The Change Up (16 page)

He'd missed more than dinner; he was missing his socks, too.

Sam hurried out of his work boots and wool socks. “You did, but I bet they'll have a feast waiting for you when you get home. Here. Let's put these on you.” He rolled one sock down to its toe and slid it over Mr. Reed's frozen foot. Then he did the same with the other and asked the man to stand. “I'll help you.”

“You're a power hitter, aren't you?” Mr. Reed asked while he straightened on shaky legs.

Considering their current predicament, it was an odd question, but for the first time in ten years, Sam felt like he could answer—and answer with a smile. “Yes, I am.” A 410-foot shot out of Mr. Reed's stadium was proof of that.

“You play for the Cubs.”

Sam frowned. “Not anymore.” He gripped the man beneath his elbows and said, “It's very important you stay right here. Do not move.”

“I own a baseball team. Do you know that?”

“I do.”

“You should play for me.”

Apparently that thought ran in the family.

Sam ignored the comment in favor of explaining how he planned to hoist Mr. Reed to safety, but he wasn't at all convinced it would work without someone getting killed.

Somewhere in the distance, Babe barked, followed by the muffled sound of Luke calling Sam's name.

Relief flooded Sam's body. “We're down here!” And then to Mr. Reed, he said, “My brother is coming to help.”

“Hang on, Sam!”

“And that's my dad,” Sam said, damn near euphoric. “We'll have no problem getting you out of here now.”

The lift off the ledge went smoothly, and as soon as Sam was up, he dialed 9-1-1, followed by a call to Rachel. They didn't talk long. He didn't say much, just, “We got him,” and, “He's okay.”

Rachel's joyful cries fueled Sam's desire to get Mr. Reed out of the deep woods to where the paramedics were waiting with a stretcher. Of course, Rachel and her family were waiting there, too.

She ran to her father first, and when everyone followed Mr. Reed to the waiting ambulance, she doubled back and came to them.

“Thank you all! So much. I don't know how we'll ever repay you.”

“Repay him,” Sam's father said. “He's the one who found your father. Babe just found us and showed us the way.”

Rachel latched on to Sam, pressing her cold cheek to his warm neck. “Thank you!”

“You're welcome,” he said, holding on a little tighter and longer than necessary.

Then she was gone, striding over the lawn toward her family and the ambulance.

“Good job, boys,” Sam's father said, throwing an arm around the shoulders of each son. “I'd say that deserves a beer. We'll stop by your house first and drop off the dog.”

Which meant Sam could grab another sweatshirt and a pair of socks. He'd taken the phrase ‘give the shirt off your back' quite literally. And he didn't mind one bit.

He was starting to think he'd do just about anything for Rachel Reed.

Rachel moved into the chair her mother had vacated when she'd left her husband's side to find a ladies' room. Since Helen Anne had gone home to relieve Liv, who'd been staying with Macy, Rachel was alone in the ER with her sleeping father. He was covered in a heap of warm blankets with wires monitoring his every move. Except for a bruise on his forehead, a scratch on his right cheek, and a few cuts and scrapes on his feet, he was in decent shape. Physically. But dehydration, hunger, and exposure, coupled with the usual Alzheimer's symptoms, left him drifting in and out of rational thought and conversation.

Thank God for Sam.
She texted him to share that sentiment and to tell him her father was okay. Short and sweet. But before he could respond, Rachel was pulled away by her father's weak and raspy voice.

“Jackie?”

She grabbed his hand, careful of the wires. “It's me, Dad. Rachel. How are you feeling?”

“Terrible.” He groaned, but it sounded more emotional than physical. “I'm so sorry I worried you.”

“I'm just glad you're okay.”

“I don't know what happened.”

“I know.”

“I'm scared.”

She fought the tears for no other reason than not to alarm him.

“I don't know why I can't remember some things,” he said.

“Because you have Alzheimer's,” she said. It seemed particularly cruel that he had to be reminded of the very thing that was crushing him.

