Second Chance Hero (4 page)

Now that she'd tended to him, she'd changed back into the concerned mother again.

The movement of the wagon pulled his thoughts away from the puzzle Mrs. Leggett presented and onto more immediate matters. He watched as the men maneuvered the vehicle right up beside him, then braced himself to stand. His left side had taken the brunt of the blow. Both his shoulder and ribs felt as if they were on fire, and the gash she'd taken such pains to clean and wrap protested any time he attempted to move his arm. His ankle was the most problematic, though. She hadn't really needed to warn him not to place any weight on it—the offending joint was doing a thorough job of that all by itself.

But as long as nothing was broken, he should be able to deal with the discomfort, even if it meant using crutches to get around. After all, he didn't need the use of his legs to do his job. And he certainly couldn't afford for this to keep him out of commission for long. He was still in the process of getting his fledgling business established.

Not that he regretted his actions. Better
he
get hurt than something happen to that little girl.

Sheriff Gleason bent down. “I think it best you shove your pride aside for now and allow us to help you into that wagon. Mrs. Leggett isn't going to be happy if I let you put weight on that ankle of yours.” He grinned. “And right now I'm more worried about her druthers than I am yours.”

Nate nodded. Being helped into a wagon might not be the most dignified way to board, but it was a good sight better than getting carried through town.

The sheriff nodded toward one of the other men. “Jeff, lend me a hand here.” The two men positioned themselves on either side of Nate, then helped him up. The action shot a bolt of pain down his left side, and he had to clamp down hard not to let loose with a string of expletives. He'd spent too much time away from the company of God-fearing folk—he was having to learn how to act in polite company all over again.

The sheriff climbed in beside him, presumably to keep him from falling out, then called to Nestor to get moving.

Nate gritted his teeth throughout the jarring, interminable-seeming ride to the clinic. Perhaps he
would
take it easy today. The workday would probably be half over before the doctor was finished with him, anyway.

When they finally arrived at the clinic, Nate was guiltily relieved to see Mrs. Leggett and an older man who was presumably her uncle step outside with a stretcher—he would have had trouble taking more than a few steps on his own. Mrs. Leggett had changed into a clean dress and wore a crisp white apron over it.

“Mr. Cooper, this is my uncle, Dr. Grover Pratt,” she said as soon as she was close enough to speak to him. “Uncle Grover, this is Mr. Cooper, the man who saved Joy's life.”

Nate shifted. All this excessive gratitude was making him uncomfortable.

“Hello, young man. Let me add my thanks to that of my niece. That was a very brave thing you did, saving our Joy.”

“I'm just glad I was in a position to help her, sir.”

Sheriff Gleason clamped him on his uninjured shoulder. “Don't let his modesty fool you, Doc. I saw the whole thing. Mr. Cooper here is a real hero.”

Dr. Pratt nodded. “Let's start showing our appreciation by getting him inside, where he'll be more comfortable.”

Sheriff Gleason and the wagon driver took the ends of the stretcher and Nate maneuvered himself onto it with a minimum of help. Mrs. Leggett stayed beside him as the men transported him into the clinic. Her hand rested lightly on his good arm, as if she wanted to make certain he didn't fall off. The feel of her hand on him was...comforting. Then she looked down and gave him a reassuring smile. Almost as if she truly cared about him.

Was this all part of her job as the doctor's assistant?

Stupid question—of course it was.

Once the men had deposited him on the padded table in the examining room, they took their leave. Nate sat on the edge of the narrow but sturdy table with his legs dangling over the side. By refusing to lie down, he felt marginally more in control of the situation.

To his surprise, Mrs. Leggett didn't follow the men out. Surely she didn't plan to assist in the actual examination?

“I have strict instructions to take extra special care of you.” Dr. Pratt cast a smile his niece's way. “So let's get to it.”

The doctor began to lay out some of his implements. “Verity, please help Mr. Cooper remove his shirt.”

Apparently she
was
going to stay. And participate. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about that.

But she didn't seem the least bit disconcerted by her uncle's request. Her expression remained pleasant but detached and her movements were businesslike as she approached him. Still...

“That's okay, I can manage,” he said as he quickly started working the buttons with his right hand.

“Don't be silly.” From her tone, she could be speaking to a wayward child. “This is part of my job. Besides, your arm is hurt and it's best you don't move it more than necessary until the doctor can take a look at it.”

