“And that worked?”
“Like a charm.” Macy knew she should stop there. But Fletcher’s trustworthy eyes lured her on. “I remember we had a blue plastic bucket in the trunk that was for a bathroom when we didn’t have access to one. And a white one for water. To wash the car with,” she explained, recalling her mother’s counsel: “A dirty car is a huge clue that people are living in it.” She shrugged, making herself smile. “I was a pretty good actor. And car washer. If your Jeep ever needs—”
“Hey.” Fletcher took hold of her hand. “You don’t have to pretend with me. Having to live like that must have been awful. How . . . ? Did you say your mother died in a fire?”
“An apartment fire.” Fletcher’s fingers tightened around hers, gentle, warm. “We were living in the car and I’d been sick, I guess. Mom left me sleeping in the backseat one night while she ran into a convenience store. They said she stole some Tylenol. The clerk called the police. They called Child Protective Services.” Macy shook her head. “The ‘moving to Grandma’s in Tiburon’ doesn’t fly with those folks, I guess.”
“They took you into protective custody?”
“Emergency foster care. Mom said it was only for a few days; she’d met some nice people who had a place.” Fletcher’s arm slid around her shoulders. He probably thought she was going to cry. “They think it started with the curtains. A candle maybe . . .”
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “It’s not something you ever really get over.”
Macy met his gaze, certain he was thinking of his sister. Then a smile began to tease his lips.
“So—” his fingertips brushed her hair—“you couldn’t imagine yourself with a cop?”
“Never,” she admitted, relaxing against him a bit. She wondered about the statute of limitations on breaking and entering, stealing door hardware. “I never thought it was possible. Not like this.”
“And this, us . . .” Fletcher’s eyes held hers. “You’re good with it?”
“I think, yes. Maybe.” Her pulse danced as his lips touched her forehead.
“Only ‘maybe’?”
Her chuckle was breathless. “Considering that you knocked me to the ground the first time we met, you all but threw me out of your car tonight, and—” She stopped as his big hands cradled her face.
“I think . . . I’m very good with the idea of us, Macy Wynn.” That small hint of an accent stretched his words. “You’re an amazing woman. Smart and gutsy, generous . . . and beautiful. From that stripe in your hair right down to your pinto bean tattoo.”
She started to laugh, but his lips had found the corner of her mouth.
“You are special, Macy,” he told her, drawing back a little to look in her eyes again. “You should believe that. Ballet or not, regardless of where you came from—because of that probably. I’ve never known anyone like you.”
Macy blinked, determined not to cry as she wove her arms around Fletcher’s neck. “Well . . .” She smiled, an achy-good sensation making her dizzy. “Since you put it that way, Deputy . . .”
Fletcher’s lips met hers, lightly at first, then more completely as he wrapped her in his arms. Warm, secure. Macy’s eager response stirred the kiss to deepen, until she wasn’t sure she could still breathe, but . . . it was worth the risk. He’d buried his hands in her hair, leaned over her enough that she slid back against the sofa arm, not at all confident the timeworn piece of furniture could tolerate the weight of two people at one end without tipping or—
“Grr—oooof!”
The Dood leaped to his feet and began trotting down the hallway, toenails clicking on the wood floor. Music erupted from somewhere in that direction.
“Sally . . . ,” Macy breathed, rising to a more upright angle on the couch. She glanced at the wall clock. “Her shift starts at eleven and—” She laughed as Fletcher’s handsome features morphed into an adolescent pout.
“Great.” He shook his head. “If it’s not a kid stalking marmots, it’s a night nurse. I’m batting zero.”
“Hardly.” Macy’s skin warmed as he lifted her hand to his lips. “But . . .” She glanced in the direction of what sounded like the shower starting up. “You don’t want to talk to Sally until she’s had at least three cups of coffee. She’s half the reason I own bear repellent. And if she spots a gun on the furniture . . .”
“Got it.” He reached for his holster. “Maybe I’ll give the sergeant a call, see if they’ve found anything out yet.”
