Carolina Dreaming: A Dare Island Novel

by Virginia Kantra

  Gabe Murphy, damn his hide, showed no signs of moving on.

  He was braced on the ladder between Jay Webber, on the ground, and Marta’s boy, Tomás, crouching on the ridge line. As Hank watched, Murphy grabbed the top of a metal roofing panel from Webber and half hauled, half shoved it toward Tomás. Murphy took the weight as they wrestled the panel into place, the steel crackling like thunder. Murphy’s ugly-ass dog flinched. Drills whirred.

  “Watch your screws,” Murphy called to Tomás. “You’re flattening the washers.”

  “I think there’s something wrong with my nut driver,” Tomás said.

  “Check the shaft,” Murphy said.

  Jay guffawed. “Boy can’t screw if his tools don’t work right.”

  Bunch of clowns.

  “Don’t you have someplace else to be?” Jane inquired at Hank’s elbow.

  Hank glanced down at his daughter, who had come out of the bakery to check on progress. Or to check on him. “Nope.”

  “I thought you were off duty today.”

  Hank shrugged. “Chief’s off. Luke’s tied up with a traffic complaint. I’m just keeping an eye on things.”

  Jane folded her arms, mirroring his pose. “On things? Or on me?”

  Hank grunted. “Wanted to talk to you.”

  “Why don’t you come in and have a cup of coffee?” Jane invited. “On the house.”

  “Marta says I drink too much coffee.”

  Jane raised an eyebrow, amused. “A brownie, then.”

  “You trying to fatten me up?”

  Jane smiled. Her mother’s smile, he thought with a pang. “Sweeten you up, more like.”

  “I’m not one of your old folks you can stick in the corner with a cookie and the crossword puzzle,” he said. “You’re not wrapping me around your finger.”

  Her dimple deepened. “Is that what you came to tell me?”

  Bang bang bang. Murphy tapped the handle of his hammer against a metal seam as Webber wrestled another panel from the ground.

  “Hold up,” Murphy ordered. “Piece needs to be cut around the skylight.” He started down the ladder.

  Hank glared at them, distracted. “They better not be charging you by the hour.”

  “Gabe said they’ll finish today,” Jane said.

  “Good. That’s good.” She deserved some good news today. Hank squinted up at the low roofline. He didn’t want to watch her face as he delivered his news. “There’s something you need to know, and you might as well hear it from me.” He took a long breath. Released it. “Prison called the department this morning.”

  “I know.”

  He shot a look down at her. “What do you know?”

  She tucked her fingers into the crook of his arm. “I got an automated call from Victim Assistance. Lauren got one, too. Travis is being released, it said. Within five days.”

  He scowled, relieved he didn’t have to break the news to her after all. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.” He covered her fingers with his hand. “You’ve been taking care of yourself and Aidan a long time now. You’ll be fine.”

  “Then why are you worried, Dad?”

  He harrumphed. “Don’t want this to get to you, that’s all.”

  “It won’t,” she said. Sweet and simple and steadier than he thought she’d be. “I’m over this. Over him. I’m not a victim anymore. We’re divorced. I got a restraining order. Isn’t that a condition of his parole?”

  Restraining order wouldn’t do any damn good if her asshole ex took it in his head to ignore it. But Hank kept that thought to himself. “That’s right. He comes sniffing around you, he’s in violation of his parole and goes back to prison to serve out the rest of his sentence. Seven months.” He patted her hand. “He’s got no way to get here anyway. No call to—”

  Metal rattled, clattered, and screeched. A cry. A curse. Clang.

  Thud.

  The ladder—and Tomás—sprawled on the ground.

  “Tomás?” Jane covered her mouth with her hand.

  Murphy dropped his tools, lunging to the boy’s side. The dog darted in, danced back.

  Hank started forward. “Don’t move him.”

  Murphy ignored them both, dropping to his knees behind the boy’s head. Tomás groaned.

  Hank froze. He was no wuss, but, Jesus, that was Marta’s boy lying there.

  Murphy put a hand under Tomás’s jaw—checking his pulse?—and then braced his head on either side. “Hey, pal. You fell. Try not to move, okay?”

