Awesome, a groupie. She shot him a look, no smile in it. Keep moving, pal. Nothing here to see.
A figure rose from a table near the back door and she nearly dropped a beat. Tall, with football shoulders, tousled bronze hair and hazel eyes that, like a heat-seeking missile, landed right on her and tharrumphed her heart out of rhythm. He wore his signature Levi’s, an insulated jean jacket, and looked like a redneck from the hills in his hiking boots.
No, it couldn’t be Kyle Hueston.
But the man had Kyle’s lean hips, a saunter that could part a crowd, an aura of power around him that could make her forget her own name. No longer the boy she’d worshiped from across the lunchroom or from the bleachers where she played the flute while he made his name on the basketball court, this Kyle had grown, had a man’s hands and a man’s swagger.
What was Kelsey’s amazing older brother doing in a biker watering hole in the Twin Cities?
Good thing she wasn’t at the mic. Emma swallowed, but her heart blocked the way. She glanced toward Kyle. Smiled at him.
Did he meet her eyes?
Suddenly the groupie whirled around, on target to take out the competition. He stumbled forward, tossing his drink onto Kyle’s jacket, saying something she couldn’t hear.
Kyle didn’t even blink, just kept that cool smile, grabbed the man before he fell, and set him on a stool.
But Emma’s admirer wasn’t having it. He threw the rest of his drink down Kyle’s back. It splashed over a man dressed head to toe in black leather sitting at a nearby table.
She wasn’t sure exactly how the fight broke out then—a chair flying across a table, men launching themselves, women screaming, as Brian churned out the last of the lyrics.
She stopped playing when a glass flew over her head and shattered on the paneled wall behind her.
Kyle vanished in the crowd. Or maybe she hadn’t seen him at all. Maybe the mention of Kelsey in the alley had stirred to life all her crazy high school fantasies. Kyle storming through a crowd to catch her in his arms. Or seated front row center at one of her performances, his beautiful eyes pinned to her.
After all, a girl didn’t so easily forget her first crush.
“Grab your gear!” Tim yelled above the chaos as he rose from behind the drum set, reaching for a leather pouch, his sticks.
Emma shrugged out of the guitar, unplugged it, fumbling with the case as she shoved her guitar inside. Another glass shattered behind her, but she didn’t look.
Two men fell across the stage, slamming Brian into the drums, the keyboardist hollering.
Protect the Fender, protect the Fender—Emma clutched her guitar to her chest and scooted toward the edge of the stage.
She hit the floor, grimy with spilled whiskey, foamy beer dregs, but a couple brawlers banged into her, pitching her to her knees. She caught herself with one hand and hugged the guitar to her body, her brain pulsing one word.
Run.
Her heart tattooed the command inside her head as she scrambled to her feet, only to be knocked down again. Wetness saturated the knees of her pants. She managed to find one foot.
Someone slammed into her. She flew forward, her hand missing the edge of the stage. She caught it headfirst.
The world bowed in, shadows flickering as pain speared through her. Her hand went to her forehead, came away slick.
She dropped her guitar.
Oh.
The pain dumped her back on the floor, the ruckus around her deadened in the pulsing of her head.
Help—
Arms closed around Emma, pressing her guitar back into her arms a second before they swooped her up.
She scrabbled to hold on to the guitar, her other hand against the searing heat in her forehead as her rescuer pushed through the crowd toward the back door.
The cold air shook her free from the chaos, the pain vanishing for a brilliant moment as she looked up, the alleyway lights illuminating his face.
Oh, she hadn’t dreamed him at all.
And in that crazy moment, with the smell of him around her, that breathtaking look of concern in his gorgeous eyes . . .
She kissed him. Simply leaned in and pressed her lips to his, a moment she’d dreamed about for years that just seemed right and perfect as he held her in his arms.
Kyle. He’d noticed her. Maybe he always had. She ended her kiss with a smile, looked into his eyes. “Hey, Kyle.”
His eyes narrowed and he frowned. Setting her down, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and held it to her forehead. Then, quietly, “Do I know you?”
