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  He let his eyes run slowly down her body, and the faint smile on his lips made her uneasy. “My wife and I, of course,” he said smoothly.

  Wife…? Was the Irish girl getting to him? She searched his face, confused.

  “I’ll be back, so don’t go off with Romeo,” he told her.

  “As if I care whether or not you’ll be back,” she replied defiantly, her gaze averted.

  “I’ll make you care, somehow,” he said. When she glanced up, however, he was gone.

  It only took the two men an hour to get the bench press and return home, and then they spent another hour or two in the workshop behind the house setting it up and working with it.

  Eleanor hadn’t known that Keegan liked woodworking, but she should have realized that he and her father couldn’t talk about chess and work all the time. She went out to see the bench press and watched Keegan run up a table leg on the lathe with quick, precise movements of his deft hands. He was good at it.

  He was good at anything, she thought. Except maybe one thing… and even then, it had been her body’s response that had caused her discomfort. It would have been uncomfortable with any man, but her headlong ardor had probably caused Keegan to be less gentle than he intended. And he hadn’t known that she was a virgin, either.

  She didn’t like remembering. Leaving the men to their work and their talk, she went back into the house, set a carafe of coffee on the warmer and a plate of wrapped cake slices on the table with a note, and went to bed. She couldn’t take one more minute of Keegan tonight. She’d had enough.

  Chapter Eight

  Eleanor got up an hour earlier the next morning, even though sleep had been long in coming. Wade had called after she’d gone to bed. Her father had knocked on her door to tell her Wade was on the phone, but she hadn’t wanted to see Keegan again, so she’d had him tell Wade to call her the next day. She’d hated to do it, but Keegan was getting to her.

  She was making biscuits when the phone rang. Her father was still in bed, so she dusted off her hands and answered it.

  “Eleanor?”

  The voice was male and familiar, but she couldn’t place it. “Yes?”

  “This is Gene Taber,” he replied, sounding a little frantic. “Eleanor, I hate to ask, but could you come up to the house? Something’s wrong with Keegan….”

  Her heart gave a sickening lurch. “What’s the matter?” she asked, gripping the receiver tightly.

  “Nausea, diarrhea…he’s in a bad way.”

  She took a deep breath. Be calm. Above all, be calm. She was no use to him hysterical. “When did it start?”

  “About three hours ago,” he groaned. “I thought it would quit eventually, but it hasn’t. He can’t lift his head, and he’s having damned bad stomach cramps. I tried to give him something for it, but he can’t keep it in his stomach. What should I do?”

  “Call an ambulance,” she said immediately. “I’ll come right up. See you in five minutes.”

  What good she could possibly do she wasn’t sure, but she had to go. It could be anything from simple food poisoning to a rupturing appendix; only a doctor would know for sure.

  She dressed in a feverish rush, telling herself that it would be all right, that Keegan wouldn’t die. But she kept thinking back to the day before, to what she’d said to him, the way she’d avoided him, and she felt guilty. He couldn’t help being himself; he was just a playboy. She shouldn’t keep blaming him for the past. And now he was desperately ill…. She had to fight the tears. Keegan was indestructible. He was never sick. But for Gene to get upset, it had to be bad. Gene wasn’t one to panic.

  She got into her uniform and didn’t stop to fix her face. Two minutes later she was pounding on her father’s door.

  “Keegan’s sick,” she said without preamble when he called for her to come in. “I’m on my way up to the house. I’ll phone you later.”

  “Keegan?” He sat up. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, worry showing in her face. She ran down the hall and out to her car. Even as she cranked it, she was hoping the ambulance would be right behind her. Dehydration, whatever its cause, could be fatal.

  When Eleanor drove up at Flintlock, the front lights were on. She rushed up the steps onto the long porch, and Gene met her at the door in his robe. Except for some graying hair and the lines in his face, he was very much like his son, redheaded and tall.

  “The ambulance?” she asked.

  “On its way. He’s in his room.”

