Courtney's Baby Plan

She lifted an eyebrow and managed a calm smile. “Feeling a little cranky, are we?”

“What is it with you nurses and the eternal we?”

“Ignore him,” Axel advised as he pushed the wheelchair past her into the house. He pulled a fat, oversized envelope from beneath his arm and handed it to her. “He’s been bitching since I picked him up in Cheyenne. Here’re his meds.”

Courtney took the envelope and looked inside at the various prescription bottles it contained. She’d already reviewed a copy of her new patient’s medical chart. It had been faxed to her yesterday after Axel had called her out of the blue to ask if she was interested in taking on a home health care patient.

She’d done similar work before. Just not when the patient in question was living under her roof. But the money he’d said the patient would pay had been enough to get her interest, and in a hurry.

It was only after she’d agreed and had asked how he knew the patient that she’d learned who her new roomie was going to be.

There was no earthly way, at that point, that Courtney would have been able to back out without explaining to her cousin why. And she had no intention of sharing those particular details.

So, she’d squelched her reservations and reviewed the file when it arrived. Even though she was trained for objectivity, she’d been horrified at the injuries that Mason had sustained. She also hadn’t been able to help wondering how on earth he’d been hurt, but that particular information had not been in his chart.

Which meant it was probably work related.

She was ridiculously familiar with the hush-hush aura surrounding the company that Mason worked for, because it was the same company that many of her relatives had worked for. Or still did.

Of course she wasn’t supposed to know much about Hollins-Winword. But she wasn’t an idiot. She had ears that worked perfectly well. The first time she’d heard the name, she’d been a schoolgirl. As she’d gotten older, she’d discerned more.

And then when Ryan went missing …

She broke off the thought. It was pointless reliving the misery of believing her big brother was dead, because he was home now. Safe and sound, miraculously enough a newlywed with a family of his own.

She followed Axel and Mason into the house and nudged the door closed behind her as she studied the labels on the prescription bottles. Various industrial-strength antibiotics and vitamins and minerals. When she got to the last bottle, though, she frowned a little.

She’d read in Mason’s file that he refused to take prescription-strength pain medication, yet that’s exactly what she was looking at.

There was nothing in his file about drug allergies, so—if he was anything like the men in her family—it was probably more likely some macho belief that real men didn’t need anything to take the edge off their pain, even if it was only for a few days.

She dropped the narcotic back in the envelope and stepped around Mason’s protruding leg cast. She set the envelope on the square dining room table near the arch separating the great room from the kitchen and turned toward the men. “Your room is at the end of the hall.” Meeting Mason’s gaze only made her skin want to flush, so she focused on the few stray, silver strands glimmering among the dark brown hair that sprang back thick and straight from his forehead. “The bathroom is next to it. You are able to manage with crutches, aren’t you?”

“It’s not pretty, but yeah.” He sounded marginally less cranky than before, and Courtney couldn’t help but feel a rush of sympathy for the man.

No matter what had transpired between them that Valentine’s night, the man was recovering from several serious injuries. He had matching long, blue casts on his right arm and his left leg. She also knew that he’d suffered several bruised ribs. He was in pain and, for now, was having to depend on someone else to help him with basic functions from bathing to eating. Of course he was cranky.

Anyone would be.

She looked at her cousin. “Why don’t you bring in the rest of his things, and I’ll get Mason settled in bed.” She could feel heat climbing her neck at that. She didn’t bother waiting for Axel to respond but moved next to him and nudged his hands away from the wheelchair so she could push it herself.

Last night, before she’d gone on duty at the hospital, she’d rearranged some of the furniture in her living area to accommodate Mason. Her experience with him told her that he wasn’t the least bit clumsy. But Mason was a big man and, clumsy or not, he had a cast covering one leg from foot to thigh. That, combined with the cast on his opposing arm, meant he’d need all the space he could maneuver in, whether by wheelchair or by crutches.

The wheels on the chair squeaked slightly against the reclaimed-wood, planked floor as she pushed him down the hall, hesitating only briefly when they passed the bathroom. “Tub with a shower,” she told him in the most neutral nurse’s voice she could muster.