Macy’s stomach tensed. “You don’t think he’d come back here tonight?”
He studied her face. “You’re worried?”
“I’m not. I’m just—”
“Acting.” Fletcher finished fastening his holster, met Macy’s gaze. “I see it in your eyes. You’re worried.”
“Maybe a little. But I’ll move Dood’s bed to the living room and . . .”
“No need. I’ve got it covered.” Fletcher reached out and traced his fingers along her cheek. “Your own surveillance detail. All night.”
“Uh, I appreciate that, but—” her face warmed—“you can’t stay here, Fletcher. We have a house rule about men. And I really can’t, wouldn’t . . .”
“Whoa.” Fletcher caught her hand. “Hold on. Take a breath. I wasn’t suggesting I’d be sleeping here—even on your couch.” He laughed. “I’m sorry, but that look on your face . . . What I meant was that one of the graveyard units will do some drive-bys. Keep an eye on this street and your house.”
She stared at him, embarrassed and touched too. “You arranged for that?”
“Sure.” He stood, reaching out a hand to help her up. “I made a call while you were in there getting the coffee.”
“Because it’s really more dangerous than you’ve said?”
“Because . . .” Fletcher drew Macy into his arms. “I want you to be able to sleep. I don’t want you to worry.” He hugged her close. “And because I care a lot about you.”
Macy closed her eyes, feeling the solid warmth of his back beneath her palms. And a strange and sort of wonderful sense of safety she hadn’t felt in a long, long time.
Down the hallway, Sally grumbled something to Dood about offensive dog breath. And that no one better have eaten the last bagel.
“I should leave,” Fletcher told Macy, leaning away. “Before you pull out the bear spray and I get caught in the cross fire.” He bent low, gave her a last, lingering kiss. “Mmm. Sure worth risking it, though.”
“Thank you,” Macy whispered, realizing that her knees were trying their best to tremble. Her kickboxing coach would have her dropping down for twenty push-ups. “For dinner . . . and for everything.”
“I’ll call you in the morning,” Fletcher promised. “My buddy’s name is Jason Gormley. This is his patrol area anyway, but he’ll make some extra passes down the street. Till about seven in the morning. He’ll slow down when he passes your house, take a good look around. Maybe shine a light in the shrubbery. You’re okay with that?”
“Sure.” Macy feigned an innocent smile. “My uncle Bob is a policeman. In Wyoming.”
33
“I COULD PROBABLY DO IT.” Andi maneuvered her wheelchair forward and back, leg extended, to prove her new expertise. The sling was gone, and her crutches had been propped against the corridor wall beside her. “Half shifts, run the department right from this chair.” She peered past Taylor toward the trauma rooms. “Doesn’t look too challenging in there. Grab me some scrubs.”
“No way.” Taylor shook her head, noticing that the plucky physician had paired her hospital robe with red-yellow-and-blue Wonder Woman slipper socks. “Physical therapy will be here in a flash to take you and the little elf back upstairs. They weren’t too thrilled that you conned the transporter into a detour over here.”
“I know.” Andi smiled, spread a palm across her pregnant tummy. “We’ll be good.” She glanced through the department doors again and sighed. “I know it’s going to take time to heal and feel normal, but it’s . .
. harder than I thought.”
“I’m sure,” Taylor empathized, remembering her conversation with Seth last night when they’d talked about healing from grief and she questioned him about his personal experience.
“Taylor?”
Seth Donovan was suddenly beside them. His face was grayish pale and his expression pained, anxious. He glanced between Andi and Taylor. “I’m sorry to interrupt . . .”
“What is it?” Taylor asked, concern growing as she noted the perspiration dotting his forehead. “What’s wrong?”
“I was upstairs with a patient and . . .” Seth pressed his palm against his lower sternum, closed his eyes, and groaned. “Half a roll of antacids hasn’t touched it this time.”
“Get him to an exam room,” Andi ordered, reaching for the crutches. “Take this wheelchair.”
