A Treasure Worth Seeking (9 page)

She pondered the question for a moment and then answered, "It feels hollow, but every once in a while it cramps again. Not as bad as before."

"Well, there's not anything in there to cramp now," he smiled. Now he was taking her blood pressure, counting her pulse, and pushing a thermometer under her tongue.

"I'm going to ask you some questions. Just nod your head yes or no. Do you have frequent cases of this type of gastritis?"

No.

"Has an ulcer been diagnosed by a physician?"

No.

"Was there any blood in what you threw up?"

No.

"Are you pregnant?"

For some inexplicable reason her eyes flew to Lance, who was standing at the foot of the bed. He had put on a shirt, but it remained unbuttoned.

"Um?" the doctor asked again.

No.

"Are you taking any medication including birth control pills?"

She was about to shake her head "no" when she remembered the antibiotic. Yes.

"I'll get it," Lance said and went into the bathroom.

The doctor took the thermometer out of her mouth and looked at it. "Well, you certainly don't have fever. Your temperature is below normal," he said with a chuckle.

"It usually is," Erin said and hoped that the grimace on her face was at least the facsimile of a smile. "What is your name?" she asked.

"Andrew Joshua."

"Thank you," she found the strength to whisper, and he patted her hand.

"Let's get you well, then you can thank me."

He took the package of pills out of Lance's hand and pulled a pair of silver framed glasses out of his breast pocket. He read the information on the back of the box.

Erin looked at Lance. He had shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and was staring at her from his post at the foot of the bed. It never occurred to her to question his presence in the room while the doctor examined her.

She was simply glad that he was there. Quite out of con-text, she noticed that the furrow between his brows was perfectly aligned with the cleft in his chin. He gave her a brief, reassuring half smile and the warmth from his eyes seemed to reach out and touch her. She wished she didn't know how frightful she must look.

Melanie was still nowhere to be seen.

"Ah, penicillin," Dr. Joshua said. "What are you taking it for?"

"A sore throat."

"When did you get it?"

"Last week. Tuesday I think."

"You've followed the directions exactly, taking three each day?"

"The day before yesterday I missed one at noon." She slanted a look at Lance.

"Did you make it up or just skip it?" the doctor asked.

"I skipped it."

"Well, do us all a favor and skip the rest of them, too.

I think you've had an allergic reaction to the drug. It's a very good drug, but as you know, to someone who is allergic to something, even a good thing can be deadly."

"But I've taken penicillin all my life," Erin protested.

"This is a new synthetic variety. Something in its makeup and yours is incompatible."

"I had no idea," Erin murmured.

"Well now you do. Be sure when you get home to notify your doctor of what happened. I'll write up a report you can take back with you. How's the throat now?"

"It hasn't bothered me for the last couple of days."

"Good. Now I'm going to give you a shot to help you sleep and keep those cramps at bay. I'll also leave an antinausea medicine in case you have any more attacks, though I doubt you. will or you would have had another by now. Eat light until you feel really hungry." She was revolted by even the mention of food, and Dr. Joshua laughed at her expression. "I'm sure you won't want anything for a while."

He gave her the shot in her arm while chatting about the Houston Oilers last season. He tossed the disposable syringe back in his black bag and said, "Unless you want a bad case of pneumonia on top of everything else, you'd better get up and let us change this bed. Slip into another nightgown, too."

She struggled to sit up, but her muscles felt like water and another cramp gripped her. "I'm sorry," she gasped breathlessly and fell back against the pillows.

Lance was around the bed in a split second. He lifted her as he had before and carried her to the bathroom. Dr. Joshua was calling down the hall for Melanie to bring fresh linens when Lance set her down on the dressing table stool.

"I'll get you another nightgown. Do you want me to send in Mrs. Lyman?"

She shook her head. "No. I think I can manage if you'll toss a fresh one through the door. They are in the second drawer in the chest." The speech, short as it was, exhausted her.

Lance disappeared and she slipped the straps of her gown down over her shoulders and managed to work it over her hips and step out of it without standing up.

"Here it is," Lance called from the other side of the door as the soft cotton nightshirt came sailing toward her.

"Can you reach it?" he asked.

"Yes," she said and wondered what he would have done had the garment been out of her reach. She flushed hotly, and it wasn't from her illness. She
knew
what he would have done. She shrugged into the sleeves of the nightshirt and tried to button it do
wn the front. For her weak, rub
bery arms, it seemed like a Herculean task.

"Call me when you're ready," he said from beyond the door.

"I'm almost . . . I . . . " she trailed off weakly.