“Don’t tease me. Only thing I get these days is a wet washcloth.”

She felt heat in her throat again as she turned his chair slightly and carefully pushed him into the spare bedroom. “Sorry. I imagine a real shower is something you’re looking forward to.”

He made a grunting sound in reply.

After angling the chair alongside the bed, she moved around it. She’d already pulled the covers back, and the pillows were stacked up against the wrought-iron headboard. There was also an old recliner from her parents that Ryan had muscled into one corner of the room.

She stopped in front of Mason. He was wearing a white T-shirt that strained at his shoulders and a pair of gray sweatpants with one leg split up the side to accommodate the cast. His toes below the cast were bare, and he had on a scuffed tennis shoe on his other foot.

And he still managed to make her mouth water. Which was not what a nurse should be thinking about her patient, she reminded herself. “Ready to get out of the chair?”

He looked no more enthusiastic than she felt. “You’re not strong enough to lift me.”

“Not if you were dead weight,” she allowed. “But you’re not. So which do you prefer? Bed or chair?”

He didn’t look at her. “Bed.”

Which he probably took as some admission of weakness. Coming from a family of strong individuals, that, too, was something with which she had plenty of familiarity. “All right.” Before she could let her misgivings get in the way, she locked the wheels and removed the arm of the wheelchair. Then she bent her knees close to his and grasped him loosely around the waist, leaving room for him to brace his good leg beneath him as she lifted. “Ready?”

He gave another grunt, putting out his uninjured hand against the mattress, so he could add his own leverage. “Just do it.”

She tightened her arms, lifting with her legs, and held back her own grunt as she took his weight for the brief moment before he got his leg beneath him. Then he was out of the chair, pivoting more or less smoothly until he landed on the bed, sitting.

She held on to him only long enough to be certain that he wasn’t going to tip over, before she straightened. Her stomach was quivering nervously, but the sight of his pale face and tight lips took precedence. “I know,” she murmured. “Not very pleasant. But it’ll get better.”

His expression shifted from pain to pained. “I don’t need coddling.”

She gave him the kind of stern look she’d learned from her grandmother. Gloria was retired now, but she’d been a nurse, and it was in that capacity that she’d met Courtney’s grandfather, Squire Clay. And she’d had plenty of years since then to refine that stern look and pass it on to her granddaughters. “Believe me,” she assured him, “you won’t get coddling from me. Now, do you want to sit there on the side of the bed or lean back?” She didn’t wait for an answer before she reached down for his casted leg.

But his hands brushed against hers as he did the same, and she had to suck down another shock of tingles that ripped through her. She moved her hand from beneath his. Feeling shaky again, she deftly tucked a wedge of foam, which she’d gotten from the hospital, beneath his leg and stepped away, while he swore and jabbed at the pillows propped behind him.

Sweat had broken out on his brow.

She curled her fingers, fighting the urge to help him as he awkwardly shifted, lest he mistake her assistance for the banned coddling. “What can I get you to make you more comfortable?”

He finally settled, his head leaning against the headboard behind him. He shoved his hand through his hair and looked up at her. “I don’t suppose sex is one of the options, is it?”

Chapter Two

Courtney stared, and the heat that she’d been trying to keep at bay flooded hot and furious into her cheeks. “Excuse me?”

“You want me to repeat it?”

Her lips parted. She wanted to say something, but there just weren’t any words that were coming to mind.

And then there wasn’t time, because Axel came into the room and dumped a very worn leather duffel bag on the floor next to the foot of the bed. He also had a pair of metal crutches that he propped against the wall near the doorway. “I’d hang around and shoot the breeze,” he told them both, “but Tara’s got an appointment this afternoon and I’m on Aidan-duty. Hard to believe how much one fourteen-month-old kid can get around.” He pulled a slender cell phone out of his back pocket and handed it to Mason. “Courtesy of Cole,” he told him, before bumping knuckles with Mason’s fist and hustling out of the room.

A second later, they heard the front door open and close.

