The Twisted Road to You (Perfect, Indiana Book 4)

by Barbara Longley

  “How the hell is my body supposed to heal when all you people give me to eat is clear liquids and Jell-O?” Wesley grumbled. “I’m starving to death here.”

  The orderly pointed to the small whiteboard hanging on the wall. “Says clear liquids only. We can’t bring you anything else until those orders are changed by your doctor.”

  He wanted to hurl the bowl out the window, but then he’d have nothing at all—not to mention the act would be childish. But dammit, he hurt all over, hated the invasive needles and tubes with a passion, and he was hungry. Really hungry. If doctors truly wanted their patients to heal, they’d let them eat, and they would set them free to sleep in their own homes in their own beds. He heaved a loud, unhappy breath.

  A nurse in purple scrubs, carrying a tray with a tiny paper cup and a syringe, strolled in just as the orderly left. She set the tray on the end table, took the dry-erase marker from the ledge of the whiteboard and erased the day nurse’s name. Then she wrote hers in its place. “My name is Sarah, and I’ll be your night nurse.” She moved his supper tray to the side and wheeled the blood pressure machine closer.

  He nodded as she came at him with the blood pressure cuff. What was there to say? Nice to meet you? I so appreciate the constant torture and the lack of peace you’ll be providing for the next ten hours?

  “Have you passed gas or had a bowel movement, Mr. Holt?” she asked.

  “Yes to the gas. No to the other.” His face heated. The ridiculous question probably caused his blood pressure to spike. He glanced at the digital numbers displayed on the machine’s screen to see if his theory proved true. “When can I get this needle out of the back of my hand and all these tubes out?”

  “When your doctor gives the order. Dr. Sunderman or his PA will be by during rounds tomorrow morning. You can ask them then.” His blood pressure checked and the cuff removed, she picked up the syringe filled with whatever she meant to stick into him.

  His gut clenched. “What is that?”

  “It’s heparin to prevent blood clots while you’re bedridden.” Nurse Sarah pulled his blankets down—without permission—and his hospital gown up to reveal his abdomen, which already held several bruises from previous needle pokes. She pinched his skin and stuck him. “Once you’re up and walking around, we can stop giving it to you if you’d like.”

  He grimaced at the burning sting. “I’ll get up now if it means I don’t have to have the belly shots anymore. I swear they’re worse than the gunshot wound, even though the bullet went clear through me.”

  She smiled and handed him an orange capsule and a glass of water. “I’ll just check your dressing, and then I’ll leave you to your supper.”

  He downed the pill, deciding against asking what it might be for. “This is not supper.” He gestured toward the tray. “Broth and Jell-O are cruel and unusual punishment. When can I have something real to eat, and what do I have to do to get a real cup of coffee around here?”

  “You’ve had an invasive surgery, plus you’ve been flat on your back for twenty-four hours. Your digestive system can’t handle solids for a while. You can ask your doctor about your diet tomorrow.” She spared him a sympathetic glance. “Would you like me to see if you can have some ice cream?”

  “Yes, please.” He leaned his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. His churlish tirade had worn him out. Being so weak didn’t sit well. Not at all well, and he didn’t care much for being in pain, either.

  “In the meantime, try to get the broth and the Jell-O down. I’ll have an orderly come by later to help you stand up and walk around for a bit.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you. I apologize for being such a pain. Maybe I’ll manage to pass gas or poop while I’m up and around.”

  “Let’s hope so.” Nurse Sarah smiled again as she checked his incision, covered him back up and wheeled his poor excuse for a meal back over his lap. “If you need anything, just press the button.” She made sure the cord with the call button at the end was wrapped around the guardrail of his bed and within reach, and then she left him. The door swung closed after her. It took a tremendous amount of energy to position himself so he could drink the broth, and he was sweaty and shaking from the effort. Just as he reached for the bowl, someone knocked on his door.

  “Come in,” Wes called, hoping against hope Carlie had returned. He knew better. It had only been a couple of hours or so since he’d fallen asleep right in the middle of her visit. He hadn’t even gotten a kiss, what with his sister and the other women crowding his space. He wanted Carlie’s kisses and her arms around him, dammit.

