Hold on My Heart (16 page)

Her dad’s footsteps faded away as he climbed the tiny back staircase leading to the bell tower.

Tom looked at her and adjusted the pencil behind his ear again. His skin flushed, and his stare grazed over her body.

“Hi,” she said, when he said nothing.

“Hi. How’s Ginny?”

“My dad just told you. She’s fine. How are you?”

Tom shook his head and looked down. He took off his hat and then immediately put it back on. “I meant to call you.”

Libby crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “Really? Because I would have answered if you had.”

A small chuckle passed through his lips at the snap in her tone, and his dark gaze lifted, a sheepish expression on his face. “I’m sorry I upset you.”

“Good. You should be. Because now I’m embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed? Why?” Genuine surprise brought his head up, and he faced her squarely.

“Because
you’re
acting embarrassed. You’re acting like we did something terribly wrong, but we didn’t. It wasn’t that big a deal, Tom.”

He huffed at that and frowned, and took his hat off again to run a hand through his hair. Finally his arms crossed.

“I’m not embarrassed, Libby, but where I come from, kissing a woman is a pretty big deal.” His voice was quiet but firm.

Her heart plummeted. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. You caught me off guard the other night. And you’re catching me off guard right now. Hell, everything about you catches me off guard.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered like a touch, until he huffed again and turned his face away.

Though it made no sense, his frustration pleased her. He
did
want her. She could see it in the tension on his face, the way his hands squeezed into fists. She could practically see him remembering, reconsidering.

And so she waited, knowing this was one of those times she needed to let him talk first.

After a pause, he turned back, and reached out a hand. “Libby, I know I—”

A combination of sounds ricocheted around the room just then, the
clang
of an old schoolhouse bell, wood splintering, and Libby’s father shouting out. And then an ominous silence.

Their gazes crashed together in shock, a moment frozen, before Tom turned and sprinted to the bell tower steps. Libby paused, stunned for the space of a heartbeat, but followed seconds later.

Her father lay in a twist in the middle of the stairs, arms flung out and his head lower than his feet. Or his foot, rather, because one leg was straight out, while the other was somewhere underneath him. He was motionless, and Libby’s stomach jumped into her throat.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Tom’s voice was eerily calm. “Libby, call nine-one-one.”

Her father’s eyes were closed. Why were his eyes closed? “Dad?” she called up the remaining stairs.

Tom turned and clasped her shoulders, giving her a gentle shake. “Libby, listen to me. Do you have your phone?”

“It’s in the car.”

“Mine is downstairs in my jacket pocket. Grab it, or get yours, and call nine-one-one.”

She couldn’t move her feet. “The car keys are in his pocket.”

“Fuck.” Tom pulled her back down the stairs. She should stay with her dad, but she let Tom lead her away. Was that blood on the steps?

Tom jerked his phone from the pocket of his jacket and punched the numbers. He handed it back to her. “Tell them to send an ambulance. Do you know the address here?”

“What? Oh, yes. Of course.”

“Good.” He spun back around and disappeared back up the steps.

“Nine-one-one dispatch. What is your emergency?”

Time slowed to a crawl as Tom staggered up the stairwell back to Peter’s side. This couldn’t be happening again. Not another person broken right before his eyes. He couldn’t bear that. Peter Hamilton wasn’t moving so much as an eyelash.

“Peter,” Tom called, pressing two fingers against his neck. He had a pulse. Barely. But Connie’s pulse had been there, too. Until it wasn’t. “Peter, can you hear me? You fell on the stairs.”

There was no sound except the hammering of his own heart. He took a breath and swallowed the knot pressing against his throat. He patted Peter’s cheek gently. “Come on, old man. Wake up. No sleeping on the job.”

He looked up, trying to figure out what had happened. The iron school bell was at the top of the steps, flipped on its side, its support beam dangling from above and split in two. Fuck. He should have checked that and reinforced it. He shouldn’t have let Peter go up there alone.

He looked down again. Peter’s leg was broken—that much was for sure, the way it was jacked up behind him. There was blood underneath him, too, coming from the back of Peter’s head. He couldn’t tell how bad any of this was. But it looked bad enough. And he didn’t want Libby to see it. Because these kinds of visions stuck for a lifetime.

Libby came clamoring back and stood at the base of the steps, breathless. “Is he awake?”

Tom shook his head. “No. Stay down there, okay?”

She came up anyway, just as he knew she would. Her blue eyes clouded with worry. Her lips trembled. “Shouldn’t we lift his head up?”

“We should wait for the ambulance. Moving him could make things worse.”

Libby moved closer and sank down on the step opposite Tom with Peter in between. She touched her father’s face then snatched her hand away as he twitched and let out a sharp gasp.

“Dad?”

He squinted and blinked and then tried to sit up. Tom caught him by the shoulders and held him still. “Whoa, whoa, Peter, hold on. You’ve had a nasty fall. Take it easy.”

“Dad, are you okay?”

Peter looked at her, forehead wrinkled in confusion. “What happened?” He tried to sit up again.

“Libby, grab my coat to put under his head,” Tom said.

She paused, looking as dazed as her father, but then hurried back down the stairs.

“You fell down the steps in the bell tower, Peter. Do you remember?” Tom asked.

Peter was inverted on the steps, blood seeping from his head, and every instinct Tom had told him to help Peter move, but he knew better. It was safer to let him stay put until the ambulance arrived.