  He led the way upstairs, filling her in as best he could. “He cooked himself some chicken for lunch yesterday. Mary June’s been laid up with an ankle—she’s just now able to hobble around a bit. I don’t know if the chicken could have done it….”

  Eleanor added it all up in her mind. The incubation period would be just about right for salmonella. Especially if he’d laid the cooked chicken in the same plate where he’d had the raw chicken, something a man not used to cooking might do.

  Gene led her into a huge room done in greens and whites with a king-size bed in which Keegan lay moaning, half-unconscious. She went to his side, shocked at his weakness and pallor. He didn’t stir when she took his pulse. His eyes didn’t open. And even as she put his wrist down, he was sick again.

  There was a pan beside the bed, obviously put there by Gene, and a wet washcloth in a bowl on the table. She grabbed at the pan and got it under his mouth just in the nick of time. She mopped his brow with the cloth and soothed him until the bout was over, and then she eased him back onto the pillows. He was very nearly unconscious. Probably half-dead of nausea, too, she thought pityingly. Poor, poor man. She touched his red hair with a tender hand, pushing it away from his pale brow. She couldn’t remember a time in their turbulent relationship when he’d been helpless. She cradled his head in her hands and bit her lip to keep from crying. He was sick all right, and he was going to need some intravenous fluid and bed rest in a hospital at the very least.

  “Will he be all right?” Gene asked nervously as he paced the floor.

  “Yes,” she said, smiling reassuringly. “Of course he will. But I’m pretty certain that they’ll admit him. He’ll need to be given fluids.”

  “What do you think it is?” he persisted.

  “I don’t know,” Eleanor replied. She wasn’t allowed to give medical opinions: it wasn’t ethical. “Don’t worry,” she added gently, “we’ll have him better before you know it. After all, he’s a Taber, isn’t he? Tough.”

  He managed a weak smile. “Yes. I suppose so. Where the hell is that ambu— Ah! There it is!”

  The siren was unmistakable, and through the pale green curtains Eleanor could see the red flashing lights coming up the long, winding paved driveway.

  “I’ll run down and show them where to bring the stretcher,” Gene volunteered. “Are you going with the ambulance?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Of course,” she replied without thinking.

  “Give me your car keys,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’ll drive your car to the hospital and meet you there.”

  She handed him the keys from her pocket without protest. It would have been unthinkable to refuse to ride with Keegan, she told herself in justification. She looked worriedly at Keegan’s face as he groaned, and clenched her teeth. It bothered her, seeing him like this. Keegan was so vital, so full of life. She was just realizing that he wasn’t invulnerable, that he was just a man after all. Her fingers touched the red, red hair and smoothed it back gently.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered as he grimaced and moaned roughly. “It’s all right, you’ll be well in no time.”

  It seemed to take forever, though, for the paramedics to get upstairs with the stretcher. She stood back, giving them the vital signs as they loaded him on the stretcher and strapped him down. Fortunately they were both big men, because Keegan for all his slimness was no lightweight.

  Eleanor said goodbye to Gene as she followed the stretcher toward the windi
ng staircase.

  “Whatever is all the racket?” Maureen O’Clancy groaned, opening her door. She stood stock-still when she saw Keegan on the stretcher. “Oh, my God! Is he dead?” she burst out, putting a hand to her mouth.

  “No,” Eleanor said. “Just very sick. We’re taking him to the hospital.”

  “Poor, poor man,” the Irish girl wailed. She was beautiful even without makeup, her black hair around her slender shoulders in a pale blue silk robe, her blue eyes wide and concerned. “Do take good care of him, now,” she told Eleanor. “I’ll be down directly to see him.”

  “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that,” Eleanor mumbled, dashing after the attendants. Behind her, she heard Maureen’s father ask a question, which Maureen answered, but Eleanor didn’t catch the words.

  Gene opened the front door for them, frowning worriedly as they filed out. Eleanor stopped long enough to touch his shoulder reassuringly.

  “It will be all right,” she said firmly. “Don’t wreck the car getting there, please.”

  “I’ll be careful. Eleanor, he’s all I’ve got,” he blurted out, the blue eyes that were so like Keegan’s narrowed on his son’s pale, writhing body.

