Ryder's Bride (Brides Bay Book 1)

by V. K. Sykes

  “So, are you guys staying around here?” Jenna asked. “Or are you driving back to Maine tonight?”

  The freckled redhead’s husband, Clay, had driven them up from eastern Kentucky in their RV. The rig was parked along with hundreds of others in a campground just north of the track.

  “We’re staying at the Apple Blossom Inn for a couple of days,” Claire said. “It’s great, but not that handy to the track.” She was slightly embarrassed to admit she was staying at a posh inn, since Jenna and her sister seemed to be on a tight budget.

  “We’d have to win the Powerball to afford to stay at that fancy place,” Jolene said. “But I guess Ry Griffin could buy that place and a dozen more like it. He must have made a fortune playing hockey.”

  “We don’t talk about that sort of stuff,” Claire said truthfully.

  The sisters both grinned, as if to say there was no way they were buying Claire’s disinterest in her boyfriend’s bank account.

  The dull rumble of twenty idling sportbikes suddenly spiked to an almost deafening roar.

  “Here we go!” Jolene shouted.

  “Go, Clay!” Jenna screamed, as if her husband had some hope of hearing her in the unbelievable din.

  Claire froze, her gaze locked on Ry, who was near the front of the pack. His black racing suit and helmet made him look practically sinister among the other more colorfully kitted-out racers.

  Darth Vader Griffin.

  The roar from the track kept rising until it reached an ear shattering pitch. Then Ry’s bike leaped forward, his front wheel almost touching the rear wheel of the bike ahead of him. The pack roared ahead, and within a few seconds the lead group had opened up a slight gap through the straightaway. When the leading rider leaned into the first turn, his bike tilted so far over that his kneepad virtually scraped the track surface.

  After the first lap, Ry was close behind the lead riders. Claire found herself perching on the edge of her seat, her hands bunched into fists as she resisted the impulse to start praying. She wished he would somehow manage to get out in front of the pack or, if that wasn’t possible, then drop back to what looked like a safer position at the rear of the racers.

  “That’s my honey out front,” Jenna crowed. “Number four on the green Kawasaki.”

  Claire had already noted Ry’s number with a shiver of superstitious alarm. Thirteen. She hated that number. Ry didn’t care, since he wasn’t superstitious, but to her it felt like a bad omen. Julie had died on the 13th.

  After six laps, Ry was still tightly bunched in a group of half a dozen riders but was only a couple of bike lengths behind Clay and the other leaders. She had to admit he looked pretty awesome and in full control of his bike, flying around the turns as he leaned way out to his left for balance and then straightened back up to gun it down the long, straight stretches.

  When Jenna yelled another round of encouragement to her husband, Claire finally found her voice. “Go, Ry, go! You can do it!”

  The sisters turned and stared at her for a moment before breaking into grins. “About time you got your head in the game,” Jolene said. “You gotta support your man, girl, even though there’s no way he’s gonna beat our Clay.”

  Claire felt a flush of embarrassment. She’d never thought of Ry as her man. Not consciously. It seemed incredible that anyone would think of Ry Griffin as hers.

  Especially after that stupid conversation in the hotel this morning.

  She shoved the whispers of doubt from her mind and focused on the race.

  As Jenna had said it would, the race flew by. Only one lap remained. Ry had managed to close more ground, but so had four or five other racers. To Claire, the bikes were just a tight blur of speed and color rather than distinct competitors as they went into the north turn—the one farthest from where she was sitting.

  Suddenly, the crowd took a collective gasp. The lead bike on the inside of Ry’s group had gone into a skid.

  And then all hell broke loose.

  Bikes were flying everywhere, propelled like cannonballs. Along with the rest of the crowd, Claire leaped to her feet, her heart in her throat.

  “Oh, shit!” Jenna blurted.

  After a moment, Jolene grabbed her sister’s arm. “I can see Clay. He looks fine, Jenna!”

