Broken Wings

Drab gray clouds covered the expansive horizon, obliterating the warmth of the sun. Like the delicate flora of nature covered by endless miles of sidewalks in some sprawling super city, the heavens above were suppressed behind a wall of lifeless color.
Pamela Wells stood in her back door and surveyed the sulking skies above. “It’s an early spring sky,” she mumbled.
Spring; thoughts of the season brought to mind frolicking bunnies and brightly colored birds preparing nests for much anticipated hatchlings. Everywhere animals would be shaking off their thick winter coats and embracing the start of a new reproductive cycle. But for Pamela, the warming breezes of the change in seasons were not always a welcomed event. She sighed as she turned her eyes to the expanse of land around her and contemplated the work that lay ahead. With the coming spring, Pamela knew all of her aches would return from their winter respite. But her pains were not limited to the constant throbbing in the various joints of her body; dark days brought an ache to her heart, as well. It was on such a day that she had met Robert, Bob to his friends. The memory of Robert Patrick dressed in his expensive tailored suit and designer Italian custom made shoes made Pamela laugh.
She had been lying in her hospital bed, days after a bad car accident, when Bob walked into her room. He was fresh out of law school and in desperate need of clients. After reading about her accident in the newspaper, Bob hunted Pamela down and signed her on as his first client. One year later, they married in a lavish ceremony inside St. Louis Cathedral in New Orleans.
Pamela shook her head. “Eight years after that, Bob turned into an asshole,” she said as she gazed out at the barn behind her blue and white Acadian cottage. “Well, at least I got this place in the divorce,” she whispered.
Meant as a get away from the urban overload of New Orleans, Bob bought the two-bedroom cottage on fifteen acres for Pamela as a wedding present. The wilds of St. Tammany Parish became her refuge when life as the wife of a prominent personal injury attorney had been too much for her. She moved into the cottage permanently almost six years ago when Bob unexpectedly announced that their marriage was over.
Out of nowhere, a wide raccoon with a slow, sauntering gait and a glint of childlike mischief in his masked eyes wandered up to Pamela. The raccoon stopped just below the three steps to Pamela’s back porch and stood on his hind haunches. He looked at her and warbled in the way a raccoon baby calls to his mother.
“Good morning, Rodney,” Pamela said to the raccoon as she walked down the steps to greet the animal. “How are you today?” She bent over and rubbed behind the raccoon’s silver-tipped ears. Rodney fell on his back like a lump of whale blubber and proceeded to grab at the woman’s hands and direct them to the spots on his belly that needed immediate scratching.
Pamela laughed and rubbed the animal’s wide stomach as Rodney wiggled with delight. The sudden screech of an owl from a nearby tree frightened the raccoon. He jumped to a standing position and eyed a tree close to the house, snorting loudly.
Pamela patted the raccoon on his round bottom. “Relax, Rodney. You know Lester won’t hurt you.” She spied the owl up in the tree next to her bedroom window. “Lester, did you have a good night?”
The owl screeched again, opened his large brown and white checked wings and flapped vigorously upon his tree branch.
“Yes, I know you’re hungry, Lester,” Pamela said, nodding at the raptor. “But I have got baby squirrels to feed, and then there are cages to clean before you can have your ham and eggs.”
The sound of a car driving down the gravel road toward the cottage made Pamela divert her attention away from the impatient owl. She turned and faced the road, just as Rodney came up beside her and wrapped his child-like arms around her lower leg.
A blue open-top Jeep Wrangler with wide off-road tires appeared from out of the brush at the end of her drive. Pamela observed the car with a feeling of trepidation sweeping through her. Strangers coming down the gravel road to her sanctuary were either delivering orphaned or injured wildlife to her care, or coming to deliver food and supplies to her wildlife sanctuary. But no one was ever unexpected at her facility, and uninvited strangers were never welcome. A cacophony of barking broke out from the direction of the front porch steps. The assorted stray dogs Pamela had collected through the years ran to greet the car as it came to a quick stop in front of the cottage. She walked toward the front of her home and watched tentatively as the dogs surrounded the Jeep.
A tall man with thick, dark brown hair and sunglasses stood up in the cab of the Jeep and peered down at her.
