A Marriage To Fight For

by Raina Lynn

  She had to put her mind at rest or go insane. Returning to her office, she propped her elbows on her oak desk and buried her face in her hands.

  “Get a grip, Hughes.” The worry spread into a raw, bleeding wound. Disgusted, she picked up the phone and called the neurology wing at San Francisco Community General Hospital. “Dr. Blake Hughes, please. This is Maggie Hughes at Rutherford-Petrie.” The floor nurse put her on hold. “He’s going to think your little red choo-choo has really gone around the bend this time,” she muttered to herself. After an interminable wait, the line clicked open.

  “Hi, Mag. What’s up?” Blake sounded cheerful but distracted.

  She leaned back in her chair. “Darned if I know.”

  “Oh?”

  She half sighed, half groaned. “Are you ready for a stupid question?”

  He gave a startled laugh. “Fire away.”

  “Did you ever find out where your brother is?”

  The pause on the other end of the line was annoyed, but not at her. “Are you kidding?” he grunted. “My last round of badgering a pencil pusher in Washington got me the usual tripe. ‘I’ll get a message to Agent Hughes when it’s feasible, and he’ll call you on a safe line when it won’t compromise the operation.”’

  “Did Garrett ever call?”

  “No,” he said in a small voice. “And it’s been six weeks.”

  Maggie willed down an involuntary shudder. “What do you think he’s doing?”

  “The usual. Something that neither of us wants to think about too hard.”

  “Oh.” A pain-filled moan escaped her throat without her permission.

  “Worried about him?”

  “Yeah,” she admitted bleakly.

  Blake sighed. “That doesn’t go away just because a divorce says it’s supposed to.”

  “I know. I should have fallen in love with an accountant. Or maybe a pharmaceutical salesman. Anything but a cop who doesn’t understand the concept of ‘duct.”’

  Blake chuckled. “Look, Mag, I can’t talk now. A 747 just smeared itself all over a runway at SFO. Trauma’s gearing up for war. I’m headed there myself. When the dust settles—provided I’m not dead on my feet—we’ll go out for coffee.”

  Maggie’s lips thinned in a feeble attempt at a smile. “Sounds good. Sorry I bothered you.”

  “Don’t mention it. The kids are at a slumber party, and this’ll give me a good excuse not to go home to an empty house.”

  “Faith’s still in Europe?” His wife was a world renowned photographer and was often gone for weeks at a time.

  “I wasn’t cut out to be married to a globe-trotter,” he muttered. “It gets lonely.”

  She laughed. “Be strong, little soldier.”

  “Thanks a lot.” His pager shrieked in the background. “I’ve got to go. We’ll talk later.”

  They broke the connection, and Maggie attacked the paperwork mountain on her desk. Four hours later, the mountain had been conquered—if not entirely eliminated—and she’d convinced herself she was okay. It was six o‘clock. She could have gone home at five, but Rick—being sixteen and the proud owner of a driver’s license and a job—wouldn’t be home until midnight curfew. Blake wasn’t the only one who hated empty houses.

  Her phone rang, and she picked it up. “This is Hughes.” At first she heard nothing but the hollow emptiness of an open line. “Hello?”

  A hoarse clearing of a male throat. “Mag? It’s me.”

  “Blake?” Every. shred of hard-won calm vanished.

  He inhaled raggedly. “You always know. I’ve never understood how, but you always know.”

  The mental vision of the jet cartwheeling down the runway played behind her eyes. Tears burst over her lower lids and down her cheeks. She wanted to ask, but she couldn’t force out the words. Terror-spawned anger sharpened her voice. “Garrett’s dead. Isn’t he!” It wasn’t a question.

  “Not quite.” Blake’s ragged indrawn breath was louder than his voice. “We’re taking him to surgery as soon as a suite’s free, but it doesn’t look good.”

  Her heart and mind recoiled in self-preservation. “I don’t want to know.”

  “I need you, Maggie,” he pleaded, clearing his throat and fighting the choking tears. “Mom and Dad are coming in from Vallejo. Mom can’t handle this and take care of Dad by herself.”

