by Dee Holmes
“Because he loved you,” Hunt said simply. “Because he knew what was best for you better than you did.”
Still tucked against the soothing warmth of his body, she said, “I know that now. But at nine years old, I wouldn’t have understood. Vern saw the bigger picture, saw what I needed. I felt only the pain and terror of losing my brother.”
“Did you and Vern keep in touch?”
“I wrote him at the foster home where he’d been placed, but he never answered. And then on his birthday I called to surprise him. No one knew where he was. He’d left his foster home with some friends and never returned.”
“So the day you left with the McCullochs was the last time you saw him until yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“That accounts for the nineteen years.”
She nodded. “The McCullochs were wonderful to me. They gave me love and lots of things, including my own room and a Barbie doll and a puffy quilt.”
She smiled at the memories. “I was happy with them, but there was this part of me that was empty because I knew that somewhere I had a brother. I missed him, and as I got older missing him became a crusade to find him. I was still a teenager when I started seriously searching.”
“And you finally succeeded.”
“Yes, about a month ago. With the help of a search service. He lives in northern Massachusetts.”
Neither Molly nor Hunt saw the figure come into the waiting area until he said, “Ms. McCulloch?”
Molly literally jumped to her feet. “Is Vern okay?”
“I’m Dr. Anderson. Your brother’s condition has stabilized, so you can see him now for just a few minutes.”
“Oh, thank God.”
Hunt stood and the doctor said, “Are you family?”
“Just a friend.”
“Family members only.”
“I know. I’ll wait for you, Molly.”
She threw him a look of gratitude for his support and followed the doctor to her brother’s bedside.
THERE WERE FIVE BEDS in the long, narrow room. Two, besides the one Vern occupied, were taken. Antiseptic smells and the sounds of monitoring life were the only noises in the sobering silence. The room was dimly lit, and each bed had curtains around it that could be pulled. A nurse sat in a nearby chair and nodded as Molly entered.
“The fourth bed,” she said.
Molly crept closer, her heart thumping and her own pulse ticking like a time bomb.
Her brother lay so still she had a brief horrid thought that he was in a coma or worse. Then she saw the active heart monitor and was immeasurably relieved. His eyes were closed, and he looked relaxed in a way she’d hadn’t seen even while they’d visited.
She brushed her fingers across his cheek and found it cool to the touch. “Vern? It’s me, Molly.”
No response.
“You had a heart attack, but you’re going to be okay.”
His eyelashes fluttered and then opened. Her heart skipped joyously, then thudded to a halt when he said gruffly, “Muffin, you always were an optimistic kid.”
A huge lump clogged Molly’s throat at the childish endearment. She took his hand, holding it with both of hers. “You were, too. You always told me you could make everything okay.”
“And you believed me…always you believed me.”
“Oh, Vern, we’ve been through so much….”
He closed his eyes and then opened them. “Muffin, you gotta listen…” He took a breath, an obvious effort.
“You don’t have to talk,” she whispered, fearing even that expended too much of his energy. She gripped his fingers as if she could imbue him with her own health and strength. He looked pale and weak, his voice was raspy. She leaned close to hear.
“Your boyfriend…”
Molly frowned.
“…the cop.”
“Hunt? He’s not my boyfriend.”
He moved his head back and forth as if her relationship with Hunt wasn’t his point. “He won’t let you get hurt.”
“Hurt?” Molly could barely hear him. “I don’t understand. Hurt how?”
He closed his eyes and the nurse touched Molly’s shoulder.
“Your brother needs to rest.”
Molly straightened, hesitant to let go of his hand, wishing she could literally pull him out of his weakened condition.
“He looks so sick,” Molly whispered. “Is he going to be okay? I mean really okay?”
The nurse urged her away from the bed and toward the double doors. “Why don’t you go on home and get some sleep.”
“I can’t leave him. I did once before and…I’m sorry, but you don’t understand. When can I come in to see him again?”
“Probably in the morning.” The nurse looked sympathetic, but she was obviously following the doctor’s instructions. “Dr. Anderson is fiercely protective of his patients. He knew how worried you were and that’s why he allowed you these few minutes.”
Molly nodded, grateful for the short time with Vern. The nurse and doctor were right. Her brother needed rest more than a worried, hovering kid sister. “I’ll be in the waiting room if there are any changes. I couldn’t sleep at home.”
SINCE MOLLY HAD GONE in to see her brother, Hunt had reviewed in his mind all that Molly had told him. It was such an incredible story of grit, family loyalty and sacrifice that Hunt found himself seeing a side of Vern Wallace that seemed improbable, given “the Spider’s” history. How could a man who coldbloodedly killed people be the kind of person who would sacrifice himself so his sister could be adopted?
Unfortunately, it wasn’t a question Molly could answer. Hunt had listened carefully for any clues that Molly knew what Vern did for a living, but either Molly knew nothing or she was a damn good actress. Hunt’s instinct embraced the former.
Then again, they’d only had a few hours together before Vern’s heart attack. From the gist of what Molly had told him, Vern had focused on the reunion and his behavior before they were separated.