By this time Nate had managed to free all of the buttons, but he let her help him ease the already-ruined shirt off his arms and shoulders. As he did so, he was very conscious of the old scars she would see on his torso. What would she think?

But it wasn't until she'd laid the garment aside and turned back to him that he noticed any sort of reaction. Unlike the recoil or emasculating pity he'd expected, however, it was a wince and flash of guilt that she quickly suppressed.

Glancing down, he saw the ugly bruise that had formed on his left side, no doubt from his contact with the wagon. Had she not noticed anything else?

Once more wearing that businesslike, doctor's-helper demeanor, she quickly moved around to remove the arm bandage she'd applied earlier. Her touch was every bit as sure and impersonal as before.

Once done, she stepped away and allowed her uncle to take her place.

“Well, Mr. Cooper, let's take a look, shall we?”

Nate nodded. “Please call me Nate. And your niece didn't seem to think it was too serious.”

Dr. Pratt smiled. “Verity's got a good eye, but why don't you let me have a look, anyway?”

As Dr. Pratt performed his examination, he took his time and made a point of letting Nate know what he was doing and why. It was all very different from the treatment he'd grown accustomed to the past nine years.

Even though Mrs. Leggett did her best to remain unobtrusive, Nate found himself very aware of her presence. Her movements were deft and sure, and she seemed to anticipate her uncle's requests so that very few words were spoken between them.

Verity—that was a rather old-fashioned name, but somehow it suited her. And her daughter was named Joy. Both named for virtues. The jaded part of him wondered if they found the names a burden to live up to. Not the little girl, of course, at least not yet. But the mother?

After cleaning the wound and studying it, the doctor looked up to meet Nate's gaze. “You're going to need stitches, but I don't see any reason why this cut shouldn't heal completely with no lasting damage, other than a scar, as long as you take it easy the next few days.”

That was a relief. He could deal with one more scar. It would be difficult, though, to do his work without full use of his arm.

The doctor moved on to examine Nate's shoulder and side. Nate did his best to bear the probing stoically and not show any signs of discomfort. Mainly because he didn't want to make Mrs. Leggett feel any guiltier than she obviously already did.

But a part of him admitted that he didn't want to display weakness in front of her, either.

Finally, Dr. Pratt straightened. “Well, your shoulder and ribs are bruised but not broken. That knot on your head is of some concern, but so far you aren't exhibiting any signs of a concussion. Now I'm going to take care of suturing your arm before we take a look at your ankle.”

Nate nodded. “Whatever you say.”

Dr. Pratt gave him a considering look. “I think this will go better if you lie down on the table.”

Without a word, Nate swiveled and swung his legs up on the table, then lay back. The doctor offered him a strip of leather to bite down on, but Nate shook his head. This wasn't his first time to get stitched up, so he knew what to expect.

Mrs. Leggett, who had quietly laid out the necessary implements, stood beside her uncle as he applied the stitches, ready to assist as needed.

Nate kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling as the doctor went to work, refusing to utter so much as a whimper. But apparently he wasn't as impassive as he would have liked, because about halfway through the procedure, Mrs. Leggett moved next to him and applied a cool cloth to his brow. Surprised by the action, he left off staring at the ceiling long enough to meet her gaze. She gave him an approving, sympathetic smile that somehow eased the pain of the procedure. A moment later she had slipped back into her less personal, bedside demeanor and returned to her uncle's side.

When at last Dr. Pratt was done, he straightened. “You can sit up now if you like,” he told Nate.

Nate had to admit, if only to himself, that it hadn't ended any too soon. It had taken all he had not to cry out a time or two. Only the fear that he would embarrass himself in front of Mrs. Leggett had kept him from doing so.

The doctor glanced toward his niece as he helped Nate sit up. “Verity, would you take care of wrapping his arm for me?”

“Of course.” She reached into a cabinet and pulled out a roll of gauzy-looking cloth.

As she had out in the street earlier, she used her left hand to hold his arm with a gentle firmness while she wrapped the bandage around it with her right hand. She kept her eyes focused on her work so he was free to study her at will.

Trying not to think too much about the warmth of her hand on his, he found himself fascinated by the lone wispy curl of hair that had escaped her otherwise tightly controlled hairstyle. It swayed and danced with her every movement, an incongruously playful counterpoint to her businesslike demeanor.

His fingers actually itched with the desire to reach up and touch it, to let it curl around his finger and see if it felt as impossibly soft as it looked.

