by Linda Howard
But the shocks had kept arriving, one piling on top of the other. The surgeon came out of the cubicle, his green paper gown stained red with her blood. “Your wife regained consciousness briefly,” he’d said. “She wasn’t completely lucid, but she asked about the baby. Do you know how far along she is?”
Chance had literally staggered and braced his hand against the wall for support. “She’s pregnant?” he asked hoarsely.
“I see.” The surgeon immediately switched gears. “I think she must have just found out. We’ll do some tests and take all the precautions we can. We’re taking her up to surgery now. A nurse will show you where to wait.” He strode away, paper gown flapping.
Zane had turned to Chance, his pale blue eyes laser sharp. “Yours?” he asked briefly.
“Yes.”
Zane didn’t ask if he was certain, for which Chance was grateful. Zane took it for granted Chance wouldn’t be mistaken about something that important.
Pregnant? How? He pinched the bridge of his nose, between his eyes. He knew how. He remembered with excruciating clarity how it felt to climax inside her without the protective sheath of a condom dulling the sensation. It had happened twice—just twice—but once was enough.
A couple of little details clicked into place. He’d been around pregnant women most of his life, with first one sister-in-law and then another producing a little Mackenzie. He knew the symptoms well. He remembered Sunny’s sleepiness this afternoon, and her insistence on buying the beets. Those damn pickled beets, he thought; her craving for them—for he was certain now that was why she’d wanted them—had saved his life. Sometimes the weird cravings started almost immediately. He could remember when Shea, Michael’s wife, had practically wiped that section of Wyoming clean of canned tuna, a full week before she missed her first period. The sleepiness began soon in a pregnancy, too.
He knew the exact day when he’d gotten her pregnant. It had been the second time he’d made love to her, lying on the blanket in the late afternoon heat. The baby would be born about the middle of May…if Sunny lived.
She had to live. He couldn’t face the alternative. He loved her too damn much to even think it. But he had seen the bullet wound in her right side, and he was terrified.
“Do you want me to call Mom and Dad?” Zane asked.
They would drop everything and come immediately if he said yes, Chance knew. The whole family would; the hospital would be inundated with Mackenzies. Their support was total, and unquestioning.
He shook his head. “No. Not yet.” His voice was raw, as if he had been screaming, though he would have sworn all his screams had been held inside. If Sunny…if the worst happened, he would need them then. Right now he was still holding together. Just.
So he walked, and Zane walked with him. Zane had seen a lot of bullet wounds, too; he’d taken his share. Chance was the lucky one; he’d been cut a few times, but never shot.
God, there had been so much blood. How had she stayed upright for so long? She had answered questions, said she was all right, even walked around a little before one of the men had found that bucket for her to sit on. It was dark, she had a blanket wrapped around her—that was why no one had noticed. But she should have been on the ground, screaming in pain.
Zane’s thoughts were running along the same path. “I’m always amazed,” he said, “at what some people can do after being shot.”
Contrary to what most people thought, a bullet wound, even a fatal one, didn’t necessarily knock the victim down. All cops knew that even someone whose heart had been virtually destroyed by a bullet could still attack and kill them, and die only when his oxygen-starved brain died. Someone crazed on drugs could absorb a truly astonishing amount of damage and keep on fighting. On the other side of the spectrum were those who suffered relatively minor wounds and went down as if they had been poleaxed, then screamed unceasingly until they reached the hospital and were given enough drugs to quiet them. It was pure mind over matter, and Sunny had a will like titanium. He only hoped she applied that will to surviving.
It was almost six hours before the tired surgeon approached, the six longest hours of Chance’s life. The surgeon looked haggard, and Chance felt the icy claw of dread. No. No—
“I think she’s going to make it,” the surgeon said, and smiled a smile of such pure personal triumph that Chance knew there had been a real battle in the O.R. “I had to remove part of the liver and resection her small intestine. The wound to the liver is what caused the extensive hemorrhage. We had to replace almost her complete blood volume before we got things under control.” He rubbed his hand over his face. “It was touch and go for a while. Her blood pressure bottomed out and she went into cardiac arrest, but we got her right back. Her pupil response is normal, and her vitals are satisfactory. She was lucky.”
“Lucky,” Chance echoed, still dazed by the combination of good news and the litany of damage.
“It was only a fragment of a bullet that hit her. There must have been a ricochet.”
Chance knew she hadn’t been hit while he’d had her flattened in the creek. It had to have happened when she knocked him aside and Darnell fired. Evidently Darnell had missed, and the bullet must have struck a rock in the creek and fragmented.
She had been protecting him. Again.
“She’ll be in ICU for at least twenty-four hours, maybe forty-eight, until we see if there’s a secondary infection. I really think we have things under control, though.” He grinned. “She’ll be out of here in a week.”
Chance sagged against the wall, bending over to clasp his knees. His head swam. Zane’s hard hand gripped his shoulder, lending his support. “Thank you,” Chance said to the doctor, angling his head so he could see him.
“Do you need to lie down?” the doctor asked.
“No, I’m all right. God! I’m great. She’s going to be okay!”
