The Welcoming

walk back to the inn, though she remained pale and still.
    Bob raced out the front door of the inn. “My God! What happened? What the hell did you do to her?”
    Roman paused just long enough to aim a dark, furious look at him. “I think you know better. Get me the keys to the van. She needs a hospital.”
    “What’s all this?” Mae came through the door, wiping her hands on her apron. “Lori said she saw—” She went pale, but then she began to move with surprising speed, elbowing Bob aside to reach Charity. “Get her upstairs.”
    “I’m taking her to the hospital.”
    “Upstairs,” Mae repeated, moving back to open the door for him. “We’ll call Dr. Mertens. It’ll be faster. Come on, boy. Call the doctor, Bob. Tell him to hurry.”
    Roman passed through the door, the dog at his heels. “And call the police,” he added. “Tell them they’ve got a hit-and-run.”
    Wasting no time on words, Mae led the way upstairs. She was puffing a bit by the time she reached the second floor, but she never slowed down. When they moved into Charity’s room, her color had returned.
    “Set her on the bed, and be careful about it.” She yanked the lacy coverlet aside and then just as efficiently, brushed Roman aside. “There, little girl, you’ll be just fine. Go in the bathroom,” she told Roman. “Get me a fresh towel.” Easing a hip onto the bed, she cupped Charity’s face with a broad hand and examined her head wound. “Looks worse than it is.” She let out a long breath. After taking the towel Roman offered, she pressed it against Charity’s temple. “Head wounds bleed heavy, make a mess. But it’s not too deep.”
    He only knew that her blood was still on his hands. “She should be coming around.”
    “Give her time. I want you to tell me what happened later, but I’m going to undress her now, see if she’s hurt anywhere else. You go on and wait downstairs.”
    “I’m not leaving her.”
    Mae glanced up. Her lips were pursed, and lines of worry fanned out from her eyes. After a moment, she simply nodded, “All right, then, but you’ll be of some use. Get me the scissors out of her desk. I want to cut this shirt off.”
    So that was the way of it, Mae mused as she untied Charity’s shoes. She knew a man who was scared to death and fighting his heart when she saw one. Well, she’d just have to get her girl back on her feet. She didn’t doubt for a moment that Charity could deal with the likes of Roman DeWinter.
    “You can stay,” she told him when he handed her the scissors. “But whatever’s been going on between the two of you, you’ll turn your back till I make her decent.”
    He balled his hands into impotent fists and shoved them into his pockets as he spun around. “I want to know where she’s hurt.”
    “Just hold your horses.” Mae peeled the shirt away and put her emotions on hold as she examined the scrapes and bruises. “Look in that top right-hand drawer and get me a nightshirt. One with buttons. And keep your eyes to yourself,” she added, “or I’ll throw you out of here.”
    In answer, he tossed a thin white nightshirt onto the bed. “I don’t care what she’s wearing. I want to know how badly she’s hurt.”
    “I know, boy.” Mae’s voice softened as she slipped Charity’s limp arm into a sleeve. “She’s got some bruises and scrapes, that’s all. Nothing broken. The cut on her head’s going to need some tending, but cuts heal. Why, she hurt herself worse when she fell out of a tree some time back. There’s my girl. She’s coming around.”
    He turned to look then, shirt or no shirt. But Mae had already done up the buttons. He controlled the urge to go to her—barely—and, keeping his distance, watched Charity’s lashes flutter. The sinking in his stomach was pure relief. When she moaned, he wiped his clammy hands on his thighs.
    “Mae?” As she struggled to focus her eyes, Charity reached out a hand. She could see the solid bulk of her cook, but little else. “What— Oh, God, my head.”
    “Thumping pretty good, is it?” Mae’s voice was brisk, but she cradled Charity’s hand in hers. She would have kissed it if she’d thought no one would notice. “The doc’ll fix that up.”
    “Doctor?” Baffled, Charity tried to sit up, but the pain exploded in her head. “I don’t want the doctor.”
    “Never did, but you’re having him just the same.”
    “I’m not going to . . .” Arguing took too much effort. Instead, she