Small-Town Bachelor. Jill Kemerer

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      “I’m going to lift your leg. Gently. Brace yourself.” With both hands she held his calf, setting it on the makeshift pile. She crawled back, brushing debris out of her way, and sat on the floor with her back against the wall. Lifting Reed’s head, she placed it on her legs.

      “You don’t have to—” he said, his voice taut.

      “Save your strength.” She tried to think of anything else she could do. He needed a doctor, X-rays and painkillers. If only she had her cell phone. Why hadn’t she thought to grab it? Maybe Reed had his. Hope rose. “Do you have your cell phone?”

      “The car.” A spasm seized his body. Claire wanted to shake her fist at the sky.

      How long would they be trapped? Was her family okay? The thought of losing any of her loved ones made her stomach roil. Oh! What about the otters? Her sweet rescue otter babies. The forecast called for rain, so she’d left the cellar doors open, but would they know to go down there? And did they have time?

      The mounting worries quickened her pulse until her body threatened to explode with pent-up energy.

       God, I’m giving this to You.

      Her tension lowered a notch. She had to believe everyone survived, including the otters. Her loved ones surely took refuge, and the otter twins would continue to be healthy and happy until they moved to the zoo later this summer.

      Reed shifted, a hiss escaping his lips. Right now she had to concentrate on him. She stroked his hair the way she used to stroke Libby’s when she was sick.

      He had saved her. By all rights, she should have been the one pinned under the tree. Or worse. If he had come ten minutes later, she would have had to survive this alone.

      “Thank you,” she whispered.

      She would make this up to Reed. Somehow.

      * * *

      Reed blinked repeatedly. Where was he? A blurry white ceiling and fluorescent lights stung his eyes. Beep. What was that smell? Rubbing alcohol? Astringent? It burned his nose. Beep.

      He attempted to sit, but the tubes in his arm forced him back into the pillow. A cast encased his right leg from his foot to his knee. A white sheet covered the rest of him.

      Last night dashed back. From the drive to Lake Endwell for Jake and Libby’s rehearsal dinner, to his late appearance at the restaurant to take Claire home.

      Claire.

      Medium height, almost-black hair skimming her shoulders, slim and pretty. Very pretty. She had unusual eyes—a ring of indigo surrounded the palest blue—and a sweet smile. The kind of smile a guy could let go to his head, if he was the type to consider having a wife and family. Which he wasn’t. Not even close.

      Claire had taken care of him for hours in the dark. She had a soothing way about her, had handled the disaster calmly and kept up a steady stream of chatter until her dad found them and called an ambulance.

      If Reed had to be trapped half the night with a broken leg and rain pouring through a gaping hole in the ceiling and a tree on top of him, he was glad he’d been with Claire.

      He frowned. Why was he thinking about her in that way?

      She lived in Lake Endwell. The one place he avoided. His dad, stepmother and half brother, Jake, lived here and were just fine without him in the picture. The three of them had moved to Lake Endwell after Reed graduated from high school, and this was the first time Reed had visited in years. Chicago provided a necessary two-hour buffer. Barrier? Whatever. It all added up to the same thing—he didn’t fit with them. Or with families in general. He’d ruined two already.

      Reed had no clue how to make a relationship—any relationship—last.

      “You’re awake.” Barbara, his stepmother, paused in the doorway, her lips not quite committing to a tremulous smile. Her short black hair skimmed her chin, and she wore a dark green sweater set with her ever-present pearls. Dressed up even after a tornado. She strode to his side and poured water into a small plastic cup. “Sip some of this. You must be thirsty. Do you want me to hold it for you?”

      He should have known she’d be here, trying to play Florence Nightingale with him. Why she continued to make an effort, he didn’t know. It wasn’t as though he deserved her kindness. He’d always been cordial, but he preferred to keep a distance. Didn’t want her poking and prying and getting close. Better that way.

      He reached for the cup, grimacing when his trembling fingers spilled it.

      “Let me.” She placed it against his lips.

      He dutifully took a sip. “Thanks.” It came out more a croak than a word. His neck stiffened trying to hold his head up. “Claire?”

      “She has a black eye and a few nasty scratches.”

      His head sank into the pillow. Why a stranger—Claire, of all people—brought out his dormant protective side, he didn’t know, but last night he hadn’t liked the thought of her walking home in the rain, nor did he like the thought of her with a black eye now. “What about Jake? Is he all right?”

      “He’s fine too. Rode out the storm in Dale’s basement with Libby. I’ll go get your father.” She patted his hand and left the room.

      Jake was okay. Thank You, God. Reed loved the kid—not that a twenty-three-year-old could be called a kid. A twinge of guilt prodded. When Jake asked him to be the best man, Reed had considered turning down the offer. What kind of big brother was he?

      “How are you?” Dad shuffled in with his hands in his pockets. He didn’t sit, just stood there shifting from one foot to the other. He nodded to the cast. “Rough getup.”

      Tension crackled, and a fissure of cool air rushed over Reed’s skin, raising the hair on his arms. “Yeah.”

      A knock at the door startled them. Staring at a clipboard, a doctor entered the room and strolled to the bed. “Ah, I see you’re awake.”

      “I’ll wait outside.” The creases in Dad’s forehead deepened.

      “Wait, Dad, don’t—” But he disappeared out the door. What had Reed expected? The man had made an art out of slipping away. Reed’s fingernails cut into his palms.

      “How are you feeling? Tell me your pain level on a scale of one to ten.” The doctor pushed a button, raising Reed’s bed to a seated position, and checked him over.

      “Four, I guess. I’m more stiff than sore.”

      “Good. Good. How is your leg?”

      “You tell me.”

      The doctor scanned his notes, making a clicking sound with his tongue. “Broken tib-fib. Snapped in two places—the right tibia and fibula. We inserted a pin to hold the broken ends together, and we didn’t have any complications. We’ll be keeping a close eye on СКАЧАТЬ