Page 43 of Broken SEAL'S Secret Baby
Kate
Gidget must have been as tired out by the long walk down the stairs and the ride as everyone else, because when we get back in the camper, she immediately flops down on a rug and goes to sleep.
I climb the short stairs to the loft and realize that Cece has star-fished out in space. Mr. Fluffy bounds up past me and snuggles up beside her. I don’t remember making a sound, but I must have sighed or something.
“Kate,” Charles calls softly, “Come on down here. There’s room for two.”
“I thought you would be asleep,” I say, retreating back down the steps.
“I’d like to,” he says. “But I need to be sure everyone is secure first. There’s a prescription bottle in my kit. Once I take that, I’ll be out for several hours and you won’t be able to wake me.”
I turn to him, feeling a frown wrinkle my forehead. He is still lying on the wide bed at the back end of the camper. “Your hip?” I ask.
He gives a short laugh. “My hip, my knees, my back . . . my old company drill sergeant would have my head for letting myself go to this extent. He used to always say that the worse shape you were in, the harder you should work at keeping the working parts functioning.”
I go over to him. “Did James get you anything to eat or drink?”
“Yeah,” he says, turning a hand over to indicate a bedside shelf where a bottle of soda and bag of chips represented provender.
Now I really do sigh. “That James!”
“It’s all right,” Charles says, “I really don’t want anything else. You were asleep when we stopped at the hot dog joint and fed Cece.”
“Okay,” I relent. “You won’t mind if I make some tea and have crackers then.”
“Sure you don’t want something else?” he asks. “You last ate just before we left the shelter.”
I look around the miniscule kitchen space and realize that nothing looks familiar. “I’ve got some snack packages. Is there any more soda?”
“In the mini-fridge, under the counter.”
I find cans of Sprite and the red punch that Cece likes, but none of the flavored, unsweetened, fizzy drinks that I prefer. I take out a can of Sprite. It will have to do.
I’d packed several luncheon packages, hoping that they would stay good with frozen fake ice cubes. I tuck them into the top shelf of the mini-fridge. I take my food and drink over to the bed next to Charles.
“Roll over,” I say. “I’m not a masseuse or therapist, but I know a little bit about massage. Let me see if I can help.”
“I’m not sure I can turn over,” Charles protests.
I can see that he is lying in an awkward position, half-curled around the source of his pain. I put my food aside and go over to him.
“Let me help, Charles.”
“I’m fine…I’m fine.” He gestures me away, waving one hand.
“No,” I say, gently. “You are not fine.” I sit on the edge of the bed and bring the foot of the good leg into my lap. According to my book on acupuncture, feet are like a road map for the rest of the body. Charles has not even removed his boots and is dangling his feet over the edge of the bed.
I unlace the boot, and remove it, ignoring the funk of manly foot odor that arose from the sock. At least 18 hours since our last opportunity for a good shower . . . I set that thought aside and focus on the condition of his foot.
Reasonably clean, nails trimmed, calloused along the outside edge and around the heel. Charles Emory might be rich, but he’d not treated himself to personal care at a salon.
I begin kneading the muscles, working the toes, and trying to relax the knots. As I advance toward the ankle, he gives a soft moan. I stop, wondering if I had hurt him.
“Other one,” he says. “Please. That feels great.”
I unlace his other boot, pull it off, and note differences in this foot from the other. Still scrupulously clean, but the nails are cut at an odd angle as if it had been hard to get to them.
Since I knew this is the foot connected to the bad hip, I proceed with caution. I keep my touch firm so as not to tickle, but work my way along the foot, to the ankle and up the calf. The calf muscles are knotted, giving me some idea of the amount of pain he feels.
