All I Need (Hearts of the South)

by Linda Winfree

  “Hey, yourself.” She frowned. Mouth tight and his normally neat uniform wrinkled, he looked completely wrung out—tired, stressed, and generally miserable.

  “I’m sorry about dinner and tonight and not texting.” He scrubbed a hand over his already disheveled hair.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Her earlier irritation and bruised feelings evaporated under his distress. “Are you okay?”

  “No. My mama and sister are here. My sister’s pregnant, and her husband hit her. My dad has gone off the rails again, and Clark’s not answering his phone. And then I realized earlier that…you don’t want to hear all this.” He smacked his palm against the doorframe. “Shit.”

  The stress vibrated off him. He had to decompress before he self-destructed. She reached for his arm and tugged him forward. “Come on in. I was about to get some milk. Do you want anything? Some warm milk might help you calm down.”

  A grimace flitted across his face. “I think I’ll pass.”

  “How about some Johnnie Walker Swing?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  In the kitchen, she poured a couple of fingers and added a splash of water to open up the flavor. He stood in the short hallway, and when she turned, she caught his gaze darting over the details of her living room, not that there was much to see—rental furniture, no photos, no knickknacks because she’d didn’t plan to be here long.

  Shit, he was in her apartment. She stilled, tumbler in hand, gaze on his face. She’d avoided this, scrupulously keeping their interactions either at his place or out and about. Sure, she’d taken him to Amy and Rob’s and planned to take him to her parents’ home, but that was different.

  He was in her space, such as it was. Lost in concern for him, she’d blown right past the self-imposed boundary without realizing it. She sucked in a breath. Earlier she’d been hurt because he’d kept a boundary between her and his family, and now she was freaking out over a boundary crossed.

  Damn, she hated being a hypocrite.

  “Here.” She crossed to place the glass tumbler in his hand and kept her fingers wrapped around his a moment. His gaze met hers, his eyes shuttered and unhappy. His whole body radiated tension.

  She couldn’t do anything about the source of that stress, but she could relieve some of the effects.

  “Come on.” She took his arm and drew him toward her bedroom, which like his, lay right across the hall from the kitchen.

  He lifted the glass and knocked back a swallow. “I need to be next door.”

  “You need to calm down first or you’ll be useless to anyone.” She used the tone she trotted out with recalcitrant patients. The taut line of his jaw didn’t relax.

  “I am calm.” He lifted the tumbler again. “Not calm would be tearing off to Tallahassee and killing Frank for putting his hands on Landra, except my mama would be upset if I went to prison.”

  “Yeah? I’d be upset too.” She took the glass from his hand and set it on the nightstand. She reached for his polo hem and tugged the garment over his head. This close, every muscle in his body seemed to sing with tension, even through his thin undershirt. She’d bet the leg was killing him if he was keeping those tendons this tight. She dropped her hands to his belt.

  He stayed her with one hand. “This isn’t a good idea.”

  She stilled, eyes on his troubled face. “Do you trust me?”

  If anything, his body went tighter. He opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head. “No.”

  The breath whooshed from her lungs, and she barely escaped making a kicked-kitten sound with it. That curt monosyllable hurt in all its raw honesty.

  She could retreat into the hurt, let him go tonight, or she could accept the damage she’d done, try to be what he needed in this moment.

  She swallowed hard. “So you can take care of me, give me what I need, but I can’t do the same for you? Is that where we are?”

  His brows dipped in a pained frown. “You can’t give me what I need right now.”

  The bald statement hurt like crazy. On a shaky laugh, she let him go. “Okay.”

  “Savannah, I can’t do this tonight.” His voice cracked with pressure. “I just can’t.”

  Unable to get words past the tightness in her throat if her life depended on it, she nodded. Something must have shown in her face because he groaned, his body dipping at the knees.

  “Savannah, don’t look at me like—” His phone blipped, and he snatched it from his pocket. His shoulders fell. “Clark’s here, outside.”

  The lump in her throat wouldn’t give. He heaved a rough sigh. “I’m gonna go talk to him. We’ll…I’ll see you tomorrow and maybe we can sort this out then.”