“Yes.” His voice trailed off with a hint of sadness. “I'm so sorry,” he said again. “Maybe we should sell the baseball team.”

It was like someone pressed rewind, and she vacillated between wanting to sob and wanting to shake the disease right out of him. “I'm trying,” she whispered, and then she dropped her head to his chest, closed her eyes, and let the beating of his heart soothe her. He could've died tonight, but he didn't. That was what mattered now.

“Danny! You're awake.” Rachel's mother stood on the other side of the hospital bed, smoothing the hair off her husband's bandaged forehead.

“I'm so sorry,” he said again, and Rachel couldn't bear another minute of it.

She excused herself and escaped to the ladies' room, never having felt so helpless before. She'd always believed that if you worked hard enough, you achieved. It wasn't magic. It was cause and effect. She'd amassed power and fortune before she'd even turned thirty, following her father's lead. But all the hard work, money, and power couldn't have saved him today.

And it might not be able to save her in the future.

She hated that, hated this feeling of impotence. Rage so thick and deep stole her breath and challenged her balance. She leaned against the wall and grasped for composure, knowing anger wasn't going to change anything. And that's what needed to happen.
Change.
For starters, they couldn't assume he was safe at home anymore. Fortunately, money could help with that. She would research and buy the best alarms and have the locks altered on the doors so that he couldn't escape without someone being notified. She'd hire additional help if that's what her mother needed. Whatever it would take to keep her father safe and comfortable, Rachel would buy it.

With any luck, it would be enough to make her feel comfortable again, too, because when the rage died, she was left with a horrible fear that all the control and care in the world wasn't going to make a damn bit of difference. One of these days, he wouldn't recognize her. He would forget his kids, his wife, his successes and failures, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

An hour later, Rachel didn't argue when her mother suggested she go home and get some rest. She headed across town in the blinding rain through the blur of tears, wishing to be numb. She didn't want to think anymore. She didn't want to feel. Too many worries. Too much emotion. More than she had ever let in before. And she didn't know how to bottle them up again.

Her brain kept whirring and churning until thoughts of Sam appeared. She owed him more than those trees after what he'd done tonight, but she didn't know what to give him that would come remotely close to proving her gratitude. He'd become more important to her than he could possibly know.

Maybe she should start by telling him that.

• • •

Sam wrapped a towel around Babe and rubbed her dry. Five minutes in the backyard to do her business, and she was soaked through. When she was dry enough to stop the incessant shaking, he grabbed a couple more towels from the linen closet to clean the kitchen floor.

That's where Sam was, on his hands and knees in the hallway between the kitchen and living room, when a heavy knock sounded on the door, followed by the ringing bell.

Babe howled and beat him there. She rounded back, trying to tell him what she'd heard. “I know, girl,” he said. “I'm right behind you.”

He looked at the hand-carved mantle clock his father had given him as a housewarming gift.
Ten thirty p.m.
Who the heck would show up this late and on a night like this?

Rachel.
He could feel her presence, and that was just about the strangest thing that had ever happened to him. It probably colored the way he looked when he opened the door, but then he saw her, sopping wet, droplets falling off her bangs to her clumped lashes, where they dripped down her cheeks, and he didn't stand a chance in hell of hiding his concern.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the rain and into his arms. “How long were you standing there?”

She shook her head against his shoulder, soaking his shirt. “I couldn't decide whether or not to actually go through with this.”

He lifted her face to his. “With what?”

“Coming here. To you. I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing.”

Her teeth rattled. Her body shook. Her face was as white as a sheaf of paper.

“I'm glad you came,” he said, snatching a clean towel off the pile, wrapping it around her hair, and wicking away the moisture with a massaging motion that made her close her eyes and sway gently with his movements. Then he cupped her cheeks in the soft terry cloth and dabbed her face clean. “How does a fire sound?”

