Blue Clouds by Patricia Rice Page A

through the guest wing, across the central block overlooking the two-story foyer, and down the long hall she hoped led to Chad’s room. She supposed if her mind weren’t already so thoroughly occupied by thoughts of her employer and this new job, she might enjoy a leisurely stroll through mahogany and marble, priceless Oriental carpets, and stunning artwork. But she couldn’t concentrate on objects right now.
    No matter how casually she had treated Wyatt’s offer, she needed this job as desperately as he needed her services. Until she’d lost it, she hadn’t realized how much she had depended on her job as a reason for living. Without the constant daily demands of people she knew, she felt like a kite without a tail. Grimly, she faced the fact that she was one of those stupid women who needed to be needed. She didn’t like believing that at the grand old age of thirty, she could be washed up, worthless, unneeded by anyone.
    Pippa couldn’t even excuse her desperation as an escape from Billy. She figured she’d pretty well escaped all on her own. She hadn’t reached total incompetence yet. But the horror stories of abusive men who chased their wives and girlfriends until they killed them haunted her. This fortress Seth Wyatt called home could protect her. She liked the solidity of these stone and mahogany walls.
    So when Pippa entered the boy’s room to the splat of a water gun drenching her hair and new dress, she managed a smile quite effortlessly.
    â€œGood shot, cowboy, but didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s against the Code of the West to shoot unarmed, defenseless women?” Briskly swiping the bright orange machine gun from his hands, she turned the barrel on him and pulled the trigger.
    Chad yowled. He screamed bloody murder. He pounded his fists against his wheelchair, then charged forward in Pippa’s direction. She dodged it expertly, grabbed the handles, and swung it in an arc toward the open balcony doors.
    â€œWe can play water games out here. I don’t think the floor in your room can handle a flood. Do you have another water pistol or do I get to use the watering can?”
    When Chad didn’t immediately stop screaming, Pippa shoved the gun back in his hands and picked up the watering can. “Count to three or shoot anytime?”
    He shut up. Eyeing her warily, he aimed the pistol. Pippa smiled and dodged the squirt of water. Whistling, she anointed him with a spray from the can. Truly furious now, Chad swung his chair and shot again, following her steadily everywhere she jumped. Within minutes, they were both drenched head to foot and Chad had started sneezing.
    â€œOkay, cowboy, that did it. The first one who sneezes, dies. Let’s get you into your coffin.” With the assurance learned from years of dealing with temperamental doctors, Pippa removed the water gun from the boy’s hands, dropped it on the balcony, and spun him back into his room.
    â€œI’m not dead,” he complained, sneezing again.
    â€œAre too. I’m burying you on Boot Hill.” Expertly, she lifted him from the chair, dropped him on the massive playground she assumed was his bed, and began stripping off his wet clothes.
    He couldn’t kick his legs, but he twisted and turned and fought her every step of the way. Still, a forty-pound six-year-old didn’t have the strength or stamina of a two-hundred- pound man, and she’d fought patients bigger than that before. She had him out of his wet clothes, dried off, and into a pair of cowboy pajamas before his screams alerted the entire household.
    â€œWhat in hell is going on?” Seth demanded, stomping through the doorway with murder in his eyes.
    â€œI’m burying Cowboy Bob on Boot Hill,” Pippa replied calmly, applying a towel for one final drying to Chad’s hair. “If you’ve got some decongestant medicine, he could probably use a spoonful before we tuck