Healing Trace (2 page)

Fifty
people could have comfortably stood around in the entry area alone and never
bump elbows. She moved forward, blinking fast, trying to absorb the sheer
manliness of the house. Leather chairs and bronze statues of horses scattered
the perimeter of the room in shades of brown and black.

She
ran her fingers along the river rock wall, the surface cool and smooth against
her hand. Eye-catching stones, earthy yet luxurious on the prairie, she
wondered if they were imported.

An
overwhelming desire to study the room further in the hopes of learning more
about the owner of such a fancy place came over her, but she couldn't waste any
more time. She was already late, and she still needed to find Mr. LaBatte.

The
click of her shoes against the floor grew silent, and she paused. A large rug
covered the hardwood floor. She slipped her shoe off and ran her barefoot over
the plushness, and sighed. She wondered if someone shot the bear, or maybe it
came from another kind of animal, she couldn't be sure.

She
stepped back into her heel and strolled over to the hat table, bent down, and
studied a picture. She smiled. It wasn't hard to recognize Brody on one of his
birthdays, holding a cake and grinning. She tried to recall what Brody said his
last name was, but concluded that Mr. LaBatte must be Brody's father.

She
followed the hallway, wondering exactly where the couch would be in a house
this size. "Hello? I'm Joan O'Hanlon. I've been hired to be your nurse and
physical therapist for the next six weeks."

Most
of the shut-ins she delivered meals to were hard of hearing, and required her
to raise her voice when she talked. She decided to speak louder, in case the
same was true for her new employer.

"Mr.
LaBatte?"

A
moan came from further inside the house. "Yeah?"

She
hurried forward, plumping her hair and smoothing her slacks on the way. She
plastered a smile on her face, and went in search of her patient.

Through
the archway, she entered another spacious room and found a man sprawled out on
the couch, covered in a blanket with his arm placed across his forehead. She
sniffed, wishing she could do something about the smoke from the explosion
clinging to her clothes.

"I'm
sorry for arriving late on my first day of work. I had some trouble with my car
on the way over here." She stepped around the coffee table and came to a
complete stop.

This
man was not elderly, and he definitely wasn't Brody's father. Probably in his
mid-thirty's, he had long, straight black hair that hung down past his
shoulders and a piercing gaze the color of onyx. Like Brody, he too appeared
Native American, but besides the darker complexion, the similarities ended
there.

His
dark eyes moved over her hair, which was probably sticking out in all
directions after battling the catastrophe with her car. Not to mention the
terrifying ride on the world's biggest horse, she shuddered. If she hadn't have
been in such a hurry this morning to get to the ranch, she would have tamed it
into her customary clip at the back of her neck.

"You're
Mr. LaBatte?" She finger combed her hair.

He
lifted his head. "Who are you and what do you want?"

His
high angled cheekbones, strong jawline, and full lips showed his displeasure.
She tilted her head, trying to figure out what could be causing him such
discomfort and became distracted. He was simply striking. In a hard, rugged
way, all women went weak in the knees over.

She
inhaled slowly, trying to stop her heart from racing. "I'm Joan O'Hanlon.
Your nurse."

"I
don't want a nurse."

She
became aware that she was still staring, and stuck her hand down in front of
her. "Mr. LaBatte--."

"My
name's Trace, use it." His gaze slid down her body briefly before coming
back to her face. "Or better yet, don't, and get the hell out of my
house."

"Your…I'm
not sure who Brody is to you, but he hired me this morning to take care of you
while you recuperate." She gave him a small, humble smile.

Trace
scowled and ignored her hand.
O—kay.

Joan
retracted her arm and gazed around the room. "Let's see…Brody said there
were doctor's orders in the—Shoot! It's been such an exciting day with my car
blowing up, almost breaking my neck, not to mention how many teeth I probably
chipped on the horse ride, I forgot where he said I might find the
papers."

Trace
sniffed, pushed himself up into a sitting position, and grimaced. "Hang on
a damn minute. Where's that smell coming from? Is something burning?"

"That'd
be me. I'm wearing a mix of smoke au toilet and —she wrinkled her nose—
horse." She sighed, and shifted gears. "I remember. Brody said the
orders where on the kitchen counter. I'll be right back."

She
took three steps, stopped, and turned back to Trace. "Um, could you tell
me which direction I would go to find the kitchen?"

However
reluctantly, Trace pointed behind her before collapsing on the couch and
moaning. She softened. Poor guy.

Give
her five minutes, and he'd change his disposition and be glad she'd come to
take care of him. She'd have him comfortable and on his crutches in no time.

Chapter Two

Joan
sat on the leather loveseat across from her drug-induced patient. Trace's lips
parted and puckered with every breath he exhaled. She bid her time while he
slept, watching those lips. Relaxed in sleep they were plump, moist, and all
too alluring.

Appearance
wise, he was much different from the type of men who usually grabbed her
attention, and he fascinated her more than she wanted to admit. She crossed her
legs. She'd had friends talk about the magnetism of the bad boy over the
typical nine-to-five man and until now, she'd never understood the pull.

 Physically,
Trace was gorgeous. His attitude challenged her to draw him toward her, hoping
she could break the wall he put up.

Not
that she was desperate for a man, or wanted the stress of adding a relationship
into her life. She glanced away from her patient. Trace was all too infuriating
and bad tempered when awake, so in his sleeping state it made sense that she'd
find him more attractive.

She
forced herself to concentrate on the magazine that lay opened on her lap. The
chance at working with someone closer to her own age, rather than a geriatric
patient must be throwing her for a loop. It hadn't been that long since she'd
had a boyfriend, a date, sex.

