A Match Made in Texas. Arlene James

he replied flippantly.

      Kaylie just looked at the man. Of course Gallow was drugged. Obviously so. It was nearly one o’clock in the afternoon, and the man was sleeping as soundly as if two people were not standing in his room talking. She understood that the doctor had been called in during the night to sedate the patient. Such a heavy dose indicated that the poor man had been in great physical distress.

      Doolin cleared his throat and got serious. “You want to know about his injuries. Uh, let’s see. Stevie broke his leg and arm. The arm was pretty bad. That and the ribs is why they’ve strapped it to his chest that way, and naturally it had to be his left arm because he is left-handed.” Doolin grinned and added proudly, “One of the few truly left-handed goalies in the league.”

      “Is that good?”

      The agent goggled at her. “Good?” Shaking his head at her obvious ignorance of all things hockey, he sent her a pitying look. “That, Miss Chatam, is a very good thing, indeed. Especially if said lefty is a big brute with reflexes quick as a cat and the eyesight of an eagle.”

      A brute. His own agent called him a brute. She could just imagine how her father, a retired pastor, would feel about that. Hub Chatam considered his youngest son’s participation in pro rodeo barbaric. Chatam men, he asserted firmly and often, were called to higher purposes than mere sport. Chatam men were lawyers and pastors, doctors and professors, bankers and titans of industry who used their wealth and talents for the good of others in the name of Christ. That Chandler chose to dismiss his father’s convictions was a great bone of contention within the family. No doubt, Hub would hold an even less favorable opinion of a pro hockey player, though of course a boarder and patient wasn’t the same thing as a son.

      “Sorry,” she muttered to the agent. “Not much of a sports fan. My field is medicine.”

      “Medicine. Right. Gotcha. About his condition…Let’s see…Broken bones. Two in the right leg, two in the left arm, four ribs, collarbone. I think that’s it. Internally, there was a lacerated liver, a bruised pancreas, busted spleen…” Doolin tsked and shook his head. “I don’t know what all.”

      Kaylie nodded in understanding. “Concussion?”

      “Um, unofficially, he got conked pretty good.”

      Unofficially? “Was there brain damage?”

      Aaron Doolin reared back. “No way! He’s sharp as ever!” The agent smiled. “Mouth certainly works. He’s singeing my ears regular again, but hey, that’s what I get paid for. Right?” He chuckled, only to sober when it became obvious that she wouldn’t join in with anything more than a weak smile.

      Stephen Gallow sounded like both a brute and a bully, but who was she to judge such things? Her one concern should be the health of the patient. “What about his lungs?” she asked. “Were they punctured?”

      “Nothing said about it.”

      “They would have mentioned something like that,” Kaylie told him. “Trust me.”

      Nodding, Aaron looked to the bed. “Kid’s got plenty to deal with as it is.”

      No doubt about that, Kaylie mused, thinking of her father, who had suffered a heart attack some six months earlier. Compared to all this man had been through, that seemed almost minor, though Hub continued to behave as if his life remained in immediate danger. She wandered closer to the bed.

      Stephen Gallow moaned and twitched, muttering what sounded like, “Nig-nig.”

      Doolin slid his hands into his pants pockets. “Must think he’s talking to Nick.”

      “Nick? Who’s that?”

      “Uh, old buddy.”

      “He’s dreaming, then.”

      “Yeah, yeah. Does a lot of that since the accident.” Doolin churned his hands again, in what seemed to be a habitual gesture. “The trauma of it all, I guess.”

      “He’s suffered some very serious injuries,” Kaylie murmured.

      “You’re telling me! Man, I thought he’d bought it, you know?”

      “How long ago was the accident?”

      “Nine, ten days.” He looked at his client, and for the first time the mask of beaming bonhomie slipped, showing genuine concern. “Ask me, he oughta be in the hospital still.”

      Kaylie smiled to herself. Patients and family were often of that opinion, but home could be a safer, more restful environment than the hospital.

      “But you know how it is,” Doolin went on. “A big sports star draws attention that hospitals don’t particularly appreciate, and when said sports star is trying to keep a low profile…Well, that’s why we’re here, obviously.”

      Kaylie furrowed her brow at that. “You mean he’s hiding out here at Chatam House?”

      The agent licked his lips warily before admitting, “You could say that.”

      “From who?”

      “The press, mostly.”

      “But why Chatam House? How did he wind up here?”

      “Oh, that.” The pinky ring flashed again. “Brooksy arranged it.”

      Brooksy? “You mean Brooks Leland? Doctor Brooks Leland?”

      Doolin’s gray head bobbed. “Yeah, yeah. Me and Brooksy, we went to college together. We were fraternity brothers, and hey, once a frat bro, always a frat bro. Right?”

      Frat bro. A smile wiggled across Kaylie’s lips. She’d remember that and give her older brother’s best friend—that was, Brooksy—a hard time about it later. Obviously, Doolin had called Brooks about his patient’s need to keep a low profile while recovering from his accident and Brooks had contacted the aunts, apparently Aunt Odelia specifically. Finally, this situation was beginning to make some sort of sense.

      “So what do you think?” Aaron Doolin asked. “Can you do it? He just mainly needs someone to help him get around and manage his pain, meds and meals.” He eyed her warily. “You think you can make him take his medicine?”

      Make him? Kaylie lifted a slender eyebrow at that. She thought of her father again. At seventy-six, Hub Chatam was twice widowed and a retired minister. As the youngest of his four children and the only daughter, she’d taken a leave of absence from her job after his heart attack in order to move into his house, take care of him and help him adjust to the new lifestyle necessitated by his health realities. Six months later, he still wouldn’t take a pill that didn’t come from her hand. He claimed that he couldn’t keep them straight, but let ten minutes pass the appointed time for one of his meds and he was demanding to know when she was going to dispense it.

      Before she could answer the agent’s question, Gallow’s eyes popped open. Startled by their paleness—they were like marbles of gray ice—Kaylie registered the panic in them. She instinctively started forward just a heartbeat before he bolted up into a sitting position. Roaring in pain, he dropped back onto the pillow. A blue streak of profanity rent the air, then he gasped and began to writhe.

      Though taken aback, Kaylie instantly realized that he was doing himself damage. Stepping up to his bedside, she bent over him and calmly advised, “Be still. Take slow breaths. Slow, shallow breaths.” For the first time he looked at her. Confusion, anger and pain poured out of those eerily pale eyes, but as he stopped moving and gradually controlled his breathing, lucidity took hold of him. Impulsively, Kaylie brushed a pale gold lock from his brow, smiling encouragingly. “Slow…slow…That’s it.”

      His pale gaze skimmed over her with acute curiosity even as he followed her instructions. After a moment, he swallowed and rasped, “Who are you?”

      “Kaylie Chatam. Hypatia, Odelia and Magnolia Chatam are my aunts.”

      “Kaylie’s a nurse,” Aaron