Courtney held her tongue between her teeth and looked back at Mason. “No,” she finally said, breaking the thick silence. “Sex is not an option. Obviously.”

His gaze trapped hers, but she couldn’t tell if he was amused or not. “Because you think I’m presently incapable, or because I didn’t call you the morning after?”

She shoved her curling fists into the pockets of her scrubs. She didn’t even want to entertain ideas of what Mason was capable or incapable of doing. “I didn’t ask you to call me,” she reminded. Not the morning after, nor during the twenty months that had passed since then. “You’re here because you’re recovering from an assortment of injuries. Period.”

The corner of his lips lifted a fraction. “Yeah, that’s what I expected but figured we might as well get it out of the way so you can stop looking worried that I’m going to bring it up.”

Ordinarily, she preferred being straightforward, too. But right now, she wished she could keep up the pretense that nothing had ever occurred between them. “Number one—” she leaned over and picked up his duffel bag “—I wasn’t worried. And number two, now it’s out of the way. Subject done.” She hefted the surprisingly heavy bag onto the empty surface of the dresser and glanced at him over her shoulder. “I’ll unpack this if you don’t mind?”

His lips twisted. His gaze was unblinking. “Do I have a choice?”

Her fingers let go of the zipper pull. “Yes,” she said slowly and turned to face him. “Nobody is trying to run your life for you, Mason.” She didn’t know what was more disturbing. His presence, the taste of his name on her lips after all this time or the disturbing notion that he considered himself some sort of captive.

“You’ll be the first nurse who hasn’t tried.”

She leaned her hip against the dresser and folded her arms over her chest. In just the one night that they’d shared, he’d learned her body better than she’d known it herself. But other than the fact that he worked for the same company that had nearly stolen her brother for good, what she really knew about Mason could have fit on the head of a pin.

“Then I’ll be the first,” she said quietly. “The only thing I’m doing here is making sure you continue your recovery safely and with as much comfort as possible. You’re the one in control of your situation. Not me.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, which just seemed to concentrate that pale green and make it even more startling against his dark lashes. “Why did you agree to all this?” He lifted his hand, taking in the room and, she presumed, the situation in general.

She chewed the inside of her lip, then went for honesty. “I didn’t know you were the patient,” she admitted. “Not until after I’d agreed.”

He lifted his eyebrow. “Why didn’t you back out?”

Now, that was trickier.

She shrugged. “I don’t know.” She did, but she had no intention of sharing her reasoning.

Remember what you’re doing this for.

“So.” She patted the duffel bag. “Do you want me to leave this for you to deal with … or …?”

He was silent for so long that she couldn’t help wondering even more what was inside his head. She’d wondered a whole lot that night they’d been together, too. At least, she had during the moments when she’d been able to draw a coherent breath.

Which had been few and far between.

She swallowed down the jangling memory.

“Knock yourself out,” he finally said.

Feeling ridiculously relieved to have something to keep her hands busy, she turned to the task. He had a few pairs of jeans, a half-dozen colored T-shirts and a handful of sweatpants—all one-legged like the pair he was wearing. The sum total of his clothing wasn’t enough to fill even two of the six dresser drawers, and the pair of athletic shoes and scuffed cowboy boots didn’t come close to filling the floor of the bedroom closet.

Aside from a small leather shaving kit, the rest of the duffel was crammed with books, which explained the weight.

Hardbacks. Paperbacks. Some that looked brand new and others that looked as if they’d seen the wear from hundreds of hands. She stacked a bunch of books on the nightstand next to the bed, where they’d be in easy reach for him. “You’re a reader.” And an eclectic reader, to boot. He had everything from the latest thriller topping the bestseller charts to political commentaries and biographies to classic literature.

He shifted against the pillows, and she couldn’t help but see the way a thin line of white formed around his tightly held lips. “So?”

She adjusted the high stack. “Don’t get defensive. It’s just an observation.” She left the rest of the books in a stack on the dresser. “And not that it looks like you’ll run through all of these anytime soon, but I have a pretty loaded bookcase myself in the living room, too. You’re welcome to help yourself. Do you prefer to get around with wheels or these?” She held up the crutches.