“No,” Seth insisted despite his obviously increasing distress. “It’s just my stomach. And you’re hurt, Dr. Carlyle. I can’t let you—”
“No arguments.” Andi set the brakes and hoisted herself onto one superhero slipper sock. She waved away Taylor’s attempt at assistance. “I see the transporter right down the hall; he’ll grab me another chair.” She stared at Seth, her expression a mix of steely resolve and compassion. “What we can’t have, Mr. Donovan, is one of the good guys risking a cardiac event in our hallway.”
“She’s right, Seth.” Like it or not, Taylor was thinking the same thing.
“But—”
“Right in that chair,” Andi ordered, armpit over one crutch. She nodded with approval as Taylor made a quick call to give Macy a heads-up in the ER. “You’ll get your chance to prove it’s your stomach. After you meet MONA.”
“Mona?” Seth grimaced, settling with reluctance into the vacated chair. “Who’s Mona?”
“What, not who. It’s a mnemonic for chest pain protocols,” Taylor explained, seeing with relief that the transporter had already retrieved a second chair for Andi. MONA: morphine, oxygen, nitroglycerin, aspirin. It wasn’t etched in stone, but it was a great guideline to remember the cardiac treatment basics. “As in, ‘MONA greets all patients.’”
“I’ll have to trust you on that,” Seth told her, closing his eyes against the pain.
“Good.” Taylor put the wheelchair in motion, saying a quick prayer for her chaplain friend. “That’s what we’re here for.”
“Got all the blood for labs?” Macy asked as Taylor stepped away from Seth’s gurney, carrying several filled tubes.
“Chemistry, blood count, PT and PTT . . . Troponin’s already running.” Taylor glanced back toward their patient, the concern in her green eyes obvious. “He was popping antacids last night—I didn’t even think about it.”
They’d been teamed on a death notification, Taylor had said. Gone out for a bite to eat afterward. Probably about the same time Macy and Fletcher were having their meal. She knew he’d be concerned about Seth. “The EKG didn’t show any ST elevation,” Macy reminded Taylor. “Seth’s still under forty, with no previous cardiac history or big risk factors.”
“If you don’t count job stress. And life stress.”
“If you’re going to count that, then you’d better tell the chaplain to scooch over—we’ll all have to climb up on that gurney.” She met Taylor’s gaze. “You okay? Want me to ask someone else to take over with him?”
“No. I’m okay.” Taylor found a smile. “It’s just that Andi was right. Out there in the hallway, when she was trying to muscle him into the wheelchair. She called him ‘one of the good guys.’”
“Yes.” Macy looked back at Seth, lying beneath a web of monitoring wires and oxygen tubing. He’d been at the hospital visiting the family of a child who’d suffered a near drowning; the mother was a 911 operator and had taken the unimaginable call. Seth Donovan was absolutely one of the good guys. The same way Fletcher was.
“I have to trust that he’ll be okay,” Taylor added softly. “He has to be.”
Macy wanted to say something reassuring. But that had always been Taylor’s role. It was the perfect moment to say something supportive about hope . . . or faith? When had she started to factor that into any equation? For the first time Macy could remember, she was tempted to try that. But climbing Half Dome seemed far less daunting. Better to stick to what she trusted most: facts.
“Look,” Macy said at last, “so far so good. Seth’s vital signs are stable. The EKG and chest X-ray are good. He’s not a smoker or a diabetic, no high blood pressure. Even with the troponin pending, the docs are betting on gastric reflux.” She raised her brows. “The man admitted to chili cheese fries.”
“And a molten fudge brownie.”
“See?” Macy nodded, relieved to see Taylor’s lips tug toward a smile. “Plus, Andi’s up on crutches and wearing Wonder Woman socks. All signs that the Earth is shifting back to its normal axis.”
“You’re sure you’re okay to do this?” Fletcher asked, opening the car door for his mother. He glanced at the doors to the Sacramento Hope ER, trying to shake the sense of déjà vu; last time they’d been here together, he was carrying her in his arms. “Seth tried to talk you out of coming.”
His mother snorted. “A snowball’s chance in Houston.”