“Hey there,” he said then glanced at a slip of paper in his hand. “Is this Second Chance Wildlife Rehabilitation Center?” he asked in a deep voice.
“Yes. Is there something I can do for you?” Pamela gave the man a curt nod of her head as the dogs around the car growled almost in unison.
“You want to call off the posse?” he said as he waved to the five dogs surrounding his Jeep.
Pamela folded her arms over her chest. “First, tell me who you are, and what you’re doing out here?” she demanded as she tried to walk to the car, pulling Rodney along with her as he continued to cling to her leg.
The stranger removed his sunglasses. “Your facility requested a service worker to come out and help clean cages, right?” He shrugged his wide shoulders at her. “I’m your service worker,” he declared.
“The probation office sent you?” Pamela frowned. “But they called and told me you were supposed to come next Wednesday. Today’s Saturday.”
“It’s my day off and my probation officer said it would be all right.” He made a move to step down from the Jeep, but the snarl of a tall, black Catahoula mix stopped him.
“Quincy,” Pamela called out to the dog. “Go back to the porch.” She pointed to the porch at the front of the house. Quincy, along with the rest of his canine pack, obediently obliged and made their way slowly to the porch steps.
Pamela waited for the dogs to settle down on the shady front porch before she looked back at her new service worker. “I’m Pamela Wells, the owner. Your probation officer told you what is expected around here? I don’t tolerate drinking, cursing or—”
“Lewd or rude behavior,” the man said, interrupting her as he stepped down from the Jeep. “Yeah, I got the memo. Don’t worry, Ms. Wells, I will be like a choir boy in church while I am here.”
“What’s your name?”
“Daniel, Daniel Phillips.” He hung his sunglasses on the neck of his white T-shirt as he looked her up and down. “You don’t have a stable hand or someone to clean up around here?”
Pamela noticed that his round, dark brown eyes appeared almost black and had a seductive quality to them. She nervously cast her eyes to the ground. “I’d have to pay for help. This facility runs on a shoestring budget already. To hire someone would break me. Besides, there’s not much to it.” She noticed his expensive-looking leather boots. “You ever worked with wild animals before?”
Daniel laughed as he took a step closer to her. “Only the human kind. I deal with a lot of wild people at work.”
Pamela glanced up at the man before her. He was dressed in old faded blue jeans and stood a good bit taller than she. He had a slender build, muscular arms, a broad chest, and long legs. His face was rectangular with a wide forehead and chiseled jaw. He did not look any older than his early thirties. A scar under his left eye made him appear more sinister than innocent, making Pamela suspect that this was not the first time Daniel Phillips had found himself under the direction of the courts and a probation officer.
She quickly checked her disconcerting thoughts. “Where do you work?” she asked, trying to sound more confident than she felt.
“Pat O’Brien’s in the Quarter. I’m a bartender there.”
“You’re a bartender in the French Quarter?” Pamela asked, raising her brows at him.
“Yeah, I’ve worked at a couple of places in the Quarter. The Voodoo Lounge on Decatur, Muriel’s on Jackson Square, and even did a few months at The Dungeon.” Daniel carefully examined the slender woman before him.
Pamela found his dark eyes disturbing. She knew from experience that her slim figure and shoulder length dirty blond hair made her an easy target for a man’s overactive imagination. But it was the way Daniel looked at her that rattled her so. It was almost as if he were sizing up her potential as a meal rather than a quick roll in the sheets.
He turned his eyes away from her and browsed the facility surrounding them. About a hundred yards from the rear of the house was an old battered blue barn with a few other smaller out buildings to the right of it. Located close to the barn, at the edge of the cleared property, were several tall wood-trimmed cages. Each cage was covered with wire, had a tin roof, and a water faucet attached right outside of the entrance. Majestic oaks were scattered about the property as well as next to the blue and white house. An open shed to the left of the property had a tractor, a white Ford pick-up truck, and two ATVs inside of it.
“You told my probation officer you needed someone to help out around here,” he said as his eyes continued to scan the property.
“Yes, with spring finally here we will be swamped with babies soon. I’ve already gotten quite a few baby squirrels. The cages you will be cleaning are where I wintered several different animals. They have all just recently been released.”
