Finding Home (22 page)

Shaking her head, Cindy slipped on the dress. You’d think she was a teenager going out on her first date, with all this dithering over her wardrobe.

She moved into the bathroom to brush her hair, then began applying her makeup. When she finished a few minutes later, she checked her watch. Jarrod was late. No surprise there. Boy plus dog equaled zero notion of time.

Cindy walked over to the window in her bedroom and scanned the street, looking down to the intersection at 101. Jarrod was near the corner—but slowly ambling back. Stretching out his last few minutes alone with Toby.

Just as she started to turn away, a squirrel ran across the open lot at the end of the street. Toby spotted it before Jarrod did, and with an excited bark, he tugged the leash out of her son’s hand and took off in hot pursuit.

Toward 101.

And straight toward the car rounding the curve in the highway—visible to Cindy but not to the pup.

If anything happened to Toby...

But her concern about the dog evaporated when Jarrod took off after him.

Because Jarrod couldn’t see the car either.

Fear roiling in her stomach, she began banging on the window. Calling out. But he was too far away to hear her.

She had to get the window open.

Hands shaking, she fumbled with the lock, keeping one eye on the running dog, the approaching car and her son.

The sash didn’t budge.

She yanked harder.

The car rounded the corner and her pulse skyrocketed.

A moment later, the squirrel ran into its path.

Toby bounded after it.

Even through the glass, she could hear the screech of brakes.

The car began to slide toward the shoulder.

She banged again on the glass, shouting at Jarrod to stay back.

Heard a shattering sound.

Stared in horror as he swerved to avoid the sliding vehicle, then went down when the back of the spinning car clipped him.

Heart hammering, she tore down the stairs and out the front door, the sound of screams following her.

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she realized they were her own.

* * *

Scott exited the jetway at Arcata/Eureka Airport, resettled his duffel bag on his shoulder and checked his watch. He’d love to call Cindy and chat about their plans for tonight, but the wedding was in progress. Better to ring Gram and alert her he was on his way. The fifteen-mile drive south to Eureka wouldn’t take long.

Maneuvering through the throng of exiting passengers, he pulled his phone off his belt, turned it on and saw he had three messages.

Odd.

The construction site was shut down for the weekend, so there shouldn’t be any work issues. Gram rarely called, and he’d had a chat yesterday with Devon, who’d been reticent—but upbeat—about her financial situation.

He checked the messages. All three were from Gram, and all had been left during the past hour while his phone had been off during the flight.

If Gram herself was calling, she must be okay.

But something was wrong.

His pulse ratcheted up several notches as he punched in her number.

She answered on the first ring.

“Gram? I just got off the plane. What’s...”

“You need to get to the hospital.”

He sucked in a breath at her tight, terse tone. “Are you...”

“It’s not me. Jarrod’s been hit by a car.”

Please, God, no!

“Which hospital?” He took off at a fast jog toward the terminal exit.

“St. Joseph’s.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t have any details. Genevieve called me because she didn’t have your number.” Gram’s voice was shaking.

“Okay. We need to stay calm.” Like that was going to happen. “Do you have any idea how bad it is?” Scott broke into a sprint toward his car.

“No, but Cindy’s there alone. Someone needs to be with her.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Will you call as soon as you know anything?”

“Yes. Hang in there—and say a few prayers.”

“That’s all I’ve been doing since I heard the news.”

“I’ll join you.”

Scott hung up and added his prayers as he sped toward the hospital.

Twenty minutes later, when he charged into the E.R., the nurse behind the intake desk was the same one who’d been on duty the night Gram had been rushed to the hospital. But this time he ran into a glitch. He wasn’t family—the key to obtaining information about a patient.

He stumbled when she got to the question about his relationship with Jarrod, then said the first thing that came to mind. “I’m going to marry his mother.”

That seemed to satisfy her. She hit the release button for the automatic doors that led back to the treatment area. “Room four.”

“Thanks.”

Fifteen seconds later, he was on the threshold of the room.

Cindy sat in the single uncomfortable plastic chair, head in hands, shoulders hunched with tension. There were multiple runs in her stockings from the heels up, and her sport shoes definitely didn’t go with her classy outfit.

But what freaked him out was the blood. Lots of it. All over her blue dress. Plus a bulky bandage on her right hand.

No one had told him she’d been injured, too.

Stomach clenching, he approached her. “Cindy.” Her name came out in a hoarse whisper.

With a gasp, she jerked and vaulted to her feet, swaying.

Way to go, Walsh. Scare her half out of her mind.

He took her shoulders in his hands to steady her.

“S-Scott? How did you... I thought you were...” Her words trailed off.

She looked liked she was in shock. Her face was white except for the streaks of mascara on her cheeks. Her skin was cold. And she was trembling.

Instead of answering her questions, he pulled her close and folded her into his arms, cradling the back of her head with his hand.

She clung to him, and he heard a sob catch in her throat.

“How is he?” He said the words quietly, against her hair, praying for optimistic news.

“His l-leg is broken. I don’t k-know how bad it is. They have him in X-ray now and they’re checking him for i-internal injuries.”

“What happened? Genevieve called Gram, but she didn’t have any details.”

“He took T-Toby out for a walk. A squirrel ran by, and Toby got away from him. He took off toward 101. The driver tried to avoid Toby, but the car slid and clipped J-Jarrod.”

The dog they were watching for him was the cause of all this.