“Those,” he said immediately. “Get rid of the chair altogether.”

“All right.” She propped the crutches right next to the bed, between the headboard and the nightstand. “Besides the books, feel free to help yourself to anything else around here.”

He lifted his eyebrow again, giving her a long look, and she pressed her lips together. He was toying with her. “Food-wise and such,” she clarified. “I’ll get you set up with a meal before I have to go to the hospital for my shift and bring Plato in so you can meet him. He’s gotten spoiled and used to having this bed for his own, but he’s a smart boy. You just tell him to stay off and he will.”

“Plato?”

She realized she was speaking so fast she was almost babbling and hated giving him any evidence that she was unsettled by his presence. “My Saint Bernard. He’s out in the backyard right now.”

“You didn’t have a dog before.”

“I didn’t own a house with a yard before,” she returned.

“No.” His gaze felt heavy on her face. “You had that apartment.”

Her throat suddenly felt dry and she swallowed, folding her arms over her chest. His gaze seemed to focus on them. Or on the achingly tight breasts that they were pressing against.

Probably her imagination.

Hopefully, just her imagination.

It was difficult enough ignoring her attraction for him, without thinking that he still carried some for her, too.

“What, um, what do you like to eat?”

His eyebrow peaked.

“For lunch,” she added doggedly.

“There’s nothing that I don’t much like.”

She moistened her lips. “You’re not exactly helping me here, Mason. If I came in here with brussels sprouts, would you be loving them?”

His expression suddenly lightened, and a faint smile toyed around his surprisingly lush lower lip. “Honey, as long as I don’t have to cook ‘em, I’ll be damn happy to eat ‘em.”

She exhaled and rolled her eyes. “Spoken like most men,” she said wryly and headed out of the bedroom, taking the wheelchair with her.

She didn’t breathe again, though, until she reached the privacy of the kitchen, and once she did, it took considerable effort not to collapse on a chair and just sit there.

But she hadn’t been exaggerating to Mason. She did have to get to work soon.

Just because her bank account was going to be dancing a jig before this was all over and Mason went on his way in a few months, didn’t mean that she didn’t have to earn her regular wages.

She folded the chair and stowed it in a closet, then moved past the ladder-back chairs surrounding the kitchen table that was tucked into the small bay overlooking her backyard, and pulled open the refrigerator door. Until recently, she’d never made much effort at cooking for herself. She’d never had to. It was always so easy just to drop by her folks’ place, or one of her other relatives’, and grab a bite when she was looking for some home-cooked food.

But things were changing. Takeout and scavenged meals weren’t going to do. So, after she’d moved into the house, she’d begun making an effort, and now her refrigerator was well stocked with fresh fruits and vegetables. She had a chicken casserole that she’d made the day before, as well as sliced pot roast, and she chose the thick, sliced beef to make two sandwiches for Mason. She added a sliced apple, a glass of water and a thick wedge of peach pie that she couldn’t take credit for since Ryan had brought it over.

Not giving herself a moment to dither over the meal—and dither she would, if she allowed it—she arranged everything on a sturdy wooden tray and carried it back to the bedroom, stopping only long enough to grab up the envelope with his meds and tuck it under her arm.

She breezed into the bedroom, her footsteps hesitating when she found him with his nose in a book, a pair of black-rimmed glasses perched almost incongruously on his aquiline nose.

Why she found the sight so particularly touching, she couldn’t say. But she did. Which just meant that she had to push a brisk tone past the tightness in her chest. “I have soda or iced tea, if you want something to drink other than water.” She tossed the envelope on the foot of the bed and grabbed the well-used folding lap table that she’d already had on hand and deftly set it over his lap, sliding the tray on top of it. “Or beer,” she added, remembering that had been his preference before. “Though, you really shouldn’t have alcohol right now.”

She glanced at him, waiting, and found him watching her, his glasses and book set aside. “What?” she asked.

“How’d you do that without spilling the water?”

Surprised, she looked down at the lap tray and meal. “Practice,” she said simply. “So … what do you want to drink besides water?”