  “Ow. Ow.”

  “Can you tell me your name?”

  Tomás groaned.

  “Buddy, your name.” Murphy’s voice was calm. Insistent.

  The boy opened his eyes. His bleary gaze fixed on Murphy’s face. “You know my name. Tomás.”

  “Yeah. Good.” Murphy slid a hand under Tomás’s neck. “You remember what happened?”

  “I fell. Fucking ladder. Oh God, my wrist.”

  “We’ll get to that. Lie still.” Murphy glanced up. His gaze speared Hank. “Call 911.”

  911. Shit. The call would go straight to Marta.

  Hank grabbed his phone. “What should I tell her?”

  “We need an ambulance,” Murphy said.

  There were people coming out of the bakery, customers alarmed by the noise or simply curious. Some damn fool pulled out a cell phone to take pictures. Jane hurried to intercept them.

  Hank jolted into action. The scene needed to be secured. The victim needed medical attention and transport. He thumbed his phone. Took a deep breath. “Marta, there’s been an accident.”

  * * *

  TOMÁS WAS CONSCIOUS, breathing, not gushing blood.

  He was bleeding, though, from the back of his skull. Gabe explored gently. No soft spots, no deformity, no grating of bone fragments. Good.

  “Ow, my head. My head hurts,” Tomás said.

  “No shit,” Gabe said. He braced his hands on either side of the boy’s head, stabilizing his neck. “You allergic to anything? Any drugs?” Asking now would save the EMTs time later.

  “I’m not on drugs, man.” Tomás struggled to sit. “I frickin’ fell.”

  “Stay down,” Gabe commanded. “You’re going to be fine. The paramedics are on their way, and they’ll check you out and make sure you’re okay.”

  “What can I do?” Jane asked.

  Head wounds always bled like a son of a bitch. Gabe wasn’t putting pressure on a possible skull fracture, but something to cover the wound, to staunch the bleeding, would be good. “Towels. Thanks.”

  She nodded, face pale, and ran into the bakery.

  Tomás shifted his legs restlessly. Not paralyzed. More good news.

  “Hold still,” Gabe said. He looked up and found Hank. “Can you hold his head?” He was a cop, he should have some first aid training. “I need to check his spine.”

  “You sure you know what you’re doing?” Hank asked.

  “Combat lifesaver,” Gabe said.

  Hank nodded and kneeled down, placing his hands correctly over Gabe’s.

  Removing his hands, Gabe shifted to the left. “On three.”

  “Steady, now, son,” Hank said. To which one of them?

  Gabe positioned his grip at shoulder and hip, rotating the boy toward him to do a quick visual check of his back. No wounds, no bleeding, no protrusions. All good.

  “Right. Let’s roll him back.”

  Tomás moaned.

  “You’re doing great.” Gabe pressed Tomás’s shoulders and hips. Collarbone and pelvis, fine.

  Sirens wailed faintly in the distance. Some moron started videotaping as Jane ran up with a pile of towels.

  “Here.” She set down the towels and took video dude’s arm. “Let’s move out of their way, okay?”

  “Thanks,” Gabe said. He made a pad, applying it to Tomás’s bleeding skull.

  “My wrist,” Tomás said.

  Gabe looked. His forearm was puffy, swelling, his wrist hidden by his work glove. “Let�
�s take a look. You in pain?”

  “Mierda, yeah.” His voice slurred.

  Gabe began to peel delicately at the glove. “What kind of pain?”

  “I don’t know, man. It— Ow! Ow, shit.”

  “Hang in there, son,” Hank said.

  Broken wrist. No bones protruding through the flesh. “Can you squeeze my hand?” Gabe asked.

  Tomás complied weakly. The sirens blared, closer now.

  “I think I’m gonna be sick,” Tomás moaned.

  If he threw up lying on his back, he could aspirate chunks.

  “Not a problem,” Gabe said. “I’m going to rotate you on your side like I did before. Hank’s going to hold your head.” He looked at Hank. “Ready? On three.”

  Tomás puked on Gabe’s knee as the ambulance pulled into the parking lot.

  Two EMTs, one male, one female, came at a run.