Scott closed his eyes as a wave of guilt crashed over him, twisting his stomach into a hard knot. “I’m sorry. I should have asked my neighbor to watch Toby.”

“No.” She backed away slightly and lifted her chin to look at him, her voice stronger. “Jarrod loved having Toby at the house. It was an accident.”

That didn’t make him feel any better. “What happened to your hand?”

She dismissed the question with an impatient lift of one shoulder. “I was in my bedroom when it happened. I banged on the window to try and warn him, but he didn’t hear me. The glass broke. I needed a few stitches. Jarrod’s the one who’s hurt.”

“Walsh?”

At the question from behind him, Scott turned to find Paul Butler once again on duty.

The man did a double take when he recognized Scott. “Are you the fiancé?”

Warmth crept up Scott’s neck, and in his peripheral vision he saw Cindy shoot him a startled glance. “A friend. But I needed a ploy to get in.”

“Fast thinking.” Paul grinned and edged around him to address Cindy. “Let me take another look at that dressing.”

“I’m fine.”

“A nicked artery is nothing to fool with. You lost a fair amount of blood.”

Scott frowned. No wonder Cindy was deathly pale. “How much?”

“Enough.” Paul released her hand. “No bleed-through. That’s good.”

“What about my son?” Once again, panic vibrated through her words.

“He should be okay. No internal injuries. Aside from assorted scrapes and bruises, his primary injury is a broken femur. Otherwise known as the thigh bone. I’ll let David Anderson, our resident pediatric orthopedic surgeon, explain the treatment to you.” He gestured toward the door as a man with salt-and-pepper hair dressed in surgical scrubs entered. “This is Ms. Peterson, the patient’s mother.”

Scott moved aside as the man crossed the room, shook her hand and got straight to business.

“He’ll need surgery so we can realign the bone and insert small rods that act as internal splints. He’ll be off the leg three to six weeks. We’ll remove the rods in about a year. If you agree with that treatment plan, we’re ready to go. Any questions?”

Cindy seemed dazed by the rapid-fire briefing. “H-how dangerous is this procedure?”

“There’s a possibility of complications with any surgery, but—” the solemn surgeon finally cracked the hint of a smile “—I do dozens of these every year. In my opinion, it’s no more dangerous than a tonsillectomy.”

Cindy looked at Scott. He reached for her hand but remained silent. He couldn’t make the decision for her, but he could let her know he was here to support her, whatever she decided.

“Okay.”

The surgeon gave a curt nod. “We’ll get started. Someone can direct you to the surgical waiting room. It’s more comfortable than this place.”

With that, he turned on his heel and exited.

Paul took the man’s place. “Not the best bedside manner, but he knows his stuff.” He glanced at an unopened container of juice on the tray table beside Cindy’s chair, leaned over and picked it up. “Take this along. With her blood loss, she needs to drink fluids.” He handed the juice to Scott. Putting him in charge of Cindy’s well-being.

And as they followed an aide through a maze of corridors a few minutes later, as he kept Cindy close by his side, he realized he was fine with that assignment. He wanted to be the one she called in times of need, the one she shared her joys and hopes and dreams with.

Bottom line, he wanted her. Period. In his arms—and in his life.

As for any lingering fear holding him back—it had dissipated like an afternoon fog in Starfish Bay as he’d raced to join her at the hospital.

Because this time he knew he’d chosen the right woman.

So once they got past this crisis, he intended to lay his cards on the table.

And pray she’d take a chance on him.

* * *

“You need to drink some more.”

Cindy lifted her head from her hands in the corner of the surgical waiting room they’d staked out. Scott was holding another carton of orange juice—the second one he’d brought her in the past hour and a half as they’d kept vigil, fingers entwined.

Those were the only two times he’d left her side.

And she’d missed him during both brief absences. Desperately.

Gratitude tightened her throat, and she tried to smile. “I must still look pretty bad the way you keep forcing liquids on me.”

“Not bad. Pale.” He sat and held out the carton.

He was being kind. During her quick detour to the ladies room on their way here, her reflection in the mirror over the sink had shocked her. Her complexion had been chalky, and the streaks of mascara running down her cheeks had given her a ghoulish appearance. She’d erased those, but there hadn’t been a thing she could do about her pallor. And she doubted it had improved much during their vigil in the waiting room.

Her fingers were still quivering, so she grasped the carton with both hands and tipped it against her lips. She hadn’t paid much attention to the amount of blood on her dress until they’d arrived here, but after the other occupants had subtly recoiled when she entered, she’d taken inventory—and discovered the reason she’d felt light-headed earlier.

She looked like a victim in a slasher horror movie.

“Thank you. This is helping a lot.”

“I wish I could do more.” He reached over and smoothed her hair back from her face, which did nothing to steady the tremble in her fingers. “I called Gram on the way back here. She said to tell you she’s praying.”

Cindy swallowed. “I appreciate that.”

“She asked about Toby, too.”

“Oh!” Cindy stared at him. “I’m sorry. I should have mentioned him sooner. He escaped unscathed. Janice is watching him until we can pick him up.”

“I’ll let Gram know on my next call. Drink some more.” He tapped the container in her hands.

She did as he asked.

All the while thanking God for the gift of this man’s presence in her moment of crisis—and in her life.

Scott remained silent while she finished off the juice, then tugged the empty container from her fingers, crossed the room and deposited it in a trash bin. When he rejoined her, he gently checked her dressing, as Paul had done earlier.