Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [53]
Sophie shambled in, setting a plastic bowl and a glass of water on the nightstand. She placed her hand on my forehead.
Ooh. That felt nice. “What’s the prognosis, Doc Red Leaf ?”
“Clammy. Not feverish. It’ll pass.”
“Like I told Hope, I just ran too hard, and I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“No matter. Your sister is right. You need to rest. All this sheriff, ranch, and bar stuff is starting to catch up with you.”
I shook my head. “But I have to—”
“The only thing you have to do is put your head on the pillow.” Hope stood in front of me, hands on hips. “You’ve always taken care of me. How about letting me return the favor for a change?”
Tired of arguing, and touched by Hope’s concern, I muttered, “Fine.” I toed off my shoes. I started to strip off my shirt when I realized Dawson might’ve gifted me with love bites the last time we slept together. Damn man delighted in marking me for some reason.
Sophie and Hope mistook my hesitation for shyness and booked it out the door.
I slipped on a long T-shirt and swallowed four Excedrin. The cool sheets beckoned, and I eased beneath them with a drawn-out sigh. My eyes drooped. My body relaxed. I’d begun to doze when the door opened.
Hope, with Joy perched on her hip, crossed to my nightstand and placed a package of saltine crackers next to the water glass. “Need anything else?”
“No.” Impulsively, I reached up and curled my hand around Joy’s bare foot. Such perfectly formed itty-bitty toes. Joy had spindly legs and arms, but her feet were little plumped sausages. “Damn, Poopy, you are one cute papoose.”
Hope froze. “You must be sicker than I thought.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re paying attention to your niece.”
I couldn’t meet Hope’s eyes. “You know I’m crazy about her.”
“No, actually, I didn’t. You tend to ignore her.”
“It’s hard to lavish her with attention when she’s always in her mama’s arms.”
Rather than get snippy, Hope sighed. “True. I just can’t not hold her. All the time. Even when she’s sleeping. Sophie thinks I go overboard. Jake does, too. I know I’m being overprotective . . . but I can’t help it.”
“No one blames you, least of all me.”
“That’s good to know. But I was beginning to think you didn’t like her.”
“I like her just fine for a screaming, pooping thing who lives to projectile vomit.”
Hope didn’t crack a smile.
“What? I was joking.”
“I know. But I’ve also wondered if you were . . . I dunno . . . jealous of her or something because you’ll never have a baby.”
My fingers strummed the backside of Joy’s foot until she grunted and wiggled her toes away. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly the maternal type.”
“Oh, pooh. You’re more maternal than you give yourself credit for.” Hope wiped a long strand of drool dangling from Joy’s mouth. Joy’s spider legs kicked, and she made a soft goo sound. “You’ve always watched out for me.”
“You’ve always needed it.”
She smiled. “Or maybe I didn’t try to stop you because I liked that you fussed over me when you never fussed over anyone else.”
Once again, Hope surprised me with her insight. “Looking out for you is a hard habit to break. I’ll probably still be deciding what’s best for you when we’re both little blue-haired ladies.”
“I hope so.”
I wondered if she’d still feel the same way after I blew up the Newsome house tonight. But this chat reinforced my resolve to protect her at all costs. Especially when she didn’t understand that she needed protection.
She stopped at the door and faced me. “And sis, one other thing?”
“What?”
“Stop calling her Poopy.” The door shut behind them.
“Poopy it is,” I said sleepily, to the empty room.
The instant my eyes closed, I conked out.
I slept like the dead. No bad dreams. Sophie had left me a plate of biscuits and a bottle of 7Up—comfort foods from my childhood—on the dresser while I slumbered. Once I regained my bearings, I left my room.
The TV was on in the living room. I intended to walk straight to the bathroom, but something made me peek in.
Jake and Hope were on the floor, Joy on a puffy pink blanket between them. When Joy churned her chicken legs,