  Maggie felt herself recoil further. This was too much like scenes that had played out three other times. Garrett injured, the family called together, and her heart being torn open. Then, when it was all over, and she and Garrett made love, her fingertips brushed an old scar or the bandages from his latest wound, and the horror came back in a violent rush.

  Wasn’t avoiding this why she’d divorced him? For years she’d tried to tell herself that across the country thousands of police officers lived to be comfortably old and happily retired. But that hadn’t helped; she hadn’t married any of them. He swore he never took unnecessary risks, but she also knew him well enough to know he never compromised, never backed off if he thought he could control a situation.

  For thirteen years she’d smiled bravely every time he left the house, then jumped every time the phone rang. His transfer to undercover narcotics had made the constant worry intolerable, and their quarrels increasingly bitter. The death blow to their marriage came at his acceptance into the DEA. Something fractured deep inside, and she filed for divorce. No matter how much living without him hurt, the bottom line was that it had been easier to push him away than to live with the constant terror of not knowing when—if ever—he’d be taken from her.

  “Blake, I freed myself from this once. I can’t—won’t—walk back into his life again.”

  An engulfing silence stretched out on the line before Blake managed a broken, “Please?”

  She wanted to slam down the receiver and pretend the call hadn’t come, but her fingers tightened as if they had a will of their own. A question welled up in her throat, demanding to be voiced, refusing to be swallowed back.

  “How bad is he?” She hated herself for asking, hated Garrett more for making her ask.

  “Third lumbar is fractured and fragments are pressing against his spinal cord. The cord isn’t severed, but both legs are paralyzed. He’s also got assorted broken ribs, a fractured right arm and internal injuries.” Blake’s voice shook. At the moment, he wasn’t one of the hottest young neurosurgeons in the country. He was simply a man whose older brother, his childhood hero, crept closer to death—again.

  Maggie wanted to scream out her anguish. Loving Garrett had nearly destroyed her. How could Blake ask this? “No.”

  “Please, Maggie.”

  “No! Playing bullet tag with drug dealers and crazy people was more important to him than Rick and me. I’m out of it.”

  “This accident has nothing to do with being a cop.”

  “He’s still hurt, and if he dies, I don’t think I could stand to watch. And if he lives, I’ll be right back where I started.”

  “Think of Mom.”

  Guilt added its weight to the emotional overload. Laverne and Patrick Hughes were the only real parents she’d ever had. Her father had deserted her mother when Maggie was six. Her mother—an alcoholic who couldn’t hold a job—preferred the company of fellow barflies over making a decent home for her frightened, confused little girl. Child Protective Services stepped in when she was eight. From then on, she bounced from foster home to foster home, always the outsider, never sure if “home” one month meant the same address the next

  “Throwing Mom at me is fighting dirty, Blake.”

  “She’s going to need you.”

  Maggie felt her resolve slip, sending new ripples of panic roiling through her.

  His voice dropped to a whisper again. “Just be here. I can concentrate if I know the family is taken care of.”

  Knowing no matter how she protested she’d never be able to stay away, Maggie groaned.

  Her ex-brother-in-law correctly interpreted the sound and b
reathed in relief. “Thanks.”

  They shared a moment of mutually needed silence. Maggie ran the whole conversation through her mind, then mentally listed the specialists Garrett would need. One of them was a neurosurgeon. “Wait a minute. What did you mean by ‘concentrate’? You can’t operate on him yourself. He’s your brother!”

  “No, I called in every favor I had and got Rollins, Tellerman and Kelly. They’re going over the pictures now.”

  Maggie sucked in her breath. Rollins was one of the best neurosurgeons in the world. If it was humanly possible to pull Garrett through this, Rollins would find a way.

  Blake’s voice dropped so low, she could barely hear him. “Maggie, there’s very little chance we’ll get him off the table alive. He was pinned in the wreckage too long. His vital signs are so unstable, just putting him under could kill him, but surgery is his only hope.” The tremor in his voice worsened. “I’m going in with him, Mag. I won’t let my brother die alone.”

