by Sharon Sala
Spoken aloud, the words were even uglier than the thought, yet Tory had to know. “Who shot him? Do you have someone in custody?”
Lacey’s expression darkened. “We don’t know the shooter, although we’re pretty sure who’s behind it.”
Tory pressed her fingers to her lips and then closed her eyes. She kept thinking this was all a bad dream, that any minute she would wake up in Brett’s arms, just as she had before. But the smell of disinfectant, the harsh glare from the overhead lights, and the sympathetic stares from the officers behind Lacey were almost obscene. What did they know of her terror? They were still breathing. Brett was the one who might die.
There was a compassion in Lacey’s gaze that belied his lack of expression. He glanced once at Ernie Reynolds, as if assuring himself she was being cared for, and then lightly touched Tory’s arm before walking away.
God help me… and God help Brett.
She wanted to rage at fate for tearing her small world apart. She kept telling herself that this couldn’t be happening… not to Brett. He wasn’t a police officer any longer. He’d told her over and over that his investigative duties for the D.A.’s office weren’t dangerous. Anger surged past her fear. He’d lied to her, and maybe even to himself.
Like all the other officers who’d gathered, Ernie Reynolds felt sick for the woman. The day Brett Hooker had taken himself off the singles market, the men had known he’d found someone special, but he’d chosen to keep his relationship with his lady private. And while many of them knew her by name, this was the first time they’d ever seen her. Even after she’d moved in with Hooker, it hadn’t taken long for word to get around that his woman came and went within his life to suit herself. And while they might not understand Hooker’s willingness to live with such a strange relationship, after seeing Tory Lancaster, they could certainly understand his attraction. The woman wasn’t just pretty, she was beautiful. And seeing her standing there in the middle of the hospital corridor in such obvious despair, there wasn’t a man among them who wouldn’t have volunteered to ease her pain. Ernie Reynolds was no exception.
“Miss Lancaster, is there anything I can get you? Would you like some coffee… maybe a soft drink?”
Tory swiped a shaky hand through her hair, tousling it even further. Her pupils were wide with shock, her expression still stunned. She kept fighting an overwhelming urge to throw up as she struggled with his question.
“No. I don’t need anything.” Except Brett.
Reynolds looked around, wishing to hell that some of the officers’ wives would show up. When something like this happened, they usually did. Victoria Lancaster would surely be more comfortable with a woman instead of all of these men. And then he took a deep breath, reminding himself that if it was his wife, he would want someone to take care of her, too.
“Please, Tory, let’s sit over here, okay?” He pointed to some chairs, then took her by the arm.
She stumbled.
Ernie moved his hand to her shoulder, and when she leaned against his strength, he cradled her against him.
“Ernie…” She looked up. “You did say your name was Ernie, right?”
He nodded. At that moment, she could have called him a jerk and he would have answered to it.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The expression on her face was stunned, almost blank. “I can’t live without him.”
He felt lost. “Miss Lancaster, do you have a pastor or a priest you’d like us to call?”
Call. The word suddenly took on new meaning. Stunned that she hadn’t already thought of it, she grabbed at the officer’s arm.
“His mother! I need to call Brett’s mother.”
Reynolds nodded. At last, something concrete that he could do.
“If you have her number, I’d be glad to—”
As badly as she hated to do it, it would be unforgivable if the news didn’t come from her.
“No… but thank you,” she said softly. “I just need a phone. I can take care of the rest.”
***
At the age of sixty-two, Cynthia Hooker had lived long enough to know that any time the phone rang in the middle of the night, even if it was a wrong number, it was never good news. She reached for the phone and the light at the same time, turning on one and answering the other. As she struggled to orient herself on the edge of the bed, she noticed it was almost two o’clock in the morning.
“Hello?” Cynthia heard someone take a deep breath. Her heart stopped. “Hello, who is this?” she asked, and heard her own voice starting to shake.
“Cynthia, it’s me, Tory.”
For a moment Cynthia drew a blank. Her mind was racing through every person that she knew, and for the life of her, she couldn’t think of a single—oh, dear God. “Victoria?”
Tory started to shake. She hadn’t even accepted what had happened to Brett. How did she go about saying the ugly truth aloud? And then she thought of Brett’s mother, of the fear she must be feeling, and knew she had to get through this with some sort of composure or it would scare the older woman to death.
“Yes, it’s me. I’m sorry to call, but… Brett’s been shot.” Tory heard his mother moan, but she continued to talk, needing to get it all said before she came undone herself. “He’s in surgery, and that’s all I know.”
Then her composure shattered. She began to shiver, as if she were freezing. A darkness hovered at the back of her consciousness, reminding her that she had no control of anything… including her life.
“Mrs. Hooker, I can’t face life without Brett.”
Cynthia Hooker heard the devastation in Victoria’s voice. As for Cynthia, she had already buried her husband, she had no intention of burying a son.
“You’re not going to have to. Where is he?” she asked.
“Saint Anthony’s Hospital.”
