By Your Side

by Candace Calvert

  Macy ran a thumb over her cell phone screen, frowning. She’d received two frantic texts from Ricki Rush, the first one along the lines of You ungrateful snot, what did you do? followed by a much more contrite Please, please . . . we can fix this. Fortunately, the police must have forced Elliot to surrender his cell phone. She shuddered, remembering how his face had twisted with anger as he raged about Fletcher, how he clumsily attempted to kiss her, and how he’d torn at her clothes, groped her.

  Macy groaned aloud, sickened—and angry with herself. Not because she thought she’d encouraged Elliot in any way; she wasn’t going to fall into that victim trap. But . . . why didn’t I protect myself better? Block his first grab, get a defensive blow in sooner? She was a kickboxer, not a ballerina. Elliot shouldn’t have been able to take advantage like that. But the ugly incident had taken her so much by surprise. Confused her and seemed too impossible because . . . I trusted him.

  Macy squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to cry at the sad, pathetic truth: the only person she’d come close to completely trusting—in her whole life—was Elliot Rush. And she’d had to bash him in the skull to stop him from violating her.

  Macy lifted her cast from the pillow on her lap, trying to find a more comfortable position on the couch. She was stiff and achy from sleeping in the Audi. She shook her head, recalling her confusion when the guard awakened her; she’d thought for a moment that she was with her mother in that old car in San Francisco. Homeless and being told to move along by local law enforcement, much the same way that neighbor got rid of nesting swallows—babies and all—with the handle of his rake. “Couple of good pokes . . . the only way they’ll get that they don’t belong there.”

  He was wrong. The same way Elliot was wrong when he said that hateful thing about her mother. Her mother had simply made the same mistake Macy did: trusting the wrong person. Macy should never have risked that. And she wouldn’t anymore. She wouldn’t let anyone tell her that she couldn’t make it on her own. She wouldn’t let losing what fragile hope she’d had of a relationship with Fletcher stop her from moving ahead. The broken wrist would heal. She’d get Nonni’s door set back, polish it up again. Transfer the trust money to a safer place. She’d keep that contractor working and close escrow on the house. She had to. It was all that mattered now. Making a home for—

  Her phone rang. Leah . . . at this hour?

  “I know it’s late,” she told Macy. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “No. No problem. Is something wrong?” Macy grimaced at a jab of pain from her swollen wrist. “The baby?”

  “No. All good there. The nurse said they’d have to watch things, but that the drugs I took probably wouldn’t have harmed my baby.”

  “Good. I know you must be relieved.” Macy closed her eyes, seeing Leah in that beanbag chair, running her fingertips across her belly. She wished she’d been able to get those pictures of the house so Leah could choose a room for a nursery.

  “I’m five weeks and five days.” There was awe in Leah’s voice. “They did an ultrasound. I saw our baby’s heart beating, Macy.”

  Our baby. Auntie Macy. She smiled. Could anything be more perfect? She and Leah and the baby would have a home and—

  “Sean wants me to marry him.”

  Macy’s throat closed.

  “I told him about the baby, how I saw the heartbeat. He cried, Macy. He’s so happy about this. And—”

  “Leah. Wait.” Macy raised her cast, shushing her sister as if she were in the room. This could not happen. “We talked about that. Remember? Sean’s in no position to—”

  “That’s the other miracle. They’re counting his rehab as time served. He’s coming home!”

  Home?

  “Sean’s boss at the shipping company says he can start back next week. We’ll just squeak by on the rent with his first paycheck, but we’ll make it. His mom wanted to help, but he told her we need to make it on our own. Be responsible, start off right. Getting married is first.”

  “But . . . the house.” Macy’s whisper was hoarse. “We’re set to close by the end of next month. And we planned—”

  “I know. I told you I might come out there and stay for a while. You were so sweet to offer. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your being there for me during rehab and . . .” Leah’s voice cracked. “I’ll always be grateful. You’ve been like a real sister to me during the hardest times of my life. And by my side these last few weeks. I’ll always love you. But . . . Sean and this baby . . . they’re my family now. My home is with them.”

