By Your Side (32 page)

“Sean and this baby . . . they’re my family now. My home is with them.”

Leah wasn’t coming. Nonni’s brass door set was in an evidence locker. And Macy’s determination to put it all together
 
—finally make things right
 
—had, in the end, sent Fletcher away. Accomplished nothing. Except to point out, once and for all, the essential truths: Macy didn’t belong anywhere. She was as much a “junk bird” as the swallows on the porch of that house. She wasn’t a credible ballerina or kickboxer. When it came to trust, her judgment was dangerously flawed.

A sob rose. She was a fool to ever,
ever
hope for a chance at love. After all that had happened, even remembering the warmth of Nonni’s home didn’t help anymore. But . . . Macy brushed at a tear. But for the first time she wished, really wished, that what Nonni had said about God was true. That no matter what else had happened
 
—or would happen
 
—nothing could change the beautiful fact that she was a child of God. Known before she was born. Loved unconditionally.

She thought of Fletcher, that day when they summited
the Mist Trail at Yosemite and looked out at the breathtaking view. He’d said he was sure God had been up there first, the deep certainty evident in his voice. Right this minute, Macy needed to believe it was so
 
—that the power who created all that . . .
is the Father who will always love me.

“God . . . ,” Macy whispered, bowing her head. There was no way to stop her trembling. She was weak, but being strong didn’t seem so important now. “I can’t do this alone anymore. I need to belong somewhere. . . . I need you in my life. Please help me.”

“H
I.
Remember me?”

“Hello.” Taylor paused outside the radiology suite and smiled at the little girl, trying to place her. Sober-sweet expression, big eyes, pigtails, and patent-leather shoes. Her small hands clasped a tote bag stenciled with a stick-figure ballerina.

“You saw Annie a few weeks back,” the older woman sitting next to the girl explained. Leaning against her, on the opposite side, was a second youngster. A boy with a Mason Allen splint on one hand and a banana in the other. The woman smiled at Taylor and traced a finger gently over Annie’s forehead. “We had some stitches. After . . . a car accident.”

The school van. That first incident with the sniper. The woman was a foster mother.

“Of course. Annie Sims,” Taylor recalled as the girl slid down from her chair and clattered forward in the shiny shoes. She chuckled. “I’d never forget a pretty little girl in tap shoes.”

“Hard to.” The woman shook her head. “We changed to sneakers after dance class but . . .”

“These floors are perfect for tapping.” Annie shuffled her feet to prove it, pigtails bouncing. “Is Macy here?”

“No. I’m sorry. Not today.” Macy’s early morning text said she’d injured her wrist.

“I wanted to tell her something. Something really good.” A grin lit Annie’s face. “My mom is all better. She’s coming tomorrow to take me home.”

The foster mother smiled. “It’s a big day. A happy one.”

“Will you tell Macy for me?” Annie peered at Taylor, great certainty on her face. “She would want to know.”

Taylor promised to relay the news, then continued on toward the cafeteria. She’d planned to meet Seth on her break. She stopped, scanned the room
 
—large, bustling, and sausage-scented
 
—and saw that he’d somehow managed to snag a small table in a virtual sea of hospital staff and visitors. It was an impressive accomplishment, since several tables had been commandeered by human resources to showcase retirement information. Surprisingly, Elliot Rush wasn’t manning the display today. Taylor grabbed her coffee and joined Seth.

“Decaf,” he told her, pointing to his coffee mug as she sat. “I’m being good. Even with bacon whispering my name.” His eyes met hers. “How’re
you
doing?”

“Better than if that horde of reporters outside was waiting
for me.” Taylor shook her head. “I hope Charly wore those big Texas sunglasses.” There was no use trying to evade this bighearted chaplain. Truth was the only option. “I didn’t sleep much. I kept thinking about how I’d actually met Ned Archer, here in the hospital. And how Charly and I walked right up that driveway trying to find him
 
—while Fletcher was cruising his patrol car down the street, trying to keep her safe. Same man, same house, same driveway. And then yesterday . . .” Taylor’s voice dropped to a whisper. “They keep showing those cell phone pictures. Fletcher on the ground and that firefighter . . .”

“It wouldn’t be normal if you didn’t react to that, Taylor. Very personally.”

She wondered what Seth would think if he knew about her reaction to that former flight nurse, Sloane Wilder. It had been a brief and far-from-traumatic encounter, yet Taylor still almost lost control of her emotions. She glanced toward an adjacent table. Sloane was sitting over there now. “I guess I need more good news,” she said after taking a sip of her coffee. “Like little tap dancers heading home.” She smiled at Seth’s raised brow. “You had to be there.”

He nodded. “I’d show up anywhere for good news.”