“Yeah,” said the doctor, and grinned again.
Sunny kept surfacing to consciousness, like a float bobbing up and down in the water. At first her awareness was fragmented. She could hear voices in the distance, though she couldn’t make out any words, and a soft beeping noise. She was also aware of something in her throat, though she didn’t realize it was a tube. She had no concept of where she was, or even that she was lying down.
The next time she bobbed up, she could feel smooth cotton beneath her and recognized the fabric as sheets.
The next time she managed to open her eyes a slit, but her vision was blurry and what seemed like a mountain of machinery made no sense to her.
At some point she realized she was in a hospital. There was pain, but it was at a distance. The tube was gone from her throat now. She vaguely remembered it being removed, which hadn’t been pleasant, but her sense of time was so confused that she thought she remembered the tube being there after it was removed. People kept coming into the small space that was hers, turning on bright lights, talking and touching her and doing intimate things to her.
Gradually her dominion over her body began to return, as she fought off the effects of anesthesia and drugs. She managed to make a weak gesture toward her belly, and croak out a single word. “Baby?”
The intensive care nurse understood. “Your baby’s fine,” he said, giving her a comforting pat, and she was content.
She was horribly thirsty. Her next word was “Water,” and slivers of ice were put in her mouth.
With the return of consciousness, though, came the pain. It crept ever nearer as the fog of drugs receded. The pain was bad, but Sunny almost welcomed it, because it meant she was alive, and for a while she had thought she might not be.
She saw the nurse named Jerry the most often. He came into the cubicle, smiling as usual, and said, “There’s someone here to see you.”
Sunny violently shook her head, which was a mistake. It set off waves of agony that swamped the drugs holding them at bay. “No visitors,” she managed to say.
It seemed as if she spent days, eons, in the inten
sive care unit, but when she asked Jerry he said, “Oh, about thirty-six hours. We’ll be moving you to a private room soon. It’s being readied now.”
When they moved her, she was clearheaded enough to watch the ceiling tiles and lights pass by overhead. She caught a glimpse of a tall, black-haired man and quickly looked away.
Settling her into a private room was quite an operation, requiring two orderlies, three nurses and half an hour. She was exhausted when everything, including herself, had been transferred and arranged. The fresh bed was nice and cool; the head had been elevated and a pillow tucked under her head. Sitting up even that much made her feel a hundred percent more normal and in control.
There were flowers in the room. Roses, peach ones, with a hint of blush along the edges of their petals, dispensed a spicy, peppery scent that overcame the hospital scents of antiseptics and cleaning fluids. Sunny stared at them but didn’t ask who they were from.
“I don’t want any visitors,” she told the nurses. “I just want to rest.”
She was allowed to eat Jell-O, and drink weak tea. On the second day in the private room she drank some broth, and she was placed in the bedside chair for fifteen minutes. It felt good to stand on her own two feet, even for the few seconds it took them to move her from bed to chair. It felt even better when they moved her back to the bed.
That night, she got out of bed herself, though the process was slow and unhappy, and walked the length of the bed. She had to hold on to the bed for support, but her legs remained under her.
The third day, there was another delivery from a florist. This was a bromeliad, with thick, grayish green leaves and a beautiful pink flower blooming in its center. She had never had houseplants for the same reason she had never had a pet, because she was constantly on the move and couldn’t take care of them. She stared at the bromeliad, trying to come to grips with the fact that she could have all the houseplants she wanted now. Everything was changed. Crispin Hauer was dead, and she and Margreta were free.
The thought of her sister sent alarm racing through her. What day was it? When was Margreta due to call? For that matter, where was her cell phone?
On the afternoon of the fourth day, the door opened and Chance walked in.
She turned her head to look out the window. In truth, she was surprised he had given her this long to recover. She had held him off as long as she could, but she supposed there had to be a closing act before the curtain could fall.
She had held her inner pain at bay by focusing on her physical pain, but now it rushed to the forefront. She fought it down, reaching for control. There was nothing to be gained by causing a scene, only her self-respect to lose.
“I’ve kept your cell phone with me,” he said, walking around to place himself between her and the windows, so she had to either look at him or turn her head away again. His conversational opening had guaranteed she wouldn’t turn away. “Margreta called yesterday.”
Sunny clenched her fists, then quickly relaxed her right hand as the motion flexed the IV needle taped to the back of it. Margreta would have panicked when she heard a man’s voice answer instead of Sunny’s.
“I talked fast,” Chance said. “I told her you’d been shot but would be okay, and that Hauer was dead. I told her I’d bring the phone to you today, and she could call again tonight to verify everything I said. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t hang up on me, either.”
“Thank you,” Sunny said. He had handled the situation in the best possible way.
He was subtly different, she realized. It wasn’t just his clothing, though he was now dressed in black slacks and a white silk shirt, while he had worn only jeans, boots, and casual shirts and T-shirts before. His whole demeanor was different. Of course, he wasn’t playing a raffish, charming charter pilot any longer. He was himself now, and the reality was what she had always sensed beneath the surface of his charm. He was the man who led some sort of commando team, who exerted enormous influence in getting things done his way. The dangerous edge she had only glimpsed before was in full view now, in his eyes and the authority with which he spoke.