  “I know. He’ll be fine,” she said gently, and forced a smile. Then she ran down the steps to climb in the back of the ambulance with Keegan. She took his hand in hers and held it every mile of the way to Peterson Memorial.

  Dr. Stan Welder was on duty in the emergency room when they brought Keegan in. She filled him in on the background and stood quietly by as the duty nurse assisted. Dr. Welder did a thorough examination, ordered an antibiotic and fluids and asked Eleanor to take Gene Taber down to admissions as soon as he arrived.

  “I’ll go with him,” Eleanor said. “I’m not on duty for another half hour.”

  Dr. Welder nodded, his bald head shining in the overhead light. “Friend of yours?” he asked, noting her own pallor and the lines of worry in her face.

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation. “Will he be all right?”

  He nodded. “Salmonella, most likely,” he added. “We’ll know when we get a blood workup. We’ll get him into a room and give him something to stop the dysentery and nausea, and build him back up with fluids. Send his father down to talk to me when he’s through answering questions for Lettie.”

  Lettie was Leticia Balew, the night admissions nurse, a capable and dedicated technician, well liked by Eleanor and most of the other staff. It was a good hospital, with some excellent health-care professionals. Eleanor felt fortunate to work with them, and more grateful than ever now for their expertise. Keegan was still important to her; tonight had brought that fact home with a vengeance. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.

  Dr. Welder noticed her uncharacteristic hesitation. “He’ll be all right. I promise,” he added with a faint grin. “Now go find his father, will you?”

  “Yes, Doctor,” she said automatically.

  She cast a last, lingering look at Keegan’s still form and grimaced as she turned and went down the long hall. Gene Taber met her halfway, pale and looking as if he expected to hear the worst.

  “Salmonella,” she said, quoting the doctor. “They’re giving him something to stop the nausea and dysentery. They’ll keep him, I’m sure, until they get some fluids back into him. He’ll be fine now.”

  “Can I see him?” he asked.

  “Yes. First, though, we have to give Lettie some information,” she added, drawing her arm through his. “Meanwhile, they’ll draw blood for testing and get him into a room and settled. By the time you see him, he’ll be much better.”

  He didn’t argue, but he looked as if he wanted to. “I should have stopped him,” he murmured as they walked. “I was going to go out and get us something to eat, but O’Clancy wanted to see some videotapes of my new colts, and Maureen doesn’t cook, you know. Keegan had a terrible appetite. Mary June will be sick herself when she hears about this.”

  “Salmonella isn’t a killer, if it’s caught in time. And you did the right thing,” she said. She smiled up at him. “Now, come on, nervous dad, and I’ll give you some coffee while you answer all Lettie’s questions, okay?”

  “You’re a nice girl,” he said sincerely, smiling wearily at her. “I was scared to death when I called you. Thank you for coming.”

  “I like him, too,” she confessed ruefully.

  “Only like, Eleanor?” he asked delicately.

  She turned down a hallway. “Here’s Lettie’s office,” she said cheerfully, ignoring the question.

  She introduced him to the elderly nurse, then went down to the canteen to get coffee from the machine. When she took it to him, she sat quietly by his side while he answered the necessary questions. By the time he finished, Keegan was installed in a private room and sleeping peacefully, an IV in one muscular arm and the night nurse buzzing around taking vitals when they entered.

  “Thank goodness it’s almost your shift,” Vicky Tanner said, grinning at her coworker as she jotted down the information on Keegan’s chart. “I’ve had two heart attacks on the floor in one night. The medical staff has really been working tonight.”

  “I can imagine,” Eleanor said. “Emergency was bouncing when I came in. How is he now?” she asked, drawing the nurse to one side as Gene sat down in the chair by his son’s bed.

  “Vitals have picked up already,” Vicky replied. “He’ll do, but he’s a very sick man. His father got him here just in time. He’s badly dehydrated.”