He came through the door and saw her listless arms hanging loosely at her sides. A look of great tenderness came over his face and he knelt down in front of her.

He buttoned the nightshirt from her breast to her knees with dispatch, as though afraid to prolong the job. When he reached the last button, he paused. In the next heartbeat, his cheek was pressed against her bare knees as his strong hands molded the backs of her calves. She wanted to reach out and touch the burnished hair that tickled her skin, but couldn't summon the strength. His hands moved up the backs of her legs, massaging the tired, useless muscles.

He raised his head and dropped a brief kiss on her knee before he secured the last button. Lifting her into his arms, he carried her into the bedroom. She was coming to look forward to the strong arms enfolding her and drawing her against that hard body.

She saw that the doctor and Melanie were still making the bed and talking in subdued tones. She was growing drowsy under the effects of the shot, and her head fell against Lance's chest when he sat down in the easy chair with her in his lap.

A delicious languor overcame her. The rise and fall of his chest was rhythmic under her head, and the hairs exposed by his open shirt teased her nose. Unconsciously, she snuggled down deeper in his lap and slipped her hand inside his shirt, resting it on the crisp curly mat.

She didn't even know when her fingers instinctively sought that small bud of flesh nestled in those curls or the anguished joy it brought Lance when she touched him so privately. Without word, without thought, a small deed communicated a heart's secret desire. Lance's hand followed hers, slipping under the fabric of his shirt to cover that smaller hand, pressing it against him as if he wanted her to become part of his flesh.

It must have been her imagination when she felt him bury his face in her hair. The murmured words she heard were indistinguishable, but rife with emotion. And the sweet brush of lips across her forehead was surety part of a dream. But whether it was her imagination or not, she wanted this feeling to last forever and mumbled a feeble protest when she felt Lance rise with her and cross to the bed.

He was gently spreading the covers over her when she heard Dr. Joshua say, "Let her sleep tomorrow as much as she wants to."

"Will she be all right?" Was it Lance who asked that question so anxiously? It must have been. Wasn't he the only man here except for the doctor?

"Yeah. She'll be okay. She'll feel like hell tomorrow, but by the next day, she should be on the mend. Call me if she's not."

Erin heard their good-byes and through half-closed eyes saw the light go out. But not everyone left. Someone was coming back toward the bed. She thought whoever it was lifted her hand and pressed it against a hard, whiskered cheek before bringing it to his mouth and planting a deep, moist kiss into its palm.

She wanted to know who it was. But she couldn't stay awake.

Besides, it was probably only her imagination again.

Judging by the position of the sun through the windows, she thought it must be sometime in the afternoon when she awakened. She lay motionless, waiting for another cramp to squeeze her stomach, but nothing happened. The only symptoms that remained were a debility in every limb and a soreness in every muscle.

Turning over onto her side, she saw that someone had thoughtfully left an ice bucket on the bedside table. She opened it, took out two small cubes of ice, and placed them on her parched, starchy tongue. She was asleep before they had melted completely.

Late evening had shaded the sky to a soft purple when she woke up to the clatter of dishes. She rolled over and saw Melanie pushing through the open door carrying a tray.

"You're awake," she exclaimed happily. "I was beginning to think you'd sleep forever, but Mr. Barrett said that under no circumstances were you to be awakened."

"Melanie?" Erin croaked. What had happened to her voice? She cleared her dry throat and tried again. "Melanie, I'm so sorry to bother you this way."

"Erin! Please don't offend me by apologizing. You couldn't help getting sick."

"I know, but I've been such a bother to you. As if you didn't have enough on your mind." She struggled to sit up, but barely managed to prop herself against the pillows.

Melanie set the tray on the table. "I'm the one who should apologize." She glanced down at her clasped hands. "I couldn't help you last night. Ever since I was a little girl, I have been terrified of illness. Anytime I'm around someone who is sick, I take on their symptoms.

Forgive me, Erin, for leaving you alone when you needed me.

Erin took Melanie's hand in hers. "I was too busy to notice," she said and made the effort to smile. "I feel much better now."

"Oh, I'm so glad. Mr. Barrett thought you may want some crackers and tea. He has been acting so strangely all day. Do you know what he did last night? He told Dr.

Joshua that you were his wife. I didn't say anything. When he gets that fierce look on his face—you know the one—I would agree to anything he said." Melanie didn't notice that her sister-in-law's face had drained of what little color it had. She continued: "He said your stomach would be empty. Can you eat something without... u h . . . throwing up again?" she asked worriedly.

