When Hearts Collide (2 page)

She looked up and down the deserted highway. The night remained silent save for the occasional whine of the wind through the tree branches.

Bracing herself against the pain she knew she would cause, Molly pulled again. His body slid over the leather seats. She tried to control the migration as his body twisted away from the pain. She tried to block out the sharp cry of pain when his feet made contact with the ground. Closing her eyes, Molly waited until the moans ceased and he was still again.

“I need to get you away from the car. I’m so sorry, Pearce. I don’t mean to hurt you.” His name slid off her lips without a second thought.

The blanket formed a hammock, and she used it to drag him a safe distance from the Jaguar. His feet extended four inches beyond the border of blanket and the heels of his polished leather shoes left a twin snake’s trail in the gravel.

He lay on his back, his head and neck safely aligned. He was breathing, and his pulse, though rapid, was regular. Molly did a visual exam. Other than the odd angle of his left leg, and the bump and cut on the back of his head, she saw no other injury. She ran her hands over his upper limbs. They seemed intact.

“I need to check your chest,” Molly informed him. He remained silent.

Unbuttoning his cotton shirt, Molly surveyed the broad chest. She wished she had a stethoscope to listen to his heart, to hear the whoosh of air into his lungs. Relying on the moonlight to see the rise and fall of his ribcage was like using fireflies to follow a forest trail at midnight.

Molly laid her palm on the dark thatch of chest hair. The movement of his ribcage, though shallow, was even. Her sudden urge to run her fingers through the soft hairs and trace the line of his abdomen had nothing to do with checking for injuries. Shocked at her response, Molly concentrated on determining his injuries. She slid her hand across his abdomen. It was taut, rigid, not totally due to his six-pack abs. Pearce moaned at her touch. Abdominal trauma? How bad? His spleen? His liver?

“Where does it hurt?”

He moaned and tried to move, then went still again.

Molly surveyed his left leg. There was no question it was broken. She skimmed her hands over the right leg. There was no blood, no obvious deformity, no moan of pain, hopefully, no injury.

The wind had picked up, and Molly listened to it howl through the forest. She concentrated, but there still was no wail of a siren. The break needed to be stabilized. What could she use? She ran through the contents of her car. The ice-scraper. She could use that.

Molly ran back to the Jaguar and collected the first-aid kit and the telescoping ice-scraper. Another idea came to her as she raced to her car. She glanced in the back. The child seemed to be sleeping.

Was she okay? Did she have concealed injuries? Was she unconscious?

A hard lump formed in her throat as Molly leaned into the car and reached out to touch her. The child’s skin felt warm, and by the car’s interior light, she could see her color remained pink. Sighing with relief, Molly picked up a plump arm and palpated her wrist for a pulse. She tapped her foot with the reassuring rhythmic romp of Gracie’s heart. The child let out a soft sigh, shifted, then stayed sheltered in the deep sleep of innocence. Molly eased the door shut.

She grabbed an umbrella from the trunk’s wheel well and hurried back to Pearce. With the umbrella on one side of his broken leg and the metal ice-scraper on the other, Molly used strips of rag and towel to form a crude splint. Pearce groaned, and Molly saw the momentary wince of pain cross his face as she secured the splint around his leg.

“It will settle soon,” she whispered.

She hovered over him, waiting for him to react again, or rouse, or become uncooperative. He did none of those things. As much to reassure herself as him, she whispered in his ear, “Don’t move. You were in a car accident. You need to stay still. The ambulance is coming.” She placed a second blanket over him.

Blood trickled down the left side of his head, matting his hair like crimson styling gel. The swelling had increased. Molly placed gauze over the laceration and secured it with a cloth encircling his head. The wrap, angled across his forehead and part of his left eye, made him look like a dashing pirate.

She examined the aristocratic face. The bones were all angles and harsh edges, conveying character—definitely a face to generate a second look. The salt and pepper sideburns might put him in his late thirties, early forties, but the deep sleep of unconsciousness freed him of life’s stresses and he looked much younger. His black eyelashes looked long and thick.

Molly startled. Was it her imagination, or had his eyes fluttered? The lids flew open and Molly found herself staring into eyes as bright a blue as his daughter’s. They held her like a magnet.

“Mr. Taylor. You’re okay. An ambulance is coming. My name is Molly. I’m a nurse.”

