catch a flight to Atlanta, not to mention that she would have to travel in her nightgown, but she had to find somewhere to stay. Once she knew she was being released, she got the phone book and called a hotel, made certain the hotel had room service, and booked herself a room there. The hotel had room service; until she was able to take care of herself again, a hotel was the best she could do.
In the hospital she had, at first, entertained a fragile hope that Margreta would come to stay with her and help her until she was recovered. With their father dead, they didn't have to hide any longer. But though Margreta had sounded happy and relieved, she had resisted Sunny's suggestion that she come to Des Moines. They had exchanged telephone numbers, but that was all—and Margreta hadn't called back.
Sunny understood. Margreta would always have problems relating to people, forming relationships with them. She was probably very comfortable with the longdistance contact she had with Sunny, and wanted nothing more. Sunny tried to fight her sadness as she realized she would never have the sister she had wanted, but melancholy too easily overwhelmed her these days.
Part of it was the hormonal chaos of early pregnancy, she knew. She found herself tearing up at the most ridiculous things, such as a gardening show she watched on television one day. She lay in her hospital bed and began thinking how she had always wanted a flower garden but had never been able to have one, and presto, all of a sudden she was feeling sorry for herself and sitting there like an idiot with tears rolling down her face.
Depression went hand in glove with physical recovery, too, one of the nurses told her. It would pass as she got stronger and could do more.
But the biggest part of her depression was Chance. He visited every day, and once even brought along the tall, lethal-looking man she had noticed him talking to the night she was injured. To her surprise, Chance introduced the man as his brother, Zane. Zane had shaken her hand with exquisite gentleness, shown her photos of his pretty wife and three adorable children, and spent half an hour telling her yarns about the exploits of his daughter, Nick. If even half of what he said about the child was true, the world had better brace itself for when she was older.
After Zane left, Sunny was even more depressed. Zane had what she had always wanted: a family he loved, and who loved him in return.
When he visited, Chance always avoided the subject that lay between them like a coiled snake. He had done what he had done, and no amount of talking would change reality. She had to respect, reluctantly, his lack of any attempt to make excuses. Instead, he talked about his family in Wyoming, and the mountain they all still called home, even though only his parents lived there now. He had four brothers and one sister, a dozen nephews—and one niece, the notorious Nick, whom he obviously adored. His sister was a horse trainer who was married to one of his agents; one brother was a rancher who had married the granddaughter of an old family enemy; another brother was an ex-fighter pilot who was married to an orthopedic surgeon; Zane was married to the daughter of an ambassador; and Joe, his oldest brother, was General Joseph Mackenzie, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
That couldn't all be true, she thought, yet the tales had a ring of truth to them. Then she remembered that Chance was a consummate actor, and bitterness would swamp her again.
She couldn't seem to pull herself out of the dismals. She had always been able to laugh, but now she found it difficult to even smile. No matter how she tried to distract herself, the knowledge was always there, engraved on her heart like a curse that robbed her life of joy: Chance didn't love her. It had all been an act.
It was as if part of her had died. She felt cold inside, and empty. She tried to hide it, tried to tell herself the depression would go away if she just ignored it and concentrated on getting better, but every day the grayness inside her seemed to spread and deepen.
The day she was released, the escort finally arrived with a wheelchair and Sunny called a taxi to meet them at the entrance in fifteen minutes. She gingerly lowered herself into the wheelchair, and the escort obligingly placed the small bag containing her few articles of clothing and her backpack on her lap, then balanced the bromeliad on top.
'I'm sure I have to sign some papers before I'm released,' Sunny said.
'No, I don't think so,' the woman said, checking her orders. 'According to this, you're all ready to go. Your husband probably handled it for you.'
Sunny bit back the urge to snap that she wasn't married. He hadn't mentioned it, and in truth she hadn't given a thought to how she would pay for her hospital care, but now that she thought about it, she realized Chance had indeed handled all of that. Maybe he thought the least he could do was pick up her tab.
She was surprised he wasn't here, since he'd been so adamant about being a part of the baby's life, and persistent in visiting. For all she knew, she thought, he had been called away on some mysterious spy stuff.
She underestimated him. When the escort rolled her to the doors of the patient discharge area, she saw a familiar dark green Ford Explorer parked under the covered entrance. Chance unfolded his long length from behind the steering wheel and came to meet her.
'I've already called a taxi,' she said, though she knew it was a waste of breath.
'Tough,' he said succinctly. He took her clothes and the bromeliad and put them in the back of the Explorer, then opened the passenger door.
Sunny began to inch herself forward in the wheelchair seat, preparatory to standing; she had mastered the art when seated in a regular chair, but a wheelchair was trickier. Chance gave her an exasperated look, then leaned down and scooped her up in his powerful arms, handling her weight with ease as he deposited her in the Explorer.
'Thank you,' she said politely. She would at least be civil, and his method had been much less painful and time-consuming than hers.
'You're welcome.' He buckled the seat belt around her, making certain the straps didn't rub against the surgical incision, then closed the door and walked around to slide under the steering wheel.
'I've booked a room in a hotel,' she said. 'But I don't know where it is, so I can't give you directions.' 'You aren't going to a hotel,' he growled.
'I have to go somewhere,' she pointed out. 'I'm not able to drive, and I can't handle negotiating an airport, so a hotel with room service is the only logical solution.'
'No it isn't. I'm taking you home with me.'
'No!' she said violently, everything in her rejecting the idea of spending days in his company.
His jaw set. 'You don't have a choice,' he said grimly. 'You're going—even if you kick and scream the whole way.'
It was tempting. Oh, it was tempting. Only the thought of how badly kicking would pull at the incision made her resist the idea.
The dime didn't drop until she noticed he was driving to the airport. 'Where are we going?'
He gave her an impatient glance. 'I told you. Hell, Sunny, you know I don't live in Des Moines.'
'All right, so I know where you don't live. But I
know where you
live.' She couldn't resist adding, 'And even if you had told me, it would probably be a lie.'
This time his glance was sulfuric. 'Wyoming,' he said through gritted teeth. 'I'm taking you home to Wyoming.'