“Heavenly,” she whispered without opening her eyes, and he was beyond powerless. Leaning forward, he brushed his lips against hers in the sweetest kiss.

Rachel opened her eyes. “Thank you. For everything.”

He wasn't interested in rehashing what he did or didn't do. He just wanted to get her warm and settled. After he wrapped her in a blanket and left her on the couch, he headed to the back porch for some wood. Normally, he would've split the kindling right there, but between the wind and the rain and his worry, he returned to the family room and used a hatchet to section thin pieces of larger logs to start the fire.

She didn't say a word, but every so often when he looked at her, she was watching him.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Thirsty?”

Her head tilted thoughtfully. “Got any wine?”

He chuckled. “Beer and bourbon.”

“I'll take a bourbon,” she said with a weak smile. “No ice.”

There it was, a hint of the gutsy woman he'd come to admire, and … as he smiled back at her, he knew there was something more than admiration. Instead of trying to pin down his feelings, he lit the fire and headed to the kitchen, where he poured her bourbon and grabbed a bottle of beer. When he returned to the living room, Babe was snuggled against Rachel in a primal show of protection.

“She's sweet,” Rachel said.

“She probably senses you're chilled. She has incredible instincts.”

“They came in handy today.”

“Exactly,” he said, taking a seat on the chair angled toward Rachel. “How was he when you left?”

“Okay. Some cuts and bruises, but considering what happened, he's miraculously fine.”

“How are you?”

“Scared out of my mind. And I hate it.” She took a hearty swallow of the amber liquid Sam had poured into a juice glass. “My whole life, my father has been the one with the grand plan, the one I looked up to and followed like a dog.” She glanced at Babe and smoothed a hand down her side. “Sorry, girl. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Look how successful it's made me. But now, the man I follow doesn't even know where he's going. How sad is that?”

“Sad,” Sam said, because it was, and he sensed she had more to say.

“And what if I'm next? I'm forty, you know? Sixty-five will be here before I know it, and there's a genetic component to this stupid disease.”

“You're not next.”

“You don't know that.” She took another drink, swallowing it without a struggle. “I spent my whole life managing my career while I mismanaged my personal relationships because that's what my dad did, and it worked out okay for him. All the traveling, all the missed opportunities to have a conversation with his family about something other than business. We all still love him madly, so why couldn't that work for me? But it didn't.” Her laugh sounded slightly unhinged. “I'm rich. I'm powerful. And I'm completely alone. Unless you count Liv, which I don't, because she's on my payroll, and I highly doubt I will be able to pay her enough to take care of my crotchety old ass when I start losing my memory.”

He watched her polish off the bourbon and realized he hadn't taken a drink of his beer. Then again, he hadn't had the day she'd had. He probably would've sucked down an entire case if the tables had been turned.

Sam set his beer down and laid a supportive hand on her knee. “In your dismal version of what's to come, you have twenty-five years before it all goes to hell, right?”

Her eyes widened, but then she agreed.

“Well, then I say you're lucky. You've still got twenty-five good years. Focus on that.”

“I can't. Not when I know what's ahead. I've done so much research, Sam. At this point in the game, exhibiting these symptoms, my father could only have four or five years left. There's nothing lucky about that. This disease will kill him, and before it does, it will make me a stranger to him.” She held out her glass. “More please.”

He obliged, figuring she could spend the night if she got carried away. Under different circumstances, he'd be all kinds of thrilled about that. But it was surprisingly easy to keep the libido in check when someone you cared about was struggling. He wasn't exactly sure why he cared, considering she'd roared into his life wielding a figurative chainsaw, but he did. He didn't want to see her broken. She had way too much to live for. And the more he thought about that, the more he wished someone had said something similar to him in the days and weeks and months and years following his mother's death. Maybe he could be that person for Rachel.

After her returned to the room and handed over the second glass of bourbon, he watched her stare thoughtfully at the crackling fire, wondering what he could say to make her feel better.