Taking
care of Trace was a personal test. Nothing more.

She
glanced at him again. His arms were thick, strong, and she suspected the lower
half of him would be in the same kind of shape. She caught her lower lip
between her teeth. He was possibly the best-looking man she'd ever seen. If she
wasn't here as a professional, in a business type of situation, she'd be
tongue-tied and clueless about what to say to him.

"Is
it part of your job to sit and watch me sleep?"

The
magazine slid off her lap, and she bent over to pick it up. Her cheeks grew
warm, and she was thankful for her long, curly hair curtaining her face. She
was supposed to care for the man's health, not be paid to ogle her patient.

She
cleared her throat and hooked the stray strands of hair behind her ear.
"You're awake."

He
stretched, and the blanket slid off his cast. She hurried over and covered him,
but not before peeking at the solid thigh above the cast and below his boxers.

He
squirmed his way into a sitting position. "Why don't you go
do…something."

"Like
what? I'm your nurse for the remaining time you're laid up, and then I'm going
to help you get back in shape." She sat back down. "Everything I
should be doing involves caring for you and making sure you're
comfortable."

Trace
snorted.

"Am
I expected to cook your meals too? Brody didn't say anything about that, but
it'll be no problem. It'll give me something to do while you rest. I'm sure
he'll fill me in on all my duties when he comes back to the house for dinner.
He seemed very concerned about you getting the best care possible." She
leaned forward as a thought occurred to her. "Do you have to…do you have a
need I could help you with?"

"My…needs?"
He stared at her.

"Yes.
If you need help getting to the bathroom, or need help bathing, shaving…"

"Shit.
This is unreal." Trace's head fell back on the couch and he gazed up at
the ceiling. "Brody!"

Joan
squeaked, and covered her chest with her hand to keep her rapidly beating heart
from bursting out of her body. "He's not here."

"He
will be."

"No.
I don't think so. He dropped me off at the door earlier and said he'd be back
at dinner time." She scooted to the edge of the cushion. "To be
honest with you…this is my first in-home care job. I'm sure once I find out
exactly what I'm expected to do, we'll get along fine."

Trace
simply gaped at her. She gathered the small pillow from behind her, and hugged
it to her stomach. The way he pierced her with his gaze unsettled her. This wasn't
going as well as she'd hoped.

"Is
there something I can get you?"

"No."

"Are
you in pain?"

"No."

"You
don't talk much, do you?" She tittered out of pure nervousness.

She
let her gaze wander around the room, while keeping him in her peripheral vision.
This job was going to be more difficult than she originally thought. He wasn't
an easy patient, which was okay.

She
was used to cranky men who didn't want to be coddled. Although, she had to
admit it was easier to manipulate an eighty year old man to follow the doctor's
orders. She didn't think this particular man would be easy to sweet talk into
doing what she asked.

"What
are you doing?" he asked.

She
flinched. "I'm just looking around the room. You have a beautiful
home."

Trace
grunted.

"Would
you like to talk? You can tell me how you broke your leg?" Determined to
make their working relationship polite, she used the manners her dad taught her
and forced a smile.

"No
reason to fill empty space with useless chatter." The deep baritone voice
could've come from the couch because in her mind, Trace made no effort to
acknowledge her.

She
rubbed her lips together. His rudeness wasn't going to make her lose her
temper. "We're going to have to figure out how to get along eventually.
Six weeks in each other's company is a long time…"

He
glared at her. For the second time, she noticed the dark silver of his eyes,
deep and cold, almost harsh. She shivered and pulled the pillow tighter against
her abdomen.

"I'm
guessing Brody set all this up." His voice matched his cool demeanor. Even
with the edge in his attitude, the gravelly undertone set her heart to
pattering.

"Yes."
She rose and took a step closer to the couch, to him. "It's time for
another pain pill. If you'll excuse me, I'll make you a bite to eat too. Often
times, the medicine will make you nauseous and food will help you handle the
side effects better."

***

Joan
hurried out of the room. Trace ran his hands over his face and groaned.
Damn
you, Brody.

His
cell phone rang. He reached back to his pocket, and realized his pants were in
the bottom of a trashcan at the hospital.

The
ringing continued. He spotted the phone on the coffee table, leaned over, and
answered the call.

"Yeah?"

"Be
nice," Brody ordered.

Click.

Trace
chucked the phone across the room. If he had use of his leg, he'd march out to
the stables and kick Brody's ass for hiring someone behind his back. He ran his
hand over his jaw. Being laid up was his own fault. He had no one else to blame.
If he would've waited one more day to get on the back of Thunderbolt, he
wouldn't be in this position now.

The
load of horses scheduled to his buyers were due at the reservation soon, and
next week he was scheduled to go on farm visits to record new sales for the
county. Not to mention, the branding files were due at the end of the month.

There
was no time for him to lie around doing nothing for six weeks. He scanned the
room. Where had Brody said he put his crutches?

He
heaved himself off the sofa, balancing on one leg. His vision narrowed and
blackness dotted the edges. Not letting his weakness beat him; he reached out
for the coffee table, hopped on one foot, and set his jaw to making it clear
across the room before Joan came back and reprimanded him for standing up on
his own. Two more jumps and he ran out of furniture to brace himself on.

"What
are you doing?" Joan rushed over and slipped her arm around his waist,
pulling him against her.

Over
the wave of pain, the dizziness, he became acutely aware of her full breasts
pressed against his side. His strength left him, and his good leg wobbled.
Oh,
shit.