  They’d said good night—at least Macy thought she’d said it too, though her voice had been choked by gathering tears. She’d been too stunned. Heartsick. And now, half an hour later, she was still hearing Leah’s voice saying, “You’ve been like a real sister to me . . .”

  Macy hugged the couch pillow close, struggling to make sense of pain that was far beyond disappointment. She’d never considered the concept of “real” when it came to how she felt about Leah. The little girl she’d met at Nonni’s house had been her sister from that first day. Macy never thought of it any other way.

  “Sean and this baby . . . they’re my family now. My home is with them.”

  Leah wasn’t coming. Nonni’s brass door set was in an evidence locker. And Macy’s determination to put it all together—finally make things right—had, in the end, sent Fletcher away. Accomplished nothing. Except to point out, once and for all, the essential truths: Macy didn’t belong anywhere. She was as much a “junk bird” as the swallows on the porch of that house. She wasn’t a credible ballerina or kickboxer. When it came to trust, her judgment was dangerously flawed.

  A sob rose. She was a fool to ever, ever hope for a chance at love. After all that had happened, even remembering the warmth of Nonni’s home didn’t help anymore. But . . . Macy brushed at a tear. But for the first time she wished, really wished, that what Nonni had said about God was true. That no matter what else had happened—or would happen—nothing could change the beautiful fact that she was a child of God. Known before she was born. Loved unconditionally.

  She thought of Fletcher, that day when they summited the Mist Trail at Yosemite and looked out at the breathtaking view. He’d said he was sure God had been up there first, the deep certainty evident in his voice. Right this minute, Macy needed to believe it was so—that the power who created all that . . . is the Father who will always love me.

  “God . . . ,” Macy whispered, bowing her head. There was no way to stop her trembling. She was weak, but being strong didn’t seem so important now. “I can’t do this alone anymore. I need to belong somewhere. . . . I need you in my life. Please help me.”

  43

  “HI. Remember me?”

  “Hello.” Taylor paused outside the radiology suite and smiled at the little girl, trying to place her. Sober-sweet expression, big eyes, pigtails, and patent-leather shoes. Her small hands clasped a tote bag stenciled with a stick-figure ballerina.

  “You saw Annie a few weeks back,” the older woman sitting next to the girl explained. Leaning against her, on the opposite side, was a second youngster. A boy with a Mason Allen splint on one hand and a banana in the other. The woman smiled at Taylor and traced a finger gently over Annie’s forehead. “We had some stitches. After . . . a car accident.”

  The school van. That first incident with the sniper. The woman was a foster mother.

  “Of course. Annie Sims,” Taylor recalled as the girl slid down from her chair and clattered forward in the shiny shoes. She chuckled. “I’d never forget a pretty little girl in tap shoes.”

  “Hard to.” The woman shook her head. “We changed to sneakers after dance class but . . .”

  “These floors are perfect for tapping.” Annie shuffled her feet to prove it, pigtails bouncing. “Is Macy here?”

  “No. I’m sorry. Not today.” Macy’s early morning text said she’d injured her wrist.

  “I wanted to tell her something. Something really goo
d.” A grin lit Annie’s face. “My mom is all better. She’s coming tomorrow to take me home.”

  The foster mother smiled. “It’s a big day. A happy one.”

  “Will you tell Macy for me?” Annie peered at Taylor, great certainty on her face. “She would want to know.”

  Taylor promised to relay the news, then continued on toward the cafeteria. She’d planned to meet Seth on her break. She stopped, scanned the room—large, bustling, and sausage-scented—and saw that he’d somehow managed to snag a small table in a virtual sea of hospital staff and visitors. It was an impressive accomplishment, since several tables had been commandeered by human resources to showcase retirement information. Surprisingly, Elliot Rush wasn’t manning the display today. Taylor grabbed her coffee and joined Seth.

  “Decaf,” he told her, pointing to his coffee mug as she sat. “I’m being good. Even with bacon whispering my name.” His eyes met hers. “How’re you doing?”

