The Promise (Thunder Point #5)(31)

She checked off the asparagus dish. “Business is good,” she observed. “And something smells good.”

He jutted his chin over his shoulder. At the end of the bar he had set up a little slow cooker station. Two slow cookers, buns, condiments. “I been trying something new. Fresh barbecue and franks. It’s been moving pretty good.”

“Great idea,” she said. “I can tell you how to make ribs in the Crock-Pot if you’re interested.”

“I wouldn’t mind it for the family, but it’s too big a mess in here with the customers. We have enough trouble with barbecue and franks. Can’t imagine what these folks could do with ribs....”

“Thank you, Jesus,” Landon, the cleaner-upper muttered.

She let Rawley buy her an iced tea, visited for a while, asked Landon about the baby again and then, having been encouraged by Landon, walked next door to Cooper’s house. She tapped lightly on the door, and Sarah let her in. “What are the chances of a little peek?” Carrie asked.

“Excellent, she’s awake. Cooper is changing her, and I’m getting her bottle ready. Come in.”

“Cooper is changing her?” Carrie asked.

“It’s his turn,” Sarah said. “Sit down at the table while I get this ready.”

“Where’s Austin?”

“He’s next door, painting with Spencer.”

Cooper walked into the kitchen, the baby on his shoulder and Ham close by his side.

“I see you have protection,” Carrie observed.

“Every step we take with the baby. Ham might think he’s the father. He hasn’t left her side. We have to beg him to go for a walk,” Cooper said. “Would you like to do the honors?”

“I would love that!”

After a nice visit, Carrie took her little beach-mobile back to the town and her deli. She wasn’t planning to work today, but she liked to get things set up for the week. She had to be very well organized—cooking was done in the morning, selling was done from lunchtime till six. She put her list from Rawley in the book and looked at her weekly planner. First thing Monday morning she was going to make some beef kabobs, a large pan of lasagna and some chicken and rice—her deli nuke-able dinners. People were busy these days, many of them working two jobs, and fast meals were in demand. It was a convenience for working people to stop by on their way home to grab a prepared dinner. They often picked up one of her salads or even a sandwich for the next day’s lunch at the same time. Catering was a good business, but the deli items sold over the counter—that was her bread and butter.

She set up her step stool and climbed to reach the large lasagna pan on the top shelf, and she nearly had it free of the pans stacked inside of it when the stool wobbled. Her hands were holding up pans, so they wouldn’t fall off the shelf, and she lost her balance. To prevent herself from falling like a giant oak, her left leg stepped off the third step of the stool. Her foot went one way, her h*ps went the other, she heard a pop, and she went down. Flat on her ass. Buried in pans.

At least they were aluminum, she thought. If they’d been cast iron, she’d be dead. As it was, the only injury seemed to be to her right buttock. Lord.

When she tried to stand, her left leg wouldn’t hold her. Her knee buckled, and she almost went down again. The pain was excruciating. She could barely put weight on it. At least she no longer felt the pain of her butt.

In great discomfort, she stacked the fallen pans on the counter in a somewhat organized manner and limped out the front door. She locked up the deli and drove herself home.

Her day of rest would be enforced.

Seven

When Peyton walked into the clinic on Monday morning, Devon was already behind her desk and working at the computer.

“I should’ve known I wouldn’t beat you,” she said.

“I got an early start,” Devon said. “I listened to the messages. Carrie James needs to see someone—she says she wrecked her knee. It’s painful and very swollen.”

“Give her a call, will you, Devon? Tell her we’re open for business. Is Scott coming in?”

“As far as I know,” she said. “Did you have a nice weekend?”

“Uh-huh,” she said, picking up the schedule and glancing over the names. “Sat on the beach and read for a while, went exploring around the inland towns, had a three-way.” Then she grinned. “Me, Ben & Jerry. It was fabulous.”

“Whew,” Devon said, dialing the phone. “I thought I was about to learn a few things.”

“From me? Not likely.”

Twenty minutes later Peyton was looking at Carrie’s knee. “Wow. I think wrecked is the operative word.” She manipulated it a bit to the patient’s discomfort. “My money is on a meniscus tear, maybe some ACL damage, but you’re going to need an MRI to be sure.”

“I’ve had trouble with my knees before, but this seems really bad. I take pride in the fact that these problems are usually experienced by athletes, but then my work is just as challenging, if not so competitive,” Carrie said.

“How’d you do it?”

Carrie explained her fall off the step stool, twisting her knee painfully, landing buried in pots.

“Ouch. Did you hurt anything else?”

“I have a nasty bruise on my butt and upper thigh. It doesn’t hurt, but it is in the shape of Florida.” She turned wide eyes up to Peyton. “What am I going to do? It hurts like the devil. I’ve had my knees and ankles swell before, but this is terrible. It looks just plain scary.”