LITMIR.BIZ

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Two

      As Dylan carried the last of his gear into his apartment, the space definitely had the feel of a bachelor pad not lived in for six months. Situated on the second floor of a rambling old farmhouse on the outskirts of town, Dylan kept it for when he returned to the area. The retired farmer who lived on the first floor kept watch for him and sent someone in to clean once a month when he wasn’t home. It had always suited his purposes just fine.

      Yet now the place held so many memories of Julia and her years with him that he felt bombarded. Although he could now indulge in a bit of luxury if he wanted to, he hadn’t. Practically furnished when Julia had lived here, he’d replaced the second-hand sofa with a more contemporary comfortable one. The TV and sound system sitting on pine shelves were utilitarian, too, rather than up to date. Julia had bought the setup for him one Christmas after she and Will were married. His small kitchen with its bar and stools was functional, and he still slept in the thrift-shop bed he’d bought after he’d landed his first job. The second bedroom, which had been his sister’s, was now filled with file cabinets that stored transparencies and negatives. Cartons of photographic equipment were stacked in any spare space. A third bedroom was occupied with state-of-the-art equipment—computer, scanner, two printers and a fax machine. Julia had often shaken her head with a smile and told him he should invest in drapes rather than update his computer. But he never had.

      In spite of the memories, the unlived-in feel of the apartment bothered him now, when it never had before. Because he’d lost Julia and she’d never be calling to chat with him again while he worked? She’d never be testing out a new recipe on him when he was home? She’d never be—

      The thoughts tightened his chest and made breathing difficult.

      After Dylan turned up the heat, he stripped off his clothes and showered, letting the sluicing hot water splash away images that were just too painful.

      He’d found a pair of clean jeans and was pulling on a tan-colored, long-sleeved flannel shirt when his cell phone beeped. He’d placed it in the charger on the bedroom dresser. He picked it up, bracing himself as he switched it on.

      “Mr. Malloy? It’s Dr. Carrera.”

      Dylan’s heart hammered faster. “Yes, Doctor.”

      “What’s your blood type?”

      “AB positive.”

      “Good. Timmy is anemic and we think a transfusion will help. Fortunately he’s AB positive, too. Would you be willing to give blood? Or should we go to the blood bank?”

      “Of course, I’ll give blood. I’ll be there in five minutes.” Something about giving his life force to his nephew seemed right.

      “Careful on the roads, Mr. Malloy. Snow’s making them slick and we don’t want any further tragedies.”

      Further tragedies. Such a generic way of putting it. The words didn’t begin to cover what Dylan was feeling.

      “Is Miss Bartholomew still there?” he asked before the doctor hung up.

      “Yes, she is. She also wanted to volunteer for a transfusion but she’s not a match.”

      A picture of Shaye was beginning to form in his mind; a picture of a woman who was a caregiver. He hadn’t known many women like that in his life and neither had Julia. Maybe that’s why his sister had gravitated toward Shaye.

      Thinking first and foremost about the transfusion he was going to give Timmy, Dylan grabbed his jacket, wallet and keys and headed for the hospital.

      When Dylan met Dr. Carrera in the emergency room, he asked, “Is this really going to help?”

      “I’m hoping it will. Nothing in medicine is a certainty.”

      “Nothing in life is a certainty,” Dylan muttered.

      The staff was pleasant and friendly, but Dylan wished he was anywhere but here.

      That was especially so a half hour later when Shaye peeked into the cubicle. “How are you doing?” she asked.

      They’d just removed the paraphernalia needed to withdraw his blood. He was glad Shaye hadn’t stopped in five minutes sooner when he’d been flat on his back. He didn’t like the idea of her seeing him as anything but strong.

      “I’m fine. The toughest part of this is signing all the paperwork,” he joked. “There’s more red tape in giving blood than in applying for a visa.”

      Coming into the room, she shrugged. “I wouldn’t know about that. I’ve never been out of the U.S.”

      Rolling down the sleeve of his flannel shirt, he buttoned the cuff. “Did you ever want to see the rest of the world?”

      “Not really.” She came a few steps closer. “I went to a conference in New York City once and hated it. Too much hustle and bustle. I’ve also been to California, and that was okay. There’s some pretty scenery there, especially around Big Sur. But I love the mountains and the plains and the hot springs, the cactus and sage. I love the old-fashioned flavor of this town and its history.” She shrugged again. “I’m happy here.”

      Her hair brushing against her cheek distracted Dylan. So did the pretty amber of her eyes. “I guess that’s the difference between us. I was never happy here. I always wanted more. I wanted to run free, stopping when I pleased, moving on when I liked.”

      “Like the wild mustangs,” she remarked softly.

      A nurse bustled in, bringing Dylan a glass of juice. He drank it quickly, handing the glass back with a thank-you.

      She’d disappeared when Shaye said, “Julia didn’t feel like that at all. She didn’t want to wander, either. Maybe it’s a woman thing. I’ve met other men who seem to be searching for something.”

      The way she said it, wandering was a dirty word. “I don’t think needing space and wanting to travel has anything to do with being male or female,” he protested, reading an underlying message in what Shaye had said…a possible story in her background.

      As he stood, he felt almost exhausted.

      She was by his side in an instant. “You’re looking kind of gray. Are you okay?”

      “Just tired. I’m going to bunk on the sofa upstairs in the waiting room.”

      Still gazing at him with those beautiful, soft, golden-brown eyes, she asked, “When was the last time you ate?”

      Before he could answer, a tall, husky, bearded man in a parka appeared in the doorway. “I could ask you the same question.”

      Shaye turned at the sound of an obviously familiar voice. “Randall! What are you doing here?”

      “Barb sent me. She said I should hogtie you if I had to and drag you back to our place for a decent meal. You can’t live here twenty-four hours a day. Those are her words and mine. What are you doing down here, anyway? One of the nurses pointed me in this direction.”

      As Shaye studied the older of her two brothers, she realized he looked as if he should work in a logging camp. Instead, he was an X-ray technician and had probably just gotten off duty.

      Turning to Dylan, Shaye said, “Dylan, this is my brother, Randall. Randall, this is Julia’s brother, Dylan Malloy. He just gave blood for Timmy.”

      “I see.” After he extended his condolences and Dylan thanked him, Randall glanced at Shaye thoughtfully, then back at Dylan. “You are looking a bit gray around the gills. Why don’t you come along with us? My wife always has a refrigerator full of leftovers.”

      “I’ll grab something in the cafeteria,” Dylan answered, looking uncomfortable.

      “The cafeteria is closed,” Shaye told him. “You’d have to get one of those dry sandwiches out of the vending machines. Come with us. We don’t have to be gone long. You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten.”

      As

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