by Eve Gaddy
She heard a pssst, the spit of the silenced gun, and staggered back. The pain was sharp. She knew she’d been shot. She couldn’t think, couldn’t focus. Shock, she realized. Then the pain returned, bright, hot, intense. Claire stared at Jonas and slowly collapsed. He grabbed for her, managing to ease her fall. She heard shouting, words, but they made no sense.
She blinked, slowly her vision cleared, and she realized she was on the floor with Jonas leaning over her. “Goddamn it, Claire. What the hell did you think you were doing? He wouldn’t have hit me. He was shaking so much he could hardly aim the gun.” Jonas was on his knees beside her, trying to help her. Exploring the wound, talking to her.
“You don’t . . . know . . . that . . .”
“I think the bullet passed through. It might have grazed your lung, though. How are you doing? Can you breathe?”
“Not . . . well . . . ”
Ignoring Lawrence, who was shouting and waving the damned gun, Jonas calmly took stock. He patted her pocket and found her stethoscope. Pulled it out with a sound of relief.
“God! Hurts . . . ” It was becoming harder to talk. Harder to breathe.
Jonas placed the stethoscope on her chest. “Shut up, Larry,” he said before giving her his full attention.
To her surprise, Lawrence fell silent.
Jonas listened intently, moving the stethoscope around. Fingers at the pulse in her neck, he told her, “Your pulse is weak and thready. You’re not moving air effectively. I don’t hear breath sounds on your right side. That’s where the bullet entered.” He paused, added a curse.
She couldn’t breathe. She felt as if a lead weight had fallen on her chest. She knew what was happening, and obviously, Jonas did too.
His next words confirmed her fears. “I think you’ve got a tension pneumothorax. I’ve got to do something or you’ll die.”
Do something? How did he plan to evacuate a tension pneumothorax in the field? He didn’t have a chest tube to relieve the pressure. What did he plan to use? Magic? She tried to speak again but couldn’t. Grasping for his hand, she squeezed it weakly, her strength ebbing. Their eyes met. I don’t want to die. Jonas, don’t let me die. We have so much to live for. . . . If she didn’t die from the gunshot meant for Jonas. She couldn’t regret it, though. At least Jonas was safe. Now she had to trust him to take care of her.
Jonas pulled a pen from his shirt pocket. Twisting it apart, he took out the ink cartridge. “It’s not a chest tube but it might do the trick. I hope,” he added beneath his breath, but she heard him.
Thank God, her brain began to work again after stuttering almost completely to a halt from shock and pain. She felt in her lab coat pocket, thankful she’d come straight from work without changing. Relieved, she pulled out the IV catheter she had in her pocket, left over from the procedure she’d performed just before leaving the hospital.
Jonas smiled when he saw it and dropped the pen. “Hot damn, that’s perfect.” He took it from her, opened the sterile covering, wiped her skin with the alcohol swab she’d also had in her pocket. Without hesitation, he slipped the catheter between her ribs and pulled out the trochar. Air hissed out, the sound, the feel of it, so damn sweet. The pain eased, and air flowed as she breathed in and out, gaining strength with every welcome breath. Their eyes met, and they both smiled.
“Thank God,” Jonas said, bending forward to touch his forehead to hers. “Not that I’m complaining, but why the hell did you have an IV catheter in your pocket? Your stethoscope I can understand, but why the IV catheter?”
She smiled at him again, weakly. “I’m a trauma surgeon. I had to start an IV before I left work tonight. I had a spare in my pocket.”
“Lucky us,” he said sincerely and kissed her forehead.
“Lucky us,” she agreed.
“What’s the matter with you two? You’re crazy,” Lawrence said.
“Hello, pot,” she murmured, then closed her eyes. Jonas would deal with Lawrence. She had faith this time.
They’d finally gotten it right.
Chapter Thirty-One
“WHAT ARE YOU doing?” Lawrence asked, waving the gun at him. “Who are you calling?”