Fletcher smiled. That about said it.
“He told Taylor it was okay to call me,” she continued as Fletcher tapped in the code for the ambulance entrance doors—it had been cleared with security. “And you know how many times that good man has been there for me. And a thousand other folks.” His mother tossed him a knowing look. “Plus, I didn’t think you’d mind coming with me to the hospital.”
Macy was working. They’d texted well into the night and talked on the phone before breakfast. She was working days and Fletcher had taken a swing shift. They wouldn’t have seen each other. After learning Seth was out of immediate danger, he almost thanked his friend for the excuse to come over here. Even if it would take all his willpower not to haul the beautiful nurse into his arms.
She was in the corridor outside the emergency department when they got inside. Nobody should look that good in baggy scrubs.
“Seth is being watched in the CPAU. Our chest pain assessment unit,” Macy explained after greeting his mother. “It’s a precaution; he’s really very stable.” Her eyes met Fletcher’s at last, breath drawing softly inward. “He’ll be glad to see you both, I’m sure.”
Fletcher was only sure that his feet were cemented right where they were.
“I should go on ahead,” Charly insisted with uncanny mercy. “Seth may want to fill me in on that sad situation with the child in ICU.”
Fletcher waited until his mother was three strides away, then reached for Macy’s hand. “I missed you.”
“Same here.” She smiled at him but slid her fingers from his as a pair of lab technicians came around the corner. “Work,” she said with a small frown. “No getting around it.”
“Nope.” Fletcher glanced toward the overhead speaker as a stat page went out for the obstetrics resident. “Seth said he’s okay and that it’s not his heart. Maybe it’s stomach-related, from stress?”
“It looks that way. I can’t say officially . . .” Macy was guarding his friend’s privacy; Fletcher admired her for that. “I guess you know he was here visiting the family of the police dispatcher?”
“Yeah. And now my mother’s making a chaplain visit to the chaplain.” He shook his head. “A regular compassion pile-on.”
“You can add two more to that hero huddle: Taylor was the one who coerced Seth from the corridor onto our gurney . . . after Andi climbed out of her wheelchair and offered it up.”
“Andi Carlyle?” Fletcher’s eyes widened. “The ER doctor from the hit-and-run?”
“Yep. Triaged Seth, leaning on her crutches. Everyone’s pitching in. Not so different from your team.” Macy’s eyes held Fletcher’s. “I appreciate the extra patrol in my neighborhood last night. And how the detectives worked around my schedule today.”
They’d ques
tioned her, of course. “You okay with all of that?”
“Creepy coincidence, not a target. There’s no reason for that maniac to follow me.” Macy’s chin rose. “That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.” Her forehead puckered as the OB resident was paged a second time. “I caught some of the news on the nurses’ lounge TV. They were showing those photos you took with your phone last night. They’re saying it’s the best lead they’ve had toward catching the shooter.”
“Maybe. But none of it is certain. Identifying that Buick—even ruling it out—would be a help. We’ll be going door-to-door in the communities again tonight.”
“And you have that partial license plate; you got a look at it.”
“Right.”
They were fairly certain they’d traced it to a vehicle with a nonoperational registration. An old Honda Civic—not a Buick—parked in a trash-heaped carport in Stockton, almost an hour’s drive from the shooting locations. The owner, an elderly gentleman housebound by deteriorating health, had no clue the plates were missing. Detectives were circulating photos of the Buick and making inquiries regarding any strangers seen on or near the property. Rumor had it that one of the CSI officers required treatment for a spider bite after attempts to dust the Honda for prints.
“Oh no.” Macy grimaced as yet another physician page sounded overhead, this time including a room number. “That’s Andi.”
“What? But . . . she’s a patient.”
“That’s what I mean. Those pages for OB assistance are for Andi’s room up on the surgical floor. She must be having trouble with the baby.” Macy grabbed her phone from her scrubs pocket as it buzzed with a text. Her face paled as she scanned it. “It’s Taylor. Andi’s bleeding.” She winced, met his gaze. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
By Your Side Page 21