Heart of Clay Page 41

  Once Callan left the room with David, Clay closed his eyes.

  He was grateful, so very grateful, to be alive and healing. To be blessed with all the people that cared about him. To have hope for the future.

  Despite that, he found it incredibly hard to be stuck flat on his back with no chance of doing anything different anytime soon. He knew he acted like a baby and was being cranky but he had so little control over anything.

  The tiny shred of dignity he had left concerning Callan, he planned to keep. If it meant her feelings got hurt or feathers ruffled, well, so be it. When he was back on his feet, he wanted to resume his position as her hero. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would stand in the way of that.

  Overwhelmed, by his pain as well as his confinement to a hospital bed, he struggled not to give in the darkness that bubbled beneath the surface of his emotions.

  His broken leg was about the most painful thing he had ever endured. His head still had a dull ache and his insides felt hot and tender. Although the pain was almost more than he could take, David agreed to cut back on his pain medication. Clay didn’t like feeling drugged and out of it.

  Regaining his sense of smell had been a thing of both wonder and disgust. He didn’t remember all the strong and vile smells from his childhood. In the hospital, a never-ending parade of aromas assaulted him from disinfectant to the odd scent of latex gloves.

  Some smells he remembered from his childhood. Like the way his mom smelled. He was sure she’d always worn the same perfume. He recalled the scent of his dad’s aftershave along with the sharp, crisp smell of a book’s pages.

  The cloying scent of flowers was so overpowering by the bounty of bouquets in the room he finally begged Callan to get rid of them all.

  Clay took a deep breath and inhaled Callan’s lingering aura. No wonder Jake could tell when she’d been in the room. Flowery, sensual, and lovely - there was no mistaking her scent with anyone else. Hers was the smell that had drifted into his dreams, helped pull him back from his oblivion.

  The moment she returned to the room after walking out with David, her fragrance floated in softly and settled around him like a touch of warmth and comfort. He could feel her near and appreciated the feather-light kiss she placed on his forehead. The spicy tang of her cinnamon gum tickled his nose. He opened his eyes and gave her a sheepish grin.

  The smile she gave him was indulgent and forgiving. “I thought you were sleeping.” She ran her fingers along his hairline, carefully avoiding the injured side.

  “Just resting.” He released a long, care-worn sigh. “I’m so tired of being tired. So tired of being here. I wish we could go home.”

  “I know. But you have no idea what great progress you’ve already made. David thinks you’ll have a rapid recovery, all things considered. He said they’ll start physical therapy soon. You’ll be up out of this bed later today. Isn’t that great?”

  “I guess so.” Clay wasn’t convinced he made any kind of progress. He absently rubbed a hand along his jaw and was surprised at the beard he felt against his palm. When he scratched at it like a dog with fleas, Callan grabbed his hand, stopping him.

  “You’ve got cuts that are healing you need to leave alone.” Callan held his hand to her chest. “Behave yourself.”

  “What do you mean I have cuts on my face?” Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen himself in a mirror since the morning of the accident. “Bring me a mirror. I want to see.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a great idea.” Callan dropped his hand and refused to look in him in the eye. “Let’s see what’s on TV you might want to watch.” Desperate to distract him, she flipped through channels with the remote. Clay, however, was having no part of it.

  “Callan, let me see,” he insisted, grabbing the remote away from her. “I need to see.”

  Reluctantly, she pulled a compact mirror from her purse, hoping the small mirror would keep him from fully viewing his face. Unfortunately, he held it out and got a good glimpse in the tiny mirror. He gasped in shock and surprise at his reflection.

  Both eyes had been black and were now fading to lighter shades of bruising. His entire face looked swollen and in various stages of healing. He had a bright red line on his left cheek, poking through his sandy-colored beard, where stitches had come out and the wound healed. Another angry red line marched right through the cleft of his chin. Then there was the shaved spot on the left side of his head near his temple with stitches glaring in a telltale half-circle that looked exactly like a hoof print. He was lucky that kick hadn’t landed on his temple. No doubt, that would have killed him.

  When he glanced at Callan, the crazy woman smiled at him encouragingly. He wondered how she could stand to look at him, much less be close to him.

  He looked like a leftover from some horror movie. Suddenly remembering they allowed Audrey and Emma to visit him, he decided his entire family had lost their good sense. The two little girls most likely suffered from trauma and nightmares after seeing him bruised and battered.

  Clay dropped the mirror as it if had burned his fingers. It landed on the bed beside him. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head to the side, trying to block the vision of his face from his mind.

  “Go home, Callan,” he begged, his voice husky. “Go home and leave me alone.”

  Callan picked up the mirror and put it in her pocket then lifted Clay’s hand in hers again. He couldn’t get rid of her that easy. Six months ago, she’d have been out the door crying, but not now.

  She absently considered if this rejected feeling was what Clay experienced during the three years she pushed him away. She wasn’t enjoying it for the short period she knew it was going to last and had no idea how he endured it for years.

  Breathing deeply to calm herself, she stepped forward. Things were different now. She was every bit as stubborn as her thickheaded husband and planned to remind him that he had met his match.

  When he tried to pull his hand away, she held on tighter.

  “Clay, you’re being ridiculous. You look much better than you did even a few days ago. David told you how well and how quickly you’re healing. In a few more days, the cuts on your face will be healed enough you can shave, then you’ll feel more like yourself. The bruising and the swelling will be gone. Your hair is already growing back over your hoof print.” She brushed at his hairline with her other hand. He tried to twist his head, but had nowhere to go to escape her tender ministrations.

  “Besides, not everyone tangles with a herd of stampeding cows and lives to tell the tale. I think that scar on your head is going to be a great reminder to us both to never again take a day for granted. I came so close to losing you, I could care less what you look like.” Callan placed a soft kiss to his lips then stepped back. “Don’t you understand, you dense man? I love you. So suck it up, buckaroo.”

  He stared into Callan’s eyes. She smiled at him in a way that went far in warming his heart and putting him at ease. He still thought she was crazy, and stubborn, and bossy. But she loved him.

  That was so good.