And for bad news. He’d show up for that too. Seth would throw his heart in, never doubting he had what it took to help.
That’s the difference between us. . . .
Could she tell him that? And about her decision?

“Speaking of good news,” he continued, “I ran into Dr. Carlyle’s husband. He said they’d had some hopeful reports on their baby. He was planning to stop by the ER and tell the staff.”

“I’ll have to pass that along to Macy.”

“Have you talked with her today?”

“I texted her to see why she called in sick. She said she injured her wrist
 
—a small fracture.” Taylor’s brows scrunched. “I assumed it happened on her bike. Or during some kickboxing move. But it happened after she climbed up on a porch railing to take some pictures of a bird nest.”

“She said that?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I think you should call Macy when you get a chance. See how she’s doing.”

“I will.” She tried to read Seth’s expression. “Is there something I should know?”

“I . . . really can’t say.”

“Right.” Taylor glanced toward Sloane’s table again, saw the nurse looking their way.

“I arranged for a visit with Fletcher.” Seth glanced at his watch. “I should get up there.” He stood. “You and I are set for a debriefing on that incident, but if you want to talk with me
 
—even in the middle of the night if you can’t sleep
 
—you’ll call?”

“I will.”

And she’d tell him what she’d decided:
I’m taking a job in San Diego.

Macy settled back against the bench, letting her gaze climb the Grizzly Giant.

She remembered her nervous recitation of Google facts to Fletcher: two thousand years old, 209 feet tall, 96 feet
around, bark two feet thick, two million pinecones, 700,000 sunsets . . .
thousands and thousands of lightning strikes.

He’d been amazed the tree was still standing after all that, and she’d told him that these redwoods were flame resistant. That burning actually helped to make the trees stronger. Fletcher called it a “trial by fire” and said he’d heard people were that way too. Macy knew now that it was, oh, so true.

It had taken her all night to even begin to sort it out
 
—her lifetime of lightning strikes
 
—and she knew there was still a long way to go. But when Macy climbed into the Audi this morning, she’d felt a sense of peace she’d never known. So many things made sense now. It had never been about Leah. Or Nonni. Not about a house that smelled of oatmeal cookies or that stolen brass door set. It had always been about feeling safe and loved.
Home
was what Macy had called it;
family
was what she’d struggled so hard to reclaim. And deny . . . But in so many ways, what she needed had always been there.

She smiled, remembering the guard’s words last night when she fell asleep in her car.
“Make yourself at home, Macy. I’ll look out for you.”
Hadn’t the hospital always been her shelter? Weren’t her teammates
 
—that good-hearted security guard, Taylor, Andi, and so many others
 
—like a family? Didn’t this amazing and majestic Sierra valley always stir Macy’s senses, speak to her heart in a way she couldn’t explain? Fletcher had captured it perfectly:
“God was here first.”

She’d been willing to do almost anything to get that house. It hadn’t been for Leah. It had been for herself. A
futile dream to fill a hole in her heart by putting a hunk of brass on a front door. It never would have worked. Finding a true sense of home wasn’t about a place; it was about feeling safe, loved unconditionally
 
—trusting beyond herself. And that required faith.

Macy’s fingers found the strands of hair she’d spent years trying to wish away. She’d succeeded in covering them up, but it never erased the pain she’d allowed them to cause her. And all the time she’d spent on that futile pursuit had kept her from finding what she’d really wanted all along. Nonni had been right about her. Macy
was
loved. Always had been. By a Father who knew her before she was born and who wanted only the best for her life. The idea boggled her mind; it didn’t make perfect sense. Maybe it never would. But Macy was going to trust it, feel its promise like that worn brass door latch under her childish fingers. She’d move on with her life in a new way. Starting with
 
—

Her cell phone buzzed. The title company.

“Yes, this is Macy Wynn.”

She nodded, listening as the escrow officer recapped the message she’d left early this morning. And then informed her of the ramifications.

“Yes,” Macy confirmed, gazing in awe at the huge redwood once again. “I understand I’ll lose my earnest money.”

“And the contractor’s deposit,” the officer added with a nervous edge to her voice. “There’s a possibility he’ll view this as a breach of contract. He could sue.”

“Well then . . .” Macy’s heart tugged as a marmot clambered up a rock beside the bench, rose on its hind legs to stare at her. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

“You’re sure about this, Miss Wynn?”

“Completely sure. Cancel the contract with the bank.” That beautiful new sense of peace washed over her, buoying her heart. “I don’t want or need that house.”

“A T
WITPIC,
I
HEARD,”
Seth told Fletcher. “Crime of opportunity
 
—covert shot uploaded to Twitter from physical therapy. You’re still newsworthy, even floundering around on crutches.” His teasing smirk crinkled his dark eyes. “Too-tall Texan in a too-short hospital gown. Full color. Or so I heard.”