“What kind of animals do you usually get here?” Daniel kept his eyes on the trees along the edge of the clearing beside the house.
“Fox, rabbit, skunk, gray squirrel, fox squirrel, raccoon, opossum, bats, nutria, and an occasional river otter. But I have rehabbed chipmunks, beaver, a few owls, and once, a baby coyote.”
“What about deer?”
“As a permitted wildlife rehabber, the Louisiana Wildlife and Fisheries does not want us working with deer. There has been an increase in a certain kind of wasting disease in the Louisiana deer population and most injured deer are put down, along with any fawns. Deer are also very hard to return to the wild once they have bonded with humans.”
Daniel turned back at her. “So is this all there is to the place?”
“Why? What did you expect?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, something like the Audubon Zoo maybe.”
Pamela focused her gray eyes on his. “This is not a zoo,” she responded, indignantly. “It’s a wildlife rehabilitation facility. We care for orphaned and injured wildlife and do not keep animals for display to an indifferent public. If more people knew about what we do here, they would, hopefully, be less willing to support zoos and more apt to make donations to a cause that puts animals back into their natural habitat.” She gave the man another going over with her eyes as he stepped closer to her side. “What were you convicted of? I often have volunteers on the site and I want to make sure—”
“I’m not a serial rapist, Ms. Wells,” Daniel proclaimed in a perturbed tone of voice. “I hit a guy in the bar where I work for roughing up his date. He filed charges and I was busted for assault and battery. My sentence was one hundred hours of community service. Satisfied?”
“Did they throw in any anger management classes with that community service?” she quipped.
Daniel smiled, cockily, revealing a row of perfectly white teeth. “No, the judge didn’t seem to think I needed any.” He stared into her face for a moment as if trying to figure her out. “So am I to call you Ms. Wells the entire time I’m here, or will Pamela be all right with you?” he questioned.
“Pamela is fine. We don’t stand on formality around here.” A loud sniff came from around Pamela’s feet. She looked down at the ground to see Rodney standing behind her legs, staring at the stranger.
“One of the rehabilitated returned to the wild?” Daniel asked as he nodded to Rodney.
Pamela leaned over and picked up the overweight ring-tailed creature from the ground. The animal cuddled against her chest and warily watched the man standing next to her.
Pamela shifted the heavy animal in her arms. “This is Rodney. He was rescued from a hawk when he was about two weeks old. He’s over a year now and I can’t get him to leave. He thinks he is one of the dogs.”
Daniel reached out to pet the raccoon, but the animal growled at him.
“He doesn’t like strangers,” Pamela quickly added. “All of the animals in this facility are wild. Do not pet them or try to treat them like a cute and cuddly lap dog.”
“And are there any more like him?” he asked as he motioned to the raccoon nuzzling up against Pamela’s neck.
“A few. You’ll meet them later. For now, I’ll show you to the cages that need cleaning.” She turned away and started toward the row of cages and sheds located a short distance from the back of the house.
Daniel directed his attention to the blue and white wooden cottage on his right. The home appeared clean and well taken care of. But on closer inspection some shingles on the roof had cracked and were falling away, and the paint covering the wooden boards along the side of the house had begun to bubble up and peel off. The house looked older, like many scattered around the countryside of Louisiana. It was an Acadian cottage that had been built when horse farms and cattle ranches had filled most of St. Tammany Parish. But such communities had long since given way to manicured subdivisions and posh country clubs as hurricane weary New Orleanians had left the city and taken over the lands north of Lake Pontchartrain.
“How many acres have you got here?” he asked, following her.
“Fifteen. There are another fifty acres behind this property that belongs to one of my patrons. So the animals have a large refuge to roam far away from any humans.”
Daniel watched as the raccoon rested his head against the woman’s shoulder as she carried him. “Is there any money in this sort of thing?”
Pamela stopped walking and turned to him. “There is no money here if that is what you’re asking. Everything is for the animals,” she said, scowling at him. “So if you are thinking you can steal from me, borrow equipment, or make a tidy profit from your time here, think again,” she curtly added.