  Clay might be fine, but the pileup behind him was epic. Though Claire couldn’t see Ry, he’d clearly gone down in the crash, a casualty of the first collision. Bikes and bodies had been tossed all over the track and onto the dirt strip next to it. It looked like at least seven riders had been unable to avoid the mess. The unscathed leaders, including Clay, were carrying on, possibly not yet fully aware of the mess behind them.

  A race official started madly waving a red flag. The lead racers saw it and slowed down immediately.

  “Jesus, that’s a bad spill. They’re stopping the race,” Jenna said in a tight voice.

  One thought pounded through the haze in Claire’s brain—she had to get down to the track. To be with Ry, no matter what had happened.

  All kinds of people were rushing to help the riders, including paramedics. From up in the stands, she couldn’t see Ry but was sure his red Yamaha was one of two bikes lying on the dirt strip beside the oval.

  She elbowed her way down the grandstand steps and raced to the fence that separated the stands and the track. But she soon realized that it was hopeless to get anywhere close to the crash scene. There were gates in the fence, but marshals and security guards were keeping spectators out. She pushed her way through the gawking crowd, trying to get as close as she possibly could. While a few downed riders had managed to get to their feet, none were wearing an all-black suit.

  He’s not dead. He can’t be.

  Claire kept telling herself that, repeating it like a mantra, trying not to hyperventilate.

  Not dead. Not dead. Not dead. It couldn’t be happening again, not to another person she loved.

  I love him.

  She sagged against the chain link fence, her fingers digging into the metal. Yes, she did love Ry. She’d been in denial, but there was no longer a shred of doubt. It was only her fear that Ry couldn’t possibly ever love her back that had stopped her from admitting the awful, wonderful truth.

  Choking back a sob as she watched the officials slowly bring order to the chaos, she tried to convince herself that everything would turn out okay. He’d said his race suit and helmet were state of the art, the best money could buy. And it was a good sign that several drivers had already hauled themselves to their feet and were walking away from the wreckage, most of them with help. Because two ambulances had been standing by during the race, several EMTs were already on their knees tending to the injured.

  Claire could hardly breathe in the crush of hot, perspiring bodies around her. Somehow, she managed to keep elbowing her way along the fence until she reached a vantage point much closer to the crash site.

  Finally, she was able to spot Ry. Though he was still on the ground, he was sitting more or less upright with his helmet off. He was supporting himself with his right arm while his left hung limply at his side. A young paramedic with blond hair in a ponytail had just knelt down beside him and was reaching into her huge bag.

  And the world started up again.

  Not dead. Very much alive.

  As Claire anxiously watched, the paramedic took her time checking him out. Since she wasn’t looking at Ry’s legs, it didn’t appear that he’d hurt his bad knee again.

  Maybe, just maybe, everything would be fine after all.

  But what if he’s suffered another concussion?

  That sudden horrible thought turned her body to ice. She knew Ry’s history, and she knew how hard he tried to downplay the risks.

  But a concussion was a risk—a big one that could have disastrous consequences.

  Chapter 22

  “Hon, you need to tell them you’re his wife or fiancée,” Jenna said as she wheeled her pickup truck into the driveway of the Concord Hospital’s ER. “That way th
ey’ll let you be with him in there for sure. Otherwise they might make you park your ass in the waiting room, and that’s not fun, believe me.”

  “Sure. Sounds good,” Claire replied, only half-listening.

  Not surprisingly, the paramedics had transported Ry to the hospital. It was far from clear what injuries he’d suffered. Distracted and worried, she’d barely been able to tune into Jenna’s constant flow of words on the trip that had seemed to take much longer than it really had.

  “Trust me, I know the drill,” Jenna said. “Clay’s been banged around more than a drum in a marching band.”

  Claire might have chuckled at that image if she weren’t still vibrating with nervous tension. “Thanks for the ride, Jenna. I really appreciate it.”

  Jenna patted her hand. “No problem. And try not to worry too much. I’m sure your man’ll be fine. I’ve seen plenty of crashes, and that one didn’t look too bad. Like you said, Ry was sitting up and talking to the paramedics before they loaded him into the ambulance. That’s a real good sign.”