She hurt everywhere—her arms, her legs—her entire body ached, right to her bones. And her head. As if a vise gripped it, pain screwed through her, eliciting a moan from places deep inside.
“I’m right here, Noelle.”
The voice brought her forward, from the webbed blackness, from the place where pain held her prisoner. Her eyes blinked open, just for a moment.
Where . . . ? Noelle sank back into the cushion of darkness as she rooted for comprehension. She searched the smells—the biting tang of antiseptic, the cottony clean of freshly washed sheets. A hospital? She bit back the taste of panic, sour in her throat, and cracked her eyes again. A sky-blue curtain hung beside her bed, and next to her, a machine beeped her vitals. A glass wall with a half-drawn curtain obscured a dimly lit hallway. Muffled sounds betrayed activity beyond.
“Noelle, shh, you fell.”
The voice made her fight through the final threads of unconsciousness, and she made a noise of effort as she fixed on the source.
A man. Tall, with wide shoulders, wearing a gray wool stocking cap glistening with moisture. She had the sense that she knew him, a shadow she couldn’t quite make out. A doctor? No, he couldn’t be because he wore a pair of brown padded coveralls, held what looked like worn work gloves in his hand. He looked familiar, though, and something told her not to be afraid.
Until he squeezed her hand. She stared at his meaty, hot grip and swallowed. Pulled her hand away. The other hand pinched with the sting of an intravenous pipe in her veins.
Her mouth was so dry that even when she opened it, nothing emerged. He must have noticed because he picked up the cup from her bedside tray, brought the straw to her mouth. She sipped, the water seeping into her parched throat.
“What—?” Her voice emerged raspy, nearly inaudible.
“You fell. Outside the coffee shop in Harbor City. And you hit your head pretty hard.” He leaned back, swiped off his hat. Ran his hand through grizzled, unkempt brown hair. He wore a weekend beard and looked to be around fifty or so, although she had never been a good judge of age. “You had me pretty scared. I just got here, and they said—” He blew out a breath. Met her eyes with a sort of shake of his head. “What were you doing out in this storm, anyway? You didn’t even tell me you were leaving.”
He had nice eyes—deep brown—and they ran over her now, concern in them. Yes, she felt as if she knew him, but whether due to the searing pain in her head or the bright lights making the room swirl, his name wouldn’t form in her mind.
She stared at him, waiting for recognition to set in, but—“I don’t know what you’re talking about. And who are you?”
Again the frown; then he leaned close, peered at her eyes.
She lifted her hand to keep him away. “Listen, Mr.—”
“Hueston,” he filled in, leaning back now to press his fingers to his forehead. “It’s me . . . Eli. Don’t you know me?”
“I don’t know . . .” Oh, it hurt to speak. Every word pinged around inside her head. She grimaced, closed her eyes.
When she opened them, he was gone. Maybe he’d gotten the wrong room. She reached up to the throbbing in her head and found a bandage there. What had he said about her falling?
And coffee? She didn’t even like coffee. It was vile, black and acrid. Clearly he didn’t know her because anyone who did knew she was a straight Diet Coke girl.
Noelle went back
to her last clear memory, trying to sort it through. She’d been walking across campus; she remembered that much. No, no, wait; she’d been on the Washington Avenue bridge. Huddled against the wind. The snow bit into her face. Why had she agreed to live off campus? She’d stopped at the light, shivering.
Had someone hit her with their car?
She did feel bruised, all the way through, and her jaw ached, too. She tried to move her arms, her legs, and found them intact.
Maybe he was a security guard at the university. That’s why she knew him. She rolled the thought around in her mind, found a warm fit.
She should ask them to call her parents. However, she didn’t have the strength to root around for the nursing call button.
“Noelle?”
A pretty doctor—short auburn hair, hazel eyes—stood over her. She was wearing a lab coat, her stethoscope around her neck, and flicking a penlight into Noelle’s eyes. Noelle winced and couldn’t deny another groan.
The doctor leaned back. “How are you feeling? You took a pretty bad fall.” She lifted Noelle’s arm, took her pulse.