Daniel raised his hands up in submission. “Hey, don’t get all bent out of shape, Pamela. I was just wondering why anyone would go to this much trouble for a bunch of stray squirrels.”
Pamela shook her head in disgust, leaned over, and rubbed her cheek against the raccoon’s fluffy face. “The cages are this way.”
She quickly turned and started for the cages at the end of the clearing, leaving a wide-eyed Daniel to follow behind her.
* * * *
An hour later, Pamela was sitting on the back porch of her cottage feeding a three-week old baby gray squirrel with a small syringe.
“So what’s this one’s story?” a woman’s voice asked behind her.
“Fell out of a tree and was dropped off last night by a lady from Ponchatoula,” Pamela said, not looking up from the small gray shadow of fur as it sucked voraciously on a syringe filled with formula. The helpless creature’s eyes were still closed and resembled a baby rat rather than a squirrel. Pamela delicately rubbed the animal’s cheek to encourage it to continue to suckle.
“And how many is that now?” the voice persisted.
Pamela turned around and was immediately hit head on by a pair of pale blue eyes. The young woman standing behind her was short, round, had sharp features, and long, light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“Fifteen gray squirrels. Why are you keeping count, Carol?” Pamela replied.
Carol Corbin was Pamela’s accountant, manager, board member, and all around arranger of everything impossible. When the facility needed a new refrigerator, Carol found it. When the roof on the barn needed to be replaced, Carol got someone to donate the materials and found workers willing to help out. She was the glue that kept Pamela’s little sanctuary held together.
“I thought you were going to tell everyone we have reached our limit as far as baby squirrels go,” Carol said, placing her hands on her hips and frowning at Pamela.
“One more won’t make any difference.” Pamela shrugged as she glanced down at the tiny creature in her hands. “Besides, I don’t have any raccoons or skunks in yet this year, so I can take in more baby squirrels.”
Carol sighed. “Last year you kept saying you were going to cut back and we ended up with twenty-two baby gray squirrels, eighteen fox squirrels, fifteen baby raccoons, ten injured bats, nine rabbits, eight baby possums, six skunks, four fox kits, and one deranged owl.”
“Lester is not deranged,” Pamela clarified. “He just has issues.”
“He lives on ham and eggs and thinks hunting is something you watch other birds do on the National Geographic Channel. Has he ever left the tree outside of your bedroom window?”
“He’s working on it,” Pamela defended, turning away from Carol. “Just last week he got down on the ground and walked over to my back porch,” she proudly reported.
Carol folded her arms over her chest. “Let me guess, chocolate?”
Pamela shrugged. “Rice Krispie treats, but it’s a step. It’s the first time he has left the tree since he got here.” She gently pulled the syringe out of the mouth of the baby squirrel in her hands.
“I know you created this place as a haven for the wildlife, but you have to be realistic. The donations are not flowing in like they used to and the budget is getting tight, real tight. You’re going to have to accept the fact that we need to cut back on the amount of animals we take in. Between the formula, food, and vet bills, we are barely making it,” Carol informed her.
Pamela kept her eyes on the bowl of formula as she refilled her syringe. “I could apply for another of those federal grants for wildlife rehabilitation. They have helped us out in the past.”
Carol shook her head. “You know how much red tape and paperwork are involved with those grants. And after all the recent state and federal budget cuts, the competition for grant money to fund wildlife programs has become fierce. Besides, any grant could take several months to come through and we need an influx of cash now.”
Pamela placed the syringe back in the baby squirrel’s mouth. “I could go to Bob. He always said he would cover us if things got tight.”
Carol took a seat on the porch next to Pamela. “You went to him last year when the air-conditioning had to be replaced in your house.”
“But he would come through if I asked him,” Pamela insisted.
Carol placed a concerned arm about Pamela’s shoulder. “And how would Imelda feel about that? You two almost came to blows last year over the air conditioner.”
Imelda was Carol’s name for Bob’s second wife, Clarissa. A social climbing court reporter, Clarissa Turner had married him three months after Bob and Pamela’s divorce was final. She was a green-eyed beauty who had an affinity for designer clothes, lavish parties, and was known around town for her obsession with shoes. It was a running joke that Bob had bought their expensive mansion in the Garden District of New Orleans just to make room for all of Clarissa’s shoes.