Jonas was surprised the gun hadn’t gone off again, the way the fool had been brandishing it around. “I’m calling 911,” he told him. “Claire needs help. Immediately. She could still die if she doesn’t get to a hospital.” His phone was still on the floor across the room, so he was using Claire’s to call for help.
“If you call 911, they’ll send the police. Stop it. Stop it right now.”
Jonas glanced at him, but continued, putting the phone to his ear as he waited for the operator to answer. “The cops are already on their way. Remember? Claire called them before she came. Do the right thing for once, Larry.”
“What is your emergency?” the 911 operator said.
“This is Dr. Jonas Clark. I have a thirty-four-year-old woman with a gunshot wound to the chest. I need an ambulance immediately.” He gave her his address.
“Is she unconscious? Is she breathing?” the operator asked.
“She’s conscious and breathing. She had a tension pneumothorax but I evacuated it and now she’s breathing fine.”
“The ambulance should be there shortly.”
“Thank you.” He closed the phone and looked at Westbrook.
Westbrook still held the gun, but he seemed nonplussed about what to do. At least he hadn’t shot either of them again.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Westbrook said, sitting down heavily. The gun hung from his hand loosely. “I was trying to shoot you. It’s not my fault she jumped in front of you.”
Always someone else’s fault, Jonas thought but remained silent. No sense pissing off a nut with a gun any more than you had to.
“Buster gave me the gun,” Westbrook said.
It took Jonas a moment to realize the man had gone back to the past.
“Buster wanted Davis dead. If I hadn’t shot him, Buster Cantrell would have. Or more likely, he’d have hanged him.” He looked imploringly at Jonas. “Don’t you see, it was better I did it. At least his death was quick that way. Cantrell would have lynched him.”
Good God, Westbrook took rationalizing to an art form. “What about Dervish and Young? Were their deaths not your fault either?”
He shrugged. “I did what I had to do. Young was old. He’d have died soon. Dervish was worthless anyway.”
Sirens filled the air. Jonas decided that was probably a good thing because he couldn’t stomach much more of the man. “That will be the cops. Or the ambulance. Or more likely, both. What are you going to do?”
Suddenly galvanized, Westbrook jumped up and ran to the window. “I have to get out of here. Or maybe—” he turned to look at Jonas and Claire. “Maybe I’ll hold you hostage.”
“You could do that,” Jonas agreed. “But you know those situations don’t end well for anyone involved. Why don’t you leave now, before they get here?”
He looked undecided. “Why don’t I just kill you both? Then I’ll go.”
“That’s not a good idea. When I called 911, I also texted a friend of mine. His name’s O’Connor. He was the first detective on Calvin’s murder case. Dervish inherited the case when O’Connor was wounded. O’Connor knows you shot Claire. He’s also convinced you murdered Calvin. After my text, he’ll be sure of it. No, your best bet is to get out now.” And Jonas hoped like hell the cops got hold of him on his way out. Even if they didn’t, he suspected they would pick him up quickly.
“Damn you,” Westbrook said, and pocketed the gun. “Why couldn’t you just have stayed dead?”
“Not this time,” Jonas said as the door slammed behind Westbrook. “Not this time.”
CLAIRE FELT LIKE shit when she woke. At first she couldn’t remember where she was, bu
t further inspection told her she was in a hospital room. As a patient. She turned her head to see Jonas sitting beside the bed, head down as if dozing. He had several days’ worth of beard, and even asleep he looked tired. Good God, how long had she been here?
“Jonas?” she croaked.
His head came up immediately. “Claire.” He leaned forward to hold her hand, smoothing his other hand over her hair. “Hey, how are you feeling?”
“Like crap. Hurts.”
“Gunshot wounds will do that to you. Especially one that passes through your lung.”
“What . . . happened?”
“Do you remember that Westbrook shot you?”
“Yes. What happened after that?”
“You had a tension pneumothorax that I evacuated, and then we got you to the hospital where you had surgery. Mike Sanders resected a small piece of your lung and you should recover fully. You’re going to be fine.”