  Claire shuddered to think what a bad crash would look like if today’s debacle wasn’t one. “He was mobile, but I’m really worried about a concussion. He’s already had—”

  She bit back the words. Ry’s hockey concussions were a matter of public record, not a state secret, but he wouldn’t appreciate it if she said more.

  “You’re right, I’m sure he’ll be fine,” she finished, praying it would be so.

  “I’ll probably see you at another race soon,” Jenna said. “I hope so, anyway.”

  Claire almost said no freaking way. Instead, she just smiled warmly and gave Jenna a little wave before getting out of the truck.

  The ER waiting room was nearly full and very noisy. Two little kids were yelling at each other as their mom pulled them apart. Claire hurried to the reception desk.

  “Hi, I’m here for Ry Griffin,” she said to the clerk. “He was brought in by ambulance from the racetrack a few minutes ago.”

  She’d decided not to try the fiancée route, since she wasn’t wearing an engagement ring. “I’m his manager,” she added.

  At least that statement bore a shred of truth. Concierge, manager—sort of.

  “Ah, okay.” The clerk hit a few keys on her computer. “He’s having some tests at the moment. Have a seat, and I’ll let you know when they get him back to the ER.”

  “Thanks. Can you tell me what sort of tests?” Some kind of brain scan or MRI?

  “I’m afraid not,” the woman said more brusquely. “That’s up to the medical staff.”

  Claire was too jittery to sit and wait. It was all well and good for Jenna to say everything was going to be fine, but that wasn’t the way things had tended to work out for her when it came to accidents and emergencies.

  “No problem. Could I trouble you to tell me how to get to the cafeteria?”

  Maybe she’d grab a cup of decaf and then go for a walk around the hospital grounds. Anything was better than hanging around a crowded waiting room full of tired parents and hyped-up kids. Moving would be better for her nerves than sitting.

  Today was yet another reminder of how life could go crashing sideways in the blink of an eye.

  * * *

  “You’re good to go, Mr. Griffin,” Dr. Patel said. “But I do have to repeat what our specialist told you. It really is not wise for someone with your medical history to be racing motorcycles or anything else. You need to take care of your body and your brain better than that. They’re the only ones you’ll ever have, after all.” The young ER doctor gave him a look she probably reserved for idiots and hillbillies.

  Ry climbed off the bed and grabbed his clothes from a little cupboard where a nurse had stowed them hours ago. “Thanks, doctor. The warnings have been duly noted.”

  Maybe that sounded a little testy, but in his long experience, doctors tended to be way more conservative than they needed to be.

  With a barely noticeable nod of her head, Patel left the room. Her little speech had been mild compared to the lecture delivered half an hour ago by the hospital’s neurologist. That had been a full-scale verbal beatdown.

  The doctors were obviously right about concussions being dangerous. He’d have understood their concern better if he’d actual had one today. But he hadn’t, so why all the fuss? His first-rate equipment had done the job and kept him safe in the pile-up.

  Today’s incident had turned out to be a whole lot of drama and no life-changing injuries. Though the riders involved in the crash were in separate ER rooms, word had quickly gone around that everybody was going to be okay. One guy had a broken collarbone and another a fractured ankle. Other than that, it was all just the predictable scrapes, bruises, and strains. Ry had suffered his share of those, and pretty much his whole body ached. But he was intact and absolutely okay. Mostly he was just impatient to get the hell out of the ER and back to the inn.

  Back to Claire.

  She’d managed to get a ride to the hospital, some fifteen miles from the track, and had sent him a text to let him know she’d be waiting outside the ER for as long as it took. He didn’t see her text until after his brain scan but had then immediately messaged her back, telling her simply that he was okay.

  That had been almost four hours ago. Even though the scan and other tests had revealed nothing of concern—no concussion, no internal injuries, and no broken bones—it had taken forever for the doctors to conclude that he could be discharged without an overnight stay. He chalked up much of the delay to the fact that it had taken more than a couple of hours for the on-call neurologist to arrive and make his assessment. The ER docs had been more than a little concerned after Ry confessed to a couple of hockey concussions.