Startled once again by the direction his thoughts had taken, he forced himself to look away and found Dr. Pratt watching him thoughtfully. He suddenly felt like a schoolboy caught in some mischief.

A moment later, Mrs. Leggett was done and she stepped back and gave him a smile. “There. How's that? Not too tight I hope.”

“It's fine, thank you.” Not that he would have complained even if it hadn't been.

Dr. Pratt moved closer. “Now let's have a look at that ankle.” The older man studied it a moment without touching him, then looked back up. “My recommendation is that we cut the boot off. Otherwise, you're going to find this much more than uncomfortable. And if your foot is broken it could cause even more damage.” He spread his hands. “But the choice is yours.”

Nate frowned. He didn't have the funds to spend on new footwear right now. And he was no stranger to pain. “Let's give removing it whole a try first.”

“Very well. If you change your mind once I get started, though, you just have to say the word.” He turned to his niece. “Verity, please stand behind Mr. Cooper so he has something to lean back against if he needs to.”

With a nod, she did as her uncle asked, positioning herself at his back and gripping the edge of the table on either side of him.

And he was honest enough with himself to admit he liked the feel of having her all around him. But, knowing she wouldn't feel the same, he refused to take advantage of the situation.

He'd remain upright, no matter the cost.

With that in mind, this time he accepted the offer of a leather strap to bite down on.

Chapter Four

V
erity could tell Mr. Cooper was doing his best to avoid leaning against her. She saw his knuckles whiten as his grip on the table edge tightened, saw his muscles tauten to unbelievable levels, saw the sweat bead on the back of his neck. This couldn't be good for that freshly stitched gash.

That reminder of his bandaged arm made her fingers tingle again. When she'd wrapped his arm earlier, she'd found it surprisingly difficult to maintain the polite detachment that usually came so easily to her. Instead she'd been keenly aware of the warmth of his skin, the sound of his breathing and the feel of his gaze on her.

That last had rattled her more than anything else. Why had he been staring at her with such intensity. What was he thinking? Did he believe it unladylike for a woman to do this sort of work? Or maybe he'd noticed her scar and was fascinated the way some folk were by such imperfections.

Uncle Grover asked him again if he'd prefer to have the boot cut off, but Mr. Cooper shook his head. Probably gritting his teeth too hard to speak, stubborn man.

A few excruciatingly long minutes later, he let out a single grunt of pain as her uncle managed to finally wrench the boot free. It was only then, as he reflexively sagged with relief, that he allowed himself to lean back against her.

She stood completely still, supporting his solid torso for the three heartbeats it took for realization to hit him. She knew the second it happened. He suddenly stiffened and then jerked upright again. Without turning, he tossed a mumbled apology over his shoulder. Was he embarrassed at what he might consider a show of weakness?

He removed the leather strip he'd been biting on and set it on the table beside him. Verity couldn't help but notice how deep an impression his teeth had made.

She moved around to assist her uncle and winced at how red and swollen his ankle was. As her uncle went about his examination, she kept an eye on the patient. Mr. Cooper bore it stoically, but she saw the muscles in his jaw tighten each time her uncle put the least bit of pressure on the injury.

At last her uncle straightened. “Well, the good news is you have a sprain, not a break.”

“And the bad news?”

“You're going to need to stay off of it for a while.”

Mr. Cooper frowned. That was obviously not what he'd wanted to hear. “How long?”

“If you want that ankle to heal properly I strongly suggest that you stay off of it for at least a week.”

Mr. Cooper raked a hand through his hair. “But it's nothing that will keep me from my work?”

Uncle Grover gave him a severe look. “Only if you work sitting down.”

“I do. And I suppose I can use a cane to get around.”

“Crutches would be better. But with your bruised shoulder and the fresh stitches I've just applied to your arm, neither will be advisable for the next few days.”

Verity saw the rebellion in Mr. Cooper's eyes. Then she realized that, like Hazel, he probably lived above his shop. Stairs would be very difficult, if not impossible, for him to navigate in his condition.

“What do you expect me to do in the meantime, just lie about?” His tone was short and clipped. “I have a business to run.” Then, as if he realized he'd been abrupt, his expression lost some of its hard edge. “I'm sorry. None of this is your fault.”

Verity disagreed. This was
all
her fault—he'd gotten injured because she hadn't kept a close watch on her daughter. “Perhaps I can assist you in some way,” she offered. “I'm sure Uncle Grover can spare me for a few days.”