“Tired,” she said and closed her eyes.
The next time she woke she felt considerably better. Still in pain, though it was better. She was still weak, but a lot less shaky than she had been. Jonas wasn’t there, but Lanie was sitting in the chair beside her bed.
“Hey, sleepy. You scared the hell out of us.”
“I’m sorry,” Claire said. She held out her hand. “Sorry I’ve been so angry with you. Forgive me?” Life was too short to remain angry with those you love. She understood that now. Lanie had made a mistake. So had Claire. A number of them.
“Nothing to forgive. I was wrong, but I didn’t do it to hurt you, Claire. Can you forgive me?”
“Possibly. If you get me some water.”
Her friend grinned and poured a small amount into a cup. Lainie added a straw and handed it to her, making sure she could hold it. “Don’t drink it too fast,” Lanie cautioned.
“Thanks. Where’s Jonas?” Claire asked after she’d taken a sip.
“Now that you’re definitely on the mend we kicked him out. He’ll be back. The man really loves you.”
“I know.” And she loved him. Was it possible that finally, finally they would have their happy ending?
“Your mother’s been here too. She’s having lunch with your surgeon. I think they’ve hit it off.”
Claire blinked at that. “My mother and Dr. Sanders? Who’d have thought it?”
“Apparently the two of them. You’ve had quite an adventure. I don’t understand what happened, not even a little, but I gathered that Lawrence Westbrook, your ex-father-in-law, shot you. Apparently, he was trying to shoot Jonas and you managed to get in the way. Somehow it’s all tied up with a murder that happened forty-something years ago.”
“Yes. I’ll explain later.” In a carefully expurgated version. “What happened to Lawrence?”
“The police caught him as he was leaving Jonas’s apartment complex. He’s in jail, charged with attempted murder. I think there’s more, other charges, but you’ll have to ask Jonas.”
“I’ll do that. When is he coming back?”
Lanie laughed and handed her a cell phone. “Call him.”
“No need,” Jonas said from the doorway. “I’m here.” He crossed the room and leaned over her. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, and kissed her.
Claire put her arms around his neck and kissed him back. “Good.”
A WEEK LATER, Claire was released from the hospital. They hadn’t discussed it, but Jonas was taking her to his place since he didn’t think she should be alone until she had fully recovered. Besides, he wanted to be with her. Hopefully, she felt the same. With Lawrence’s incarceration, she seemed to have changed her mind about her belief that they couldn’t be together.
Seemed to being the operative words.
“Glenn called me today. While I was waiting to be discharged.”
“Why?” He shot her a glance, but she didn’t seem upset.
“To apologize about his father. He’s convinced Lawrence is mentally unstable and hopes he’ll be put in a hospital for the criminally insane. He isn’t happy about it, of course, but it’s better than death row.”
Jonas snorted in disgust. “Lawrence Westbrook isn’t crazy. He should go to prison for the rest of his miserable life. At least.”
“No, he’s not crazy. But that will be up to the court to decide.”
Jonas scowled. “Life in a hospital for the criminally insane wouldn’t be a picnic either. I guess I’m okay with whatever happens. Unless he goes free. What about you?”
“He won’t go free,” she said with conviction. “I’m content to let the law handle it. I think the right thing will be done this time.”
“Glenn say anything else?” He glanced at her but couldn’t read her expression.
“Quite a bit, actually. He finally admitted what he’d done. He apologized for beating me up. Swore he’d never raise a hand to me again. He even said he’d get help. Counseling.” She hesitated, then added, “Glenn wants me to come back to him.”
“What was your answer?” He knew, but he also couldn’t deny a moment’s worry.
Claire put her hand over his on the gearshift. “Not only no, but hell, no. Why would I go back to him when I’m in love with you?”
The tightness in his chest eased. “So you won’t complain if I take you to my place? You shouldn’t be alone while you recover.” And never again if he could help it.
“I was going to ask you if you didn’t ask me.”
“Great minds,” he said.
“CAN WE TALK? I have something for you,” Jonas said after dinner.