“Clarissa is not as bad as you make her out to be, Carol. She cares about this place,” Pamela asserted. She gently started rubbing the squirrel’s pink stomach as it sucked on the syringe.
Carol laughed and quickly removed her arm from Pamela’s shoulder. “Are you kidding me? The only time the woman shows any interest in this place is when she is trying to get her name in the society pages of the Times-Picayune. And even when she does manage to get us any publicity, she insists that all of the donations be sent to her and not directly to you. Probably so she can buy that Chinese baby she keeps talking about adopting.”
Pamela pulled the syringe away from the baby squirrel and placed it back in the bowl of formula. “You know Bob doesn’t want to adopt a kid. He never wanted kids.”
“Then why did he divorce you?!” Carol said, raising her voice. “I thought you told me Bob wanted the divorce because you couldn’t have children.”
Pamela wrapped the baby squirrel in the towel she had sitting on her lap. “Bob didn’t leave me because I couldn’t have children. He left because I have lupus. He could not stand the thought of having a chronically ill wife.”
“So much for in sickness and in health,” Carol commented as she patted Pamela’s shoulder. “Bob always was a bit of a backstabbing son of a bitch, if you ask me. I guess that’s why he became such a successful attorney.” She stood up and looked down at Pamela. “But you can’t always depend on him to solve your financial problems, Pamie.”
“Don’t call me that, Carol.” She frowned. “You know I hate that name.” She paused for a moment as she rubbed the small squirrel’s round, pink stomach. “Anyway, there is always the settlement fund, if I need money,” she added.
Carol stomped her foot defiantly on the ground. “No, the money from your accident is your nest egg. You depleted half of it when you got this place up and running. As your accountant and your friend, I cannot stand by and let you squander anymore of it. That money is for when you really need it. In case you get sick and…” Carol left the sentence unfinished.
The “what ifs” had been hanging over Pamela’s head like a noose ever since she was first diagnosed with her chronic disease. It was not a possible death sentence that she feared. No individual afflicted with such a disorder feared death; they feared loosing control of their life. Lupus had robbed her of her marriage, her chance at motherhood, her health and, at times, her sanity. But she had secretly vowed that she would never let it take away her one form of happiness: her sanctuary.
“You worry too much, Carol.” Pamela stood from the porch still holding the towel in her hands. “You know I would rather have that money go to helping these animals than paying doctor bills.”
“You can’t go on forever, Pamie. One day you will have to slow down and hand this place over to someone who has the money and the connections to keep it going.”
“Don’t bring that up again, Carol. You and I both know what Bob will do to this place if he ever gets his hands on it. Or even worse, if Clarissa gets her hands on it,” Pamela said, raising her voice slightly. “She would kick all of the animals out and turn it into an exclusive retreat for overweight French poodles.”
“Well, if you can’t keep up with the taxes and the overhead, that, or something equally disturbing, will happen,” Carol affirmed.
“As long as Bob’s name is on the mortgage, I’m stuck with him as a silent partner. Until I’m financially viable, I’ll never be rid of him, you know that.”
“Then let’s find another patron, a richer one.”
Pamela frowned at her. “What do you suggest I do, Carol? Tack on a pair of pasties, head down to Bourbon Street, and sleep with the first man that flashes a blank check in my face?”
Carol laughed. “That would be a start.” She shook her head and focused her pale blue eyes on Pamela. “Honestly, if I had your package I would be out there hunting for the first man I came across with a pulse and a high credit score. You spend every day and night up to your elbows in animals. When was the last time you even had a date?”
“I don’t have time to date!” Pamela shouted.
“No, you don’t want to date.” Carol crossed her arms over her chest. “Last year, that fine looking vet kept making excuses to stop by. He asked you out a dozen times. What was his name?”
“Gary Levy.”
“So why didn’t you go out with him?”