"I don't know," Erin said. The thought of food was still obnoxious, and now her hollow stomach was fluttering nervously after hearing what Melanie had said about Lance. However, this weakness was annoying. "I'll nibble them gradually."

Melanie sat at the foot of the bed and talked to Erin while she ate two of the crackers. Then she sipped the tepid tea to moisten her mouth.

"The red telephone has been ringing all day. I think something is going on, but so far Mr. Barrett hasn't told me anything."

"Maybe there's really nothing to tell," Erin consoled the younger woman, who looked so helpless and forlorn.

Again Erin apologized for being unable to lend her physical support.

"You just get well so you'll be healthy when Ken does come home," Melanie said as she stood up. "Would you like to visit the little girl's room?"

Erin agreed that she probably should while help was available, and together they managed to get her to the bathroom. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, and used the commode. The trip back to the bed seemed an odyssey.

As she gratefully sank back into the pillows, Erin said sleepily, "Melanie, thank you for bringing the ice today. It was just what I wanted."

"I didn't bring it. Mr. Barrett did."

She closed the door behind her, and Erin was left alone in the twilight-tinted room with only her thoughts for company.

IT WAS AMAZING
what a difference twelve hours could make in her condition. In the morning, she was feeling much stronger. Tentatively she put her feet on the floor beside the bed and stood up. She swayed, and the room spun crazily before finally coming to rest, but she walked to the bathroom under her own power.

She took a sponge bath in the sink and changed into a fresh nightgown. Her hair was matted to her head, but a brisk brushing helped restore it to its usual springly luster.

She relieved her dry lips by applying a slightly tinted lip gloss to them. As a last touch, she splashed on a lemony scented cologne. Any heavier fragrance would have played havoc with her queasy stomach, but the cologne made her feel more like a human being. She must be feeling better; vanity was emerging.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed rubbing lotion on her hands when the door opened a crack and Lance peeped in. Her hands stopped in midair, and she stared at him over the space that separated them. The pale peach nightgown she had put on was a soft batiste, but not too sheer. From a lace-trimmed yoke, it buttoned primly down the front.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi."

"Are you going to live?" he asked, smiling.

She returned the smile. "I think so, though I wasn't sure I wanted to for a while there."

"You were very sick."

__ She averted her eyes, inundated with embarrassment when she remembered how sick she had been in front of him. "I want to thank you for being so helpful the other night. It couldn't have been pleasant for you."
Why did
you tell the doctor that I was your wife?
she longed to ask.

She continued to stare down at her bare feet. When he didn't respond, she raised her eyes to him.

"You don't have to thank me," he said. "I wish I could have spared you the suffering." They looked at each other for a long, tense moment when all the rest of the world seemed to disintegrate, leaving only the two of them free to be totally absorbed in each other. He forced himself to tear his eyes away from the beguiling picture she made and said quickly, "You must be starving. I'll fix you something, though don't expect haute cuisine."

"Don't go to any trouble. Melanie—"

"Has gone to her parents' house this morning," he finished for her. "Family business. Mike is manning the telephone. I'm at your service." He smiled, but it was a self-conscious smile. "I'll be right back," he said before he hurriedly left the room.

Erin climbed into the bed after straightening the covers as well as she could. She fluffed the pillows and lay back against them, once again feeling drained of energy. Her body still had a long way to go until she felt up to playing a set of tennis, she thought tiredly.

She was just about to doze off again when Lance came in with a tray. "The blue plate special this morning features hot cereal, dry toast, and iced tea," he said with a broad smile.

He smiled so seldom. Perhaps it was a good thing he didn't. When he did, he was disarming and captivating. A weakness that had nothing to do with her illness permeated Erin's body. The nightgown over her breasts vibrated with the rapid beating of her heart. She saw Lance's eyes take note of that stirring cloth as he leaned across her to place the tray on her lap.

"The tea sounds good," she said nervously. "I couldn't have stood anything sweet, but I'm thirsty for something cold."

"Dr. Joshua said you should lay off milk and fruit juice for a few days."

"I never drink milk anyway."

"Never?" he asked.

"No, it's fattening," she answered, taking a bite out of the corner of a piece of toast.

"Ah!" He looked her over carefully, following the outline of her legs under the blankets. "You're a real heavy-weight all right." For the first time, she saw a spark of humorous mischief in the depths of his startling
b
lue eyes.

He was actually teasing her!

"I might be if I guzzled milk all the time," she said, laughing, and he joined her. "What is this?" she asked, looking dubiously into the bowl of hot cereal. "It looks like paste."