His gaze passed her to land on the envelope lying near his foot. His lips tightened a little and he looked back at the meal. “Water’s all I need.” His jaw slid slightly to one side, then centered again. “Thank you. This looks good. I was half-afraid you’d be bringing in brussels sprouts.”

She smiled slightly. “Behave yourself and I won’t have to.” She picked up the envelope and poured the bottles out into her hand. “When was your last dose of antibiotics?”

He didn’t look up from the food. “Before I left Connecticut.”

Which meant too many hours. She set all but two of the bottles on the nightstand, where they’d be in easy reach for him, and poured out his doses, setting them on the tray. “You missed a dose.”

“I’ll live.”

“What’s your pain like?”

He bit off a huge corner of thick-sliced bread and tender beef and shrugged.

Macho men.

“On a scale of one to five,” she prodded. “Five being the worst.”

“Twelve,” he muttered around his mouthful.

She wasn’t particularly surprised. She could practically see his discomfort oozing out of his pores. “Good thing you’re eating,” she said and popped the lid off his painkillers. “It’ll help keep your stomach settled with this stuff.”

He lifted his hand, stopping her before she could drop one on her palm. “Throw the damn things down the toilet. I don’t need ‘em.”

She gave him a look. “Twelve?”

His gaze slid over hers, then away. “Fine.” His voice was short. “I don’t want them.”

“It’s not a sign of weakness to need—”

“I said no.”

She slowly put the cap back on the bottle, sensing that this was about something other than macho posturing. And, judging by the way he was holding himself even more stiffly than before, that he didn’t want her prying.

Which told her more than words could have said, anyway.

“Fair enough.” She set the bottle next to the others. “But you don’t have a choice about those,” she said firmly. She pointed to the two pills next to his plate. “If you want your bones to heal, you’ve got to beat back that infection once and for all.” She headed to the doorway. “I’ll go get Plato.”

Mason watched Courtney stride out of the room.

It was a helluva thing that he was almost more interested in the damn pill bottle within arm’s reach than he was in watching the particularly enjoyable sight of her shapely form moving underneath the thin pink fabric of her scrubs.

He swallowed the last of the first sandwich, leaned his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes. Too easily, the night they’d spent together came to life in his mind.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and opened his eyes again.

Since the moment he’d thrown McDougal’s daughter, Lari, to safety, he’d been in hell.

Coming to Weaver was just one more layer of it.

There was no future for Courtney with him, and she was the kind of woman who deserved futures. She was young and beautiful and caring and came from a strong, close family.

He was past young, scarred on the inside as well as the out, and the only family he knew—or who mattered to him—was the family of Hollins-Winword.

It was a fact of life that was easy enough to remember when he was a continent or two away from her.

But sprawled across a bed under her roof?

That was an entirely different matter.

“Plato, come meet Mason.”

He heard her voice before her footsteps and then she reappeared in the doorway with a gigantic Saint Bernard at her side.

“You didn’t get a dog.” Mason eyed the shaggy beast. “You got a damn horse.”

She grinned, bringing a surprising impishness to her oval face, and tucked her long, golden hair behind her ear. “He’s a big boy,” she agreed. Her fingers scrubbed through the dog’s thick coat and the beast’s tongue lolled with obvious pleasure. “But he’s a total marshmallow. He’s four and very well behaved.” She stopped next to the bed and gestured to the dog, who plopped his butt on the floor and looked across the mattress at Mason with solemn brown eyes. “Mason’s a friend, Plato.”

Mason stuck out his good hand and let the dog sniff him. Evidently satisfied, the dog slopped his tongue over Mason’s fingers and thumped his tail a few times.

Courtney smiled, then looked at the watch around her wrist. “I’ve got to get to work.” Her gaze skipped over Mason and around the room. She picked up the cell phone that Axel had left. “I’m adding the number at the hospital,” she said as her fingers rapidly tapped. “Plus my own cell number.” When she was finished, she set the phone on the nightstand. “But I’ll warn you—cell service isn’t always the greatest around here. There’s a landline in the kitchen, though.” She patted her hip. “Come on, Plato. Back outside.”