Pamela could feel the tiny squirrel squirming around inside of the towel in her hands. She took a breath and let it out slowly. “Men don’t want me, Carol. I’m too old and once they find out I have–”
“Forty-one is not old!” Carol chimed in. “And have you seen the way half of the deliverymen look at you when they come in here? Trust me, men want you and they won’t give a damn about your disease. Bob is not representative of the entire male population, Pamie. Just because he reacted the way he did to your lupus does not mean that another man will be such a heartless asshole.” She threw her hands up in the air and laughed. “Christ, everyone has got something wrong with them. No one is perfect.”
Pamela nodded and tried to force back the slow grinding tension rising from the pit of her stomach. “But everyone does judge you when you have lupus. Many people don’t know anything about my disease, and I don’t want a man to only consider my limitations before he ever gets to know my possibilities.”
Carol stood in silence before her, as Pamela watched the woman’s pale blue eyes sink in resignation.
“All right,” Carol said, waving her hand in the air. “Lecture over. But I want you to at least consider dating someone.” She winked. “Preferably someone rich, but I’m not picky. I would go for someone moderately comfortable if it will get you laid.”
“Carol!” Pamela tried to look shocked, but instead found she was fighting to stifle a girlish giggle. “My sex life, or lack thereof, is none of your business.”
Carol rolled her eyes. “Honey, your sex life is my only business. Because any man that can get into your jeans will not only have to love animals, but will have to find a way to make you think he loves animals. And the only way any man will successfully be able do that is with a fat checkbook.”
“Really, Carol you make me sound like some—”
“Who’s that?” Carol quickly asked as she looked out toward the cages along the edge of the cleared property.
Pamela followed her line of sight until she saw Daniel. He was naked from the waist up, hosing out cages at the other end of the clearing. She stood there frozen for a moment as she watched his water-covered chest glistening in the mid-morning sunlight.
Pamela gasped. “Shit!”
Carol turned to her. “What is it?”
Pamela nodded in Daniel’s direction. “That’s the guy the parole office sent over to clean cages.”
Carol raised her eyebrows as she stared at Daniel. “Him? Man, we need to call them more often.”
“Not funny.” Pamela handed the towel with the baby squirrel inside to Carol. “The guy needs to put his shirt back on. This is not a Chippendales nightclub. This is a family friendly facility, for God’s sake!”
“Oh, please!” Carol laughed. “That is the first fine piece of man meat I have seen since I went into the city and got shit-faced at Pat O’Brien’s last year.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you saw him.” Pamela headed toward the back steps. “He works as a bartender at Pat O’Brien’s.”
“Oh, this morning is just getting better and better,” Carol remarked.
Pamela glanced back to her just as she reached the bottom step. “It won’t be so good when twenty prepubescent Girl Scouts and their mother’s pull up and see a half-naked man on my property.”
Carol smiled at her. “Pamela, right now it’s not the Girl Scouts getting bent out of shape by the half-naked man. It’s you.”
Pamela stormed down the steps and across the green grass toward the back row of cages. She could feel her anger coming to a steady boil as she watched the man flexing his muscles as he scrubbed the outside of the cage. All she could see was his nude upper body glaring at her from across the yard. In her head, she could hear the screams of frightened Girl Scouts as their mother’s insisted they quickly depart the depraved wildlife center.
“What do you think you are doing?” Pamela snapped as she came up to Daniel’s side.
Daniel glanced over at her and then down at the scrub brush in his hand. “What does it look like I’m doing?” His dark eyes flashed with irritation. “And what the hell did you keep in this cage? It stinks!”
“Four fox kits. Their urine is almost as bad as a skunk’s spray.”
Pamela felt her stomach do an uneasy flip as she watched the man’s eyes slice into hers. She walked over to the side of the cage where he had hung his white T-shirt to keep it from getting wet. She angrily pulled the shirt off the wire cage and turned to Daniel.
“Put your shirt back on.” She handed the T-shirt to him. “This is not some bar in the French Quarter where women throw money at you to see your bare chest. I’ve got a busload of Girl Scouts coming today and the last thing I need them to see is your half-naked ass in my facility.”
He grinned. “It’s not my ass that’s naked, Pamela.” He threw the scrub brush on the ground and wiped his hands on his jeans. “I’m sorry. Since so many women throw money at me to see my half-naked body, I figured you wouldn’t mind.”