  For another heartbeat, her world spun in circles, then finished falling apart, just as she’d known all afternoon it would.

  Maggie strode into the trauma center at San Francisco Community General with her chin tilted up and her emotions clamped down. For a stunned moment, she could do nothing but survey the chaos. The small hospital’s security personnel rode herd on the dozens of reporters—complete with camera crews and unwieldy equipment—keeping them a respectful distance from patients and frantic family members. Medical personnel barked out orders. Patients screamed. The din of voices blended together into a hideous roar of human misery.

  Somewhere in this horror was Garrett. Her pulse quickened with a fresh wave of fear.

  People stood ten deep at the front desk, all shouting demands for information at the two harried nurses. Maggie paused to thank God she still wore her white uniform and name badge. Then she elbowed her way through the crowd. Angry glowers greeted her efforts, but the sight of her tunic, pants and sneakers gained her the path she needed.

  Bracing her fingertips on the desk, she leaned across it. “I’m from Rutherford-Petrie. Where’s Dr. Blake Hughes?”

  The nurse glanced at the badge and didn’t even blink about why a surgeon coping with one of the worst air disasters in U.S. history would call for someone from a rehab center. “Trauma nine.” She pointed toward a garish, black-and white-tiled corridor. “That way.”

  Maggie nodded crisply, then waded through the river of people, gumeys and wheelchairs, scanning room numbers painted on the doorjambs. The next number was...nine! She whipped through the doorway and plowed into her ex-brother-in-law.

  Blake Hughes was dark like his brother, but a little taller and more lean, with the classic male beauty right out of a woman’s fantasy. But today, his rich olive complexion was a pasty gray, his sapphire-blue eyes—another trademark of the Hughes men—haunted and half-wild.

  “You made it.” He pulled her into a desperate hug. “Garrett refused further medical treatment until you got here.”

  Maggie’s jaw dropped. “He’s conscious?”

  Blake nodded, trembling. “Given his injuries, that’s probably the only reason he’s still alive.” Blake jerked his gaze over his shoulder. “Hurry. I want him in the next available operating room.”

  Taking a steadying breath, she folded her hands and walked into trauma nine. Four patients on gumeys and their medical teams were crammed into a tiny room designed for only one crisis at a time. Garrett lay on the gurney second from the left, staring at the ceiling, his face set in silent, clench-jawed agony.

  His square, chiseled features looked like Hollywood’s version of a 1940s Mafia don, darkly handsome, seductively compelling, lethal. Little wonder he’d made such an effective undercover officer. He looked like the quintessential bad guy.

  His only covering was a sheet draped over his hips. Pressure bandages covered various wounds on his muscular, tanned legs and chest. His right arm was splinted, multiple IVs in his left. A grim-faced technician checked readouts on monitors. But the most frightening sight was the steel braces strapped to Garrett’s body, completely immobilizing his spine and legs.

  Maggie had loved Garrett since she’d moved next door to his family at sixteen, loved the quiet confidence that radiated from him as naturally as breathing, loved the way he turned their world into paradise whenever he held her. Now he lay broken, his indomitable strength drained nearly to its end.

  “You need it now, Mr. Hughes,” growled one of the hovering doctors, a syringe poised over a Y-eonnector in an IV tube. At Garrett’s sharp glower, the harried physician looked pleadingly at Blake. “The call just came. They’ll be ready for us upstairs in five minutes.”

  “I said no.” Pain thickened Garrett’s voice, but his strength of will cut through the room like satin-wrapped steel. “Not until my wife gets here.”

  Wife? Maggie’s heart twisted in her chest. Not ex-wife? She swallowed hard and stepped to his side. “I’m here.” Despite her best effort, her voice quavered.

  He turned his face toward her, the familiar power of his piercing blue gaze drawing her in, surrounding her with his possessive warmth. He forced a smile.

  “Hi, babe.”

