Western Man by Janet Dailey

Powell?” He glanced questioningly at the older of the two jean-clad women with cowboy hats in hand.
    “Yes,” she nodded.
    There was an efficient, scrubbed-clean look about the balding doctor with the shining face. Although he was slender and spare with silver wire-rimmed glasses, there was something about him that reminded Sharon of a roly-poly Santa Claus. Maybe it was his round cheeks and beaming smile.
    “How is Ridge—Mr. Halliday?” she rushed the question, not giving the doctor a chance to impart the information.
    “My daughter, Sharon,” her mother explained when the doctor gave her a questioning look. “My husband and I own the ranch next to Mr. Halliday’s. Ridge has practically been a second son to us.”
    “He’s a very lucky man,” the doctor declared. “There is evidence of some mild internal bleedingbut it appears to be the result of some rather severe bruising of his internal organs rather than any perforations. You might refer to the loss as seepage—as when you scrape your skin and draw blood. Outside of that, he has a broken rib and two that are cracked.”
    A shiver of relief ran down Sharon’s spine. “I was afraid—” she stopped and changed what she had been about to say “—he was in so much pain.”
    “I didn’t mean to minimize the amount of pain he’ll suffer,” the doctor cautioned. “The bruising is very severe. It’s a miracle nothing was ruptured. Naturally I’ll want to keep him in the hospital a few days and monitor his condition.”
    “But—” It sounded more serious than he had first indicated.
    He held up a calming hand. “There has been some bleeding. We want to make certain it doesn’t recur—and we want to keep watch for any formation of blood clots. It’s a precautionary measure.”
    “I see,” she said, slightly reassured. “May we see him?”
    The doctor nodded affirmatively. “For a few minutes. He’s been given medication so he can rest.”
    When they entered Ridge’s room and Sharon saw him, there was something incongruous about such a vital, healthy-looking male specimen lying in a hospital bed with tubes running into his veins. The fiery lights in his darkly brown hair appeared subdued in this setting. His blue eyes were such afocal point of his features that Sharon noticed the darkness of his thick brows and long lashes for the first time—because his eyes were closed.
    She moved quietly to the side of the bed, unaware that her mother didn’t step beyond the doorway. The lower part of his chest was strapped in white bandages, obviously support for his ribs. His bronze shoulders and arms were uncovered. Sharon lifted the blanket to draw it up around his chest and noticed the discoloration already showing through the raw, scraped redness of his stomach. And that was only the tip of the iceberg. She laid the blanket across his chest.
    His eyelids flickered, then slowly opened. There was a faraway, dreamy quality to his look when Ridge focused on her. She guessed he was high on some pain-killer.
    “Told you I could stand,” he declared in a slurring whisper. Then his mouth curved in that reckless smile she knew so well.
    “I guess I should have listened to you.” She went along with whatever dream he was having.
    “Damn right.” His eyelids seemed to grow too heavy for him to hold open. A wince flashed across his face, proving the drug had only dulled the pain, not killed it. “Hurts.”
    “I know it does,” Sharon agreed. “Try to get some sleep, Ridge.”
    His eyes were closed and she thought he had drifted into that other state. But when she started to straighten away from the bed, his hand closed on her wrist.
    “Talk to me,” he insisted.
    “About what?” she asked quietly.
    “Don’t know.” His head moved to one side of the pillow in some mute protest. “Never been . . . stomped on like this before. Not like this.”
    “You’re going to be all right,” she assured him, and realized he was fighting the drug, not