by Silver James
Mind made up, she loaded up her truck to head toward the station. If Leo wouldn’t ride with her, she’d coerce one of the other photojournalists.
Driving northbound on the interstate, she still had a funny feeling in her stomach, sort of a cross between butterflies and a stomachache from too much sweet stuff. And she was still angry at Cooper. She really needed to get over that. But the farther north she drove, the madder she got. If she took the back way to the station, she could drive by Cooper’s house. If he was there, she could stop and give him a piece of her mind.
The longer she thought about it, the more it seemed like an excellent idea. She could tell him what she really thought about him.
A sharp pain stabbed her in the lower back and she felt a gush between her legs. She managed to steer the truck to the side of the highway. A growing red splotch stained the hem of the light blue maternity T-shirt she wore. Nausea racked her body and she managed to find a plastic bag. Light-headed, sick and in pain, she groped blindly for her phone and hit the first number on her favorites list.
Three rings. Four. “Pickuppickuppickup,” she chanted, terrified she’d pass out—or worse.
“What?”
“Something’s wrong.”
* * *
Every nightmare he’d ever had about Britt and her pregnancy froze Cooper in place as he stepped off the elevator in the parking garage and heard her voice. “Where are you?”
“I... I’m...” Her voice faded and he was terrified that she was out in the middle of nowhere, that she might lose cell phone reception. “I-35. Um...”
“Baby, you gotta talk to me.”
“Northbound. South of I-40.”
He ran toward his truck. “Have you passed the Shields Boulevard exit?”
“I... I don’t know.”
“Britt, talk to me. What’s happening?”
“I... I’m not sure. There’s... I hurt. And I can’t think. There’s blood.” Her voice caught then she sobbed out, “There’s blood, Cooper. I’m scared.”
He didn’t stop to think. He just jumped in his truck and tore out of the Barron Tower’s parking garage. He had enough presence of mind to put the phone on Bluetooth so he could drive with both hands. “I’m comin’ that way, sweet girl. Just hang on. Keep talking to me.”
“Coop...”
“I’m here, darlin’. I’m here.”
“Something’s wrong with the babies. I... This morning... I was all... I don’t know. Feeling weird. And my back hurt. Down low. I took a hot shower. I was so mad at you.”
“Mad at me?” He tried to keep his voice light and teasing. “What’d I do now?”
“You weren’t here. And you don’t believe in me.”
He laughed but it sounded bitter, because he was. “I believe in you, Britt. I just want you and our babies safe. Is that so terrible?”
His damn pride—and fear. If not for that, he would have been with her when this happened. He wouldn’t be driving like a maniac trying to locate her.
“No. But you could have talked to me instead of getting all bossy.” Her voice sounded very small and unsure and that was not Britt. She was a confident woman full of life and energy. Salt and vinegar, his mother called it.
“Yeah, Girl Wonder, I could have. Wanna know a secret? I’ve been miserable without you.”
“Good.”
He had to smile at her snippy voice. That was so much better than before. She’d sounded so...lost.
“I’m comin’ now, Britt. And I won’t ever let you walk away again.”
“Promise?” She sounded lost again and his heart broke a little bit more.
“Cross my heart.”
Navigating downtown streets, road construction, and the weird loop to get on I-40 and southbound on I-35 took all his concentration. He didn’t talk. Neither did Britt. He listened to her breathing, noting each change, and fought the panic welling deep inside him. With the impending storm, traffic was thick but police were scarce. He drove his truck like it was an Indy race car while scanning the northbound shoulder for any sign of Britt’s storm chaser vehicle. It would be easy to spot.
He found her just north of Northeast 27th Street in Moore. He used the exits and on-ramps to execute a U-turn. He pulled up behind her, jumped out and ran to the driver’s side door, jerking it open. Britt all but fell into his arms, sobbing. Blood pooled in the seat beneath her.
“Are you having contractions?”
“No.”