Wallace wasn’t stupid. No way in hell would he come right out and tell Molly he was a hit man. First of all, she was his sister and had an idealistic view of her older brother—only a dolt or total bastard would destroy that picture. Secondly, he realized instinctively, Molly would never have believed him, anyway.
Hunt glanced up as Molly came in. Her smile was tenuous, but it was there, and once again, Hunt saw the optimistic attitude that had fortified her throughout the years of her search.
“How’s he doing?” Hunt asked:
“Holding his own. We spoke and he knew me, but he’s very weak.”
“He’s getting the best care, Molly.”
“I know and I’m grateful. It’s just such a change. from a few hours ago, when we were laughing and catching up.” She grinned, and Hunt could tell that the few moments with her brother had boosted her spirits.
Despite what Hunt knew about Wallace, there was no backing away from the fact that there was a real bond between them.
“You know what he thought?” Molly said.
“What?”
“That you were my boyfriend.” Her eyes were lavender, glistening and rich in color like lilacs in the springtime. Her cheeks were pink, her hair a little mussed, yet they all added up to a confident Molly. The mention of Hunt being her boyfriend apparently amused her, and not wanting to see that emotion lost, Hunt decided to play along.
“Your boyfriend, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. He must have figured out we were having great sex in a dark hallway.”
For a second Molly looked confused. “Oh, you mean when I brought you the fan.” She laughed. “Of course that’s ridiculous, and he probably thought no such thing, but I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to make me laugh.”
“And you did.”
She held her smile, nodding. “Yes.”
The subject could have been dropped there, and Hunt fully expected it would be, but to his surprise, she continued.
&nb
sp; “I know your being my boyfriend was a silly assumption. I told Vern he was wrong.”
“I’m sure that reassured him,” Hunt muttered.
“Odd, though, that he would mention it, considering how sick he is. I mean, wouldn’t you think there would be more important things to talk about?”
“He’s probably worried about you.”
“And he probably thinks you’re okay because you’re a cop.”
Given that she knew nothing about who Vern was, Hunt allowed the conversation to go on. It didn’t mean anything, and more importantly, it was taking Molly’s focus off her fears.
“You know, it’s been a long time since I’ve been anyone’s boyfriend,” Hunt said reflectively. “A husband once. A lover a few times. And when I was in my twenties, my brother used to call me ‘The Stud’ because I thought I could score with a different girl every week.”
Molly’s eyes widened with both curiosity and something Hunt couldn’t quite define, but it resembled yearning. Maybe she’d never been anyone’s girl. Maybe she’d never had a real boyfriend. She was twenty-eight, but by her own admission had spent most of the past years searching for her brother, studying, and working. Maybe she hadn’t had time for any kind of serious man-woman relationship.
To Hunt’s surprise, he found himself wondering about a relationship with Molly. Having her belong to him. Having her as his lover. A woman he could laugh with; a woman who could make him want more than the lonely existence he’d chosen since losing Kristin.
Of course, the whole idea of anything with Molly was insane. He didn’t want a new relationship with any woman; his heart had closed when Kristin died, and opening it again held little appeal. He’d known the richest and deepest kind of love with his wife, and that particular emotion died with her.
“Did you?”
Hunt blinked, his mind swirling with thoughts he hadn’t had in a long time. Molly’s innocence was enough to make him back off. She needed a man with hope, not an ex-cop with an empty heart. “Did I what?”
“Score with a different girl every week?”
He chuckled. “No matter how I answer that I’m not going to come out looking good. But I’ll say this. If you’d been one of those girls when I was in my twenties, I would have gladly gone from ‘stud’ to permanent boyfriend.”
“You’re teasing me.”
“And flirting with you.”
“To take my mind off Vern.”
“More to ease you away from worrying when worry isn’t going to make anything happen faster.”
“Like Vern getting better instantly,” she mused. “I know. It’s just that—”
“He’s your brother and you want to be sure he’s going to be okay.”
She nodded, and Hunt put his arm around her, giving her a squeeze of understanding. He knew what she was going through; he’d felt much the same anxiety and panic when Kristin was so sick. Hunt closed his eyes briefly as those months of waiting and hoping for the best while fearing the worst rushed over him once again. His beloved Kristin…so young, so alive, so beautiful, with all her plans for a house and a huge flower garden and children…plans that were never fulfilled.
Molly had her back to the corridor and didn’t see the two nurses scurry down the hall. A door slammed somewhere and wheels on some piece of equipment squeaked in a hurried rumble. Hunt instinctively pulled Molly into his arms. He knew better than to assume all the rushing was because of Vern—the hospital had more than a hundred beds.
“Hey,” he said in a heavy whisper. “If I wanted to really take your mind off worrying, I could do this.” And before she had a chance to object, question or even wonder at his motive, he tipped her chin up, lowered his mouth and kissed her.
Hunt wasn’t prepared for the sweetness, the surprise on her lips, the swell of hunger that rolled through his own body. He angled his head, meeting her mouth more fully, tasting her, memorizing her texture, her scent. Her arms tightened around him, holding him to her as if he were her anchor.
