Trauma Plan, page 25
Riley’s shoulders trembled with laughter, and Jack tightened his arms, enjoying her blushing mirth. He glanced discreetly at her collection of locks. You’re safe with me. I promise you that.
“C’mon,” she said finally, leading him toward the living room. “After that embarrassing welcome, the least I can do is offer you coffee.”
Riley insisted she didn’t need help, so Jack waited on the couch while she poured the coffee and gathered plates for the cobbler. It was comfortable here. The couch, the colors Riley chose, and the way the morning light filtered through those honeycomb window shades. Upbeat music—contemporary Christian, Jack guessed—spilled softly from speakers near the mantel. He noticed, once again, the Hale family photos displayed there. Today felt very different from the last time he’d been here . . . except that he was thinking about kissing her then too. At least this time his odds for success had improved considerably.
Jack relaxed, reassuring himself that despite her exasperation with the alarm, Riley seemed glad to see him. He was relieved that his instincts had been correct, because for the first time ever, he was hesitant to trust them. As he’d explained to Riley about skydiving—all his sports, all his endeavors, really—Jack’s tendency was to leap in, ask questions later. But now, with her, Jack sensed he should proceed with caution. Be careful. Take it slow. But what did that look like in practice? He shook his head. The Army trusted Jack to carry out a trauma plan in the chaos of combat, yet he was having trouble formulating a plan to handle a new relationship. Why was that? His gaze moved to the Bible sitting next to the bakery box. Maybe because he wasn’t sure if he was prepared for—
“Here we are,” Riley said, arriving with a tray. “All set. I’m sorry it took so long. I had a message from the chaplain’s office.” Sadness flickered across her face. “The Collins family requested last rites for Stacy.”
Jack winced, remembering the girl on his clinic porch. “Do you need to leave?”
“No.” Riley sat down beside him. “The priest was already there. And our social worker is standing by. They were reminding me that I’m on call for the weekend. In case . . .”
He nodded. In case the brutalized girl died . . . like Abby.
“And if that happens, I’ll go in. Be there for them.” Riley exhaled softly and then reached for the serving spoon.
Jack raised his plate, watching as the morning sunlight slanted through the windows and played over her freshly washed hair. Beautiful woman with an amazing heart. Riley would be there for the Collins family; Jack had no doubt of that. He admired her more than he could say. But right now he was selfishly grateful that she was here with him. They’d be working opposite shifts today, which meant he probably wouldn’t see Riley until tomorrow, Saturday. Jack wasn’t going to waste a moment of the time they had right now. Or do anything to spoil it.
* * *
Collins . . . Stacy Paulson’s mother? Kate winced, wishing she’d checked the name of the patient sooner. She would have traded places with the staff nurse stanching that stubborn nosebleed. This was too painful.
She took a breath and walked in.
“Mrs. Collins, I’m Kate,” she said, glad to see the woman already had a box of tissues. And her husband.
“I’m . . . sorry,” Lorna Collins’s voice choked. Her gray eyes, red-rimmed and smudged with mascara, met Kate’s. “I’m usually so much stronger than this.”
“Our daughter’s a patient here,” her husband explained, his expression no less shell-shocked and grim. “We had the priest give her last rites . . .” He paused and his wife clasped his hand.
“The doctors say that Stacy probably won’t live through the weekend,” Lorna continued. Her fingers moved to a small gold cross lying against her blouse. “She was beaten so badly. Brain damage. We’ve been searching for her for two years. Ever since she . . .”
Ran away. Like I did.
“I’m so sorry.” Kate glanced up at the woman’s husband, trying not to think of her own father. “I was here when Stacy was brought in.”
“Then you know that there’s a baby,” Mr. Collins said.
Kate’s knees went weak. “Yes.”
“She’s having problems too. We’ve been running back and forth between intensive care and newborn intensive care. The doctors thought that if Lorna could get a sedative to help her sleep tonight . . . There will be decisions to make and arrangements. You can’t imagine how hard this has been.”
I don’t want to . . . but I can.
“I’ll . . .” Kate cleared her throat. “I’ll let our doctor know.”