He should call 9-1-1. He didn’t. He grabbed her backpack and locked her vehicle. Cradling her in his arms, he loped back to his truck, strapped Britt into the passenger seat, and jumped in behind the wheel. They were less than three miles away from a satellite hospital with a Level II trauma center. He called Britt’s doctor first. Then he called his mother. He briefed her quickly, his attention ping-ponging from their conversation, to Britt, to traffic, to the dark line of clouds he could see out the windshield.
Cooper finished up. “Gotta go. We’re here. Stay at the ranch, Mom. Weather’s getting worse. I’ll keep you posted.”
He stomped the brake pedal and the truck skidded to a stop next to the emergency room entrance. He was out and easing Britt into his arms when a security guard appeared.
“Never mind. Move the truck later,” the man directed as soon as he assessed the situation.
A nurse met them in the reception area, leading them straight back, chattering instructions as they went. Most of the information went straight over Cooper’s head. Passing through an interior waiting area, Coop glanced at the TV mounted to the wall. Dave Edmonds was on-screen, pointing to huge splotches of brilliant red on the radar image behind him. The sound was turned up.
“Ria,” Dave was saying. “Where’s Britt? Is she on the Gentner yet?”
He’d have to call the station. Someone would notice Britt’s empty truck sooner or later. He laid her on an exam table and stepped back, but not out of the room, as the nurse shooed him away. More calls—one to Channel 2, and one to Bridger to deal with Britt’s vehicle—all the while also listening to the nurse and then the doctor—ER, not OBGYN—who came jogging in.
Ten minutes later, following an exam and ultrasound, they were watching a live stream of KOCX’s weather on Coop’s phone because Britt wouldn’t settle and all the medical personnel kept fussing at her to relax to bring her blood pressure down. Coop sat on a rolling stool, arm propped on the exam table, holding the phone so they both could watch.
The live footage was terrifying, invoking memories of the historic F-5 tornadoes on May 3, 1999 and May 20, 2013. A massive funnel churned across the landscape devouring everything in its path. Dr. Morgan, Britt’s OB, arrived and paused to watch. Then she turned to Britt.
“Decision time. The good news is, the twins should be fine, we’ve got equipment here and a pediatrician is on-call, just in case. Bad news is, we need to get them born ASAP.” She rolled right over Cooper’s question and Britt’s denial. “The choice you need to make, young lady, is whether to induce labor or go with a C-section. If we induce, we might still have to do the C-section if they go into worse distress.”
Her eyes found his and he knew what his decision would be. The C-section. Get them out and to medical help immediately. But it was her body. He shrugged. “Up to you, Britt.”
One of her hands stroked the mound of her belly. The other squeezed his arm. “How soon can you do the C-section if nature doesn’t work?”
“We can prep you now and do it as soon as the pediatrician gets here. Anesthesiologist is in the building. OR nurses are prepping the room. You’ve begun to dilate, and we’ve started the Pitocin drip. We’ll know shortly if that works.”
Britt inhaled and held it as she watched the news feed for several moments, reading the radar. Then she exhaled. “That’s what we’ll do then. Tell the baby doctor to get here fast. We need
to get this show on the road.”
Twenty
The drugs kicked in before they got Britt moved to the operating room. Cooper had no idea she could heap so many curses upon him, the doctors and nurses, and the world in general. The doctor just chuckled and muttered that Pitocin hit some women like a race car going from zero to 100 in 3.2 seconds. Britt went from barely dilated and no contractions to having hard contractions two minutes apart. Too late for Lamaze classes so he was winging it, and trying to keep her occupied by watching the live footage of the impending storm.
Britt snatched his phone and stared at the radar presentation. “No-no-no,” she murmured.
“I need current data.” She glanced up at him and, as another contraction hit, gritted out, “I need a TV. I need the live feed.”
The nurse gave her an odd look so Cooper explained. “She’s a meteorologist at KOCX.”