He deepened the kiss, tangling their tongues, and for a few seconds he forgot where they were, forgot she was too young and innocent, forgot he had no room in his heart for a woman like Molly.
Her breathing grew rapid, and Hunt felt the tightness of her breasts against his chest. He moved against her, the stiffening of his own body more than enough reason to halt things immediately. He stilled both their bodies, drawing away.
“Molly…” he murmured, touching their foreheads and pulling back so that he could see her eyes. “I didn’t mean—”
She touched her finger to his mouth to quiet him. “Please don’t apologize. I could have pulled away.” Then, in a lighter tone, she added, “You certainly took my mind off worrying about Vern.”
“Yeah,” Hunt grumbled. “That was the point.” Hunt let her go and backed up a few steps. Damn, he had to be nuts. He wondered what in hell had happened to that vow he’d made to avoid her. Wallace had happened, that’s what it was. Nothing more.
He glanced up, his eyes focused on the corridor and the approach of Dr. Anderson. The physician walked into the waiting room, his step reluctant, his tie loosened.
Hunt automatically reached for Molly. She turned.
“More news about Vern?” she asked.
“Ms. McCulloch, I’m sorry. We did everything we could, but your brother’s heart was too weak.”
“What are you telling me?” Molly whispered, and Hunt gripped her tighter.
“Your brother has died.”
CHAPTER FOUR
MOLLY’S HANDS flew up to cover her mouth, but her gasp of pain was clearly audible. She struggled to free herself from Hunt’s arms.
“No!” she cried. “It’s a lie! I just saw him, I just talked to him. No, please, oh God, please no…”
Hunt gathered her to him again.
“What happened?” Hunt asked the physician.
“Another heart attack. This one was massive.”
“You said he was going to be okay,” Molly said, accusingly. She sagged against Hunt.
Hunt clearly recalled that Dr. Anderson hadn’t said anything even close to that. When Kristin had been so sick, Hunt had learned firsthand that doctors chose their words very carefully. They didn’t want the family to lose hope, yet they were careful not to make impossible promises.
“Molly, the doctor said your brother’s condition had stabilized.”
Dr. Anderson gave him a surprised look, then nodded. “He’s right, Ms. McCulloch. At best, your brother has been bargaining for time for quite a while. His heart had been in bad shape for years. Frankly it’s incredible that the attack at your house wasn’t fatal.”
She turned, pushing away from Hunt, and went to the couch, where she folded herself into the corner like a tiny animal gripped by pain.
The doctor cleared his throat. “Mr., uh…”
Hunt watched her, his arms feeling suddenly cold. He wanted to comfort her; he wanted to make the hurt and grief less devastating, but he knew from his own experience that was impossible. Getting past the bitter sting of death and loss and moving on took the healing powers of time.
Instead of approaching Molly, Hunt shoved his hands, palms out, into the back pockets of his jeans. “Gresham,” he said. “Hunt Gresham. I’m a friend of Molly’s.”
“Good. She’ll need her friends. Does she live with anyone? Parents? A housemate? Another sibling? You?”
“Uh, no. She lives alone.”
“Someone should stay with her. What about a neighbor or a female friend? At least for tonight. Her reaction and withdrawal isn’t unusual, but she could be in shock. I could admit her, given the circumstances, but I think she’d handle this better at home. Can you call someone?”
Hunt shoved a hand through his hair. It was one in the morning, and he didn’t have a clue who Molly’s friends were.
As his silence lengthened, the doctor said, “Surely there must be someone. What about you?”
“Me?” Being her neighbor and friend
, that he could handle, sort of, but to become an all-night nurse—the idea was ludicrous. Waiting at the hospital and giving a few moments of comfort was one thing, but Hunt had resisted even the possibility of being too involved in her life.
My God, he’d done his best to avoid her for weeks, he thought grimly. And if he’d quashed his damn curiosity about Wallace, he wouldn’t be here right now. His insides wouldn’t be twisted with angst because he knew things that would be painful for her to hear. What he wouldn’t give to be home asleep and oblivious to all of this. But then Molly would have been here all alone, alone while she waited and alone when she got the bad news. Hunt scowled at how she’d managed, without even trying, to worm her way into his thoughts; he vowed she’d get no farther.
The doctor scowled. “Surely this can’t be that complicated, Mr. Gresham. One night isn’t forever, and you did say you and she were friends.”
“Yeah. Look, I’ll call my sister. She works with Molly, and they’re friends.”
“Sounds ideal,” the doctor said, not trying to hide his eagerness to be on his way. “Perhaps you and your sister could help Ms. McCulloch get the funeral arrangements started in the morning.”
“My sister can handle that.”
“Good.”
“I’m curious,” Hunt said. “Did Wallace tell you he had a heart condition or did you learn it from symptoms?”
“Both, actually. The symptoms were characteristic, but Mr. Wallace told me some of his medical history, which confirmed my suspicions.”
“Then he had been seeing a doctor.”
“Yes.”
“Did he give you a name and where he practiced? The family may want to talk to him.”
“Uh, let me see,” he said thoughtfully. “I believe the name was Crombie. Mr. Wallace said he practiced in Fernwood.”