  Claire must be going stir-crazy after waiting so long. She should have gone back to the inn. Still, the fact that she’d been willing to spend all that time waiting in the ER made him feel pretty damn good.

  He’d make it up to her. For one thing, he’d take her into Portland for dinner and an overnight stay at a hotel once he felt a hundred percent again. And maybe he’d take her up to Damariscotta again, and with Grace Yee’s help, pick out a piece of expensive jewelry she’d love. Something to say he was sorry that he’d put her through this.

  He finished dressing, working around the sling on his left arm, and then headed out to the waiting room. Claire was sitting there with her head down, her hands gripped around a coffee cup. One of her legs was jiggling like it was attached to a high-speed motor.

  Big time nerves.

  Mentally grimacing, Ry wished he’d texted her a couple of more times. It looked like she could have used more reassurance that he was okay.

  Idiot.

  When she spotted him, she flew out of her chair and gingerly hugged him.

  “Thank God you’re all right.” She stared at the sling. “But your arm. How bad is it?”

  “I’m absolutely fine, and the arm’s no biggie. Don’t worry about it for a minute.”

  He headed for the sliding doors. A taxi should be waiting, since a clerk inside the ER had called one for him several minutes ago.

  Claire matched his pace. “Don’t worry? Are you kidding me?” Her voice was sharp and a little high-pitched.

  “Hey, I’m just banged up a little. Nothing’s broken, including my head. I’ve been hurt worse than this falling down stairs, and a hell of a lot worse playing hockey. I know you were worried, but that dustup on the track probably looked worse than it was.”

  There was no sign of a taxi as they stopped under the portico. “One of the nurses called a cab for us. Should be here any second.”

  When he slung his free arm around Claire’s shoulders, she carefully slipped it off and took a half step away. She crossed her arms over her chest, looking pale and worried. It definitely wasn’t the kind of greeting he’d hoped for.

  “Ry, please, I need you to tell me honestly what happened in there. What exactly did the doctors say after your tests? You told them about your concussion
s, didn’t you?”

  “Of course. I told the neurologist everything.” Well, almost everything. “I’m not a moron, Claire.”

  Her gaze narrowed to irritated slits. “No, you’re not. You’re a highly intelligent man. Which leads me to conclude that you have to be delusional to keep risking your life by racing around a track on a death machine with a bunch of other speed junkies.”

  Wow. She really was pissed off at him. Not good.

  “Delusional? Aw, that kind of talk could hurt a guy’s feelings,” he said, trying to keep it easy.

  He was sorry she was so upset but wasn’t about to apologize for racing. It was about his health and his life, not hers. He was more than capable of making rational decisions about what was and wasn’t good for him.

  “Ry, stop being a dick. This isn’t funny.” She stomped off before halting several feet away.

  Shit.

  He went to her and turned her around with one arm as gently as he could. Claire shrugged his hand off but didn’t turn away.

  “Look, the race wasn’t much fun for either of us, and neither was the hospital. But I really don’t want to get in another argument right now, okay? I just spent a long time in the ER, I’ve got a busted-up bike, and my shoulder hurts like hell. Can’t we just head back to the inn and get a couple of drinks and dinner before we battle it out some more?”

  He wasn’t going to tell her he still had a headache from the crash. If he confessed to that, she’d probably try to drag him right back into the hospital.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” she said, staring grimly at him. “Why don’t we just get in your truck and head back to Brides Bay tonight? I’ll drive, since you’re in no shape to do it.”

  “Claire, come on—”

  She shook her head and interrupted. “You’re obviously not going to pay attention to what I think, so what would be the point in discussing it any further? We should just forget the whole thing and go home.”

  That was a load of crap. And he’d be damned if he’d let Claire torch their relationship over something as small as this incident. He was beginning to realize how much she meant to him and wouldn’t let everything burn to cinders in an ugly flash.