  Bruce Murphy and Andrew Pelletier strode in. “Hey, Wesley.” Bruce reached out and shook his hand. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Like I was shot with a semiautomatic hunting rifle,” Wes quipped, shaking his hand, then Andrew’s. “I suppose you two need my statement.”

  “Yep.” Andrew pulled the single chair up to the bed and took out a laptop from the briefcase he carried. Bruce settled himself on the deep windowsill.

  “After I went down, I was pretty much out of it. I didn’t ask Carlie, didn’t want to upset her, but what about Baumann?” Wes asked.

  “He’s dead.” Andrew opened the laptop.

  “Your shot or Kenneth’s?”

  “Mine.”

  “Good. You’d have a tough time explaining why a civilian was involved.” Wes grinned. “Makes the paperwork so much easier.”

  “Indeed it does, Major Holt. Indeed it does.” Andrew spared him a brief look, his fingers tapping away at the keyboard. “I guess having been a commander in the military, you’d know a bit about paperwork.”

  For the next twenty minutes, the two marshals grilled him with questions about what happened that night. Then they had him sign a few forms before packing everything back into the briefcase.

  “We have one final question for you.” Bruce came to stand by his bed.

  “What’s that?” Exhaustion tugged Wes back to the edge of drug-induced slumber.

  Bruce stared down at him, his expression guarded. “We need to know if you intend to sue.”

  That woke him up. “Sue?” He blinked.

  “You were caught in the middle of a crime scene, which resulted in an injury,” Andrew added. “Of course, we didn’t authorize your presence there, but . . .”

  “Ahh.” Wesley nodded. “No. I definitely do not intend to sue. You two can relax.”

  “Didn’t think you would.” Andrew grinned. “We managed to keep your presence there out of the news. As far as the associated press knows, only US Marshals and the Warrick County sheriff’s department were involved in the incident leading to fugitive Baumann’s death. Have you ever considered a career as a US Marshal? We’re always looking for good agents, and with your military background, you’d be a shoo-in.”

  Wes chuckled and then grimaced. Laughing hurt. “No, but thanks. I like my job at L&L, and I like living in Perfect. I’m staying right where I am.” With Carlie and Tyler. The thought no longer caused him any trepidation. Nothing like getting shot to put things into perspective. Now all he had to do was convince Carlie he wasn’t like the men in her past. He wouldn’t let her or Tyler down.

  Wes walked around the central hub of the hospital floor, wheeling along the stupid stand holding the bag of fluid dripping into his veins. At least he’d managed to get rid of the catheter and put an end to the belly shots. It was only Thursday. How was he going to make it to Friday without going bat-guano crazy in this place?

  He glanced at the wall clock behind the counter. Almost time for rounds, and today he hoped to convince Dr. Sunderman or his PA to cut him loose early.

  “Good morning, Mr. Holt,” one of the nurses behind the counter called. “It’s good to see you up and about.”

  “Morning. Yeah, it’s good to be out of that bed for a while.” He pulled the edges of his flimsy hospital gown together in front. He wore two. One to cover his bare backside and the other to cover his front. Still, the fabric was . .
. thin. The elevator door beyond the nurse’s station opened, and Noah, Kyle and Ryan poured out.

  “Hey, Wes.” Kyle lifted a cardboard carrier filled with covered cups. “We brought real coffee.”

  Wes smiled his first genuine smile in two days. “Thank God. You have no idea how much I’ve been craving a decent cup of coffee. All they serve here is hot water with just enough grounds to give it color . . . I think it’s called wa-fee.” He glanced toward the nurses’ station. A couple of them smiled, which was a good thing, because he was pretty sure he already had a reputation for being a whiner.

  “I’ve walked around the hall enough for now.” He led them to his room, arranged the tube and the wheeled stand and tried to get comfortable on the hospital bed. Major fail. Hospitals were not conducive to comfort.

  Kyle passed the coffees around. “Before I forget, we have your handgun. You dropped it on the ground Tuesday night, and I picked it up. It’s locked away in Noah’s office for now.”