Before her uncle could confirm what she'd said, Mr. Cooper spoke up. “I appreciate the offer, ma'am, but I don't think that will be necessary. I'll figure a way to work it out.”

Was he just being polite? Or was it that he wasn't interested in having her around?

“You two can work that out later.” Uncle Grover's stern look was aimed at them both. “For now, I would suggest Mr. Cooper stay here at the clinic, where we can keep him under observation.”

“I don't think—”

Her uncle raised a hand. “If it's money you're worried about, don't.” He met Mr. Cooper's gaze with an earnest, direct look. “You were injured helping my great-niece—there will be no charge for anything related to your injuries.”

“That's very kind of you. But—”

How did he expect to go anywhere without help? “The only place you're going is to our infirmary.” She could see another protest forming on his lips so she tried again. “You need to listen to my uncle. With that knot on your head, someone should keep an eye on you, at least for the next twenty-four hours, and since you live alone, this is the best place for you. Besides, I believe you live in an apartment above your shop, is that correct?”

“Yes, but—”

Uncle Grover joined the debate. “Even if you
could
make that climb to the second floor—” his tone made it clear that was doubtful “—it's not something you should be doing right now, not in your condition.”

Verity saw Mr. Cooper's jaw tighten at the phrase “in your condition.”

“If need be I can bunk downstairs in the shop for a few days.”

“Young man, now you're just being stubborn.”

“Besides,” Verity added, “we have a nice comfortable bed right through there.” She waved to a door in the far wall.

“It's just a sprained ankle. I'm not some sickly bed patient.”

So his irritation stemmed from a bit of male pride. “Of course you're not. We just want to make certain we take good care of you. Besides, meals are provided, and I promise you Aunt Betty's cooking is something to look forward to. She has a pot of chicken and dumplings on the stove for lunch today.”

Without giving their patient a chance to argue further, Uncle Grover turned to Verity and nodded to one of the cabinets. “Please fetch Mr. Cooper something more comfortable to wear while I prepare a draught for him. Then you'll need to step out so he can change.”

“There's nothing wrong with the clothes I have on.”

Was the man going to fight them every step of the way?

“I was being polite,” Uncle Grover said. “Your shirt is now rags and the rest of your clothing is the worse for wear and, not to put too fine a point on it, filthy. For the sake of your health, and my niece's and wife's sensibilities, you need to change. There's a clean nightshirt we keep here just for such circumstances.”

Verity hid a grin. Uncle Grover wasn't averse to using a bit of blackmail to get his way, especially when he felt it was for his patient's own good.

She placed a clean nightshirt on the table beside Mr. Cooper, then collected the soiled bandages and his discarded shirt and moved to the door. “I'll take care of these and let Aunt Betty know we'll have an occupant in the infirmary.”

Uncle Grover nodded absently. “Thank you, my dear.”

With a breezy smile for the still-glaring Mr. Cooper, she sailed out the door and closed it behind her.

She had to admit, she was pleased by the idea that Mr. Cooper would be under their roof a bit longer. It would give her an opportunity to get to know him better. Because she felt that the two of them were linked now in some intangible but very real way.

Partly because he'd saved her daughter's life.

And partly because she felt that little tug of attraction whenever she was around him.

* * *

Nate swallowed down the unpleasant-tasting draught Dr. Pratt handed him without a word, but refused the man's offer to help him change clothes. After the doctor made his exit, Nate frowned at the oversize nightshirt. This day had certainly taken an unexpected turn. It wasn't a very auspicious milestone on the road to his fresh start.

Then again, it hadn't been all bad. Getting to know Mrs. Leggett better certainly hadn't been an unpleasant experience. Of course, she seemed to think of him as either a patient or hero, neither of which sat well with him.

Best not to think on how he wanted her to think of him, though. With a huff of frustration, he snatched up the nightshirt.

Nate had barely finished changing when he heard a light tap on the door. Had the doctor forgotten something? But when he bade the person enter, it turned out to be Dr. Pratt's niece, rather than the doctor himself.

Verity entered the room and gave him an approving smile. Then she moved purposefully across the room. “Now let me get you settled into the clinic's guest room.”

“Guest room, is it? I feel as if I was coerced rather than invited to stay there.” He watched her, admiring her efficient movements.

“Oh, come now, it's not such a hardship to stay with us here, is it?”

