Read Promise Me Forever (Debbie Macomber Classics) for Free Online Page B

the expensive leather recliner. Paul hovered over her, and Sloan rolled his chair back and forth across the room.
    “For heaven’s sake, you two look like you expect me to keel over dead any minute.” Her wit didn’t please Sloan, who tossed her a fiery glare. “Look at you.” She directed her words to Sloan. “You’re absolutely pale. Do you mean to tell me that after everything you’ve gone through you can’t stand the sight of blood?”
    “Shut up, Nielsen.” The authority in his voice brooked no resistance.
    “Well, for heaven’s sake, would you stop doing that? You’re making me nervous.”
    “Doing what?”
    “That.” She pointed her finger at his chair. “You’ve got to be the only man in the world who paces in a wheelchair.”
    Paul chuckled, and she tipped her head back and rolled her eyes expressively. “How could you have phoned Dr. Phelps?” she asked, and groaned with embarrassment.
    “You’ve lost a lot of blood.” His voice pounded like thunder around the room.
    “I’m fine,” she nearly shouted, and bounded to her feet, stalking to the far side of the room. Her angry glare met Sloan’s as they stared at each other, the distance of the room separating them.
    “How’d it happen?” Paul inserted, apparently in an attempt to cool tempers.
    “It was my own stupid fault.” She watched as Sloan’s hands tightened around the arms of his chair in a strangling hold. “I tried to get L.J. to eat out of my hand—”
    “L.J.?” Sloan interrupted.
    “The seagull I found.”
    “She named him Long John,” Paul explained, with a trace of humor. “Rather appropriate, I thought.”
    “I didn’t ask what you thought.” Sloan’s mouth twisted sarcastically. “I want that birddestroyed.”
    “No.” Joy’s voice trembled with rage. “You can’t kill something because it was protecting itself. I told you, the whole thing was my fault.”
    “I don’t want the seagull around,” Sloan shouted.
    “Then I’ll find someplace else.”
    The air between them was as cold as an arctic blast.
    Paul moved to the center of the room. “Interestingly enough, I happened to read the other day that there aren’t such things as seagulls. Kittiwakes, black-backed gulls, and herring gulls, but technically there are no seagulls.”
    Speechless, Joy stared blankly at her muscular friend until she recognized that he was placing himself between her and Sloan, granting them each the space to cool their tempers.
    Clara could be heard fussing in the hall. “This way, Dr. Phelps.”
    Everyone’s attention was centered on the door as the tall, dark-haired doctor entered the room.
    “Dr. Phelps,” Joy began, “I’m so embarrassed.”
    “Anyone who lets a stupid bird slash their hand in two deserves to be,” Sloan inserted dryly.
    Joy darted him a warning glance.
    “Now that I’m here, I might as well have a look.” Professional and calm, Dr. Phelps set his bag on the desk and hung his light coat over the back of the chair.
    “And since you’re here, you might as well check Mr. Whittaker,” Joy suggested. “I’m sure he’s due for an enema or something.”
    The good doctor chuckled as he removed the towel from her hand. A fresh supply of blood oozed from the laceration as he prpded it gently with his fingers. “Nothing a couple of stitches won’t cure,” he murmured.
    “I have most of the supplies you’ll need in my room,” she told him, and stood, leading the way.
    The necessary equipment was laid out across the small tabletop as Dr. Phelps injected the topical anesthetic. Nonplussed, Joy watched him work. Having seen this so many times in the past, it amazed her how unaffected she could remain when it was her own hand.
    The dull ache continued after he bandaged the hand in white gauze.
    “How’s it going with Sloan?” he asked, as he worked. They’d talked briefly only one time since she’d taken over the assignment.
    “I’m not sure,” she answered honestly. “I’m