“Thank you so much, Nurse.”
Kate stepped out into the corridor, willing herself to stop trembling. To push aside the sick, sad feeling. She took a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. She was leaving early today because one of the other charge nurses wanted some extra hours. And tomorrow started Kate’s weekend off. She very likely wouldn’t be here when the Collinses’ runaway daughter died and they were forced to choose a future for the baby they never knew she was carrying.
Kate sighed. The last couple of weeks had been filled with misery, not the least of which was the painful new conflict with Riley, the first real friend she’d made here. Kate had no idea how that would resolve. An ache rose in her throat. She was no stranger to loneliness—she’d handle it, either way. But tomorrow night she had a date with Griff Payton. Dinner and then the Majestic Theatre to see Wicked.
Right now there was no better prescription for what ailed her. A handsome and charming man, the opportunity to break out the little black dress and the eBay designer pumps she hadn’t worn since leaving California. Maybe she’d end up in Griff’s arms by the end of the evening. Kate’s face warmed at the thought. She needed that connection. And its validation that—despite her obvious flaws—she was still someone special. Even if it was only a warm good-night hug. Everyone deserved at least that much.
* * *
If Riley could stop time, she’d do it in a heartbeat. Nothing had ever felt so safe, so wonderful, as being cradled in Jack’s arms. Except maybe . . . She smiled as his lips brushed her temple.
“I don’t want to let you go,” he whispered, shifting his position on the couch. He laughed, his breath puffing against her hair. “But my arm’s falling asleep. No, wait. Don’t,” he groaned as she moved away, his handsome features morphing toward a boyish pout. “Unfair.”
She waggled her fingers. “One numb arm’s more than enough.” Riley’s heart tugged as Jack grasped her hand and then gently folded her fingers back to press a kiss against her palm.
“You’re working in Kerrville today?” she asked.
“Yes.” After kissing her fingertips, he sighed and reached for his coffee. “Not till three, but I need to go over some things for the next board meeting.” He caught the confusion on her face. “The clinic’s monthly board meeting—lately I’m more of a firefighter than a director. Putting out the hostile bombs the action committee keeps hurling at me.” A muscle twitched along his jaw. “They’re holding an emergency meeting at the library tomorrow.”
“And the council meets next week. To hear the neighbors’ . . . concerns.”
“Complaints. About me. Never mind that they trusted me to patch up Hector Silva when he fell twenty feet from one of those hallowed roofs.” Jack’s expression darkened ominously. “When they couldn’t be bothered to call for an ambulance despite the fact that he could’ve died before their eyes. I wonder how that gritty revelation would taste with the fancy finger food they’ll be serving in the library.”
“You’re not . . .” Riley’s breath stuck in her throat. “You’re not planning to confront them?” Her stomach tensed at the look on his face. Anger, aggression . . . worse. “That would just fuel them more. Wouldn’t it be better to wait until the council meeting and—?”
“What? Ask Bandy to pass peanut butter sandwiches around? Or bring those clown noses and do a happy little skit about saving lives?” His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “Yeah, maybe I’ll let them shoot Nerf balls at me, get it out of their systems. Then we’ll all hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’—you can loan Andrea Nichols your Fiesta wreath.”
“Jack . . .” Riley set her cup down before he could notice that her hands were beginning to tremble. “Please.”
“What?” he asked, his hand clenching atop his thigh. “Accept it? Let them put a stop to everything I’ve been doing to help people who have nowhere else to turn?” His voice lowered to a near growl. “I can’t, Riley. I won’t let them do this to me.”
“Please . . .” Oh, God, please . . . Riley squeezed her eyes shut against the image of Jack’s hands around the throat of the boy who snatched her purse. “Don’t.”
* * *
What had he done? She was shaking. “Riley?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, finally meeting his gaze. “When you get angry like that, it . . . worries me.”
Scares you. Her beautiful eyes were dilated with fear. Jack’s chest constricted—he’d sworn to himself that he’d be careful.
“Here,” he said gently, taking hold of her hand. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t dump this on you.” Please don’t look at me like that.
