it will, but I’m not a patient. Where did you get that gown?”

“It’s hospital issue,” she lied on paper.

“Smart hospital. No patient, male patient, that is, would ever want to escape if all the female patients wore gowns like that.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Where’s your stepbrother? They told me he came last night. Excuse me, stormed in last night,” he added with a grin. “At least two of the nurses are being treated for shock, I hear.”

“He was mad,” she wrote on her pad.

“He should have jumped on whoever forgot to give him the message,” Gil pointed out, “not on the poor nurses. They couldn’t help it.”

She sighed. “The nurses were here,” she wrote.

“Oh.” He nodded. “And the poor soul who didn’t deliver the message wasn’t. I wish I knew the devil’s name, I’d send flowers in advance.”

Heather’s face lit up in a smile. Gil was such fun to be around. He made all the shadows go away, and while she was with him she forgot her fears and was able to relax.

He was telling her stories about his early days as a reporter when the door swung open and Cole walked in to find Gil Austin sitting comfortably on the side of Heather’s bed. Cole stood quietly in the doorway, and his very stance spelled trouble.

Heather could almost see his neck hair bristling. That silvery glitter in his eyes was dangerous, and she didn’t like the way he fixed his icy gaze on the man sitting beside her on the bed.

“The stepbrother, I presume,” Gil said with irrepressible good humor as he rose to face the newcomer.