“My head hurts,” Noelle managed. Her gaze slid past the doctor and her heart gave a tiny jolt.
The man stood across the room, arms folded, his expression nearly brutal. Maybe this Eli just wanted to know she would be all right.
“Thank you,” she said quietly to him. “I’m not sure how I got here, but I guess you had something to do with that.”
His mouth opened, and what looked like panic swept across his face. “Uh, no—I think someone found you. They called me. I was up at the lake.” He came close, took hold of her ankle through the blanket. “Don’t you remember? I told you this morning I wouldn’t be home until late.”
The doctor slipped a blood pressure cuff on Noelle and began to pump it up. She moved her ankle away from his too-familiar grip. He frowned.
The lake. Maybe he worked for her father? Wasn’t he building onto his cabin up in Brainerd? But why—
“Your blood pressure is a little high, but that’s not unexpected.” The doctor replaced the cuff.
“Where are my parents? Maybe . . . Should you call them?”
The man stared at her without moving, just the tiniest flicker of a muscle in his jaw.
The doctor was pulling out a thermometer, sliding it into a plastic sheath. She held it above Noelle’s mouth as she asked, “Noelle, do you know where you are?”
“Yes, of course. I’m in the hospital.” She opened her mouth to receive the thermometer, held it under her tongue.
Her gaze tracked back to the man. Yes, he must work for her father. He had strong carpenter’s hands, a burly look about him, as if he knew how to handle himself outside.
The thermometer beeped, and the doctor removed it. “It’s within normal range.” She threw the plastic case away. “Do you know how you got here, Noelle?”
“I . . . I was coming home from class. It was snowing. Did I get hit by a car?”
“Oh, my—” At the end of the bed, the man began to back away, pointing at her as if accusing her of something. “No, no—”
The doctor turned to him. “Sheriff, just stay calm. This happens sometimes. Give us a minute here.”
Sheriff? Did he believe she’d committed some crime? The thought sent a scurry of fear through Noelle. “I want him to leave,” she said to the doctor. “Please. Make him leave.”
“Listen to me, Noelle. You fell outside a coffee shop on your way home. You’re in Duluth. And you really don’t recognize the man behind me?”
Noelle frowned at him. He seemed to be pinned to her words. “He . . . looks vaguely familiar. But no, I’m sorry. Should I?”
The doctor slid her hand onto Noelle’s arm. “This man is your husband.”
Everything inside her stilled. Her gaze went to him, the way he watched her, the longing suddenly on his face as if he waited for her to confirm it.
What kind of man was this? What kind of stunt was he trying to pull? “I’m sorry, but he is lying, Doctor. I’m not sure why, but this is ridiculous. I’m not married, and I have no idea who that man is.”
“Mrs. Hueston—”
“Don’t call me that!” The pain flared in her head. She made a face, groaned.
The doctor shot a look behind her, then back to Noelle. “Okay, calm down. It’ll be okay.”
Noelle covered her eyes with her hand. “Listen, maybe he’s the one who’s injured. He’s got me confused with someone else. Just . . . please, call my parents. They’ll come and pick me up.”
No one moved. The ticking of the clock opposite her bed made her draw her hand away. The doctor stared at her, the expression on her face frightening Noelle a little.
The man spoke. “Noelle, your parents, they’re—”
“Eli, let’s talk.” The doctor patted Noelle’s arm. “We’ll be back. Try to get some rest.”
Noelle watched them leave, then closed her eyes. Oh, she needed an aspirin. The sooner they called her parents and she got home to her bed, the better.
She had classes in the morning.
“Kyle, it’s me—Emma. Emma Nelson.”
Emma Nelson.
Kyle stared at her, the kiss she’d just landed on him ringing in his head, and that niggle of familiarity he’d experienced as he’d watched her onstage clicked. No wonder she had a small-town look about her—no piercings, her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Of course it was Emma behind the bass guitar that nearly ate her whole. He should have recognized the easy way she managed the twelve-bar beat.
He didn’t need her clarification as she looked up at him with wide blue eyes.