His brow furrowed as if it were an effort to think. “Gracie...?”

His voice was barely audible, and Molly had to lean so close, the warmth of his breath caressed her cheek. “Gracie...”

“Gracie is fine, Mr. Taylor. She’s in my car.”

“She’s okay?”

“Yes, she’s okay.”

His eyes closed and face softened. Seconds later his eyes popped open. His jaw clenched and his pale cheek twitched. “Please, don’t let them take her.”

“Let who take her?”

“Social Services.”

“Now you’re going to be fine. Gracie will be fine.” She said the words in her practiced patient tone, but her heart had sunk like a lead weight when she’d heard the words Social Services, foster care. Memories flooded back. She tried to push them away.

“No.” Pearce was attempting to rise. Pain ravaged his face. “No. She can’t go into care. Promise me.” His hand shot out and his fingers clawed into her arm. “Please, please look after her.”

“What about her mother?”

“Doesn’t have one. Please, look after her.”

“I can’t.”

“Please...just until...”

She felt the nails digging into her arms.

“Mr. Taylor, they wouldn’t let me. There must be someone?”

“No.” His head shook slowly. “She won’t. She can’t...”

“Who won’t?” Molly felt like she was yelling. “Pearce, who can look after her?”

His eyes bore into hers. “No one. She can’t go in care again.”

Was he delusional? Had his child been in foster care? Why? This man had money enough to have an expensive sports car and clothes that hadn’t come off some department store rack.

“Promise me you won’t let that happen?”

“I can’t.”

His nails punctured the soft flesh of her forearm. “Please.”

“How?”

His eyes closed briefly. He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. His grasp on her arm loosened. Molly went to move away, but before she could, he grabbed her again. His eyes burned with an intense fierceness. Heat radiated through her chest, and Molly felt like she’d been shot with a blazing dart. “Pretend to be her mother.” His grip tightened. “Pretend to be my wife.”

“That’s crazy.”

“They’ll take her...”

All the air in her body drained out, and she sagged like a deflated balloon. Yes, she did know what would happen to her, only too well. Memories flooded back—stark dorm-like bedrooms, bleak birthdays and holidays, and worst of all, the dispassionate caregivers. Molly fought the overwhelming sadness that accompanied the memories.

“Please. I’ll never see her again.”

Molly thought of the beautiful, innocent child asleep in her car. A lump formed in her throat and tears pricked her eyes. How could she look after her? No, she couldn’t.

“Take...care...of her...” Then, as if the effort was too much, his body slumped into the blanket and he seemed to have fallen into a coma.

“Mr. Taylor? Mr. Taylor...Pearce.” Molly squeezed his shoulder. She called again, but Pearce Taylor made no further response. After a few minutes, Molly wondered if she’d dreamed the whole eye-opening episode.

She sat beside him, watching and waiting. For now, he was breathing on his own and his heartbeat was regular. He needed fluids and he needed oxygen, but there was no more Molly could do. So she sat beside him, talking softly, holding his hand, and stroking the strands of wavy black hair that draped his pale forehead like a Cocker Spaniel’s. Her hands trembled with post adrenaline rush, and the activity felt good. As her shoulders relaxed and her heartbeat no longer hammered in her head, she felt the tension ease out of her body. At least he was alive.

Molly prayed Pearce would survive until the ambulance arrived. What were his injuries? The gash on the left side of his head would require stitches. She felt the lump. It had increased. The acorn-sized swelling now felt like an overripe kiwi. Her stomach twisted in knots. If it was swelling this much on the outside, how much swelling was on the inside, pressing on his brain?

Molly was sure he’d sustained a significant head injury. His chances were good, but only if he got to a hospital in time to have it drained. The fractured leg might be the least of his problems. But what was going on with his abdomen? A lacerated spleen or kidney? Also a good prognosis, if treated in time.

Time. The biggest factor.

The head injury might account for his ramblings about Gracie and foster care. She would follow the ambulance to the hospital, get Gracie checked over, and then find someone to take over her care. She studied his face. He looked so peaceful, his eyelids almost transparent, mouth soft, turned up at the corners.

But he was so still, too still. His skin was cool to her touch. She tucked the blanket around his shoulders, then slid her fingers along his neck to a point below his jaw. His pulse bounded through the artery. She counted. Ninety-six. It was accelerated, but at least there were no irregular beats. So far his heart seemed to be tolerating the injury he’d sustained.

