Runaway Bridesmaid (16 page)

He heard a little gulp next to him. Before he could touch her, she scrambled to her feet and started to walk away.

“For God's sake, Sarah—” Dean jumped up and took off after her. “Stop running!”

“I'm not!” she tossed over her shoulder as she increased her pace, her arms clamped across her ribs.

“The hell you say!” He grabbed her as she ducked underneath a low-hanging willow, turning her around so sharply her body slammed into his. “Every time we get into a serious discussion, you're off like a damn greyhound.”

Her mouth was far too close. And not nearly close enough. The old bent willow gently slapped their faces and shoulders with her slender green fingers, as if admonishing them for their foolishness. Sarah opened her eyes wide, those intoxicating whiskey eyes inviting him in whether she wanted to or not…and with a little cry, she looped her arms around his neck.

His hand cupping her jaw, he let his mouth drop to hers, wishing he could somehow convey everything he felt with this one kiss. He stroked her cheek with his thumb, his fingers massaging the little dip in the back of her neck, his only desire, at that moment, to make her understand how much he cherished her.

And always had.

For a few precious seconds, she was his. She melted into him, her tongue meeting his in a slow, tantalizing dance. He kissed her again, and again, his other hand slipping around to
the small of her back, gently massaging that sensitive spot at the base of her spine, and she nestled against him with a little moan. Her hands threaded through his hair, the warmth of her through his shirt making him shiver. Her mouth, her body were perfectly aligned with his, and he could feel her temperature rise, her heart rate increase, her breathing almost stop as they savored each other and yearned for more.

Then she pulled away, her eyes so filled with tears he was amazed they weren't streaming down her cheeks.

“This…isn't fair” was all she said, then started back toward the cooler, her hands raised as she shook her head. In the distance, thunder rumbled.

“Sarah—”

“Call Katey, would you?” she said, so coolly that Dean wondered if he'd just dreamed the kiss. “There's a storm coming. We need to get out of here.”

All Dean could do was stand there and feel stupid. Something he'd been doing a lot lately.
What
wasn't fair? The kiss? His coming back?
What?

Then he heard the splash.

A few feet away, Sarah turned around with a resigned sigh. “There she goes. Did my mother pack an extra set of clothes?”

“Uh, yeah…” His brain was definitely split into several noncoordinating pieces. “In the hamper.”

“Go fish her out, then. I'll get her changed.”

All Dean could do was obey. He trudged downstream to where he expected Katey to be, only to find no sign of her at first. His heartbeat pounded in his ears as he frantically scanned the expanse of water—

“Sarah!” he bellowed. “Get over here!” Panic ripping through his gut, he scrambled down the embankment to where Katey lay in the water.

Which was quickly turning a garish shade of red around her head.

T
here was so much blood! Dull, blurred streaks all over Katey's clothes, ghastly red splotches on Dean's, oozing out from underneath Dean's palm, tightly pressed against Katey's forehead—

“She's knocked out, but she's breathing okay,” Dean said, trying to assure her, looking as though he could use a stiff drink. “But this is one nasty cut.”

Sarah managed a shaky nod as she knelt beside the little girl. Her own heart racing so fast she feared she might faint, she pressed quaking fingers against Katey's neck to feel her pulse, which seemed strong enough.

She'd dealt with much more severe injuries in animals and never panicked. But this was a child.
Her
child. And her child was not only unconscious but bleeding far too much for Sarah's comfort. Cripes—the most Katey'd ever done to herself was scrape the skin off both knees at the same time when she first started riding her bike…

“We need a bandage,” Dean said calmly, and she nodded again, willing her brain to work. Her eyes lit on Dean's shirt,
a soft chambray, clean and absorbent. Damn…it looked brand new.

“Your shirt?”

Dean immediately handed Katey to Sarah, who replaced his hand with hers over the cut, pressing hard against it, wondering why she couldn't seem to staunch the flow. By the time she looked up, he'd stripped off the shirt and ripped it in two, then into smaller pieces, fashioning one of them into a pad without Sarah's even telling him. Even though his face was gray, his actions were steady and precise.

He gently peeled away Sarah's hand, adjusted the ragged edges of the cut, and pressed the pad over it. “Keep pressure on the wound until I can get it wrapped.”

Sarah couldn't help the shaky laugh, even though her stomach muscles felt like gelatin. “Who's the doctor here?”

He clamped his teeth around the edge of the fabric and ripped the shirt again, then offered an anxious grin. “I work in a shop with lots of sharp, nasty tools. And one or two macho types who seem to think they're invincible. Accidents happen, though rarely, thank God. Still, you learn to do bandages.” Sarah decided not to dwell on the kinds of wounds sharp, nasty tools might inflict. Dean wrapped a strip around Katey's head, tied it securely so the pad wouldn't shift. “Hey, honey—she's gonna be okay.”

Sarah took in a deep breath and tried to smile, even though what she really wanted to do was puke. “I know. It's just…” She swallowed, then said, “There's a pediatric center in Opelika—we need to get her there.”