“I don’t give a damn if you parade around here buck naked, but when I have guests coming, guests who could be potential benefactors, then I do care.”
Daniel reached out and took the shirt from her hands. Then Pamela saw the three circular scars on the man’s chest and right shoulder. The scars were unmistakable to Pamela: gunshot wounds. Having worked as an EMT on the dangerous streets of New Orleans, she was well acquainted with scars of that type. It was the first thing she had searched for on any victim of violent crime. Most recipients of gunshot, or knife-related injuries, bragged about their past encounters and were proud to discuss each and every scar on their body. She had seen boys no more than fourteen show off their old wounds like medals of honor garnered for service in a war no one was ever meant to win.
She redirected her eyes from his chest to the ground. She hated being right about people, especially when her thoughts tended to emphasize the negative rather than the positive. But she felt assured that her initial instincts about Daniel Phillips had been correct.
Daniel put his T-shirt back on and picked up his scrub brush from the ground. “I’ll try not to further offend your delicate sense of decency.”
Pamela gave him a smug grin and folded her arms across her chest. “Listen, I really don’t give a shit what you think of me—”
He held up his long, slender hand stopping her tirade. “Shit does not suit you. Why don’t you try darn, or even damn, but not shit. You don’t look like the kind of woman who should use such profanities.”
“What in the hell is that supposed to mean? What kind of woman do you think I am?” she shouted.
He grinned as he pointed the scrub brush at her. “Your looks and manners scream of an upper class kind of background. Your pale skin and delicate features mean you have probably never done a hard day’s work in your life. And this place?” He waved his hand around the facility surrounding them. “Only a bored housewife looking to show off her altruistic side to her posh friends would waste her days chasing flea-infested fuzz balls around a makeshift petting zoo.”
“Well, at least I don’t have three gun shot wounds in my chest. And how did you come by those, Mr. Phillips? Protecting the patrons of your bar from mass slaughter?”
“Why you little…” he let the words die on his lips. “You don’t know anything about me, Ms. Wells. And do not even begin to think that because I have a few scars on my body that I have led a depraved—”
“.9 mm I would think by the look of the entrance wounds,” Pamela stated, cutting him off.
Daniel stopped and stared at her for a moment. He cocked his head to the side. “How in the hell did you know it was a .9 mm?”
Pamela raised her chin and gave him a condescending gaze with her cool gray eyes. “Every bored housewife knows the difference between—”
“Hey!” A voice shouted behind them.
Pamela and Daniel turned to see Carol standing there waving her hands frantically in the air.
Carol walked over to Pamela’s side. “Do you two want to keep it down to a dull roar over here? I got a busload of girls dressed in funky green outfits that are asking where all the screaming is coming from.”
“They’re here? Already?” Pamela bit her lower lip and looked back toward the house.
Carol nodded. “Yes ma’am; to the Girl Scouts, being on time ranks right up there with cajoling people into buying truckloads of tasteless cookies.”
“Carol!” Pamela glared back at her friend. “Keep your voice down.” She turned to Daniel. “I think you and I are finished here, Mr. Phillips. You can pack up and get the hell off of my property.”
“Ignore her,” Carol said, sticking out her hand to Daniel. “She just has PMS; fires everybody when she’s in a crappy mood. I’m Carol Corbin, Pamela’s accountant and second in command around here.”
Daniel took the round woman’s hand. “Daniel Phillips.”
“Carol, stop undermining me!” Pamela exclaimed.
Carol took a step back from Daniel. “Give the guy a break, Pamie. He took off his shirt, so what?” Carol grinned at Daniel. “Loved your beefcake display, by the way. It added a real zing to my morning.” She patted Pamela on the arm. “Pamie’s too.”
Daniel ran his hand through his thick, brown hair. “Really? I got the distinct impression Ms. Wells was not at all pleased with my beefcake display.”
“Trust me, unless you have fur covering some unseen portion of that body of yours, she won’t be interested,” Carol said with a dismissive wave of her hand.
Daniel raised his dark brows. “Lesbian?”
“Worse. Frustrated, if you know what I mean,” Carol confided as she winked at Daniel.