Libby came back with the jacket, and Tom rolled it up and wedged it gently beneath Peter’s head.

“What hurts, Peter?” he asked.

More confusion passed over Peter’s face. “My head. My foot.” His eyes drifted closed again.

Maybe that was good. If things hurt, then he wasn’t in shock. Yet.

Libby’s breath was loud, her face pinched with anxiety. Tom wanted to reach over and clasp her hand and tell her everything would be fine. But he’d broken so many promises in the past, he was done with making ones he couldn’t keep. All he could do was remind his lungs to do their job, and help all of them stay calm.

She looked at him in the dim light of the tiny stairwell. “Can’t we do something?”

The question tore at him because he had no answer, and he should. He should have learned something from the last accident, but all he’d learned was how fragile a body could be.

“We just wait,” he said.

“But there’s blood,” she whispered.

“He’s tough, Libby,” he said. It was as much comfort as he dared to offer.

The sirens wailed minutes later, though it felt like decades.

“Go flag them down. I’ll wait here.”

She hesitated.

“Go,” he said again.

He heard the paramedics, and Libby’s strident answers, and seconds later they were in the stairwell, their shirts crisp and white, their actions efficient.

“We’re going to need some room, sir,” one of them said. “Could you wait downstairs, please?” Tom patted Peter’s shoulder and moved from the stairs into the ice-cream parlor to stand next to Libby. She was silent, her fist pressed against her mouth. He knew her heart was in overdrive with worry. There was nothing he could do about it, but when her father yelled in pain as they repositioned his leg, Tom wrapped his useless arms around her shoulders and held her tight.

At last they had Peter moved to a backboard, and then the metal gurney. Libby rushed to the stretcher once they’d maneuvered it into the main room, and Tom followed.

“Dad?” She leaned over. Peter’s eyes were glassy when he turned to her.

“I didn’t get to ring the bell,” he said, and then his eyes drifted to a close once more.

“Can I ride with him?” she asked as a dark-haired paramedic carrying a red medical bag stepped around them.

“No, ma’am. I’m sorry. But we’ll take good care of him. He’s headed to Monroe General.”

“I’ll take you,” Tom said, watching them slam shut the ambulance door.

She looked at him, still no tears in those dark blue eyes. Just a depth of concern he understood completely.

“You don’t have to. I can drive my dad’s car.”

“I don’t think so. Get in the truck.”

Outside, she grabbed her purse and a jacket from her dad’s car. Then she went back to get Peter’s jacket, too, not really grasping that he wouldn’t need it at the hospital. Like locking the door when a tornado is coming.

She climbed into the truck and buckled in. A wavering breath escaped. He wanted to say something, anything that might help. But he didn’t know anything.

“I should call my mom. Shouldn’t I?” She looked at him with uncharacteristic uncertainty, as if there were a protocol for this type of situation.

“You dial. I’ll talk to her, okay?”

She didn’t argue, just pulled her phone from her purse with trembling hands. She pressed a few buttons and handed it to him. “It’s ringing.”

“Hello?” Beverly Hamilton’s voice was chipper, thinking it was her daughter calling. He was about to ruin that.

“Beverly, it’s Tom Murphy. I’ve got Libby’s phone.”

“Oh, hello, Tom.” She sounded curious, but still not worried.

“Listen, Peter took a little tumble at the ice-cream parlor. I’m afraid he may have broken something.”

“Not something of yours, I hope.” She laughed, and he wondered if his tactic of downplaying the seriousness would backfire.

“No, but maybe his leg.”

“His leg? Are you certain?” Worry seeped into her voice.

He thought of how Peter’s foot had been in completely the wrong place. “Yes, ma’am. Pretty sure. He’s on his way to Monroe General in an ambulance, and I’ve got Libby with me. We’re heading there now.”

“An ambulance? Monroe General? Oh. Oh, my goodness, we just left there with Ginny. Let me get her home, but then Nana and I will come right back.”

“Beverly,” he said, trying to sound calm but insistent, “you should hurry a little bit, okay?”

“Of course. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Tom disconnected the call and handed the phone back to Libby. She was staring at him, forehead furrowed in a frown.

“A little tumble? My dad fell halfway down the steps of a bell tower.” Her voice broke, his composure nearly breaking with it.

“You want your mother knowing that when she’s trying to drive? She’ll find out more at the hospital.”

She turned back to the front, staring. “I guess.” Her breathing came in short puffs. After another minute she whispered, “Tom. Can you pull over? I think I need to throw up.”

F
or the second time that week, Libby found herself surrounded by members of her family in a waiting room at the local hospital, but this time was very different. Her mother had arrived with Nana nearly half an hour after she and Tom had gotten there. Marti and Dante joined them shortly after that.

“You again?” Libby overheard Dante ask Tom as he settled into a beige plastic chair next to him.

Tom nodded slowly. “This family is like quicksand, kid. Get out while you still can.”

Dante drank from a can of Red Bull. “Nah, I’m already in. Marti’s worth it.”

His simple declaration threatened to nudge out the tears loitering in Libby’s eyes. Maybe it was just the stress of the day that made her irrationally sentimental, but Libby suddenly had an overwhelming sense that Dante was indeed the one for Marti.

But while Dante was there of his own choosing, Tom Murphy seemed to be struggling to get away. She didn’t want him to feel that way. She wasn’t a burden. She wasn’t a trap. If that’s how he felt, then maybe he really should go.