“Yes, here . . . now, what’s wrong with Marla?” Alex started to walk to the passenger side of the truck, but Nick grabbed his arm and planted himself firmly between the passenger door and his brother.
“Nothing that a decent physician and a lot less pills won’t fix.”
Alex’s nostrils flared. He jerked back his arm. “This has nothing to do with Phil.”
“Like hell. He’s the one who’s overmedicating her. It’s his fault.”
“No, it’s mine,” Alex admitted with an edge of defiance. “I wanted Marla to take it slow and rest. To recover. Phil was only doing what I asked.”
“Shouldn’t that have been Marla’s decision?”
“Probably but she was so freaked out and paranoid, I took charge. Remember she was seeing things—people in her room, for Christ’s sake,” Alex said. “I just thought she needed some time to pull herself together.”
“You arrogant bastard,” Nick growled.
“But it doesn’t matter now, I’ve called Phil, he’s changing the course of her medication and by morning she should be clearheaded again.”
“You’d better hope.”
“Or what? Don’t threaten me, Nick. I made a mistake. It’s over.” He stepped around his brother and approached the truck. “Marla? Look, I’m sorry. I suppose you heard what was just said. I made a mistake.”
“A big one,” she said, fury streaming through her blood. She looked him square in the eye through the half-opened window.
“I said, ‘I’m sorry,’ okay? Phil will be here in a few minutes. He wants to see how you’re doing and take you off some of the medications. Just trust me.”
Never, she thought, I’ll never trust you for as long as I live, but at the moment a Cadillac purred through the open gates with Phil Robertson at the wheel.
Nick’s gaze turned murderous as Robertson slid out of his car. “You let my brother tell you what to prescribe for his wife?”
“What?”
“Some kind of sleeping pills? You let him decide?” Nick accused.
Alex grabbed hold of his brother’s sleeve. “Now wait a minute, Nick, don’t go jumping down Phil’s throat.”
Marla forced her feet into her slippers, opened the door of the truck and slid to the ground. Her legs were unsteady, but propped by the door, she managed to stand. “I want to know why I feel so . . . groggy, so dull . . . why I can’t seem to wake up.”
Phil Robertson’s lips tightened. “Someone should have called me before today.”
“How long has it been . . . since I saw you in the clinic?” Marla asked.
“Five days.” The doctor turned up his collar.
“Five,” she whispered, unbelieving.
“Let’s go into the house, I’ll take a look at you and I can give you something for your pain that won’t make you so disoriented and sleepy.”
“I don’t want anything,” she said firmly. No matter what, she needed her wits about her. She couldn’t rely on Nick to bail her out time and time again. “I’ll be fine.”
“I think you should listen to Phil. He’s the one with MD after his name.” Alex placed an arm over her shoulders.
She shrugged it off. “No, I don’t think so. Now, listen,” she said her jaw beginning to ache as the medication wore off, “I’m a grown woman. I’ll make all the decisions about what’s happening to me, to my body.”
“I was just thinking about your best interests,” Alex explained, but there wasn’t any warmth in his eyes and one of his hands curled into a fist before he jammed it into the pocket of his coat.
“Were you? I don’t think so. Now stop treating me like some frail hothouse flower.” She was still wearing Nick’s coat, her pajamas and her slippers. Despite the chill, she flung Nick’s jacket at him and he caught it on the fly, then she turned back to the house, her legs seeming to gain strength with each stride.
Men, she thought unkindly. Who needed them?