"I beg your pardon, madam. That bowl of cream of rice is the specialty of the day. There is not one lump in it."

"Cream of rice. Agh!" she shivered. "Do you expect me to
eat
that?"

"Every bite. You need your strength back, and toast alone won't do it. You've got to eat something that will stick to your ribs."

"I think this is going to stick to my throat."

"Now, now, don't insult the chef." He picked up the spoon and ladled a big portion out of the bowl. Stubbornly and without a modicum of compassion, he held it in front of her mouth until she opened it.. He shoved the mouthful inside. She had barely swallowed the gooey stuff when he was holding another spoonful for her. She laughed when he began opening and closing his mouth in the way he wanted hers to move.

"This is just like feeding a baby," she managed to say before another bite was pushed into her mouth. "You're very good at it."

"I should be," he said.

God! He's married!
she thought. That had never occurred to her. He was probably married and had a house full of children.

"I've been roped into feeding my sister's kids too many times not to have learned a few tricks," he was saying.

"That's why I knew about the crackers. Every time she was pregnant, my sister would go through boxes of soda crackers to control the nausea."

"Do you have any children of your own?" She had been relieved to hear that he was referring to his nieces and/or nephews, but she still didn't know his marital status.

Before she could stop it, the question had popped out. The spoon with the next tasteless lump of cream of rice on it stopped on its journey to her mouth.

"No," he said quietly. "I haven't been married for ten years. The woman I married so ill-advisedly decided after two years of matrimony that I was stifling her and that she wanted a career. She left and filed for divorce." His pragmatic explanation didn't leave much room for discussion, so Erin didn't pursue it. He wasn't married and hadn't been for a long time. For some reason that fact relieved her immensely and made her extremely happy.

After another few bites, she said, "I don't think I want any more. Thank you."

"You've probably had enough for now. For lunch you can have potato soup."

"Vichyssoise?" she asked delightedly.

His light eyebrows lowered in derision and he said flatly, "No, just plain potato soup out of a can." Then they both laughed.

"Tell me about your family," Erin said as Lance removed the tray from her lap. She caught a whiff of shaving soap as he leaned over her. "You have a sister?"

"Yes. She and her husband have four children. When we all get together with Mom and Dad, it's a madhouse."

Erin felt a pang of jealousy. Gerald O'Shea hadn't had any brothers or sisters living. Her mother only had the one sister in Louisiana who was childless and widowed. Erin had hoped she would find Ken with a large family. She longed for relatives. Bloodlines. Descendants. Family.

"I envy you your family," she said. "I always wanted cousins, relatives to visit during the summer and holidays, things like that. I wish Ken and Melanie had children."

She sighed. Sometimes the simplest dreams were the most elusive.

Lance crossed the room and stood with his back to her, looking out the window. "We have a lead on Lyman," he said unexpectedly.

She sat up instantly, her lethargy vanishing. "You do?

Melanie said last night that she thought you might. What happened?"

"We found out that he rented a car. We had checked out that possibility immediately, of course, but someone missed a private rental firm. When the owner reported to the police that someone had used a phony driver's license, they called us. The man confirmed Lyman's identity when we showed him a picture." He drew a deep breath. "So now we have a concrete lead. We know the kind of car he's driving and the license plate number. We should find him in a matter of days."

There was nothing to say. Erin lay back and closed her eyes, offering up a silent prayer that her brother would soon come to his senses and turn himself in or at least that he would be found.

"Dr. Joshua sent over a report for you to take back to your doctor in Houston. It's downstairs." Lance didn't sound really interested in the subject and neither was she.

She answered mechanically, "Good. I'll remember to pick it up before I go home."

For the first time Erin noticed that it was raining. Quite hard, in fact. Large round drops were strik
ing the win
dowpanes, and the eaves of the house were dripping heavily with a haunting percussion. The room was dim, encapsulating, intimate.

"I suppose you'll have to go back to your business and . . . everything . . . after Lyman is found." Lance's voice was low and deep, like the rolling thunder that echoed from hillsides far away. He looked so large outlined against the gray light of the window. His forearm was braced against the window frame. As his head leaned into his fist, his thumb raked back and forth across the cleft in his chin.

"I suppose so," Erin replied vaguely. Suddenly, going back to Houston was a dismal prospect. But she loved her life there! Her business. She was fond of Bart. However, none of that seemed very important any longer. Understanding this man, knowing his needs and meeting them took precedence over everything else. His happiness became essential to hers. Were she forced to choose, at this moment, she would rather be with Lance in this room than anywhere else in the world.