  “Good. Thanks, Kyle. I wondered what happened to my Beretta.” Wes took his coffee from the tray, held it up and took a sip, savoring the strong, rich brew. “Mmm, that’s good. Aren’t you guys supposed to be working?”

  “We’re on a coffee break.” Noah lifted his cup. “Figured you could use a little diversion. Ryan and I know what being in the hospital is like. Without distractions, it’ll drive you nuts.”

  Noah had lost his leg when a suicide bomber drove his truck into their convoy in Iraq, and Ryan had been hurt in the same bombing. Wes’s wound seemed insignificant when compared to what the two of them had gone through. Both had suffered burns along with their other injuries. “No doubt you do.”

  “We brought you a couple of magazines we thought you might like.” Ryan set a plastic bag on the rolling tray. “So, how’re you feeling?”

  “Weak and dizzy mostly, but that’s because they won’t give me any real food.” Wes sucked down another swallow of the strong brew, savoring the taste. “How’s my crew doing without me?”

  “Fine. Miguel is keeping the guys in line.”

  “Can’t wait to get back to work,” he muttered. “Back to my own bed . . . Say, will you guys stick around until Dr. Sunderman stops by on his rounds and help me talk him into letting me out today?”

  “I don’t think so, Wes. Don’t want to cause a setback in your recovery.” Noah chuckled and shook his head. “Besides, everything is already arranged for tomorrow morning. Carlie starts her vacation then, although I don’t see taking care of a wounded Marine as any kind of vacation.”

  At the mention of Carlie’s name, a shiver of anticipation shot through him. Images of sponge baths leading to more than just getting clean danced through his mind. A stupid grin covered his face. “I’ll have to make it up to her, take her on a real vacation soon. Maybe a romantic weekend away.”

  “Giving in, are we?” Ryan shot him a smug look.

  Wes shrugged and took another swig of the delicious coffee. “It was inevitable and resistance is futile.”

  “Not to mention surrendering has its perks.” Noah laughed.

  “Take my advice, and plan something special for the moment you tell her how you feel,” Kyle said. “Women love to be romanced. You might want to wait until you’re well enough to take her out.”

  Wes nodded. A shard of doubt wedged itself into his brain. What if Carlie didn’t feel the same, or she didn’t want the same things he did? Sure, they were sleeping together, but she hadn’t said anything about her feelings for him. In fact, she’d said more than once she didn’t think she could trust another man with her heart.

  Didn’t matter.

  If it was the last thing he ever did, he’d convince her he was a safe bet. He’d never let her down. Resolve and a feeling of certainty filled him. He had a goal in his sights, and he intended to reach for the dream he’d thought long dead.

  Every two minutes Wes checked the clock and fought the urge to climb the hospital walls or pace the confines of the tiny room. Dr. Sunderman’s PA was due to arrive any minute with discharge papers, and Carlie would be here to take him home.

  A light rap on his door sent his pulse racing. “Come in.” Carlie swept in, and her presence and scent filled the small room. His system flooded with a host of emotions, elation being topmost.

  “Ready to go home?” she asked, setting a canvas tote on the narrow bed.

  “You’d better believe it.”

  “I’ll help you get dressed.”

  “Uh . . . no. I think I can manage.” How helpless did she think he was? He pushed himself to standing, only suffering a little light-headedness and a few sharp twinges of pain. “If you’d just take the clothes out of the bag and set them in the bathroom for me.”

  Carlie opened the bag and pulled out a pair of boxers and a T-shirt. “Modest all of a sudden?”

  “Somebody might walk in,” he muttered.

  “Like your doctor or nurse?” she asked, her expression incredulous. “Because they haven’t already seen everything? How easy is it for you to bend with all those staples in your side?”

  “All right, all right.” He flashed her a look of resignation. “Point taken. Yes, please, Nurse Carlie, help me get dressed.”

  “I’d be glad to.” Boxers and a T-shirt in hand, she came to him. “Let’s get the boxers on while you’re still in the gown.” She crouched down and held the elastic waistband open. “Lift one foot at a time, and I’ll slide these on for you.”