“Emma Nelson, Kelsey’s friend? She and I sang together in the Blue Monkeys?”
He remembered her now, a skinny girl with brown pigtails and a tie-dyed shirt, sitting in his sister’s room, working chord progressions. The Nelsons’ daughter. To his surprise, the realization didn’t hurt as much as he’d expected.
Miss Emma Nelson had developed a few curves—and from the kiss she’d given him, more than a little big-city in her spirit.
Oh, boy. “Right. Hey, Emma.”
When she grinned at him, it whisked him back to high school, walking through the lunchroom to the jocks’ table, a weird hush emanating from Kelsey’s table of freshman girls.
He hadn’t deserved their awe. Now it churned inside him a strange, unidentified emotion. So sue him, he liked it.
“What are you doing here?” She trembled, the residue of their escape.
“My buddy likes the band.” He didn’t add that the scene at the 400 Bar didn’t exactly qualify as a place he might like to hang out on a Thursday night—he would have preferred a game of pool down at Lucky O’Tooles, but his buddies had picked the location for his good-bye party, and he wasn’t driving. Or perhaps now he was, considering his Diet Cokes versus their Heinekens.
Kyle pressed his handkerchief to her bloody forehead again.
She made a face. “Sorry about the fight. That guy must have been drunk.”
“He definitely looked like trouble, but I was just trying to use the restroom in back. I hate bar fights.” And the fact that even in a crowded bar his law enforcement instincts wouldn’t ignore the scent of trouble. Most of all he hated the memory of Emma crouched on the floor, clutching her guitar to her chest. He figured her bloody forehead accounted for why he’d scooped her up and charged to safety. He lifted the handkerchief from her cut. “I think that needs a few stitches.”
“I hate hospitals.”
He gave her a sad smile. “Who doesn’t? I’ll drive you.”
An hour later, she lay on the table in the ER of the Hennepin County Medical Center, betraying not a hint of pain as the trauma doc put the fourth stitch in her forehead, just under the hairline.
“You know, you can squeeze my hand if it hurts,” Kyle said, not sure why he’d offered that. But she hadn’t complained once— tougher, clearly, than she looked.
“Really, I can’t eve
n feel it,” she said, glancing at him with pretty eyes, very blue with flecks of golden brown in the centers. Funny he hadn’t noticed that years ago. But then again, he’d been lost in himself as a senior, worried about his basketball scholarship and especially whether Aimee Wilkes might go to prom with him. Yeah, the important things in life.
“Do you think there will be a terrible scar?” She directed her attention back to the doctor.
“Not if you stop talking. It moves your entire face,” the doctor said. “Almost done. Hang in there.”
She sighed and Kyle squeezed her hand anyway, needing to for some reason. The lights over the curtained-off cubicle turned her skin pale, but she had beautiful sable-brown hair, now falling out of her ponytail and pillowing her head on the exam table. Blood had seeped into the lines of her palm, although he’d tried to clean it for her, and a darkened handprint scarred his jean jacket.
As his gaze fell on it, he had the sudden big-brother urge to throttle her. “What are you doing playing the 400 Bar?”
“I have to go where the gigs are.”
“Please stop talking,” the doctor said, tying off the fifth stitch.
“But there have to be better gigs. How about dinners and receptions? That place was a brawl waiting to happen.”
“Yeah, thanks to you.”
“You’re blaming me for the fight? Do you even know the guy who had his eyes glued to you?”
“A groupie? Hardly, but that’s not new—ouch.”
“Hold still,” the doctor said, his patience clearly waning.
“I’m just saying that you may want to start choosing your venues with a bit more scrutiny.”
“I’m trying to cut my own album. Studio time costs money,” she said out of the side of her mouth. “And a girl has to eat.”
“I’m assuming that still requires teeth.”
“Ha-ha,” she said but flashed her pearlies.
He couldn’t help but smile back. Yeah, she was definitely cute. But thin, with a cross necklace dribbling over protruding collarbone. He even saw ribs washboarding through that skintight black shirt.
The Shadow of Your Smile Page 3