  “Better than if that horde of reporters outside was waiting for me.” Taylor shook her head. “I hope Charly wore those big Texas sunglasses.” There was no use trying to evade this bighearted chaplain. Truth was the only option. “I didn’t sleep much. I kept thinking about how I’d actually met Ned Archer, here in the hospital. And how Charly and I walked right up that driveway trying to find him—while Fletcher was cruising his patrol car down the street, trying to keep her safe. Same man, same house, same driveway. And then yesterday . . .” Taylor’s voice dropped to a whisper. “They keep showing those cell phone pictures. Fletcher on the ground and that firefighter . . .”

  “It wouldn’t be normal if you didn’t react to that, Taylor. Very personally.”

  She wondered what Seth would think if he knew about her reaction to that former flight nurse, Sloane Wilder. It had been a brief and far-from-traumatic encounter, yet Taylor still almost lost control of her emotions. She glanced toward an adjacent table. Sloane was sitting over there now. “I guess I need more good news,” she said after taking a sip of her coffee. “Like little tap dancers heading home.” She smiled at Seth’s raised brow. “You had to be there.”

  He nodded. “I’d show up anywhere for good news.”

  And for bad news. He’d show up for that too. Seth would throw his heart in, never doubting he had what it took to help. That’s the difference between us. . . . Could she tell him that? And about her decision?

  “Speaking of good news,” he continued, “I ran into Dr. Carlyle’s husband. He said they’d had some hopeful reports on their baby. He was planning to stop by the ER and tell the staff.”

  “I’ll have to pass that along to Macy.”

  “Have you talked with her today?”

  “I texted her to see why she called in sick. She said she injured her wrist—a small fracture.” Taylor’s brows scrunched. “I assumed it happened on her bike. Or during some kickboxing move. But it happened after she climbed up on a porch railing to take some pictures of a bird nest.”

  “She said that?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I think you should call Macy when you get a chance. See how she’s doing.”

  “I will.” She tried to read Seth’s expression. “Is there something I should know?”

  “I . . . really can’t say.”

  “Right.” Taylor glanced toward Sloane’s table again, saw the nurse looking their way.

  “I arranged for a visit with Fletcher.” Seth glanced at his watch. “I should get up there.” He stood. “You and I are set for a debriefing on that incident, but if you want to talk with me—even in the middle of the night if you can’t sleep—you’ll call?”

  “I will.”

  And she’d tell him what she’d decided: I’m taking a job in San Diego.

  Macy settled back against the bench, letting her gaze climb the Grizzly Giant.

  She remembered her nervous recitation of Google facts to Fletcher: two thousand years old, 209 feet tall, 96 feet around, bark two feet thick, two million pinecones, 700,000 sunsets . . . thousands and thousands of lightning strikes.

  He’d been amazed the tree was still standing after all that, and she’d told him that these redwoods were flame resistant. That burning actually helped to make the trees stronger. Fletcher called it a “trial by fire” and said he’d heard people were that way too. Macy knew now that it was, oh, so true.

  It had taken her all night to even begin to sort it out—her lifetime of lightning strikes—and she knew there was still a long way to go. But when Macy climbed into the Audi this morning, she’d felt a sense of peace she’d never known. So many things made sense now. It had never been about Leah. Or Nonni. Not about a house that smelled of oatmeal cookies or that stolen brass door set. It had always been about feeling safe and loved. Home was what Macy had called it; family was what she’d struggled so hard to reclaim. And deny . . . But in so many ways, what she needed had always been there.

  She smiled, remembering the guard’s words last night when she fell asleep in her car. “Make yourself at home, Macy. I’ll look out for you.” Hadn’t the hospital always been her shelter? Weren’t her teammates—that good-hearted security guard, Taylor, Andi, and so many others—like a family? Didn’t this amazing and majestic Sierra valley always stir Macy’s senses, speak to her heart in a way she couldn’t explain? Fletcher had captured it perfectly: “God was here first.”