“Victoria, you listen to me. I’ll let the rest of the family know what happened, although Celia won’t be able to travel because of the new baby. Ryan’s in Enid, so he’s closer. He can get to you within a couple of hours, three at the most. You won’t have to be alone long. We’ll get there as soon as we can, but until then, you have to be strong. Can you do that for me?”
Tory took a slow, shuddering breath. “Yes, ma’am.”
Cynthia wanted to cry. This was the first time in over a year that she’d spoken directly to this woman, and they were still on a formal basis.
“Victoria?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“My name is Cynthia.”
Tory closed her eyes, willing herself not to faint.
“Victoria…”
“What?”
“Are you terribly afraid?”
Tory swallowed a groan. Oh God, she was so afraid. “I’ve never been so afraid in my life.”
“Then pray, darling, pray.”
When the line went dead in Tory’s ear, she dropped the receiver and turned her face to the wall.
Ernie Reynolds was standing nearby. When he saw her falter, he hung up the receiver for her and then touched her on the shoulder.
“Miss Lancaster, are you all right? Is there something I can get you?”
Tory shook her head and walked away to stand at the windows overlooking the city streets. It was then that she realized it had started to rain. Every time she turned around, it seemed as if a storm front was on the horizon, or just passing. But tonight, as she looked out the window to the streets below, it didn’t feel like rain. It felt as if heaven were shedding tears. She leaned her head against the glass and closed her eyes. It had been a very long time since she’d prayed. If only she remembered how.
***
It was a quarter to four in the morning when Tory saw a man get off the elevator and start down the hall toward her. His jeans were faded but clean, his shirt and jacket about the same. His hair was black and in need of a cut, and even from this distance, she could read the stern expression on his face. The tennis shoes he was wearing made no noise as he walked, but there was
something about the way he held his head and the length of his stride that she recognized. She’d never met any of Brett’s family, but if she had to, she would guess that Ryan Hooker, brother number one, had just arrived on the scene.
God give me strength.
She took a deep breath and then stood.
***
Ryan Hooker was the wild card in the Hooker family. Five years ago his pretty young wife had chucked their ten-year marriage for an oil executive with a six-figure income and moved with him to L.A. Ryan had reciprocated by chucking a white-collar job that he hated, buying an auto parts store with a garage in the back and moving into the second-floor apartment above it. He’d hardened his heart to women and proceeded to make a small but tidy fortune in a business that should have bankrupted him. The family loved him in spite of himself, and he returned the favor. He’d spent the better half of his adult life worrying about Brett’s occupation, and then, later, Brett’s love for a woman who wouldn’t stay put. More than once he’d passed his opinion on to Brett about a woman who would walk in and out of a man’s life without so much as the common courtesy to call.
A few hours earlier, the phone call he’d gotten from his mother had rocked him in a way he wouldn’t have believed. He wouldn’t let himself think of Brett dying, and he’d driven like hell to get here. But he’d come for Brett, not the woman Brett slept with.
And then he saw a young woman get up from a chair at the end of the hall, and he knew before he got there it was her. She was slim and blonde, and like him, seemingly felt no regard for fashion. Her jeans were old, her T-shirt soft and clinging. But it was her face that staggered him. Sweet Jesus, Brett had said she was pretty, but that was an understatement if he’d ever heard one. From where he was standing, Victoria Lancaster was drop-dead beautiful. He hated her on the spot.
Tory was stunned. He looked so much like—
“You look like Brett,” she blurted.
Ryan lifted his chin in a defensive gesture, but it was wasted, because Victoria Lancaster didn’t behave as he’d expected. She didn’t throw herself into his arms, or shriek and wail in some display of despair. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her expression drawn and haggard, ravaged by the long night of waiting. But it was her composure that was frightening, even unnatural.
“Yeah, I know. Where’s Brett?”
“Surgery.”
Ryan frowned. “Still?”
She nodded and then dropped back into her chair and closed her eyes, almost ignoring his presence. Again Ryan was taken aback. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but this certainly wasn’t it. He slid into a chair opposite the one in which she was sitting and then found himself staring at her face. The perfection of the shape, the cut of her chin, the arch of her amber eyebrows and the thickness of her lashes, was unbelievable. And then he caught himself looking at her mouth. She was biting her lip. To his horror, a small drop of blood suddenly appeared, and when he realized that she’d made herself bleed rather than cry aloud, his last defense went down.
“Victoria.”
Tory opened her eyes.
There was no way he could ignore the depth of the despair in her gaze. If she loved his brother, then it had to be enough.
“I’m sorry I was rude.”
She almost smiled, and Ryan caught himself holding his breath, waiting for it to happen.
“It’s all right,” she said softly. “After all, we’re nothing more than strangers.”
Ryan shook his head. “Not anymore,” he said shortly, and moved into the chair beside her. His words were clipped, his voice gruff, but there was no mistaking the sincerity of his words.
“If you get tired, lean on me.”
Lean on me… lean on me.
The offer echoed over and over in Tory’s head until she thought it would burst. A small spurt of panic came and went as she stared down the hall. She couldn’t—no, wouldn’t—let herself be caught up in this loving family thing. She’d been through that scene time and time again with foster parents. Some of them had been nice—some of them hadn’t—but none of them had lasted. She’d learned a hard lesson early on—if you don’t care, then you can’t be hurt.