He moved closer to the side of the bed, so close he was leaning against the rail. Very gently, the touch as light as gossamer, he placed his fingertips on her belly. “Our baby is all right,” he said.
He knew. Shocked, she stared at him, though she realized she should have known the doctor would tell him.
“Were you going to tell me?” he asked, his golden-brown eyes intent on her face, as if he wanted to catch every nuance of expression.
“I hadn’t thought about it one way or the other,” she said honestly. She had just been coming to terms with the knowledge herself; she hadn’t gotten around to forming any plans.
“This changes things.”
“Does it really,” she said, and it wasn’t a question. “Was anything you told me the truth?”
He hesitated. “No.”
“There was nothing wrong with the fuel pump.”
“No.”
“You could have flown us out of the canyon at any time.”
“Yes.”
“Your name isn’t Chance McCall.”
“Mackenzie,” he said. “Chance Mackenzie.”
“Well, that’s one thing,” she said bitterly. “At least your first name was really your own.”
“Sunny…don’t.”
“Don’t what? Don’t try to find out how big a fool I am? Were you really an army ranger?”
He sighed, his expression grim. “Navy. Naval Intelligence.”
“You arranged for all of my flights to be fouled up that day.”
He shrugged an admittance.
“The cretin was really one of your men.”
“A good one. The airport security people were mine, too.”
She creased the sheet with her left hand. “You knew my father would be there. You had it set up.”
“We knew two of his men were trailing us, had been since the television newscast about you aired.”
“You arranged that, too.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Why did we fly all over the country? Why didn’t we just stay in Seattle? That would have been less wear and tear on the plane.”
“I had to make it look good.”
She swallowed. “That day…the picnic. Would you have made love—I mean, had sex—with me with your men watching? Just to make it look good?”
“No. Having an affair with you was necessary, but…private.”
“I suppose I should thank you for that, at least. Thank you. Now get out.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He sat down in the bedside chair. “If you’ve finished with the dissection, we need to make some decisions.”
“I’ve already made one. I don’t want to see you again.”
“Sorry about that, but you aren’t getting your wish. You’re stuck with me, sweetheart, because that baby inside you is mine.”
Chapter 15
Sunny was released from the hospital eight days after the shooting. She could walk, gingerly, but her strength was almost negligible, and she had to wear the nightgown and robe Chance had bought her, because she couldn’t stand any clothing around her middle. She had no idea what she was going to do. She wasn’t in any condition to catch a flight to Atlanta, not to mention that she would have to travel in her nightgown, but she had to find somewhere to stay. Once she knew she was being released, she got the phone book and called a hotel, made certain the hotel had room service, and booked herself a room there. The hotel had room service; until she was able to take care of herself again, a hotel was the best she could do.
In the hospital she had, at first, entertained a fragile hope that Margreta would come to stay with her and help her until she was recovered. With their father dead, they didn’t have to hide any longer. But though Margreta had sounded happy and relieved, she had resisted Sunny’s suggestion that she come to Des Moines. They had exchanged telephone numbers, but that was all—and Mar
greta hadn’t called back.
Sunny understood. Margreta would always have problems relating to people, forming relationships with them. She was probably very comfortable with the long-distance contact she had with Sunny, and wanted nothing more. Sunny tried to fight her sadness as she realized she would never have the sister she had wanted, but melancholy too easily overwhelmed her these days.
Part of it was the hormonal chaos of early pregnancy, she knew. She found herself tearing up at the most ridiculous things, such as a gardening show she watched on television one day. She lay in her hospital bed and began thinking how she had always wanted a flower garden but had never been able to have one, and presto, all of a sudden she was feeling sorry for herself and sitting there like an idiot with tears rolling down her face.
Depression went hand in glove with physical recovery, too, one of the nurses told her. It would pass as she got stronger and could do more.
But the biggest part of her depression was Chance. He visited every day, and once even brought along the tall, lethal-looking man she had noticed him talking to the night she was injured. To her surprise, Chance introduced the man as his brother, Zane. Zane had shaken her hand with exquisite gentleness, shown her photos of his pretty wife and three adorable children, and spent half an hour telling her yarns about the exploits of his daughter, Nick. If even half of what he said about the child was true, the world had better brace itself for when she was older.
After Zane left, Sunny was even more depressed. Zane had what she had always wanted: a family he loved, and who loved him in return.
When he visited, Chance always avoided the subject that lay between them like a coiled snake. He had done what he had done, and no amount of talking would change reality. She had to respect, reluctantly, his lack of any attempt to make excuses. Instead, he talked about his family in Wyoming, and the mountain they all still called home, even though only his parents lived there now. He had four brothers and one sister, a dozen nephews—and one niece, the notorious Nick, whom he obviously adored. His sister was a horse trainer who was married to one of his agents; one brother was a rancher who had married the granddaughter of an old family enemy; another brother was an ex-fighter pilot who was married to an orthopedic surgeon; Zane was married to the daughter of an ambassador; and Joe, his oldest brother, was General Joseph Mackenzie, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.