Passion's Dream (The Doms of Passion Lake Book 1) (26 page)

When he was finally able to get himself under control enough to speak, Clay lifted his head slightly, but still didn’t loosen his hold on her.  He couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from her by even a nanometer.  “Jesus, baby, I’ve never been so scared in my fuckin’ life! 
Christ,
when we got to the room and found that nurse bleedin’ all over the floor and you gone, I thought—”He pressed his lips together, unable to continue. 
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! 
The sheer, icy terror that had swept through him had nearly crushed him.  “It’s okay, baby,” he said, stroking her hair over and over, reassuring himself as much as her.  He rocked her gently back and forth.  “It’s okay.  You’re safe.  He’s dead.  He’s dead.” 

“He-he—the nurse—stabbed—she—”

“We know, baby, we know.  We found her.  She’s in surgery right now.  Sam thinks she’s gonna be okay.  The good thing is, Richard Gordon is never gonna hurt anybody again.”

The door on the lower landing opened and a man stepped into the stairwell, followed by Dr. Sam Norton.

“Dr. Stanhope, Mr. Nighthorse.”  The man climbed up the stairs and approached them, holding out his hand.  Then, realizing that they weren’t going to let go of each other long enough to shake it, he let it fall back down to his side. “I’m Patrick Doyle, the hospital administrator.”

Leah managed to lift her head to blink tearfully at Patrick Doyle.  He was a portly, gray-haired man, nattily dressed in a black suit, pale blue dress shirt and a red striped tie.  “Please accept my sincerest apologies for the breach of security that allowed that man”—a wave of his hand indicated the lifeless body of Richard Gordon—“to enter this hospital.  I don’t know how he got past my people, but I promise you, there will be a thorough investigation.  I am devastated that you were forced to suffer this ordeal.”  He looked at Clay.  “Mr. Burke is awake and is asking for his niece.  We’ve placed him in a suite on the fourth floor.”

“Is there someplace we can clean up first?” Clay asked, indicating the blood and tissue now all over both their clothes.  “Maybe get a shower and some clean scrubs to wear?  I don’t want her uncle to see her looking like this.  And we need a doctor to look at her right away.  She’s dislocated her shoulder and may have a concussion.”

“Of course.  Just follow me.” Pulling out a walkie talkie, Patrick Doyle edged past the corpse on the landing and led them back up the stairs, talking softly into the device.

Leah stumbled along beside Clay, her left arm bent across her abdomen, supporting it with her right hand.  More than anything Clay wished her could pick her up.  But he knew that would cause her excruciating pain, so he just guided her with his hand at the small of her back, following the administrator into an unoccupied room.  “The bathroom is fully stocked.  Dr. Evans is on his way up.  By the time you get out of the shower, your scrubs will be here.”

“Thanks, Doyle.  Sorry about all the mess and commotion.”

“Not at all.  Although, I must admit, that when Chief Colter first explained your situation, I thought he might be exaggerating a bit.”

“Jesse Colter never exaggerates,” Clay responded.

“I can see that.  That is something I will definitely have to remember.  I’m just glad Mr. Burke and Dr. Stanhope are safe.”

“That makes two of us.  And she’s no longer Dr. Stanhope,” Clay added with a smile.  “She’s Mrs. Clay Nighthorse.  We got married this morning.”

“Well, congratulations, my boy!” Doyle exclaimed jovially, pumping Clay’s hand.  “But that makes it twice as bad that you had to go through this on your wedding day.  We’ll do everything we can to give you all the assistance you need.”

“Thanks, Doyle.”

Clay walked Leah into the bathroom, holding her with one arm while he turned on the water and adjusted the temperature.  She stood, mute and unmoving, sobbing softly, her face tight with pain, as he unzipped the back of her dress and let it fall over her hips down to the floor.  With exquisite tenderness, he spanned her waist and lifted her into the shower.  “Hold on, baby,” he said guiding her right hand to one of the tile walls, “I’ll be right in.  I’ll take good care of you.”

With a shuddering sigh, she braced her hand against the cool tile, listening to the rustle of his clothing as he undressed.  Her teeth were chattering.  She was shivering uncontrollably.