“Great.” Fletcher shook his head. “I’ll see if my aunt can come up with a haiku in defense of my privacy . . . in 140 characters or less.”

Seth slid the visitor’s chair a little closer to Fletcher’s wheelchair, glanced around the hospital room
 
—on the surgical floor now, after his release from the ICU. His expression sobered. “I saw the film clip. Your press conference.”

“For what it was worth.”

The media had been relentless. Fletcher finally agreed to talk with reporters this morning, four days after the
shooting. He’d kept it brief since so many things were still under investigation by the FBI and the sheriff’s department. And because Fletcher was only now beginning to sort things out for himself. He’d tried his best to brush off all that talk of being a hero
 
—it didn’t feel right
 
—and had refused to speculate on whether or not the psychotic sniper had committed “suicide by cop.” Then Fletcher let his guard down and was gut punched by a reporter quoting Ned Archer’s manifesto . . .

“He didn’t trust anyone,” Fletcher began, remembering the man on that roof. “The government, law enforcement . . . God, either, I guess. Even if he didn’t mention him. Archer thought it was all up to him to make things right. He felt all alone in that.”

Seth stayed quiet.

“That bullet
 
—” Fletcher pressed his fingers to the blanket covering his thigh
 
—“slowed me down enough to let me do some serious thinking. I’m not so sure I’m any better than him. The man I killed out there.”

Seth’s brows rose a fraction. No words. Only encouragement in his eyes.

“I’ve spent a lot of my life thinking things weren’t fair,” Fletcher admitted. “My sister getting hit by that car. My mother’s first cancer . . . and now this second go-round. That whole thing with Jessica.” Fletcher half smiled, remembering his recent, very amazing conversation with her. “I always told myself I was trusting God, believing in his plan . . .”

“But?”

“When it came right down to it, I decided I could handle it by myself. Badge, gun, bulletproof vest, justice on my
side. My plan. My timing. My heroics.” Fletcher shook his head. “My ego . . . my fear.”

Seth nodded. “Trust me, I’ve been there, friend. And now?”

“Now I’m looking at things differently. I’m putting my trust where it belongs.” Fletcher glanced toward his well-worn Bible, brought in by his father early this morning. “And I’m trying to set things right.”

“That’s why you asked Macy to come by?”

“Yeah.” According to the hospital grapevine, she’d been out of state visiting her sister again. “I couldn’t leave things the way they ended with us and
 
—”

“Fletcher?” A tap on the door beyond the privacy curtain separating his bed from the door. Macy’s voice. “Right room?”

“Yes . . . I’m here.” Fletcher’s mouth went dry.

“I’ll be sending a prayer up,” Seth said quietly, rising from his chair. “I’ll check back later, too. Count on it.”

“Thank you.”

There was a murmured exchange of greetings at the doorway; then Macy peeked around the curtain. Her gaze flicked over Fletcher
 
—wheelchair, injured leg extended
 
—and her expression showed concern despite her polite smile.

Fletcher reminded himself to breathe. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

She was dressed in a faded denim skirt, green T-shirt, sandals . . . and a purple fiberglass cast.
Rush.
Fletcher’s gut tensed. He’d heard the story about the man’s arrest and about what he’d done to Macy. Sexual battery
 
—he’d be looking at serious prison time. The assault was part of
the reason Fletcher asked Macy to visit. To see how she was and to tell her how awful he felt. About everything.

“I’m sorry, Fletcher,” she said, settling on the edge of the bed across from him. She tipped forward, met his gaze. “I hate that this happened to you. I was so scared when I heard you’d been shot. Everyone was. I wanted to come see you right away.” Macy shook her head, dark hair brushing her shoulders. “But after what happened with your mother and the viatical brochure . . .” Her eyes shone with sudden tears. “That’s a big part of why I said I’d come today. To apologize for what Elliot
 
—”

“No. You don’t have to take the blame for what that lying, twisted
 
—” A curse rose, but Fletcher stopped himself. “You don’t need to apologize.”

“I do.” Macy pressed the cast to her chest. “I should never have had any conversation with Elliot about your mother. I swear I never gave him confidential medical information. But even expressing my concern for her was a breach of privacy. Wrong. And you were right when you said those things about gambling with lives and betting against hope. About it being unfair and
 
—”

“Wait. Please,” Fletcher insisted as Macy made a clumsy attempt to wipe at a tear with her casted arm. “I had no right to accuse you and come off so . . . almighty self-righteous.” He shook his head. “‘Self-righteous street cop’
 
—Rush’s wife had me pegged from the get-go.”

“Fletcher . . . hey . . .”

“No. She was right. Lying around with a bullet hole in my leg’s given me time to sort things out. I’ve been pulling the ‘unfair’ card for way too long. My sister’s death, my
mom’s health, my relationships . . . Maybe even that I got stuck with a Maine coon.”