Propped up in bed again, Claire smiled. While she’d been able to eat at the table, she was still weak enough to be glad to get back in bed. “That depends. Is it something nasty, like that antibiotic you have me on? Or will I like it? Is it dessert? Frozen yogurt?” she asked hopefully.
He laughed a little. “Don’t worry, it’s not medicine. I’m afraid it’s not frozen yogurt, either. I’ll go get you some later.” His expression turned serious. And oddly enough, apprehensive. “I hope you’ll like it.”
“Are you going to ask me to move in with you again? Because if you are, the answer is yes.”
“No. I don’t want to live with you.”
Her heart sank. He was through with her?
He pulled something out of his pocket and held it out to her. A ring. A gorgeous round-cut diamond in an old-fashioned, platinum setting. Smaller diamonds encircled the center stone and the band was one of pavé diamonds.
“Oh, Jonas, it’s gorgeous.”
“I saw this and knew it was the right one. Just like I know that you and I are right and should be together. Always. Will you marry me, Claire?”
She held out her hand, and he slipped on the ring. It fit perfectly. “Yes,” she said, and threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. “Yes, yes, yes.”
Jonas kissed her. A kiss of promise, fidelity, possibility. A kiss of love.
MUCH LATER, JONAS brought a book to her. Rachel’s journal, she saw to her surprise. “What’s this?”
“When I went to get some of your things to bring over here I saw it on your bedside table. I decided to bring it. I don’t know why but I read the last entry. You haven’t read it, have you?”
He seemed sure of that, and she wondered why. “No. Not yet.”
“You need to.” He flipped to the page he wanted and waited while she read.
October 15, 1859
Claire looked up. “October fifteenth is my birthday.”
“I know. Read what she wrote.”
She started again.
Rachel’s Journal—October 15, 1859
Victor Lawrence died last night. We heard the news from the sheriff himself. It was an accident, and Sheriff Boynton seemed disgruntled that he could n
ot prove otherwise. He would say no more than Victor had fallen down the stairs and broken his neck.
We have heard more from the servants. They believe that in the months since Sarah’s death, Victor has been driven mad. Impossible as it might be to believe, the slaves swear that Sarah’s ghost is responsible.
On the fatal night, Peter, Victor’s house servant, heard his master shouting, upstairs in his bedroom. Peter went to offer help and Victor demanded, “Do you see her? Do you?” Peter asked who and Victor said, “My wife, damn her soul.” He pointed a shaking finger at nothing Peter could see. “There! In the doorway. Go away, Sarah. You won’t drive me mad! You won’t!”
Peter said his master was drunk, that he had been in a drunken state continually since the day he killed Elijah, Sarah, and Celia. Peter said an expression of abject terror came over Victor’s face and he rushed out of his room and down the stairs. “No, you’re not real, you can’t be,” he cried. He tripped and fell headlong down the long staircase. Peter said Victor lived for a short while, all the while maintaining that Sarah had killed him.
After Victor passed, Peter believes he saw a vision of his mistress, and she whispered, “Justice.”
I am not sure what to believe. Peter has never been fanciful, and unlike many of the other slaves, does not believe in spirits. For him to relate this tale gives one pause. But I do know that Victor Lawrence is dead, and thus justice has been served for my dear sister and her beloved.
For myself as well. My daughter was born early this morning. We shall call her Sarah.
CLAIRE CLOSED THE journal. “So Sarah and Rachel got justice after all.” She smiled at Jonas. “You don’t believe it, do you?”
“Believe in ghosts? I’ve been forced to believe in past lives, but I draw the line at ghosts.”
“Such a skeptic.”
“Always will be.” They smiled at each other. “You know what’s odd,” Jonas said. “I haven’t had a dream—that I remember—since I saw Calvin’s death. Or maybe it’s not so odd.”
“Since Lawrence is going to pay for his crime, you mean?”
Jonas shrugged. “It’s kind of a coincidence, don’t you think? What about you? Any more dreams?”