  She’d been willing to do almost anything to get that house. It hadn’t been for Leah. It had been for herself. A futile dream to fill a hole in her heart by putting a hunk of brass on a front door. It never would have worked. Finding a true sense of home wasn’t about a place; it was about feeling safe, loved unconditionally—trusting beyond herself. And that required faith.

  Macy’s fingers found the strands of hair she’d spent years trying to wish away. She’d succeeded in covering them up, but it never erased the pain she’d allowed them to cause her. And all the time she’d spent on that futile pursuit had kept her from finding what she’d really wanted all along. Nonni had been right about her. Macy was loved. Always had been. By a Father who knew her before she was born and who wanted only the best for her life. The idea boggled her mind; it didn’t make perfect sense. Maybe it never would. But Macy was going to trust it, feel its promise like that worn brass door latch under her childish fingers. She’d move on with her life in a new way. Starting with—

  Her cell phone buzzed. The title company.

  “Yes, this is Macy Wynn.”

  She nodded, listening as the escrow officer recapped the message she’d left early this morning. And then informed her of the ramifications.

  “Yes,” Macy confirmed, gazing in awe at the huge redwood once again. “I understand I’ll lose my earnest money.”

  “And the contractor’s deposit,” the officer added with a nervous edge to her voice. “There’s a possibility he’ll view this as a breach of contract. He could sue.”

  “Well then . . .” Macy’s heart tugged as a marmot clambered up a rock beside the bench, rose on its hind legs to stare at her. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

  “You’re sure about this, Miss Wynn?”

  “Completely sure. Cancel the contract with the bank.” That beautiful new sense of peace washed over her, buoying her heart. “I don’t want or need that house.”

  44

  “A TWITPIC, I HEARD,” Seth told Fletcher. “Crime of opportunity—covert shot uploaded to Twitter from physical therapy. You’re still newsworthy, even floundering around on crutches.” His teasing smirk crinkled his dark eyes. “Too-tall Texan in a too-short hospital gown. Full color. Or so I heard.”

  “Great.” Fletcher shook his head. “I’ll see if my aunt can come up with a haiku in defense of my privacy . . . in 140 characters or less.”

  Seth slid the visitor’s chair a little closer to Fletcher’s wheelchair, glanced around the hospital room—on the surgical floor now, after his release from the ICU. His expression sobered. “I saw the film clip. Your press co
nference.”

  “For what it was worth.”

  The media had been relentless. Fletcher finally agreed to talk with reporters this morning, four days after the shooting. He’d kept it brief since so many things were still under investigation by the FBI and the sheriff’s department. And because Fletcher was only now beginning to sort things out for himself. He’d tried his best to brush off all that talk of being a hero—it didn’t feel right—and had refused to speculate on whether or not the psychotic sniper had committed “suicide by cop.” Then Fletcher let his guard down and was gut punched by a reporter quoting Ned Archer’s manifesto . . .

  “He didn’t trust anyone,” Fletcher began, remembering the man on that roof. “The government, law enforcement . . . God, either, I guess. Even if he didn’t mention him. Archer thought it was all up to him to make things right. He felt all alone in that.”

  Seth stayed quiet.

  “That bullet—” Fletcher pressed his fingers to the blanket covering his thigh—“slowed me down enough to let me do some serious thinking. I’m not so sure I’m any better than him. The man I killed out there.”

  Seth’s brows rose a fraction. No words. Only encouragement in his eyes.

  “I’ve spent a lot of my life thinking things weren’t fair,” Fletcher admitted. “My sister getting hit by that car. My mother’s first cancer . . . and now this second go-round. That whole thing with Jessica.” Fletcher half smiled, remembering his recent, very amazing conversation with her. “I always told myself I was trusting God, believing in his plan . . .”

  “But?”

  “When it came right down to it, I decided I could handle it by myself. Badge, gun, bulletproof vest, justice on my side. My plan. My timing. My heroics.” Fletcher shook his head. “My ego . . . my fear.”