Clay stepped in behind her and ducked her head under the hot spray.  For a few seconds the water running down the drain was stained red.  He lathered shampoo into her hair then washed her from head to toe, his hands thorough and gentle, especially on her scraped elbows and knees and over the bruises beginning to purple on her upper arms, her neck and along her jaw line.

Turning her to face him, he bent his head and kissed both her swollen eyelids, then her purpling cheekbones.  “I’m sorry,” he whispered between kisses.  “I’m so, so sorry.”  He proceeded to kiss every mark left on her body by Richard Gordon’s violence, from her head to her toes.  “I let you down, baby.  I wasn’t there when you needed me.  I’ll never forgive myself.”

“No, no,” she whispered through her sobs.  ‘It’s not your fault, Clay.  You couldn’t have known.”  In spite of the steam-filled compartment, she couldn’t stop shivering.  Clay adjusted the temperature of the water, making it warmer.  ‘That better, baby?”

A second wave of tears tore through her.  He pulled her into his arms and just held her, rocking her back and forth.  “Don’t cry, baby,” he whispered, his own throat once again thick with tears.  “Please don’t cry.  He’ll never hurt you again.  No one will ever hurt you again.  They’ll have to go through me first.  I should have taken you with me. 
God,
I should have taken you with me!”  His voice was filled with anguish and it took him a minute to regain even a modicum of control over his ragged emotions.  Finally he took a deep, slow breath.  “Okay, love, I’m gonna let go of you—just for a moment,” he added hastily when she let out a tiny whimper and shook her head.  “I’m just gonna give myself a quick wash, then we’ll get out.”  He let go of her, but she didn’t let go of him.  When he turned to face the spray, she leaned against his back, her right arm around his waist, her cheek nestled between his shoulder blades, still shivering despite the heat from the water.  He turned the water off and turned around.  His arms went around her and he backed out of the stall, helping her step over the sill.  She groaned in pain at the stiffness that had already begun to settle into her muscles.

Desolation swept through Clay, making him ache as badly as if
he
had been the one shoved down the stairs.  In fact, he wished he had been.  Anything to have spared her the pain she was now enduring.  He had never felt so helpless in his life.  It was a feeling he didn’t like, not one little bit.

Leah stood like a statue and let him dry her, then himself, dressing quickly in a set of green scrubs.  He was down on one knee, urging her to lift her foot to step into a similar pair of pants, when a doctor walked in.  “Mr. Nighthorse?”

“Call me Clay,” Clay responded, raising his head just enough to give the doctor the once over.

The doctor was in his mid-forties, medium build, brown hair, brown eyes, dressed in blue scrubs and a white lab coat.  Tapes hung from his dangling face mask and a stethoscope was draped around his neck.  “Clay,” he agreed.  “I’m Dr. Evans, Chief of Emergency Services.  Don’t dress her just yet.  I’m going to need to see all her injuries.”  He shook the hand Clay reached up, then turned to Leah with a bright smile. “Dr. Stanhope, why don’t you hop up onto the bed here and let me take a look at you.”  The doctor lowered the side rail.

Clay, knowing how stiff she was becoming, helped her up to sit on the edge of the bed.  He looked at her, wishing there were something he could do.  She appeared dazed, white-faced with pain, not even seeming to realize or even care that she was naked.  And then he realized what the doctor had just called her.  “Sorry, Doc, she’s not Dr. Stanhope any more.  She’s Mrs. Clay Nighthorse.  We just got married.”

The doctor beamed.  “Well, that’s wonderful.  Congratulations and best wishes to both of you.”  He shook Clay’s hand again, then turned his attention to Leah.  “Now, young lady, let’s have a look at you.”  He noted the downward slope of her left shoulder, the forearm acros her abdomen supported by her right hand.  “Looks like you have indeed dislocated your shoulder.”  Moving to stand to her left, he bent forward.  With gentle hands he gripped her by the elbow and wrist, giving her arm firm support.  “I need you to sit up straight and straighten your back and shoulders as much as you possibly can. Just try to relax for me, okay?  And let’s see if we can get this back into place.”  With slow, sure movements, he rotated her forearm outward until her fingers were pointing straight forward, even as he also pushed her upper arm in against her side.

In spite of his gentleness, Leah’s sharply inhaled breath hissed between her teeth.  She closed her eyes, her face scrunched up in pain.  She couldn’t stop a whimper.