The nurse’s eyes widened in surprise. “That’s why you look so familiar! You’re one of the storm chasers.”
Five minutes later, a maintenance man rolled in a cart with a TV. He fiddled with cords and cables and then the screen flared to life. “What channel?” he asked.
“Two,” everyone in the room chorused.
As soon as the channel changed, Britt let out a stream of muttered words that Cooper had no hope of translating. Then he realized she was doing some sort of calculations in her head. She turned to the nurse.
“How many people are here?”
“I’m... I have no idea.”
“What’s your emergency protocol?”
“For storms?”
“Yes.”
“Move everyone to the basement,” the nurse replied.
“Then you need to do that. Now.” Britt doubled up as another contraction hit, but her words had been forcefully calm.
Cooper squeezed her hand. “Britt?”
“It’s on the ground, just like the monsters that hit this area before. Same track, Cooper. People need to be underground. Like...now.”
A woman in a business suit appeared in the doorway. “I’m the hospital administrator One of the nurses said there was a situation.”
“You need to implement your emergency protocols.” Britt cut her off, pointing to the TV. “Unless that sucker decides to collapse, the tornado is going to tear through here.”
Edmonds’s voice droned in the background. “Radar indicates wind speeds well into the EF4 range. I can’t stress enough that any of our viewers in the path of this storm need to get off the roads and get underground. Now.”
Britt shuddered through another contraction. “You heard the man. Now.”
Controlled chaos ensued. One nurse stayed with Britt while the rest of the staff worked to move patients and visitors into the basement storage area. This meant moving monitoring equipment, IVs, beds. Britt squeezed Cooper’s hand. “You need to help.”
“No. I need to be here with you.”
“Running out of options, Hero Boy. Time to put on your cape.”
He didn’t want to leave her but he could hear rising voices outside. People were starting to panic. He kissed her, saying, “Don’t have those babies until I get back.”
Britt rolled her eyes and snorted. “They’ll get here when they get here.”
Stepping outside the operating room, Coop waded into the pandemonium. Glancing out a window, he understood why. Straight winds of at least eighty miles per hour pushed debris across the parking lot, rocking cars and uprooting trees planted in medians. The wind was so strong, the torrential rain was driven horizontally. He borrowed a few of Britt’s more colorful curses to mutter under his breath as he grabbed a hospital bed and helped the nurse guide it onto the elevator.
Ten minutes later, he and the ER doctor cleared the second then the first floors of the hospital. Everyone had been evacuated to the basement. Everyone but Britt, Dr. Morgan and a nurse who volunteered to stay in the OR. The twins were premature. Moving Britt into an unsterile area like the basement for their birth was out of the question. The weather conditions outside continued to deteriorate and as Cooper and the ER doc headed across the lobby, one of the front windows blew out. He pushed the doctor through the interior doors, slammed them shut and dragged furniture in front of them before jogging to the operating room.
As they entered, Cooper realized that Dr. Morgan was at the foot of the operating table, and the only word she said that he understood was, “Push.”
“I am pushing,” Britt yelled.
The lights flickered as Cooper shut the door behind him.
“Don’t worry,” the nurse called. “We have a backup generator.”
Cooper was worried. He’d caught the latest radar right before the window shattered. They were in the direct path of the tornado. He shuffled to the head of the bed and grabbed one of Britt’s hands as she flailed them. Good thing his ego wasn’t fragile. She yelled all sorts of things about him. All of a sudden, she curled up toward her knees and bore down. He slipped an arm around her back to support her.
Two things happened simultaneously—the lights went out and a baby cried louder than the roar of the freight train bearing down on them.
* * *
Bridger stared at the ruins of the hospital. One lone fire truck was there, along with a police car. The tornado had scoured a long path through the southern edge of Oklahoma City and smack dab through the middle of Moore. There weren’t enough first responders and too many civilians who didn’t know what they were doing or were too shell-shocked to help were clogging the parking lot. Cell phone service was dead—too many cell towers damaged or destroyed and too many people trying to make calls tying up the towers still working. Good thing he had a two-way radio in his SUV. All Barron Security officers and agents had them.