  Eleanor nodded. “Well, I’d better get down to the office so that Mary can give her report and go home to bed. You, too,” she said with a smile. She glanced at Keegan, her dark eyes more eloquent than she realized. “I’m glad Dr. Welder sent Keegan to my floor. He’s sort of a friend of the family.”

  Vicky studied her. “Yes. Well, see you tomorrow.”

  “Have a nice day.”

  “I hope to sleep right through it, thanks.” Vicky grinned.

  Eleanor went to the bedside and touched Gene’s shoulder even as she stared down at Keegan’s sleeping face. He was still pale, but his color was a little better now, thank goodness. “I have to go on duty,” she said. “He’ll be all right, you know.”

  “Thank God.” He sighed wearily and shook his head. “There’s only been one time in his life that he’s been really sick, when he was about ten years old and had a bad fall. Otherwise he’s been healthy—so healthy that it made this doubly frightening.”

  “He’ll sleep for a while now,” she told him. “But you’re welcome to stay. I’ll check on you later.”

  He nodded. “Oh, here.” He handed her the car keys.

  “Thanks for bringing it,” she said. “How will you get home?”

  He grimaced. “The O’Clancys will be right along, I’m afraid,” he said with distaste. “My houseguests are becoming fixtures. And the last thing he needs is Maureen cooing over him when he can hardly hold his head up.”

  “I’ll send Nurse Wren down to run them off ten minutes after they get here,” she said gleefully.

  “Nurse Wren?”

  “The name is not indicative of her nature, I’m afraid,” Eleanor told him, and smiled. “She’s fifty, hatchet-nosed, and the hospital is her life and her career.”

  “Poor O’Clancys,” he said, and returned her smile.

  She winked, glanced once more at Keegan and left him with his father.

  It was late afternoon before Keegan regained consciousness. He looked pale and weak, and he could barely lift his head at all. His father had gone home only minutes before, and the O’Clancys had stayed barely ten minutes before Nurse Wren got hold of them. Eleanor almost felt guilty for sending Wren into the room, but it had bothered her—in unexpected ways—to see that Irish woman bending over Keegan so lovingly and kissing his helpless face. She did feel possessive about Keegan; she couldn’t help it. She’d shared something with him that she’d never shared with anyone else, that she never wanted to share with anyone else. She hate
d the thought of that Maureen person touching him, being with him as she had. It was beyond bearing. Seeing Maureen kissing him triggered a horrible emptiness in her. She’d come face-to-face with reality, with the fact that she’d never really have Keegan. Not his love, or any kind of future with him. He’d marry someone like Maureen, and she would be alone, as she’d been alone since she’d left Lexington four years ago. Despite his desire for her, Keegan would never be able to give her what she wanted most: his love.

  She had to force herself to walk to his bed, to take his temperature and pulse and blood pressure with cool professionalism. Especially with those very blue eyes wide open and watching every move she made.

  “Out…of uniform,” he said weakly, and tried to smile as she pumped up the cuff she’d fixed around his arm and read his blood pressure.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Your cap.”

  She sighed. “I left it at home,” she replied. “Your father called as I was making breakfast. I barely took time to dress.”

  He caught her hand as she removed the instrument, holding her fingers despite her feeble effort to free them.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  “It’s my job,” she replied, and gently took his fingers from hers and put them back over his chest. “Rest now. You’ve been dreadfully sick.”

  “Told you…my own cooking would…kill me someday,” he murmured drowsily.

  “It very nearly did,” she said quietly. She reached down and smoothed back his unruly hair. It was cool and damp under her fingers. “Get some rest now. You’ve had a rough night.”

  “My stomach is sore.” He grimaced, touching it through the sheet.

  “I guess so,” she said, “with all those spasms. By tomorrow, you’ll be much better.”

  “Stay with me,” he whispered, clutching at her skirt.

  That went through her like an arrow, that whispered plea. He was sedated and surely didn’t know what he was saying; she realized that. But it was so sweet, thinking that he cared enough to want her with him.

  She touched his hand with hers and held it until he fell asleep again. Then she tucked it back under the cover and pulled the sheet over him.