“I know, baby, I know,” Clay crooned in a low voice, moving to stand at her right side, picking up her right hand and holding it against his cheek. “I wish I could tell you different, but this is gonna hurt like a son of a bitch.  I know from personal experience.  I’ve dislocated both my shoulders.  It will be easier if you can relax your muscles as much as possible.  Can you blow out your breath in short little puffs?  Yes, like that.”  He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.  “Exactly like that, my love.  That’s my good girl.”  He nodded to the doctor.

Still holding her by the wrist and the upper arm. Evans said, “Let me know when you feel resistance.”  Using her forearm like a lever, he pushed it wider, rotating her upper arm farther outward until she let out a cry.  Her shoulder dipped.  “Okay, that’s good.  That’s good.”  Still moving slowly and as gently as possible, he manipulated her upper arm out , up, and back.

“Ow!”  Leah cried.  “Ow!  Owowowowow!!”

Evans pushed the lever of her forearm back toward her body.  When it once again passed the mid-way point, heading back across her abdomen, there was a sudden, loud
snap
as the shoulder joint popped back into place.
 
Leah screamed and began sobbing, hunched over in pain.  “Very good,” Evans said, pride evident in his voice.  “The worst is over.”  Until he took a really good look at her gray, pasty complexion, the sweat beading on her forehead and upper lip, and the vacant look in her tear-filled eyes.

“Jesus, Doc, she’s going into shock,” Clay exclaimed.

Doctor Evans placed his hand behind Leah’s head, swung her legs up onto the bed and gently laid her down.  Then he pressed the nurse’s call button while Clay took the pillow from the head of the bed and placed it beneath her feet.

“Nurse’s station,” came a disembodied voice over the PA system.

“This is Dr. Evans in Room 209.  Could I please get a heated blanket?  I have a patient here who is in shock.  I’ll also need an arm sling.”

“Of course, Doctor.  Right away.”

Less than thirty seconds later, a nurse walked in with a light blue hospital blanket, which she placed over Leah’s legs and abdomen.  Leah let out a luxuriant sigh.  “Sit up, sweetie,” the nurse instructed, helping Leah up to a sitting position.  She placed the sling around her shoulders and positioned her left forearm in the cradle.  “Excellent.  Now lie back down.”  As soon as Leah did so, the nurse pulled the blanket up to her chin, cocooning her in heat from head to toe..

“Oh, my God,” Leah groaned as the blissful warmth enveloped her.  “This is sheer heaven.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.  I was beginning to think I’d never be warm again.”

Dr. Evans chuckled.  “Yeah, most of our patients appreciate our blanket warmer.”

While Clay gathered up their bloody clothing and stuffed it into a garbage bag, the doctor gave Leah a thorough, no-nonsense examination, exposing only one section of her body at a time, keeping the rest of her beneath the blanket so she could stay as warm as possible.  He talked to her the entire time, cleaning her scrapes, inspecting the bruising not only on her neck and face, but also on her arms, back, legs, abdomen, and rib cage.  And she just lay there and let him do it, her only reaction an occasional hiss when he touched a particularly tender spot.  When he was done, he left her lying in the bed and motioned Clay aside.  “She’s bruised and battered and I believe she might have a slight concussion. I know you want to get her home as soon as possible, but I would really like to keep her overnight so we can monitor her.”

Clay nodded.  “As long as I can stay with her.”

Evans just grinned.  “I’d hate to be the one to try and stop you.”  He sobered.  “Keep your eye on her over the next days, weeks, and months.  The minute she starts to exhibit any signs of PTSD, you know, like nightmares, anxiety, detachment, etc., make sure she talks to a counselor.  I can recommend a few.”

Clay grinned.  “Thanks.  I know a few myself.  A year and a half ago I was working undercover to take down Europe’s major sex trafficking ring.  We got the bastards, but it was a brutal, dehumanizing assignment and when I got back stateside, I realized that I desperately needed to talk to someone.  Jesse Colter recommended Dr. Art Portman.”

Doctor Evans smiled.  “You were in good hands, then.  Portman’s at the top of my list.  Especially since he recently relocated his practice from Seattle to Richmond.”  He shook Clay’s hand again.  “I’ll check in on her first thing in the morning and let you know if she can be released.  See you then.”