  Wes had to brace himself with a hand on the wall, and a rush of embarrassment flooded through him. How was he supposed to tell Carlie he loved her when he couldn’t even put on his own underwear? “I feel like I’m eighty,” he groused, more heat filling his face as she tugged his boxers up over his hips and settled them around his waist.

  She patted his cheek. “You’ll be back to your old self before you know it.”

  “I hope so.” Kyle was right. He needed to wait until he could do for himself before making a grand declaration to her. I love you. Could you please help me get off the toilet? I’m feeling a little dizzy. Nope. That wouldn’t do at all. Talk about the antithesis to romance.

  “Lose the hospital gown,” Carlie ordered, rolling the hem of the T-shirt.

  He reached back, undid the ties and took off the gown, tossing it on the chair. “I can manage shirts. It’s pants, socks and shoes that are challenging.” He took the T-shirt from her.

  She gasped. “Oh, Wes.” She covered her mouth and stared at the line of staples holding him together. “I . . . I’m so sorry. Actually seeing your incision . . . it’s different than just knowing you were shot and had surgery.”

  He glanced down. The edges of the skin held together with metal staples were still an angry red, and where the bullet had entered, a greenish-purple stain spread around from his front to his back. His injury was swollen, puckered and ugly. “You didn’t shoot me. Whatever it is you have running around in your head, let it go. You didn’t cause Baumann to pull the trigger, and you didn’t force me to take part in the stakeout. We did what we had to do, and now it’s over.” Wes put the shirt on and tugged it down to cover his side.

  “It’s just that . . .” She lifted tear-filled eyes to his. “I . . . I can’t bear seeing you hurt.”

  He drew her close, held her in his arms and inhaled her sweet essence. She wrapped her arms lightly around him, and they just stood there. He hadn’t had the chance to do that Tuesday night after he’d been shot, and it was about time he got to savor the comfort of having her in his arms. “I’m so proud of you, woman. What you did, the way you kept your cool and timed your escape . . . pure genius.” He kissed her forehead. “You were amazing.”

  “And you were an idiot.” She pressed her hands against his chest and her pretty blue eyes roamed over his face. “Why didn’t you stay hidden, Wes? The marshal had a clear shot. You didn’t have to—”

  A brisk knock on the door interrupted any reply he might have made. Dr. Sunderman’s PA, Richard, strode int
o the tiny room in his usual efficient, businesslike manner. “Ah.” He swept his gaze over the two of them still embracing. “Feeling better, I see.” A grin flickered to life, eradicating his usual professional mien, and disappeared just as quickly. He held a folder and a clipboard in his hand. “I have some discharge papers for you to sign, and we need to go over your aftercare instructions.”

  Richard glanced at Carlie. “Are you his caregiver?”

  Carlie nodded and took the folder from him.

  “Soft food only for the next two weeks. Anything that can be thrown into a blender or a food processor is fine.” He scrutinized Wesley. “Understand?”

  “Yep. Soft food. Two weeks.” Could a nice, medium-rare rib eye steak be pureed, because he craved red meat something fierce. Probably because they’d been starving him at the hospital.

  “Make an appointment for about ten days from today to have the staples removed. There’s a card in the folder with the number and location of the clinic where Dr. Sunderman and I see patients. You’ll also find a prescription for pain meds and another for antibiotics there. Take all of the antibiotics. While you’re at the pharmacy, pick up some stool softeners and a mild laxative. Constipation is a common problem following surgery.” He glanced at him. “That reminds me. Have you—”

  “Yes. Thank you for asking. I have pooped.” He would not miss everyone’s preoccupation with the movement, or lack thereof, of his bowels.

  Another grin flickered across Richard’s face. “Keep the area of your incision clean and dry. Showers only, no baths, hot tubs or swimming pools until you’re completely healed.” He handed him the clipboard and a pen. “All the instructions for aftercare are in the folder, should you forget. If you notice any sign of infection or unusual pain, contact us immediately. Read these forms, then sign, and you’re free to go.”

  Wes quickly scanned the forms, signed where he had to, and gave the clipboard and pen back to the PA. “Thank you.”