“Who was supposed to be a hunting dog.” Macy offered a small smile.

“Yeah, total smackdown on my idiot pride,” Fletcher admitted, grateful for his honest conversations with Seth. In the ICU and then again a few minutes ago. He was thankful, too, that the morphine had let him risk confiding his long-held and confusing feelings to Jessica. She’d been great about it. And not all that surprised apparently.
“Of course you love me . . . and kept tryin’ to save me all those years. I stepped into your little sister’s Mary Janes. You are the brother I never had. That’s a double blessing. And a forever kind of love . . .”
It had felt good to get it off his chest. Even better to finally understand that she was absolutely right. Fletcher would always love Jessica as a sister. And then he told her about Macy . . .

“Somehow I made myself the judge of what’s fair,” Fletcher continued. “Maybe I even stopped believing that God had a better plan for my family . . . my life. You know?”

“Yes.” Macy’s beautiful eyes held his. “I think I do.”

Fletcher scraped his fingers through his hair, groaning at a bitter irony. “I just killed somebody whose mental illness kept him from trusting anyone. And I was the better man for insisting I could handle things all by myself? Like some kind of self-appointed . . . savior? Then when I couldn’t pull my sister out from under that car, be a match if my mother needs a transplant . . .” Fletcher’s voice almost cracked. “I blamed God for not giving the right answer to my prayers.
Self-righteous
doesn’t even cover it. I know that now.”

Macy slid down from the edge of the bed to kneel beside Fletcher’s wheelchair. Her heart ached at the raw honesty in his eyes. “I’ve made big mistakes too. With Elliot
 
—” she expected Fletcher’s reaction and raised her hand to stop him from speaking
 
—“but most of all by thinking I shouldn’t really count on anybody but myself. I don’t want to live like that anymore. And even if you’ve been beating yourself up about your doubts, it was
you
who got me thinking like this, Fletcher.”

“Thinking about what?”

“Trusting God.” She smiled at the look on his face. “It’s a learning curve like the Yosemite Mist Trail. But I’m determined to give it a go.”

Fletcher took hold of her hand.

“There’s a lot of things I want to catch you up on,” Macy explained. “About Elliot, that trust fund, my sister, and
 
—” she wrinkled her nose
 
—“the fact that I just dumped the dream house I was buying . . . and I could get sued. But if you’re not going to stick around, you probably don’t care about any of that.”

“I’m going somewhere?”

“Back to Houston. To convalesce and because things have changed with Jessica. It’s what I heard.”

“Leave it to the hospital rumor mill.”

Macy’s heart climbed to her throat. “Is it true . . . about Jessica?”

“Yeah, things have changed for her.” Fletcher smiled. “She’s in love . . . with a youth pastor in Houston. Some
ex-jock named Ben. Turns out he’s a decent guy.” His eyes held hers. “There’s nothing romantic between Jessica and me. Never was.”

“So . . .” Relief made Macy’s voice quaver. “You’re staying here for a while
 
—as planned?”

“Yep.” He raised her hand to his lips. “But not exactly
here
, I hope.” He frowned. “Hospital gown, leg all bandaged, and my rear in this wheelchair. It’s awkward. Especially if, say . . .” Fletcher’s smile spread slowly. “I wanted to kiss you.”

“Do you?”

“From the second you walked through the door.”

Macy’s face warmed. “I think we could . . .” She stood, stooped down again, then leaned in as he pushed up with his good leg, tried to meet her halfway, and
 
—“Oops,” she said as she thumped Fletcher’s jaw with her cast. He laughed, reached for her.

“Oh, hey . . .” Macy’s skin tingled. “Yes. That could definitely work.”

“C’mere then,” Fletcher whispered, taking her face in his hands. He kissed the corner of her mouth. “Mmm. Yes. Medical miracle.”

“I’m all about that,” she whispered back, slipping an arm around his neck. She chuckled as his lips nibbled the pulse spot under her jaw. Then quieted as his mouth found hers for a quick kiss . . . and a second, much longer one. She buried her fingers in his hair, kissing him back and
 
—

“Mr. Holt?” A disembodied voice beyond the curtain. “Ready for some physical therapy?”

Macy laughed. Fletcher groaned. “One minute, ma’am.”

“Yes, sir.”

Fletcher brushed Macy’s hair back. “Marmots, roommates, Labradoodles, therapists,” he protested, his voice a husky whisper. The blue eyes held hers. “Will
you
stick around?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. I’m going to find a thousand places we can be alone without the world crowding in.” His lips touched the tip of her nose. “Count on it.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“Mr. Holt . . . ?”

“Ready,” Fletcher called out to the therapist. “Bring on the crutches
 
—I’ve got a thousand places I need to get to.”