A Lasting Impression

just say that I won.”
    Sutton curbed a grin, seeing that the gleam in Adelicia’s eyes was only exceeded by the one in Claire’s.
    By now, servants from inside the house and out had joined the stable hands and were watching at a distance. With Claire’s permission and Adelicia’s help, Sutton checked her arms and legs, then the curve of her neck and shoulders. Thank God, nothing was broken. He helped her to a sitting position, letting her rest against him until the dizziness passed.
    Then at Adelicia’s request, he gathered her in his arms and carried her inside, taking it slow so as not to jar her, all while trying to convince himself that what he felt for the woman cradled in his arms . . . was only friendship.
    Mortified over what she’d done—not only in front of Adelicia, but also Sutton—Claire smoothed the bedcovers over her lap, careful not to move her head. The pounding was only now beginning to subside. Still, she wished they would stop making such a fuss. She felt like a complete fool.
    Dr. James Denard returned his stethoscope to his leather satchel. “Miss Laurent needs bed rest, Mrs. Acklen. For a day or two, at least. But I see no sign of serious injury.” He turned to Claire. “Which is a fairly remarkable feat, young lady, considering what Mr. Monroe described to me. Sounds like you took a nasty toss.”
    Claire felt Sutton staring at her from the foot of her bed but couldn’t bring herself to look at him. “I’m sure it wasn’t as dramatic a scene as what’s been painted, Dr. Denard.”
    “Thrown over a fence”—Sutton’s tone was matter-of-fact, if not bordering on sarcasm—“and landed a good fifteen feet away. You’re right, Miss Laurent. It wasn’t dramatic in the least.”
    Hearing concern in his voice, she chanced a look at him. And whether due to being beneath the bedcovers fully clothed or to the way he was looking at her, she grew overly warm, overly fast.
    After being thrown, she’d attempted to make light of what had happened, wanting to save face. She alone was at fault, and she knew it. She’d been trying to impress her employer, prove that she could keep up. And at the last minute, she’d panicked. The accident was due to her lack of experience, plain and simple.
    “Will she be all right, Doctor?” Sutton asked, inching closer to the bed.
    “She’ll be fine, I assure you.” Dr. Denard slipped his suit jacket back on. “But no more riding for now, Miss Laurent. And with the size of that knot on the back of your head, I want you to stay awake for a while. At least until”—he checked his pocket watch—“around bedtime tonight. That’s a good five or six hours from now. Understood?” He aimed an appraising gaze first at Mrs. Acklen and Sutton, who nodded, and then to Claire.
    “Yes, sir.” Claire managed a smile, but for reasons she couldn’t explain, she questioned whether or not he was being honest with her about her injuries. Yet, other than her head hurting and her feeling achy, she felt normal. So why did staying awake seem like such an impossible feat? All she wanted to do was close her eyes and sleep for days.
    Dr. Denard retrieved his medical bag. “Expect to be sore for a while, Miss Laurent. That bruise on your hip will turn several lovely shades of purple and black before it’s healed.” He gave her a quick smile. “But again, you’ll be fine, I assure you.”
    Claire nodded, but still felt that niggle of doubt.
    The doctor crossed to the bedroom door, then paused, peering over his spectacles at Mrs. Acklen. “If her headache worsens, Mrs. Acklen, or vomiting develops, send for me without delay.”
    “We will, doctor.” Mrs. Acklen joined him. “Thank you so much for coming so quickly. I’ll see you out.” She left the door ajar.
    Sutton retrieved the desk chair, thunked it down by Claire’s bedside, and straddled it in a decidedly masculine way. “So . . . which will it be? Chess or checkers?”
    “Neither, please. I just want to rest.”
    He leaned toward her. “It appears you’re going to live after all.”
    “It would seem . . .” Claire forced a smile, but all she could think about was that last night in New Orleans when she’d asked the physician about her father’s condition. “He’ll be fine, I assure you,” had been his response too. And then her father had died.
    She wasn’t afraid of dying in that moment. She’d been thrown from a horse, not stabbed with a knife. It was the thought of dying—of