“Not the hospital?”

Adjusting the “bandage,” more so she'd feel useful than for any other reason, Sarah shook her head. “No child of…in my care is going to sit around for four or five hours in some ER waiting room if I can help it.”

“She's all wet.”

“It's ninety degrees. It's okay.”

Dean gave her a brief “I suppose you know what you're doing” look, then picked up the limp little girl as if she were
a kitten and started toward his truck. But Sarah put a trembling hand on his arm. “Give her back to me. You drive.”

 

She was beginning to feel as though she had gotten caught in an emotional hailstorm. The roses. Her mother. Dean's kiss. Now Katey, unconscious and bleeding in her arms, the poor little banged-up head cradled against her chest. One thing after another—
boom…boom…boom
—no chance to recuperate from one trauma before the next one hit.

Dean steered the truck with precision, even with one hand. His other hand was folded over hers as she held Katey. She was in no position to object; rather, she let herself find comfort in those gentle green eyes when he looked over.

His smile was everything.

“It's okay, baby,” he said, like he used to everytime she got upset about some piddly thing or another. But this wasn't piddly. There was a tremor in his voice she'd never heard before, and she found herself fighting tears for at least the tenth time that day.

They drove in silence for several minutes while Sarah desperately tried to master her emotions. She knew it wasn't good for Katey to stay unconscious for long, although she thought maybe the bleeding had finally let up some. Fear for her daughter and fear of telling Dean he
had
a daughter had rendered her dumb.

Just as anxiety threatened to cut off her breathing altogether, she was startled to hear Dean singing. A simple ballad, something they used to sing at church camp when they were kids. He was no Pavarotti, but his voice was soft and warm and kind, soothing a little girl who couldn't even hear him at the moment. A little girl who didn't know he was her father.

Sarah let the tears come. No one would think anything of it, considering the circumstances, not even Dean. No one would know she was crying because she'd made a terrible mistake long ago and wasn't sure if she could fix it. No one would know she was crying because she was in love with a man who
she had a pretty good idea was still in love with her and she didn't know what to do about it. No one would know…

“Sarah? What happened?”

She jumped, looked down into scared brown eyes.

“What happened?” Katey repeated. “Where am I?”

“Shh, baby,” she said, smiling through her tears. “You just banged your head and got a nasty cut, is all. Dean and I are taking you to see Dr. Williams so he can get you all fixed up.”

The eyes widened. “Why are you crying?”

“Oh, honey…” She actually laughed. “Because you scared the bejesus out of me, that's why.”

“Hey, bug…” Dean let go of Sarah's hand and squeezed Katey's. “How're you feeling?”

“Awful,” the little girl pronounced, snuggling against Sarah. Then she tugged at a dripping braid. “Yuck,” she said with a grimace, trying to sit up, immediately collapsing again. “I'm all wet! An' I smell like a crawdad!”

 

“You know, Dr. Whitehouse, those head wounds bleed something terrible,” the plump, middle-aged nurse said with a chuckle as they stood in the examining room. She wrote something on Katey's chart, then glanced at Sarah and grinned. “I'm not sure which one of the three of you looks worse.”

Sarah glanced down at her clothes, which were smeared with blood and bits of creek gunk, then at Dean, bare-chested and definitely the worse for wear.

But poor Katey! Her complexion slightly green, she lay cuddled in Dean's arms with her preposterously bandaged head against his chest. She'd finally dried off, but her previously soggy state had proved far more distressing to the child than the stitches she'd had to get for what Sarah called her Super Booboo.

“I think it may be a tie,” she at last offered with something akin to a smile.

The nurse gave Katey a short rub on her back, then wagged her finger at the little girl, which was hardly intimidating considering the size of the smile that accompanied it. “Now, don't
you be scaring your Mama and Daddy like that anymore, you hear me?”

“Oh, we're not—” Sarah and Dean started simultaneously.

Katey shook her head, then winced. “Sarah's not my mama,” she said in a tiny voice. “She's my sister. And Dean's going to be my brother-in-law.”

“Your sister! You serious?” the sepia-skinned woman said, brows raised. “Land's sakes, there must be, what? Twenty years between you?”

“Eighteen,” Sarah replied politely, wanting nothing more than to go sit down somewhere until her knees felt more secure.

The nurse snickered. “Little surprise package, huh? Same thing happened to my mama. My baby brother's twenty-two years younger than me. But you know what? We all had a
ball
with him when he was a baby. I think he thought he had eight parents instead of two! Okay, sugar,” she said, addressing Katey again. “No more hopping around in the creek for a little while, you hear? And don't get mad at your sister if she keeps waking you up every couple of hours or so tonight. We want to make sure you don't have a concussion.”

“What's a con…concussion?” Katey asked.

“It's when you jiggle your brain around in your head too much.”

Katey's eyes widened and Sarah could see the start of tears. “Oh…”

Sarah stroked her hair and laughed. “They're just being careful, sweetie pie. The doctor says you're just fine.”