“All right!” Pamela called out as she stepped in between them. “Enough.” She waved her hand at Daniel and sighed. “You can finish out the day, Daniel.” A sudden jolt of pain gripped Pamela’s elbow. She winced as she pulled her arm against her chest.
“You okay?” Carol asked.
Pamela grimaced again and then nodded. “Just a bad day.” She gave Daniel one last reproach with her eyes and turned away. She started back to the house, still cradling her arm against her body.
Daniel watched as the pale, slender woman slowly made her way to the blue and white cottage. “She all right?” he asked as he nodded after Pamela.
“She has bad days. They seem to be coming more often lately,” Carol disclosed as her eyes followed Pamela. “Trying to keep this place going is taking its toll on her.”
“Why doesn’t she give it up?” Daniel asked.
“This place is all she’s got. It’s the only thing that keeps her from completely falling apart. She tries to act brave, but the stress is wearing her down. And God knows her body doesn’t need anymore stress.”
“Is something wrong with her?”
Carol sighed and turned to Daniel. “The medical term for what she has is systemic lupus erythematosus. It’s more commonly known as lupus.”
“Lupus? I’m not sure of what that is,” he said, furrowing his brow.
“Pamela’s immune system has trouble telling the difference between her body and a foreign body, like a virus. It attacks her joints and can destroy major organs, like her kidneys, liver, lungs, and heart.”
Daniel felt his gut recoil with reproach as he reflected on his previous exchange with Pamela Wells. He wiped his hand across his face. “Christ, I didn’t know. I shouldn’t have been egging her on the way I did. Will she be all right?”
“She’s not broken, only bruised, Daniel. Her lupus causes pain and swelling in her joints. It comes on suddenly and can last for an hour or a day. She manages with it but some days are worse than others. Anyway, she doesn’t like to be handled with kid gloves. The woman is a lot tougher than she looks. My father always said she was one of the toughest women he ever met.”
“Your father knows Pamela?”
“Knew her; he died a long time ago,” Carol corrected. “He was her partner when she worked as an EMT in New Orleans.”
Daniel’s face dropped. “She was an EMT?”
“Yep, a pretty good one, so I was told. Gave it up after the accident.”
“What accident?”
“She and my dad were transporting a patient to the emergency room when they were hit head on by a drunk driver. Apparently, Pamela broke her ribs in the collision, but that didn’t stop her from trying to save my father’s life. After my father was pronounced dead at the scene, Pamela finally agreed to let the rescue workers take her to the closest hospital. Once in the emergency room, Pamela’s condition quickly deteriorated. The next day she woke up in the ICU with a chest tube and a large incision down her abdomen. Her broken ribs had punctured her right lung and she had ruptured her spleen.” Carol smiled. “Like I said, she is a lot tougher than she looks. After that, she kept tabs on me and was a good friend to my mother. When I finished college, I offered to come out here and help her run this place.” Carol gazed about the facility. “Yeah, this has always been her dream. Save the world by saving one flea-infested fuzz ball at a time.”
Daniel shook his head. “You heard that?”
Carol laughed. “Me, and all of the jolly green midgets scampering off of the yellow school bus heard it.” She studied Daniel for a moment. “You got quite a way with words, Mr. Phillips. Where did you hone those oratory skills of yours, or do all bartenders possess such a colorful vocabulary?”
“Only the ones with Harvard educations.”
Carol grinned. “Harvard, eh? Well, there seems to be more to you than meets the eye, Mr. Phillips.”
“Carol!” Pamela’s voice boomed across the compound toward them.
Carol turned back to the house. “Ah, my master’s voice.” She glanced back at Daniel. “I know you may think Pamela an uptight prude, but she is one of the best people I know, and I would really be disturbed to see you upsetting her any further.”
Daniel grinned, playfully. “How disturbed?”
Carol smiled. “Lets just say I got an A+ in my torture and intimidation classes at college.”
“Where did you study? Fort Bragg?” Daniel asked, looking amused.
“No, University of New Orleans. Any good accounting program makes such courses compulsory for their students. Where do you think IRS agents come from?”
Carol quickly turned on her heels and headed toward the waiting Girl Scouts, leaving a bewildered Daniel Phillips to his dirty cages.