Riley exhaled. “It’s just that I know that isn’t who you are. This hostility and bitterness—it’s not you, Jack.”
What if it is? What if that’s all I am?
She managed a smile. “I know you now. You’re kind and caring and so generous. Every good thing you do comes straight from your heart.”
Riley . . . Jack tried to swallow past the sudden ache in his throat. He wanted what she was saying to be true—he’d never wanted anything more.
Riley rested her hand along his jaw. “I’m going to come to the city council meeting. Tell them all the good things that you’re doing at the clinic—and how much I believe in you.” Her thumb brushed his skin. “I do, Jack. I believe in you.”
“I . . .” He swallowed, not trusting himself to speak. Breathing was hard enough. After all his plans to persuade Riley to help him, she was freely offering this?
“So,” she continued, tipping forward to plant a kiss against his cheek, “it’s settled. Bandy, Hobo, and I will be Alamo heroes to your Commander Travis.” Riley smiled at him.
“Okay.” Jack brushed his thumb across her lips. “Except the Alamo didn’t finish so well, if you recall.”
“We’ll rewrite history—think you can handle that?”
“Yes.” Warmth flooded through him. With you . . .
He cradled her face in his hands and kissed her lightly, then chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
“First your shampoo and now . . . you taste like peaches too.”
“Oh, please. You are not going to say—”
“Yes, ma’am.” He drew Riley close again. “Peach lipstick. My finest work by far.”
She tried to laugh, but Jack barely gave her time to breathe before his lips found hers again.
28
Was it Saturday? Vesta stopped in the hallway and tried to think. Her brain was becoming as blurry as her eyes. Yes, Saturday. Friday she’d found the business card wedged under her door: Eric Erikson, Private Investigator. There was a penciled scrawl on the back of the card, almost illegible even with her reading glasses: Would like to speak with you at your convenience.
It wasn’t convenient. And it wouldn’t happen—Vesta couldn’t talk about Jack Travis. To anyone but God. And she was fairly certain he didn’t want to hear her cowardly excuses anymore. Guilt swirled, compounding her dizziness. She put her palm against the wall to steady herself, then moved on toward the living room.
Saturday. The action committee would hold that meeting in the library in a few hours. She’d been surprised—awakened, truthfully—by a reminder phone call this morning. A woman too new to the neighborhood to know that Vesta never went out. She’d told Vesta that the committee was hosting a police sergeant, that there would be catered food, and that the topics of discussion were “vital matters of personal safety and well-being.” Vesta smiled grimly. The caller had no idea that Vesta had long ago taken those matters into her own hands. With a securely locked door and an aluminum baseball bat. But it was hard to find that comforting when she could no longer see much beyond the closest bird feeder in the yard. Can’t see if he’s out there . . .
Riley Hale would be calling today to check on her. The chaplain cared; it was obvious in everything she did. That fact had become more comforting to Vesta than the locks on her door. Riley would ask how Vesta was feeling and she’d get the truth: no more chills, no more backache, less of a headache . . . just so very weak. She’d slept most of the day away already. And even now felt too tired to eat or measure her sugar. When had she done that last? Vesta wasn’t sure. But she’d taken her insulin . . . she thought. She’d check her log. After she slept a little more.
Vesta turned and headed to the bedroom. She’d refill the water pitcher in the bathroom—so thirsty—and crawl back into bed. Just for a little while. Until Riley called. She’d watch TV while she waited. It was close enough to the bed that she could see it fairly well. The woman from the committee said they’d hoped to get some news coverage of the meeting.
What they were trying to do to Dr. Travis wasn’t right, but there was nothing Vesta could do about it now.
* * *
“Fever?” Bandy asked, leaning against the doorway to Jack’s office. He adjusted the brim of his SeaWorld ball cap. “From the way you’ve been acting today, I figure you’re runnin’ a mighty high one. Or—” he smiled, the edges of his eyes crinkling—“it might have something to do with an especially enjoyable day off.” His gaze did a quick dart toward the ceiling as if he’d made some divine arrangement for that.
