Here I Am (Arabesque) - By Rochelle Alers Page 0,13

fact, she found his outbursts rather amusing. There was no doubt he was an imposing figure on the gridiron, but she wasn’t a professional football player, and whether or not she was scared of him was irrelevant.

“I’m not afraid of anyone or anything,” she stated confidently.

Brandt smiled for the first time in weeks. “I’m impressed.”

Pushing him closer to the commode, Ciara positioned Brandt where he could easily get out of the wheelchair. “Are you certain you’ll be all right?”

“Yes. I’ll let you know if I require your assistance.” His words were dripping with sarcasm.

Ignoring his comments, she turned on her heel and walked out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Standing next to the door, she exhaled deeply. Going toe-to-toe with Brandt Wainwright was exhausting—it always was that way with a stubborn patient. Dealing with difficult patients always took a lot out of her.

As a psychiatric nurse she knew exactly what Brandt was going through. As an athlete his physical limitations were even more devastating. And although his inability to walk was only temporary, to Brandt it was torture. For most patients in his situation, the feelings of helplessness were often followed by anger and depression. Ciara had to intervene before he succumbed to his emotions. She was certain he would walk again, even if she doubted whether he would be able to play ball again.

His readiness to play football was something she would leave up to the team doctors. Her responsibility was to help with his recovery so that the physical therapist could get him up and walking again. Brandt opened the bathroom door and wheeled the chair into the bedroom. She lowered the bed, making it easier for him to get back into it.

Ciara noticed beads of perspiration on Brandt’s forehead and that he’d gritted his teeth when he fell back to the pile of pillows. “Would you like something to help the pain?” She knew he was hurting.

Brandt tried willing the pain to go away, but it’d persisted. It was as if someone was driving hot spikes into his legs. Once he’d left the hospital, he’d resisted taking painkillers, even though he’d been told there was no honor in suffering in silence.

“Please.”

Leona arose from the padded bench outside the bedroom where she’d sat waiting for Ciara Dennison to emerge. She hadn’t heard Brandt shouting at Ciara, so she prayed things had gone well between him and his latest nurse.

“How did it go?” she asked as Ciara stepped into the hallway.

“Well, Brandt needs to wash his hair, but that’s going to have to wait until later. Right now he needs his pain medication.”

A sigh of relief escaped Leona. She’d sat praying Ciara Dennison would succeed where the other nurses had failed. She was also surprised Ciara had asked her for Brandt’s medication. Whenever she’d asked her son whether he needed something for pain, he’d refused to take anything.

“It’s in the kitchen. I’ll get it for you.”

Ciara took Brandt’s pulse as she waited for his mother to return with the painkillers. It was within normal range.

She’d gotten over one hurdle when she had managed to get him to agree to her being there. But she wasn’t ready to declare victory just yet. She didn’t like getting into his face, but apparently it had worked—if only temporarily.

Ciara waited until Brandt was asleep before she left the bedroom. “He’s asleep,” she told Leona who popped up from the bench. “Is there some place we can go and talk?”

“We can talk in the kitchen. I could use a cup of chamomile tea to calm my nerves. Would you like coffee or tea?”

Ciara gave her a sidelong glance. “Tea would be nice, thank you.”

“After tea, I’ll give you a tour of the penthouse. All of the bedroom suites on the first floor have connecting doors. Brandt installed an elevator between the pantry and the kitchen, so you don’t have to climb the stairs. If you take the suite next to his it will give you easy access whenever he needs you.”

“Does he sleep through the night?” Ciara asked, following Leona into a spacious kitchen finished in an antique white with a coffered ceiling, paneled-door refrigerator, black granite countertops, an eight-burner commercial range and double ovens. The kitchen opened to a formal dining room with the same coffered ceiling.

“I’m not certain.” Leona gestured to a quartet of stools at the cooking island. “Please sit down.”

Ciara sat, giving the older woman a questioning look. “Why don’t you know?”

A rush of color suffused Leona’s