  He grabbed his polo and walked down the hall. Moments later, the door closed behind him, leaving her alone with her isolation.

  * * * * *

  “So let me get this straight.” Clark sat back on his heels, sponge in his gloved hand. “You left a half-finished glass of Johnnie Walker and a willing woman next door, and you’re in here scrubbing the bathroom with me.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re an idiot.” Shaking his head, Clark scrubbed under the toilet rim again.

  “I know.” Emmett pulled the squeegee down the already spotless shower wall. “Except I’m not. Anything we did was only going to make things messier than they already are.”

  “But you’ve been fooling around with her for days.”

  “That was before.” He really needed some time with the punching bag, but he needed to unload his confused feelings too. Clark normally had no problem kicking back with a beer while Emmett worked over the bag and talked, but the patio was too close to Savannah’s and he desperately needed the privacy. His mama had headed out to Perry for real and Landra dozed on the couch, but this way he felt like he could talk without fear of being overheard.

  Besides, it wasn’t like he and Clark hadn’t cleaned bathrooms together before. Half their punishments for church-related transgressions had involved scrubbing bathrooms. The men’s room had sparkled during their entire term in youth group.

  “Before what?” Swapping the sponge for a brush, Clark worked on the grout surrounding the toilet.

  Emmett sat on the edge of the tub. “I think I love her.”

  “Shit.” Clark dropped the brush and sat against the opposite wall. “For real?”

  “Yeah.”

  “People use that word too soon and too often.” Clark rested his wrists atop his knees. “You’ve known her like a month. What do you think you love?”

  “She’s smart and independent. Family’s important to her, she’s loyal, and she works hard, helping people.” Frowning, he ticked the points off on his fingers. “She’s sarcastic and funny, and when she’s not running me in emotional circles, she’s a hell of a lot of fun to be with.”

  “Oh, fuck, you’re a goner.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Emmett’s shoulders slumped under the weight. “And she does not feel the same way about me.”

  “Sucks to be you.” Clark pointed at him. “You know, your life would be a lot easier if you’d just decide to be gay for me. We’d make a great couple and your ass is cute as hell.”

  Emmett snorted on an unwilling laugh at the old joke. They’d been having this talk since youth group too. “I’m not going gay for you.”

  “Damn it.” Clark winked, then sobered. “This is so not like you.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I’m serious. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use the L-word about a woman before. No, I’m certain I’ve never heard you use it before.” Clark scratched his eyebrow. “What are you going to do?”

  “Hell if I know.” He gestured toward the door. “Take care of Landra. Try to convince Mama not to take my dad back when he comes crawling home to her because you know he’ll do it again.”

  “Where are you in that equation?”

  “God, you sound like Troy Lee, asking that.” He rubbed a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. It’s not
a math problem I can just solve for y. She doesn’t love me. She doesn’t want to love me. Hell, she doesn’t even want to want me. There’s this huge wall, and I don’t know what it is or how to get around it. You should have seen her face when she realized I was in her apartment tonight. I thought she was going to pass out.”

  “I don’t get why she doesn’t love you.” Clark shrugged. “You’re fucking awesome.”

  Emmett laughed in spite of himself. “I told you, I’m not going gay for you. Quit trying so hard.”

  “I’m halfway serious. Everything you listed about her, I could say about you, except for the emotional circles part. That’s not your style, and I don’t get why you let her do that.”

  “I don’t know.” He scrubbed both hands down his face. “I need her and I want her, so when I get around her, it makes me stupid.”

  “Makes perfect sense.” Humor hitched Clark’s mouth into a wry smile. “I’ve never seen you this stupid over any woman.”

  “She’s the first one that mattered.”

  “Explains why you’re not moving on, which was going to be my next suggestion.” Swinging his hands in a slow pivot, Clark frowned. “I wonder what the deal is.”

  “I don’t know. Something happened. She said she wasn’t ready to talk about it with me yet.” A horrible possibility bloomed in his mind. “Maybe someone hurt her.”

  “So you asked her, and she said she wasn’t ready to talk about it.” Clark shook his head. “Hell, boy, you have a long row to hoe.”

