The Welcoming

Maeflower.”
    Mae’s lips twitched slightly before she thinned them. “If you can’t sit in a chair proper you can stand on your feet, Jack Royce.”
    Royce rose, grinning. “Mae and I went to school together,” he explained. “She liked to bully me then, too. I don’t suppose you’ve got any waffles on the menu today, Maeflower.”
    “Maybe I do. You find out who hurt my girl and I’ll see you get some.”
    “I’m working on it.” His face sobered again as he nodded toward the door. “Is she up to talking to me?”
    “Done nothing but talk since she came around.” Mae blinked back a flood of relieved tears. “Go ahead in.”
    Royce turned to Roman. “I’ll be in touch.”
    “Doc said she could have some tea and toast.” Mae sniffled, then made a production out of blowing her nose. “Hay fever,” she said roughly. “I’m grateful you were close by when she was hurt.”
    “If I’d been closer she wouldn’t have been hurt.”
    “And if she hadn’t been walking that dog she’d have been in bed.” She paused and gave Roman a level look. “I guess we could shoot him.”
    She surprised a little laugh out of him. “Charity might object to that.”
    “She wouldn’t care to know you’re out here brooding, either. Your arm’s bleeding, boy.”
    He looked down dispassionately at the torn, bloodstained sleeve of his shirt. “Some.”
    “Can’t have you bleeding all over the floor.” She walked to the door, waving a hand. “Well, come on downstairs. I’ll clean you up. Then you can bring the girl up some breakfast. I haven’t got time to run up and down these steps all morning.”
    ***
    After the doctor had finished his poking and the sheriff had finished his questioning, Charity stared at the ceiling. She hurt everywhere there was to hurt. Her head especially, but the rest of her was throbbing right along in time.
    The medication would take the edge off, but she wanted to keep her mind clear until she’d worked everything out. That was why she had tucked the pill Dr. Mertens had given her under her tongue until she’d been alone. As soon as she’d organized her thoughts she would swallow it and check into oblivion for a few hours.
    She’d only caught a flash of the car, but it had seemed familiar. While she’d spoken with the sheriff she’d remembered. The car that had nearly run her over belonged to Mrs. Norton, a sweet, flighty lady who crocheted doilies and doll clothes for the local craft shops. Charity didn’t think Mrs. Norton had ever driven over twenty-five miles an hour. That was a great deal less than the car had been doing when it had swerved at her that morning.
    She hadn’t seen the driver, not really, but she had the definite impression it had been a man. Mrs. Norton had been widowed for six years.
    Then it was simple, Charity decided. Someone had gotten drunk, stolen Mrs. Norton’s car, and taken it for a wild joyride around the island. They probably hadn’t even seen her at the side of the road.
    Satisfied, she eased herself up in the bed. The rest was for the sheriff to worry about. She had problems of her own.
    The breakfast shift was probably in chaos. She thought she could rely on Lori to keep everyone calm. Then there was the butcher. She still had her list to complete for tomorrow’s order. And she had yet to choose the photographs she wanted to use for the ad in the travel brochure. The deposit hadn’t been paid, and the fireplace in cabin 3 was smoking.
    What she needed was a pad, a pencil and a telephone. That was simple enough. She’d find all three at the desk in the sitting room. Carefully she eased her legs over the side of the bed. Not too bad, she decided, but she gave herself a moment to adjust before she tried to stand.
    Annoyed with herself, she braced a hand on one of the bedposts. Her legs felt as though they were filled with Mae’s whipped cream rather than muscle and bone.
    “What the hell are you doing?”
    She winced at the sound of Roman’s voice, then gingerly turned her head toward the doorway. “Nothing,” she said, and tried to smile.
    “Get back in bed.”
    “I just have a few things to do.”
    She was swaying on her feet, as pale as the nightshirt that buttoned modestly high at the neck and skimmed seductively high on her thighs. Without a word, he set down the tray he was carrying, crossed to her and scooped her up in his arms.
    “Roman, don’t. I—”
    “Shut up.”
    “I was going to lie back down in a