It took her a dizzy moment to register the shocking words. The hurt and frustration of both the present and the past reared up, and the pain in her head bloomed so quickly that she reflexively jerked up a hand to make it stop.
“Go away,” she whispered, and pressed a palm to her forehead as if to contain the explosion.
The big fingers that closed around her wrist as her weak arm gave out were hot and hard with thick calluses. Morgan lowered her arm to the bed and those hard fingers shifted to warmly clasp her hand. But then his other hand brushed lightly over the top of her head.
“Hurts, don’t it, baby.” The calm, growling statement sent a warm breath of comfort through her. “Just relax,” he said then murmured, almost to himself, “These damned concussions…”
The way he’d said it gave the impression that he was on her side, fighting the injury with her. Which put her heart in peril, though the hurt in her head distracted her from the full impact of that wary observation.
Remarkably, the harsh pain began to subside, and then that big, hard palm began to move in gentle, soothing strokes that avoided the tender place on her skull and reduced the knife blades of pain to a much less awful ache.
Memories of watching Morg with an injured or frightened animal ghosted through her thoughts. There was no one better with animals than Morgan, especially the little ones. For all his brusqueness with people, he had a certain magic with animals and children. The smaller and more helpless or hurt they were, the more they instinctively trusted him.
That was one of the many reasons she’d loved him once upon a time. At twelve, she’d idolized him. She’d been a skinny city kid whose flighty, neglectful mother had married his father. She’d been painfully shy and terrified of horses and cattle and the frightening roughness of ranch life.
But the much older Morg had been kind to her, and so patient that she’d followed him around and hung on his every word. He’d taught her the manly arts of riding, roping, fly-fishing and target shooting, but he’d also instructed her on how well-brought-up young ladies were expected to behave in public.
He’d passed judgment on the length of her hems, had private “man talks” with the boys who’d dared to take her on dates, and he’d taught her to dance. He’d taught her everything she’d needed to know, and he’d made sure she’d had a secure place in his family and in his world.
But all that changed a handful of years later when she’d developed a crush on him. As if he’d sensed it, he’d begun a subtle withdrawal. She no longer got to go everywhere with him. And then he hardly ever let her be around him in situations when they’d be alone.
Hurt by his remoteness, and those first inklings of rejection, Selena had tried all the more to be with him and take part in everything he did. Until that awful, awful time when she’d been seventeen, and frustration, youthful stupidity, and the excruciating pain of unrequited adolescent love had driven her to corner him and confess.
Even now, she couldn’t bear to let that memory come. But turning her mind away from it put her attention right back on the soothing movement of his hand. And the wild, sweet stirrings of the soul-deep feelings for Morgan Conroe that had matured years past adolescence and promised to be even more dangerous to her heart than ever.
Selena found the strength to pull her hand from his and weakly move her head. “S-stop. Please.”
Oh God, that had sounded just as forlorn as she felt. But it was torture to have him touch her like this—to touch her at all—when she knew there’d inevitably come a time when he’d again withdraw from her. And then if he somehow sensed how besotted she was—and in spite of everything, she was still besotted—he’d reject her as brutally as before.
“All right, little one.”
The low rasp went through her hurting body like a warm balm, and she felt the hypnotic pull on her heart. His big hand shifted away from her head, but the back of a knuckle trailed lightly down her cheek. Selena was too weak now to control the flutter of her closed lashes as the pleasure of that registered.
“Get some sleep. Everything’s taken care of.”
The gruff words sent a quake of happiness and relief through her groggy mind.
Everything’s taken care of translated to I’ll take care of you. Words she might have died to hear from him again, words that common sense warned her to immediately protest, but words too formidable to either reject or ignore in her feeble physical state.
Mercifully, the blackness dropped over her then and dragged her to a place where Morgan Conroe couldn’t follow.
“Mr. Conroe made arrangements for you to recover at your family’s home. I understand you’ll have someone nearby around-the-clock.”
The doctor’s statement rocked her, but before Selena could protest, his added words kept her silent.
“Otherwise, I couldn’t release you for at least another day.”
One of the cardinal rules she’d lived by all her life—to keep family dirt private—ensured her silence now. Growing up, she’d never mentioned family problems to outsiders because she’d been ashamed of her mother’s behavior and their gypsy life. Then after her mother had married Morgan’s father, she’d kept silent about her mother’s secrets, the fibs, the infidelities, the little manipulations.
She’d suffered her crush for her stepbrother without telling anyone, not even her mother, until she’d made the colossal mistake of telling Morgan himself. And of course, keeping to habit, she’d never told a soul about his angry rejection either.
So Selena felt even less inclined to inform the doctor that she had no “family” home. There was no reason for him to know that the only home she counted these days—or wanted—was her apartment.
The goal now was to get out of this depressing place. Once the doctor authorized her release, she’d call a cab and make a quick escape before Morgan came around again. He’d only been here that one time yesterday morning, so if she was lucky, she could be gone before he showed up again.
Obviously Morg had talked to the doctor about her release, but she hoped he’d done that over the phone. She’d had a friend bring her a set of clothes last night, though Selena hadn’t known for sure that she’d have a chance of being released today.
That morning she’d awakened with a bit more energy, so she felt more eager than ever to leave the hospital. Her IV had been removed, her take-home med would be ready soon, so the moment the doctor strode out, she called a cab company and gingerly slipped out of bed.
As she quickly discovered, it was a challenge to dress. The stiff pain that plagued her every move left her sitting weakly in the chair, her head spinning and her skin lightly sheened with perspiration.
If she could get to her apartment, she’d be fine. She’d be able to lie down and sleep uninterrupted. A day or so of quality rest and her body would surely begin to make real progress toward recovery. Just being home was bound lift her dismal spirits.
A nurse came in with a clipboard of papers for her to sign, and the flowers and plants that friends had brought or sent were loaded onto a cart while an aide gathered up a bag of her things, including her clothes from the wreck and the take-home painkiller.
In the midst of the efficient activity a wheelchair was brought into the room, and Selena gratefully moved to it from the chair. The tiny parade of cart and wheelchair rolled rapidly through the maze of corridors and elevators to arrive on the sidewalk outside the outpatient door.
She’d made it. There was no sign of Morgan and neither the nurse nor the aide commented on the taxi, so perhaps they’d either not been informed of the doctor’s requirements for her release or they’d assumed the taxi would take her to the “family” home.
Selena was certain she could manage on her own, whatever the doctor thought,