“Nope. No fever,” Jack pronounced, feigning cluelessness—and trying to decide just how long to torture his friend. He’d already dodged Bandy’s hinting questions when he called yesterday to check on the clinic. He leaned back in his chair. “Went skydiving . . .” Jack dragged it out, toying with the man’s infinite patience. Hobo barked. Jack shrugged and then slowly smiled. “With Riley.”
“No.” Bandy’s mouth fell open; the space was immediately filled by an immense, toothy grin. “Well, I’ll be . . . You don’t say!”
“I do say. And then we went to dinner and dancing in Luckenbach, and . . .” Jack inhaled, warmth spreading enough to give support to Bandy’s fever diagnosis.
“That’s okay. I won’t pry.” Bandy’s eyes twinkled. “Even a gentleman who runs with bulls shouldn’t kiss and tell.”
“No one mentioned kissing.”
Bandy snorted. “No one had to, Doc.”
Jack shook his head, still amazed. “Riley wants to come to the city council meeting. She said she plans to tell them that she believes in me. Not just in the clinic and what we’re doing here, Bandy. She said she believes in me.” He met Bandy’s gaze. “I can’t quite get my head around that.”
“Well, I’d say that’s something a man can get his whole heart around.” He was quiet for a moment, then winked. “Grab you some fresh coffee?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
Bandy went to brew the coffee and start the patients’ sandwiches. Jack glanced at the clock. The clinic would open in less than an hour. But he’d arranged for Gretchen to cover him for a while. So that he could—
Jack was hit with a memory of the look on Riley’s face when he’d talked about the action committee’s emergency meeting at the library. She’d been frightened by his anger. “You’re not planning to confront them?”
He hadn’t answered her directly. And it wasn’t as if he had a solid plan. But he had to be there. He couldn’t simply stand by and do nothing. Riley didn’t understand. And it made Jack sick to think that something he did could frighten her. But he had to show up at the library today. Being there, doing whatever it took to make things right . . . is who I am.
* * *
Kate skimmed her bare foot over the bath bubbles and caught a faucet drip with her big toe. It was painted a shade called “Do You Think I’m Tex-y?”—an impulsive clearance-bin purchase more for the crazy name than the berry-pink color. It was apparently from a past season’s Texas collection, popular enough that there were few remaining choices. But hoot-worthy, all: “Houston, We Have a Purple,” “Suzi Loves Cowboys,” and “Big Hair . . . Big Nails.” She’d laughed out loud in the Walgreens cosmetics aisle, looked around for someone to share it with, and wished so much that Riley were there.
Rah-lee . . . Kate sank lower in the tub, knowing she had some repair work to do in her relationship with the chaplain. At this point she wasn’t even sure Riley still wanted her as a roommate. They’d missed each other at the hospital yesterday because Kate left early. But they had spoken briefly by phone later; Riley cut it short to answer a page. Kate didn’t think it was because Riley wanted to avoid talking to her. And she did promise to call Kate back. That was hopeful. Meanwhile, maybe the neurosurgeon’s report would come through and prove that Riley could be cleared for employment as an ER staff nurse. Riley seemed convinced it would happen. Kate wasn’t so sure. As difficult as it had been to admit—to the ER director and to Riley—she honestly believed Riley wasn’t ready yet. Kate hoped she was wrong. It wasn’t as if she’d never been wrong before.
Kate glanced toward her little black dress hanging on the closet door. And the Italian heels waiting for freshly painted toes. Griff had called to say he was back from Dallas but was going to be unexpectedly detained at a meeting he hadn’t planned for. He had concerns regarding their dinner reservations, so Kate insisted on meeting him at the restaurant—Bohanan’s near the Majestic Theatre. Griff protested in that deep Rhett Butler voice and then finally agreed—“Promise I’ll make it up to you, darlin’.” And in a blink it was there again, that confusing mix she’d felt from the first moment she’d met him at Alamo Grace: undeniable attraction, curiosity, and temptation. Along with a breath-catching frisson of risk—which, she reminded herself, she’d already safely dismissed. The simple fact was that Kate needed tonight.