  “You’re not helping.”

  “She’s going to be pissed off because you rejected her.”

  Like that hadn’t already occurred to him. He was so seriously screwed it wasn’t funny.

  * * * * *

  Cases, minor and major, slammed the ER, and Savannah took advantage of the deluge to keep her thoughts squarely off what had—or maybe what had not—happened with Emmett. Thinking about it made her want to put her head down and weep, so she simply wasn’t going to think about it.

  She dropped the chart from the possible appendicitis she’d sent upstairs to surgery in the pile and made yet another mental note to harangue SGM about getting them online.

  “Hey, are you between exams?” Mackey leaned on the counter, his expression grim. Stress vibrated off him in a way that reminded her of the very man she was trying not to think about.

  The guy was always even and collected. What was up with him? “Yes.”

  “Great.” He shoved a chart and folder of forms at her. “I need you to take exam four.”

  “Okay.” With a quizzical look, she accepted the items. “Why?”

  “It’s a domestic violence involving one of our former nurses, she doesn’t want me to do the exam, which is great because I don’t want to break and cry on her, and Layla is tied up with the obstructed stoma in exam two.”

  “Got it.” She pushed away from the counter. “Domestic violence is an automatic law-enforcement referral.”

  “He’s already here, in the waiting room. Let Lorraine know when you want him back.”

  “He? There’s not a female officer available? What about the counselor from the crisis center? Is she on her way?”

  “She asked for him specifically.” Mackey shrugged, features tight. “And she doesn’t want Tori here. I asked. Her attorney is with her, though, and Haley’s in there already, doing the triage.”

  “All right. Thanks.” On the way to exam four, she straightened her shoulders and pulled in a breath. With her game face securely in place, she knocked once and waited.

  “Come in,” a low female voice answered.

  Savannah pushed the heavy wooden door inward. The patient sat on the end of the exam table, her trim frame swamped by the paper gown. Blonde hair, swept into a loose knot, framed a face that showed the remnants of a stressed and sleepless night, but no bruises. A finger at the patient’s pulse, Haley eyed the blood pressure cuff on the woman’s arm. Above the cuff, bruises darkened from red to purple. Maybe a little more than twenty-four hours old.

  Delayed care. Savannah ticked off the domestic-violence indicator in her head and laid the chart and folder on the table. She swept her gentlest possible smile across the patient and her lawyer, a professionally dressed brunette in her midthirties. Savannah flipped the chart open. “I’m Dr. Mills, and you are—”

  Landra Beck Washburn.

  Oh, hell. There couldn’t be two women with the name Landra and a maiden name to match Emmett’s surname in a town this small.

  She recovered quickly and smiled at Emmett’s sister. “Mrs. Washburn.”

  “Landra.” Her tone cold and removed, she stared at the wall beyond Savannah’s shoulder. “Do not call me Mrs. Washburn.”

  “Of course.” Savannah pulled the rolling stool forward and settled on it, putting her almost eye-to-eye with Landra. “Dr. Mackey said you didn’t want him to do your exam, but before we go any further, I need to let you know I think your brother is one of my friends, in case you want another provider.”

  “I don’t care.” Voice brittle, Landra lifted her hands. “I just know I don’t want Jay to do this, and you can’t talk to Emmett about anything that goes on in here anyway, so I’m good. I want this over with.”

  “Okay.” Savannah kept her gaze on Landra’s expressionless blue eyes, the one point of resemblance between her and her brother. “The investigator from the sheriff’s department is here. How do you want the reporting to work? We can do it first or after—”

  “Go ahead and call him back.” She gestured toward the brunette with her. “And Autry stays too.”

  “Whatever you want.” Savannah lifted her gaze toward the other woman and nodded.

  “Autry Reed.” She extended a hand. “I’m Landra’s friend and attorney. We need to medically document her injuries, and she needs to have those treated as necessary. There are…jurisdictional…issues, but Investigator Calvert will take the initial report.”