  “What do we have here?” the woman asked Hank.

  Hank looked at Gabe, ceding control of the scene.

  “Fall from this ladder, head wound, broken wrist,” Gabe reported. “Patient alert and responsive. On a scale of one to ten, pain’s at ‘fucking hurts.’”

  The guy grinned. “You an EMT?”

  “Marine,” Gabe said.

  “Nice job,” the woman said. “Okay, we’re going to transport.”

  They went to get the cot and backboard while Gabe wiped puke.

  The guy crouched beside Gabe, taking Tomás’s hip and knee as the woman positioned the backboard. “Let’s roll him. Hank, you’ve got the head.”

  The old cop nodded. “On my count. One, two, three.”

  Gabe helped the male EMT lift Tomás, now secured on the backboard, onto the cot.

  “Thanks,” the guy said. “We’ll take it from here.”

  There was nothing else Gabe could do. He took a step back, shoving his hands in his pockets.

  A late-model sedan bumped over the curb and into the lot.

  The car door flung open and an attractive older woman got out. Gabe recognized her from the police station—Marta, Tomás’s mom. She started forward, her high heels slipping on the gravel. “Tomás?”

  “He’s okay,” Hank said.

  She pressed her hand to her chest. “So much blood . . .”

  Tomás raised his uninjured arm in a wavering salute. “Hi, Mami.”

  She burst into tears. Hank took her in his arms.

  “We’re ready to roll,” the female EMT said. “Marta, we’ll see you at the hospital.”

  “Can’t I ride with him?”

  “No room. You can ride up with me,” the guy said. “In the cab.”

  “We’ll take the squad car.” Hank lifted Marta’s chin, smiling reassuringly. “Lights and sirens all the way.”

  * * *

  THE AMBULANCE AND the police car pulled out, orange and blue lights flashing.

  Jane watched them go. Or more accurately, she watched Gabe watch them go, hands in his pockets, profile taut and strong against the sun-dappled trees.

  This Gabe was a stranger to her. An attractive, competent stranger in a familiar fatigue jacket and ripped, filthy jeans.

  She knew he was tough. She had admired his perseverance, his work ethic, his cocky humor. But his utter certainty in dealing with Tomás, his total command of himself and the situation . . . This was a side of him she hadn’t seen before. Confident. Compelling.

  And, she admitted, very, very hot.

  Not that she should notice that now.

  The sirens faded. The action over, his rigid stance relaxed, the tension slowly draining from his shoulders. She watched his certainty leach away and weariness take its place. Staring after the departed vehicles, his face was almost . . . lost.

  A terrible tenderness seized her chest. He had so much heart. So much strength. So much pride. He didn’t deserve to look that way, like something precious had been snatched from him.

  Lucky crawled out from under the porch and slunk to Gabe’s side, nudging his arm. Gabe glanced down, his expression lightening. He turned his hand out, petting the dog.

  “Some Lassie you turned out to be,” he said affectionately. “You’re useless.”

  “You were wonderful,” Jane said. “Thank God you were here.”

  Gabe shrugged. “Your dad could have handled it.”

  “But he didn’t. You did. You knew exactly what to say. What to do.”

  He picked up the ladder without speaking and set it against the wall.

  Jane pushed. “Have you considered becoming a paramedic? If . . . if you’re staying.”

  “I’m staying.” His voice was flat. Sure. “But I know my limits. I’d need training to do what you’re talking about.”

  “You have training.”

  “I need the piece of paper.”

  She knew what it was to feel trapped by your circumstances. To have your faith in yourself eroded until you believed there was no way out. “So get it. Take classes or whatever.”

  His gaze met hers. For a moment, she saw hope flare, the possibilities kindle in his eyes, before their fire banked. He shook his head. “That’s not for me.”

  “Why not?” she dared to ask.

  “I missed my chance when I got out.”

  She was tempted to let it go, to leave him alone. But she knew exactly where that led. Nowhere.

  “Is there a time limit to the GI Bill?”

  “I meant I’m too old to go back to school.”

  “A friend of mine just got her associate’s degree in dental hygiene. She’s older than you are.”

