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“You can shower and change when you get home. Your mom will help you.”
Bridget handed her car keys to Jonas. “You go ahead and bring it around in front.”
She walked next to Audrey, thanking her for caring for her daughter, words that Audrey waved away.
“Just doing my job. I’m glad there was nothing seriously wrong with her.”
Jonas pulled up just as they went through the automatic doors. Audrey assisted Molly to rise from the wheelchair. Bridget noticed that she moved slowly, a little unsteady on her feet, a stiffness having already set in to add its discomfort to her bruised body. What with one thing and another, they had been in the ER a long time.
Bridget checked her watch. Hours, in fact.
Fiercely independent, Molly shrugged away Bridget’s attempt to help her as if she had something to prove to Jonas. Gritting her teeth, she made it to the car, smiling at Audrey, who opened the door for her and helped her into the back seat.
“Buckle up.”
“I will.” Bridget heard the painful sigh of relief her daughter made when she relaxed against the upholstery and fumbled for the seat belt. Two clicks and she was buckled in. Bridget got into the front seat and did the same. Jonas made no comment as he put the car in drive.
They were all tired. There was only silence as they began the drive back until they reached the Y in the road. A left turn would take them to the chalet, and a right would lead them to town. Jonas slowed the car nearly to a stop.
In the driveway of the chalet he walked around to the passenger side as Bridget helped Molly slide out of the car. Getting out was proving more painful than getting in, as her stiff and sore body was not coordinating properly.
Jonas gave Bridget a questioning look. “Should I carry her in?”
“No!” Molly cried in protest.
“I think it’s a good idea, Molly,” Bridget said. The ER doctor had made it clear that they could expect to see irritable and irrational behavior from Molly, a typical after-effect of even a mild concussion.
They hadn’t reached the chalet steps when her mother’s voice halted them. “Bridget! My God, what happened? We just got your note, but—oh, Molly!”
Turning, Bridget saw her mother rushing across the road, running while still maintaining a ladylike air. Glancing at Molly in the bright light of day and not under hospital fluorescents, she realized how bad her daughter looked.
There was a goose-egg-size lump on her forehead and a red graze on her cheek. The checked blouse was dirty, the cut sleeve hanging loosely to reveal the gauze-wrapped abrasion—and a faint trace of blood that had seeped through the gauze. Her jeans were cut away from her leg, the white bandage around the knee showing plainly against the blue. They’d had to bring her home in those clothes but she looked much more seriously hurt than she was.
“Oh, no,” Jonas murmured, his lips barely moving. “Your mother looks like she’s ready to give me hell.”
“Molly, baby, what happened?” Margaret Harrison demanded in alarm when she saw her granddaughter’s tattered state.
“She fell off her horse,” Jonas answered. “She has a few cuts, some abrasions, and probably a lot of bruises, but no serious injuries.”
“You look terrible, Molly,” Margaret wailed. Hardly a remark that would make her little granddaughter feel better, Bridget thought with annoyance. “Will she be scarred?”
“No, Mrs. Harrison,” Jonas answered with veiled impatience. “Everything will be fine. Molly received excellent care. They’ll all fade in time.” He slid a help-me look at Bridget. “If you’ll open the front door, I’ll take your daughter inside.”
Quickly, Bridget stepped forward to open the door and hold it for him. When she would have followed him inside, her mother caught at her arm.
Whispering, Margaret Harrison accused, “You didn’t let him treat Molly, did you?”
“He is a doctor,” Bridget said defensively. “He was out riding and he happened to be close by when she fell, and he went with us to the hospital. But no, he didn’t treat her. The ER staff took care of Molly.”
“I know he’s a doctor—” her mother began, sounding peevish.
“But you don’t know much else about him,” Bridget declared, shaking her head in faint exasperation. “Nothing new anyway—oh, never mind.” It was no use sharing what Jonas had told her with her mother, who was determined not to like him. Turning, she walked into the house with her mother following.
Margaret Harrison glanced around the empty living room. “Where has he taken her?”
“To her bedroom. Where else,” Bridget replied crossly.
“But how would he know where it is?”