  “Temp is normal, pulse is 83, and BP is elevated at 122 over 70.” Haley had already removed the cuff, but now she jotted numbers on the chart and glanced at Savannah before passing the chart over. With a soft smile, Haley rested her hand atop Landra’s, a gesture suggesting a long friendship. “Probably normal under the circumstances.”

  While Haley phoned Lorraine to send Investigator Calvert back, Savannah skimmed the intake form. Thirty-two years old, five-eight, a hundred thirty-seven pounds, no medical allergies, no prior surgeries, fifteen weeks pregnant. Reported physical trauma to her arms, torso and legs. Pregnant and delayed care after a physical assault. She kept her face expressionless and laid the chart aside.

  A low knock sounded at the door. Savannah lifted her gaze to Landra’s in silent inquiry. Giving control back, however small the increments, was crucial in a domestic-violence situation. Landra’s throat moved in a hard swallow. “Come in.”

  The tall, dark-haired detective who entered wore the same dark-green department polo and khakis Savannah associated with Rob and Emmett. He rested his hands at his hips, above his badge and gun, and graced Landra with a gentle smile. “Hey, Landra.”

  A tremulous response flitted across Landra’s mouth and disappeared. “Hey, Tick.”

  “I’m sorry about this.” He shook his head, brows drawing together. “Are you sure you don’t want Tori over here?”

  “Oh, God, no. She’ll be nice to me and I’ll lose it.” She cast a desperate look around at all of them. “I can’t handle nice today.”

  “Got it.” He pulled a chair away from the wall, placed it next to Savannah’s stool, and straddled it, his gaze on Landra’s. “This is your rodeo. How do you want to play it? You want to talk to me or let Dr. Mills here do her stuff first or what? I do need to get some photos, but I can do that during the exam if you don’t mind.”

  “That works.” Landra blew out a long exhale, twisting her fingers together in her lap. “Can I talk while she does the exam and you take photos? Maybe then it won’t take as long.”

>   “Sounds good to me.” Calvert slanted a sideways glance at Savannah, and she nodded.

  Autry pulled a digital recorder from her pocket and laid it on the counter. “I’m going to record this.”

  Savannah reached for a pair of gloves. “I want to do a quick physical exam, then we’ll do a sonogram to check the baby.”

  “I think she—it’s okay.” Landra blinked hard. “I have a friend over at Leon Medical Center who works in L&D. I wasn’t bleeding or cramping afterward, and she did a quick sonogram yesterday. Everything looked okay, but I couldn’t do much more than that or anything official.”

  “Mandatory reporting,” Calvert said quietly, and Landra nodded. Calvert looked at Savannah. “Husband’s a sergeant with Leon County.”

  Landra rocked forward a little, slender fingers fluttering. “He’d have taken me home, like the last time.”

  “Not everybody follows protocol.” Calvert’s mouth tightened. He gestured toward her arm. “I’m going to start with photos of those, okay, and you tell me what happened.”

  The small digital camera whirred and beeped. Landra winced. Savannah motioned at the gown. “Are you ready to drop that for me? You can cover with the sheet as you need to, all right?”

  Landra nodded and lowered the paper gown to her lap. A simple white bra covered her breasts, but highlighted the ugly bruising that marred her chest and abdomen. Savannah schooled her features and leaned in silently to examine the abrasions within the contusions.

  “Holy hell,” Calvert whispered, and Savannah glared at him, only to find his sympathetic gaze locked with Landra’s. He shook his head. “I know I’m supposed to be all cool and nonreactive, but you know I suck at that sometimes.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Landra lifted a trembling hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. “I remember.”

  “Is that from a belt buckle?” Calvert shifted forward to get a closer shot at one of the lacerations above her right breast.

  “Yes.”

  Savannah’s stomach churned at the simple affirmative and the ugliness that lay behind it. “Haley, those need to be irrigated, then let’s use mupirocin, two percent.”

  While Haley tended the lacerations on her shoulders and chest, Savannah checked for broken ribs and other injuries. Calvert snapped photo after photo, and Landra’s broken voice layered a story over the tableau, a story of violence erupting from a pregnancy unwanted by her husband and her own desire to leave a marriage filled with unpredictability, infidelity, and aggression.