  He threw her a smoldering look. She held her breath, fearing she had gone too far, nudged and nagged him and insulted his pride in the way that always drove Travis to drink. Or to rage.

  And then the corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re really something, Jane Clark.”

  Relief rushed over her. She released her breath. “Something good or something bad?”

  “Something special.”

  She felt a flush work its way up her chest. “I didn’t mean to badger you.”

  “Don’t apologize. Having you believe in me . . .” He held her gaze, the smile deepening in his eyes. “Makes me think I’ve got a chance.”

  Her heart pounded. “At being a paramedic.”

  His smile spread. “That, too.”

  * * *

  THE WAITING ROOM was alien and sterile, full of old folks struggling to breathe, bawling babies, listless children in their mothers’ arms.

  Hank hated it. Hated the smells and the bright lights that revealed the lines in Marta’s face, hated the waiting and his own helplessness.

  They had been at the hospital almost two hours. He prowled the aisle from the water fountain to Marta’s chair, antsy as a drunk at a teetotalers’ meeting.

  Marta looked up at his approach, her complexion gray under the fluorescent lights, worry in her eyes. Her son was behind those doors, those doors where even Hank’s badge could not win admittance, and there wasn’t a damn thing Hank could do to affect the outcome.

  “Want a cup of coffee?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Magazine? There’s a gift shop down the hall.”

  A smile touched her lips. “I’m fine, Hank.”

  His heart swelled with frustration. “What can I do?”

  “You are here,” she said simply. “That is the most important thing.”

  He sat down beside her and held her hand. Strong hands, with soft, lotioned skin and polished nails. She’d told him once that when she cleaned houses for a living, her hands were a point of pride. I can take care of myself, they said. I am worthy of care.

  She was the most extraordinary woman he’d ever known.

  He rubbed the back of her hand. “Guess this isn’t the first time you’ve been to the emergency room.”

  Another smile. “No.”

  “Four boys.”

  She looked away. “Yes.”

  And a husband who died at the age of forty-one. Lik
e she needed to be reminded of that.

  Hell, Hank thought.

  It was almost a relief when the sliding doors opened and Gabe walked in, scanning the room, and then strode toward them.

  Hank stood, delighted to have a target for his frustration. “Can’t believe your piece-of-shit truck got you this far.”

  Gabe bared his teeth in a grin. “I didn’t drive my truck.” He fished in the pocket of his fatigue jacket and pulled out a small, fuzzy pink bear attached to a key.

  “What the hell is that?” Hank asked.

  “My valet key!” Marta said.

  Gabe handed it to her. “I found it in your glove box.” He glanced at Hank. “Car was unlocked. Anyway, I figured you might want your own wheels in case Tomás was admitted and you were stuck here overnight.”

  “That was very thoughtful,” Marta said.

  It was, too. Hard to resent anybody who could put that smile on Marta’s face.

  “I haven’t even thanked you yet for everything you did for my son,” she said.

  Gabe shrugged. “I didn’t do anything special. Reached him first, that’s all.”

  “That’s not what Hank said. Tomás is lucky you were there, because of your medical combat training.” She turned to Hank. “Isn’t that what you said in the car?”

  Gabe shot Hank a quick look.

  Hank grunted. He’d been trying to reassure her, not compliment Gabe.

  “How’s he doing?” Gabe asked. “Tomás.”

  “His wrist is broken,” Marta said. “But the doctor thinks he will not need surgery. She is more worried about his head injury.”

  “Probably broke his fall with his arm,” Gabe said. “That’s a good thing.”

  Marta gave him a grateful look.

  “They took him back for a CT scan,” Hank said.

  “Mrs. Lopez?” The doctor, a fresh-faced redhead in a wilted white coat, was back.

  Marta sat up straight. “How is Tomás?”

  “He’s doing great,” the doctor said. “There’s a little shadow on the scan caused by damage to the blood vessels between the brain and skull. This kind of bleed often stops on its own and then heals like any other cut. But to be on the safe side, we want to keep him overnight for observation.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “We’re moving him up to a room now,” the doctor said. “As soon as he’s settled, the nurse will come get you.”