She stroked the salt and pepper sideburns, hoping he would be all right for his daughter’s sake. She’d grown up without a father, without parents at all, and she’d never wish that on anyone. Her thoughts were disturbed by the wail of a siren in the distance. It began as a whisper, but within seconds it blared through the night air. She saw the strobe lights flashing intermittently through the dense wall of trees. Each second its brightness increased, along with the penetrating cry of the siren. Would it wake Gracie?

The window was open. If the child roused, Molly would hear her. Hopefully she would stay sleeping until the paramedics took over and transported her father to the hospital. She would follow and have them examine Gracie. The child seemed fine, but Molly needed a doctor to check her. The ambulance screeched to a stop, the side doors flew open, and two paramedics jumped out. They were beside her in seconds. “What happened?”

Without waiting for her answer, they were pulling equipment out of a large navy duffel bag. They slid an oxygen mask on Pearce’s face and a blood pressure cuff on his arm. One attendant wrenched open Pearce’s shirt, the other stuck electrodes on his chest with wires extending to a portable cardiac monitor. Waves of electrical impulses traced across the portable screen. The cuff filled with air, then deflated. The digital readout showed 95/60.

“His name is Pearce Taylor. He swerved to miss a deer. His tires caught the edge of the road, and the car crashed into the tree.”

“You got him out?” the gangly twenty-something paramedic asked. His tone was terse, full of youthful arrogance and disdain.

Molly instantly felt defensive. “There’s a gas leak. I thought the car might explode. I stabilized his neck and used the blanket like a hammock to slide him out.”

An oximeter clip was placed on Pearce’s thumb. Instantly a number flashed on the screen. 91. It was too low.

“Is the oxygen as high as it can go?” Molly asked before answering his question.

“It’s on full.” This came from the second, more seasoned, paramedic. “Do you have medical training?”

“I’m an intensive care nurse. I’m sure he has a head injury.” She pointed to the bandage on his head. “And some internal injuries. His abdomen is rigid. He roused for a few seconds and was talking, then lapsed back into unconsciousness.”

They performed a rapid assessment as they talked. “I’m Mark, and he’s Gary.” The older paramedic jerked his head toward the younger one. “Looks like you’ve done a good job.” Mark indicated the makeshift splint on Pearce’s left leg.

“Let’s put a cervical collar on him. I think we should leave the fine leg splint.” He grinned at Molly. “Looks secure. Might damage the leg more to change it. It will be even better when we put him on the fracture board.”

Gary brought a long narrow board from the ambulance and laid it on the ground beside Pearce. Mark was starting an intravenous when Pearce groaned and tried to pull away.

Molly leaned close and took his hand. “It’s okay, Pearce. The paramedics are starting an intravenous to give you fluid. They’re going to take you to the hospital.”

“Gracie...”

“She’s fine.”

He grasped her arm and pulled her close, his voice low and urgent. “Promise me, Molly.”

“Just until you’re better. Just until then.”
Or just until as I find your next-of-kin, only until then
. His face smoothed and his smile of gratitude touched a place in her heart. She shook her head. What had she just promised?

“Mr. Taylor,” Mark said, “we’re going to put a different collar around your neck and put you on a board. Then we’ll get you to the hospital. Do you understand?”

Pearce tried to nod, but the makeshift collar restricted him.

Mark turned to Molly. “Can you stabilize his head while we change the collar?”

Molly placed her hands on either side of his head and assisted Mark in replacing her makeshift one with the molded plastic. As a well-oiled team, the three log-rolled Pearce onto the backboard, then lifted him onto the waiting gurney.

Pearce imprisoned her gaze. “Look after Gracie.”

“Your wife will follow us, sir.” Gary turned to Molly. “Right?”

Molly nodded. “Gracie! His daughter. She was in the back seat. I checked her. I think she’s fine. But she needs to be seen.”

“Where is she?” Mark asked.

“In my car. I kept her in her car seat. She’s alert and orientated. No apparent injuries, and no blood anywhere. Can you check her?”

Mark followed her to her car and did a quick assessment of the child. “She looks okay. Follow us and have her seen at the hospital.”

Then the paramedics were running, sliding the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. Mark jumped in with Pearce, then the vehicle tore off down the highway. Molly watched as red strobe circles cut through the night sky.

What have I gotten myself into?