And so they sat in an uneasy silence, each lost in memories of a man they refused to give up. Tory was blind with exhaustion and all but falling out of her chair when Ryan Hooker suddenly stood. She looked up to see a doctor in surgical greens coming down the hall.
Brett! Please be all right.
“Are you the Hooker family? he asked.
Ryan nodded, and whether she liked it or not, slipped an arm around Tory. He didn’t know whether it was to hold her up or steady his own shaking legs. But right now, he needed the connection.
The air was rushing past Tory’s ears like the wind from a storm. She kept swallowing the same breath over and over, and still the words wouldn’t come. All she could do was wait for the doctor to speak.
He didn’t waste time by delaying their misery.
“He’s in recovery. I won’t lie to you and say he’s all right, but he’s alive, which, in itself, is a miracle. His main injury was blood loss. If he can maintain for the next forty-eight hours, he has a good chance. But for now, we just wait and see.”
“Thank God,” Ryan said, and then glanced at Tory as the doctor left. She still hadn’t said a word, and her face was as white as a sheet.
“Why don’t we—”
He never got to finish what he’d been about to say. Tory slipped out from under his arm and then walked toward the window. Ryan didn’t know whether to go after her or leave her the hell alone. And then several uniformed officers came out of a nearby waiting area, anxious to hear what had been said. He gave Tory a last, nervous glance, and then turned to face them.
Six
The police had no idea why Brett had been shot. It wasn’t unusual for something like that to happen in an open crowd setting. Tribbey was now under protective custody, and Lacey had opted for the “better safe than sorry” scenario and asked to have a guard posted at Brett’s door, as well. At this point the doctor had him in a private room with an Intensive Care nurse, while the police had him under guard.
For Tory, the knowledge that Brett could still be in danger was secondary to her joy. He was alive. It was all that mattered. Meeting Brett’s brother under such strained circumstances should have been awkward, but sometime during the early hours of the morning, they had come to an unspoken understanding. They both loved Brett, therefore, whatever they thought about each other was unimportant to the big picture.
Because of her reticence, she knew Brett’s family was bound to have preconceived opinions about her that weren’t necessarily good. Before, it hadn’t mattered. But now, because of this crisis, she was being forced to face them, as well as old fears from her past.
***
Cynthia Hooker’s first glimpse of the woman who’d stolen her son’s heart came just before nine o’clock the next morning. Her flight from Denver to Oklahoma City had been turbulent, but Cynthia’s fears had not been concerned with the weather. Until she could look at Brett’s face—until she could touch the warm flesh of his body—she wouldn’t be able to take an easy breath.
By the time she got to the hospital, her nerves were shot and her patience with them. To make matters worse, there was a guard at the door who refused to let her in.
“I’m sorry, lady, but no one’s allowed in except immediate family.”
“But I’m his mother!” she cried.
“I have no way of knowing that,” he said.
For a mother who’d spent the most frantic night of her life, it was one roadblock too many. She reached into her purse for some identification and spilled everything onto the floor. It was the last straw. She started to cry.
***
Ryan eased his way into the empty elevator, punching the floor number with his little finger while trying not to spill the coffee and sweet roll he was carrying. He shrugged his shoulders, trying to ease some of the tension in his
back as the doors slid shut. But it was impossible to relax. He kept thinking of Brett in that bed and wondering if he would ever get out of it again. And then there was Tory. Sometime during the early morning hours, he’d gained a whole new respect for his brother’s lady. When they’d brought Brett up from surgery, the staff was adamant that no one but his nurse be inside the room. But Tory had been deaf to their orders and ignored their demands. She’d pushed her way past them and into his room. She’d looked at him once without speaking, then quietly pulled a chair as close to his bed as she could and crawled into it, curling up like a child in hiding. When they realized that she was not going to make a fuss or get in the way, they’d reluctantly relented.
And the hours had passed. The tension in her body was reflected in her eyes as she watched the readouts on the machines they’d hooked up to his body. She spoke only when spoken to and had yet to cry.
Ryan knew women, and this one was close to breaking. Since Brett was in no condition to worry about her, he considered it his brotherly duty to make sure she was still sane when Brett came to. And, as much as he hated to admit it, she seemed like the real thing. The least he could do was see that she was fed. God knew she wouldn’t leave his brother’s side to feed herself.
His mind was on one woman as he exited the elevator, but he quickly became focused on another. When he recognized his mother on her knees on the floor, his heart nearly stopped. His first and last thought was Brett. Coffee began sloshing out from beneath the plastic lid of the cup as he broke into a lope.
“Mom! What’s wrong? Has anything happened to—”
“Ryan! Thank God,” she sobbed, dropping the last of the items back into her purse. “They won’t let me in to see him.”
Ryan gave the guard a sympathetic look. “She’s our mother,” he said, and then turned to Cynthia. “Mom, just calm down. All he needs is some ID. Show him your driver’s license.”
“I was trying when I dropped everything,” she said, blowing her nose loudly between handing the license over and then taking it back.