“Can she have a sucker?”

“Oh, I think she could manage that,” Sarah replied, wondering why clinics never gave treats to the parents. Like chocolate chocolate-chip ice cream cones. Brownies. Swigs of brandy.

“Here you go, baby,” the nurse said, handing Katey a cherry Tootsie Roll Pop, which brought a bright smile. “So…when you two getting married?”

Sarah nearly choked. “Married? Oh!” she exclaimed, understanding. “His brother's marrying my sister!”

The nurse whipped astute eyes from one to the other. “Oh, I'm sorry. I just could have sworn…”

“We're old friends,” Dean supplied, and Sarah breathed a sigh of relief.

The nurse, however, simply looked from one to the other. “Uh-huh. And yesterday, someone mistook me for Madonna.”

 

Sarah said very little on the way home. Not that Dean was surprised, the incident with Katey having unnerved both of them far too much to expect much in the way of idle chatter afterward. And if Sarah's silence had been due to just that, he wouldn't have given it another thought.

But he knew it wasn't. More than likely, it was what was—or wasn't—going on between them that had her plastered against the passenger side door. Elbow propped on the armrest, her chin in her hand, she stared out the window as if Dean wasn't even there.

As if the kiss they'd shared earlier hadn't been…real.

And not just hormonal, either. On either of their parts. The only difference between Sarah's response now and how she used to kiss him back when they were kids was now she kissed like a woman.

Like a woman who cared a lot more than she was letting on.

Early evening now, the west faces of the white farmhouses blazed coral in the low-riding sun. The storm had never materialized, instead leaving clusters of frustrated clouds, puffed up like a bunch of angry Day-Glo cats. Underneath the carnival-colored sky, folks waved to them or yelled “Hey” as they passed, whether they knew them or not, just being neighborly.

It all seemed so normal, so uncomplicated. Which was the way things were supposed to be in the country, after all. Wasn't that why city folks moved to the country, because life was simpler, less stressful?

And just who, Dean wondered, had made up
that
little fairy tale?

For several minutes, he let himself stew, wondering for the thousandth time why Sarah was acting this way, wondering what he could do about it, wondering if he was crazy for even trying. Then he realized all wondering and worrying was laying the groundwork for an ulcer, so he decided to think about something else, anything else but Sarah.

Kids,
he decided. He'd think about kids.

So this was what it was like to have a child, huh? Exhilaration one moment, heart-stopping panic the next. And he'd give anything to be able to do it every day of his life. Long as he could share the joy, and the craziness, with Sarah.

Damn
—didn't even get a full minute's peace, did he?

All right, all right…he wanted her so much he ached. Okay? Was the world happy now?
He wanted Sarah Whitehouse.
But…not like this. Frightened. Uncommunicative. Withdrawn. Not to mention just plain downright baffling.

They'd come to a crossroads, both literally and figuratively. Dean slowed to a stop, then glanced over his shoulder at Katey, conked out in the back seat.

“She's asleep,” he said, concerned. “Isn't she supposed to stay awake?”

Sarah started at his voice, then twisted around and leaned over the seat, placing her hand on Katey's forehead. The little girl stirred but didn't awaken.

“It's okay,” she whispered. “She's just dozing. We'll wake her when we get home.” She sucked in a breath. “Lord, she looks like she did when she was a baby, that sweet little face. Except for the bandage, of course,” she added with a low, wry laugh.

Dean resumed driving, squinting into the setting sun. “You're plumb crazy about her, aren't you?”

He felt her eyes searing the side of his face, then felt the heat abate as she resumed her scrutiny of the road. “What a silly question. Of course I am.”

He reached up, adjusted the rearview mirror. “Ever think about having kids of your own?”

She shifted away from him, gnawing on a hangnail. His eyes darted to her face, then back out the windshield. “Criminy, Sarah—wasn't like I accused you of murdering somebody!”

“No…it's not that.”

“Then what the hell
is
it?”

She singed him with flashing eyes. “Would you mind keeping your voice down? Or at least your language?”

He held up one hand. “Sorry,” he whispered. “But, honestly…the minute things seem to be going okay between us, you clam up or run away. Excuse me, but I'm just a little confused, okay?”

“Excuse
me,
” she retorted, “but nobody asked you to come back into my life and confuse
me,
either.” Her voice shook; she took a deep breath, then said, “I'd just like some quiet right now, if you don't mind.”

“Whatever you want,” he managed to say through a tight jaw.

Sarah crossed her arms and fixed her gaze out the window, then shut her eyes. But worry, or something like it, had routed a groove between her brows.

Churning, ticked-off thoughts meandered around Dean's brain before settling down to thinking about fishing, of all things. A long time ago, he remembered his mother telling him there were never any wasted thoughts, that even the strange “where the blazes did this come from?” ones meant something, if you just kept your yap shut and
listened.
So he listened, as best he could, and after several minutes, he smiled.