  Beyond conscious will, she took his hand in both of hers. His skin was cold, and she tightened her grip, willing strength back into the dynamic man who had taught her the ecstasies of love, the man who—even after four years—she still burned for alone in the bed they had once shared. The simple act of holding hands, touching once again after the years’ long absence, sent her blood tingling up her arms. She’d been afraid it would be like this. That was why she’d refused to see him those rare times he’d stolen enough time from work to come see Rick.

  She took a shuddering breath and projected a hopefully cheery-looking smile. “Hi, yourself. Other than giving your insurance a workout, what are you doing in California?”

  Despite his grave condition, she truly expected him to attempt that crooked smile he used whenever he knew she was sidestepping an unpleasant subject, but he didn’t. After a timeless moment, his gaze became more possessive, blocking out the rest of Maggie’s world. Had Garrett’s eyes really become more blue, more sexy? Or did they just seem that way because for so many years she’d only seen them in her dreams?

  “I came back for you.”

  Her heart slammed against her ribs.

  “I love you, Maggie. Too much to let a damned divorce keep us apart.” His broken ribs gave his words a frighteningly breathy quality. Exerting tremendous effort, he drew her fingers against his lips and kissed them.

  The tingling in her blood burst into open flame, and she nearly wept.

  When they’d met, Garrett had been twenty-two and a college senior, godlike to a high school sophomore. Instant fire had ignited between them, but he confined their passion to fevered kisses, denying them the fulfillment they both craved. His father would have killed him if they’d slept together. Moreover, his personal sense of honor wouldn’t allow it. He’d said she’d been through too much in her life. If their love didn’t work out, he didn’t want the memories tainted with regrets.

  So honorable, this Boy Scout, this knight in shining armor who held her heart. But for thirteen years of marriage, loving each other hadn’t been enough, would never be enough.

  She cleared her throat of the choking memories. “We’ll talk later when you feel better.”

  Resolve flashed in his eyes, momentarily overshadowing the pain. “Where’s Rick?”

  The abrupt subject change didn’t surprise her. It was typical of Garrett. When he’d come to a decision and knew she wouldn’t like it, he simply moved on.

  Inwardly, she sighed. “He’s out with friends. I called the grocery store where he works, but his boss gave him the night off.” She squeezed his hand. “He’ll be here when you wake up.”

  Garrett opened his mouth to speak, but his face abruptly tightened in anger and he whipped his head back around to the IV pole where his brother stood calmly injecting the
contents of a large syringe into the Y connector.

  “Damn it, Blake.” The snarl was no more than an unsteady whisper. “I told you I needed to talk to her first.”

  “We have work to do, big brother.” Blake, like Garrett, was most at home when a decision had been made and he could proceed accordingly. The fact that he had no authority to do the anesthesiologist’s job never entered the equation. “Somehow, I don’t think you’ll sue me. Say ‘good night, Gracie.”’

  Maggie saw Garrett’s eyes go unfocused, and he groaned with the effort to stay conscious. “Where’s my coat?”

  “For Pete’s sake, Garrett,” Blake moaned. “Why can’t you just lie there and be impressed with us like a regular patient?”

  Garrett gritted his teeth, and Maggie felt a slight shift in pressure on her fingers as he tried, but failed, to secure his grip. “Breast pocket. There’s a box.”

  Watching him struggle was more than Maggie could take, and she clamped her teeth down on her trembling lower lip and wrapped her fingers more tightly around his. Blake took one look at her face and rummaged through the bloodied rags on the floor until he found the velvet jeweler’s box.

  Opening it, he swore under his breath and turned it toward Maggie. “I take it this is for you?”

  A two-carat, marquise-cut, diamond solitaire ring winked in the glare of the ER’s overhead lights.

  “Oh, Garrett, no.” Acid tears slipped down her cheeks. “This isn’t the time.”

  “Probably not... Got your attention now.” His voice had begun to slur, and listening to him fight to make himself understood tore out her heart. “Love you, babe. Marry me, again.... We’ll get it right...this time.”

  The need to throw herself into his arms surged through her with renewed intensity. She stiffened, knowing if she gave in at all, she’d cave in completely. “We’ll talk later—when you’re out of surgery.”