“We’re watching the footage,” Cash said seconds after Bridge called in. “What do you need?”
“Wreckers, pole trucks, anything that can lift debris or shift rubble. Coop let me know that everyone in the hospital had evacuated to the basement. Except him, a couple of doctors and Britt. She was in active labor.”
“The basement isn’t the only safe room in that hospital, Bridge.”
“I know but the top floor is just...gone. And what’s left of the first floor is buried. I can see the full extent of the damage, Cash. Both directions. There’s...this...it’s bad. It’s so much worse than what it looks like on TV. I can smell gas and there are fires. So many people hurt. Gonna be some casualties. I figure other cities are mobilizing to send help, that whole Oklahoma Standard thing that happened after the Oklahoma City bombing, but Cash...” His voice cracked and he swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Cooper’s in there with Britt and maybe his babies. We gotta get them out.”
“We will, Bridge. That’s a promise. We’re working on this end. Cord is here. He’s rounding up heavy equipment and crews. They’ll be there as soon as they can. The roads...some are blocked. Near as we can tell, I-35 is still open. Do what you can until we get there.”
Three black SUVs arrived. Cash, Cord and Chance were the first ones out, followed by employees from BarEx, Barron Security and Chance’s law firm. A few minutes later, a semi-truck hauling a flatbed trailer pulled in. The oil field crews from BarEx abandoned what they’d been doing—shifting rubble by hand—to unload a front-end loader and bulldozer.
“Crane’s stuck in traffic but will be here soon,” the semi driver yelled over the noise. “Two pole trucks are on their way.”
Over the next hour, more people and equipment arrived, along with a news crew from Channel 2. Bridger worked tirelessly. He wasn’t surprised when Tucker, Deacon and Dillon arrived, not only ready to work but with messages from their brothers, Boone and Hunter, who were in Washington, DC, with their cousin, Senator Clay Barron. Kade Waite, the Barrons’ half-brother, arrived with power tools from the Barron Ranch. Deacon’s tour bus arrived, driven by
Chase Barron. The Bee Dubyas were all onboard, along with Katherine Tate. The wives immediately set about distributing food and drink while Chase pulled on work gloves and asked where he was needed.
Bridger stopped dragging a chunk of concrete when his mother touched his back. He straightened and almost refused the bottle of water she held out. He didn’t want to stop. Stopping meant time to think, time to worry about his brother. Their last conversation about Britt hadn’t been comfortable but he’d been worried about Cooper and wasn’t sure about Britt. But hearing Cooper’s voice? The worry in it? Cooper loved Britt and that was the bottom line. He loved his brother and he’d do whatever he could to help him win the woman he loved. All he had to do was rescue them alive and in one piece.
“Drink, son. You have to stay hydrated. You get sick, you can’t help your brother or any of the others.”
“They’re in there, Mom.” He just managed to keep his voice level.
“I know. And they’ll be fine. Cooper always comes through a scrape unscathed.”
“This isn’t a scrape—”
“He’s lucky, Bridger. And this isn’t his first tornado. He’s fine.” She studied the path the rescue workers had carved toward the front entrance. “And probably sitting in there grousing about how long we’re taking to get them out.”
“I hope you’re right, Mom.”
She patted his arm. “I’m always right when it comes to you boys.”
* * *
Britt’s phone battery had died, along with those belonging to the medical personnel. Cooper was hoarding his remaining charge like a prepper facing Armageddon. The OR was basically intact, though the false ceiling had come down, bringing with it some of the medical equipment from the floor above. No injuries. Britt was resting, his daughter and son, both healthy, lay swaddled in blankets in her arms. He’d managed to get the door to the OR open and to shift some of the debris blocking the hallway, but there was no way to get Britt and the babies out. They’d just have to wait.