How did he answer that? “I know you're doing what you think best.” He offered her a half grin. “And
guest room
does sound friendlier than
infirmary
.”

His answer seemed to satisfy her, but she dropped the subject. Instead she waved a hand toward a door across from the one through which she'd entered. “Our clinic
guest
room has comfortable beds for long-term patients. Fortunately, it's not in use right now so you'll have it all to yourself.” She pulled a wheeled chair out from a corner of the room and pushed it over to him.

Ah, well, he supposed a conveyance that allowed him to sit up was preferable to that stretcher again.

She stood beside the examination table, obviously prepared to assist him.

“Where's your uncle?”

“He was called out to tend to another patient. Don't worry, I can get you situated.” She moved closer to the examination table. “Just place a hand on my shoulder for support.”

He didn't much relish the idea of treating her like a support post, but it didn't look as if he had much choice. “Thank you.” He placed a hand on her shoulder, finding it both firm and soft at the same time. And then he caught the faint scent of honeysuckle again—it was all he could do not to inhale deeply.

Perhaps accepting her help wasn't such a bad thing after all.

He carefully slipped from the table, using her shoulder for balance more than support, then slid into the chair.

As soon as she saw that he was settled in, she moved behind the chair and set it in motion. “Don't worry, we'll see that you're made as comfortable as possible.”

“I don't doubt that, but my shop—”

“Taken care of. I already asked Sheriff Gleason to have someone keep an eye on it so no one will be bothering it. If you'll let me know where you keep your key, I can go by a little later and lock it up for you.”

The woman was nothing if not efficient. “But that doesn't take care of my dog.”

“Oh, my.” He heard the dismay in her voice. “I hadn't thought of that.” Then, as they crossed into the other room, “Of course we must see to your dog.” There was a short pause where he could almost feel the wheels turning in her mind. “I suppose I'll just have to bring him here until you're well enough to go home.”

From the way she said that, he could tell she wasn't particularly happy about it. Did she blame Beans for the accident? “Perhaps I should just go home after all.”

“Nonsense. Joy has been after me for ages to get her a pet. You wouldn't want to deny her this taste of what it would be like, would you?”

Before he could respond, she moved on. “I don't imagine you could do much work for the next day or two, anyway. And for that I'm truly sorry. It's a poor reward for your valiant rescue.”

He wished she'd quit bringing up terms like
rescue
and
hero
. She was right about his condition, though. He certainly didn't want to put out shoddy work by doing things one-handed. Nevertheless, it was frustrating to have to shut down his shop right now.

But he was suddenly feeling lethargic. Was it a delayed effect of his injuries? “Perhaps, just for today then. As to your question about the key, I keep it next to the till during the day.”

Mrs. Leggett parked the chair next to one of two comfortable-looking beds. She turned down the coverlet, then straightened and faced him again. “Now let me help you into bed.”

He nodded. While he was certain he could accomplish the task on his own, he found himself not quite so reluctant to accept her help this time.

She placed a hand around his waist as he stood, then helped him ease over to the bed. Once he'd swung his legs into the bed, she fussily arranged the light coverlet over him.

“There now.” She stepped back. “That draught Uncle Grover gave you should help ease your pain and also help you to sleep, which is the best thing for you right now. We'll talk again when you wake up.”

A sleeping draught? No wonder his lids were feeling heavy.

She pointed to a cord that hung in easy reach of the bed. “If you need anything, pull that cord. It'll ring a bell in the house and one of us will be right in to see what you need.”

He tried to watch as she bustled about the room, but his eyelids were getting heavier. She pulled the curtains closed, cocooning the room in shadow. He lost sight of her for a moment, then suddenly she was there bending over him. “One last question. I'm afraid your trousers and shirt are in a sorry state. Would you like me to get you a fresh change of clothes when I fetch your dog?”

Were they really talking about his clothing now? “I suppose. They're in the wardrobe in my bedchamber.”

She smoothed the covers over his chest one more time, and the gesture brought him back to a time when his family had been intact and his world had been pleasant and uncomplicated.

“Sleep now,” she said softly. “We'll talk again when you wake up.”

So he did.

* * *

Verity softly closed the door behind her. Mr. Cooper was a true hero in her book—literally a godsend to her and Joy. She was only sorry he'd paid such a steep price for his quick action and bravery. If only there was something she could do to make certain his business didn't suffer for his absence.