Wife by Design. Tara Taylor Quinn

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      Arrangements had been made. Details tended to.

      It was 7:40 and the doctor was late. Standing, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, Grant walked to the door of his brother’s room, pulled it open and stood in the entryway, watching the hallway. Nurses went to and from rooms; an orderly pushed a cart with breakfast trays up the hall, stopping at doors, delivering trays and moving on.

      Darin was still on IV. He should have progressed to a liquid diet the night before but hadn’t cooperated enough to sit up and drink. He’d barely regained consciousness and hadn’t known Grant was even in the room, prodding him.

      Running his fingers through thick black hair that hadn’t yet begun to show the gray that had started to appear on his older brother’s head, Grant rolled his shoulders and sat back down. He’d built extra time into his schedule in case the doctor was late. This wasn’t his first hospital run. He knew how things worked.

      And Santa Raquel, the coastal California town where he and Darin had settled after Darin’s accident, wasn’t all that big. He could make it across town and to his job site in less than twenty.

      “Grant?” The deep voice had Grant out of his chair and at the bedside in one second flat.

      “Right here, bro,” he said, pushing the hair off from his brother’s forehead as he took Darin’s right hand in his and held on. “Just like always.”

      Darin studied him with eyes that appeared to hold recognition—and more.

      “How you feeling?” He started out small, not sure what kind of cognition Darin would have left. Or what further damage might have been done.

      “Head hurts.”

      “You just had surgery.”

      “Not just. I had a night since then.”

      With a grin, Grant nudged his brother’s shoulder. “You’re right, bro, you did. And if you’ll cooperate with the nurses today, tonight will be your last one here. You ready to come home?”

      Darin made a face, scrunching his lips up toward his nose. And did it again.

      What the hell was that?

      The covers moved above Darin’s left hand. And then moved again. Darin made that face again.

      “Nose itches.” Pulling his right hand free from Grant’s clasp, he scratched.

      And Grant grinned a second time, letting go of a deep breath. The day before had been slightly alarming, he admitted to himself now that Darin was back. His brother hadn’t come out of the anesthetic as the doctors would have liked—the way he had for all previous surgeries.

      He hadn’t really been coherent, either, even when he’d opened his eyes.

      But Grant had known Darin would make it through just fine.

      Still, it was great to―

      “Good morning.” The tall, gray-haired doctor entered the room. Dr. Zimmer was Grant’s kind of doctor. No-nonsense, tell it like it is. With a nod toward Grant, he focused on Darin. Asked a couple of questions. Slowly. Kindly. Lifting the sheet to look at his brother’s feet, he asked Darin to move his toes. Asked about pain and other sensations. He studied Darin’s eyes, had his brother follow a penlight with his gaze.

      Everything was going as expected. Fine. Grant would be out of there soon. He’d get to work on time, come back to spend the evening with Darin and then go home to prepare the house for Darin’s return the next day. All in all, they’d come through the potentially life-threatening episode with only one day of missed work. “Your left hand, Darin. Can you lift your left hand?”

      Grant watched, nodding, waiting. The covers moved. And...nothing. The left toes had moved. Hadn’t they? Grant hadn’t paid that much attention.

      He wanted Dr. Zimmer out of the way so he could check again. Just to make certain.

      Moving to the left side of the bed, the surgeon lifted the cover, setting Darin’s hand on top of them. “Now,” he repeated gently. “Move your fingers for me.”

      And Darin did.

      Thank God.

      “Lift your hand.”

      Grant stared. Willed the hand to move. And it did. Okay, not a lot. But the movement meant that Darin was capable, didn’t it? That there was no permanent damage to his brother’s motor skills resulting from the latest surgery?

      They’d been through this before. Through worse surgeries. Like the one right after the accident when they’d had to go in to remove the barb the stingray had left in his brother’s brain. Grant had been a senior in college at the time. A mere boy.

      Darin, once a force to be reckoned with in the business world, had been forever changed. He had his normal moments. And childlike ones. Stress made things worse. He couldn’t figure out basics, like monetary value.

      But they’d survived. Made a fine life for themselves. Just the two of them. A satisfactory life. Other guys had wives. Kids. Grant had Darin.

      “Can I speak with you in the hallway?” Dr. Zimmer’s request interrupted Grant’s silent pep talk. The look on the surgeon’s face put a blight on the positive outlook he’d been trying to create.

      “I’ll be right back.” Grant squeezed Darin’s hand. “You get ready to spend an hour or two in that chair over there.” He nodded at the high-backed leather seat in the corner by the window. He knew the drill. Darin had to be up, able to walk and get to the bathroom before they’d release him. And it all started with the chair.

      “I can’t lift my hand, Grant.” Darin’s voice was low. “Why can’t I lift my hand?”

      “Because it’s asleep,” he said, keeping his tone light. Lightness was the last thing Grant felt as he uttered his asinine response and followed the doctor out the door.

      CHAPTER TWO

      “I’M PUTTING BUTTERFLIES on this, but it needs stitches,” Lynn Duncan said, her tone as matter-of-fact as she could make it while tending to the brutalized skin of the twenty-four-year-old brunette sitting on the table in one of the two small examination rooms at The Lemonade Stand Tuesday evening.

      “I hate hospitals.” Regina Cooper wasn’t crying as she gave yet another reason she was refusing to allow herself to be stitched. Lynn almost wished Regina was sobbing, even though that would make her task more difficult. The younger woman’s voice was deadpan, her words slurred as she formed them through cut and swollen lips. Like the life had been beaten out of her.

      “I can do it right here,” Lynn said. Technically she was off shift, but when you lived on the premises of one’s job, you tended to be on call 24/7. Not that Lynn minded.

      At-risk women came to The Lemonade Stand in coastal Santa Raquel, California, to find shelter. Lynn had found her life’s purpose here, nursing them.

      Tending to the third of three ugly cuts on the woman’s chin and neck—one the result of a knockout СКАЧАТЬ