by Loree Lough
Her heart squeezed at their compassion, but she couldn’t let her boys put themselves in danger. “If he needs our help, he’ll ask for it. Now step back up, I mean it, or I’ll send the lot of you inside.”
She did a mental head count, heart beating harder when she didn’t see Thomas. “Didn’t you tell Thomas—”
“I looked everywhere for him,” Devon said. “When I couldn’t find him, I figured he slipped past me and was already out here with you.”
By now her heart was hammering. She didn’t want to think about what his absence likely meant.
“Try again. He has to be somewhere in the house,” she said, though she knew deep down that the boys wouldn’t find Thomas inside.
“Look,” Ben said, pointing at the corral.
Nate was in there with some of the horses.
“I wish they’d stand still,” Devon said. “I can’t count ’em!”
“They’re scared,” Connor explained. “Soon as they figure out they’re safe, they’ll calm down.”
“He’s right,” Luke agreed. “Carl told me about a field fire that happened when Nate was a youngster. A bad one that killed a couple of his father’s best horses. Carl said that’s why when Nate built his barn, he installed double doors at the back and a split-rail alleyway that leads into the corral.”
Normally, when these two spouted facts and figures, the others responded with good-natured ribbing. Tonight, their encyclopedic knowledge was strangely comforting to them all.
“Once all the horses are out of the barn,” Connor continued, “Nate will close off the corral gate, so they can’t turn around and run back toward the barn.” By now, the fire had doubled in size and intensity. One look at the flames clawing the sky like malicious witch fingers, and Eden wished she was a robot, because machines couldn’t feel fear. Or heartache. Or dread.
Earlier, when the boys voted to watch a science-fiction movie, Thomas had cursed at them. When she read him the riot act for his language, he’d cursed her, too. So she’d sent him into the seldom-used living room to calm down. Could he be in there?
“Thomas loves fire,” Connor pointed out. And when the others perked up at the statement, he added, “He told me it fascinates him. So it’s highly unlikely he’s inside. Either he’s at a window, watching, or—”
“Listen,” Ben said, “sirens!”
DeShawn harrumphed. “Took ’em long enough.”
Eden held out her arms and the boys joined her in a group hug. “I know you want to help—and I love you for it—but you need to stay here, stay safe. I have to let Nate know that Thomas might be in there.” She nodded toward the barn.
“We ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Carlos said. “Promise.”
Nate had just secured the slide bolt on the corral gate when she ran up. Sweat-streaked soot coated his haggard face and hands as he stomped toward the fence that separated them.
“Didn’t I tell you to stay in the house?”
She held out his jacket. “Put this on. It’s freezing out here and you’re soaked to the skin.”
He hesitated, but only for a moment. “Thanks,” he managed before a coughing jag stopped him.
“Wish I’d thought to bring a bottle of water. You need—”
“What I need is for you to get back to the house,” he choked out, “and take those kids with you.”
“I will, but…” Eden gripped his forearm. “Nate, Thomas is missing.”
He blinked once, twice, and her heart beat double-time as he turned on his heel and disappeared into the rolling black smoke.
As the fire roared, sirens screamed and the blast of a fire engine’s air horn shook the ground. Strobe lights crisscrossed the sky as emergency vehicles raced up the drive—two white-and-gold pumpers, one EMT unit, three police squad cars.
Eden ran up to the first firefighter. “Nate Marshall is in there,” she shouted over the clamor of motors, men shouting, the growl of the inferno, “along with a teenage boy, Thomas Burke.”
He nodded and, voice muffled by his face mask, said, “Where?”
Nate had been in and out of the stall area and would have seen Thomas, if that’s where he’d hidden.
“He’s probably in the loft.”
He signaled his comrades, who charged forward, shouldering axes, pry bars and hoses. “You’re safer in the house,” he said, “and so are those kids, because there could be propane or other combustibles in there.”
Eden jogged back to the boys, whose voices blended in a myriad of questions. Once they’d settled around Nate’s kitchen table, she passed out bottled water and did her best to answer them. Not an easy feat, she admitted, sliding a bag of popcorn into the microwave, since she knew little to nothing, herself.
“Thomas did it, didn’t he?”
“Luke! Why would you ask such a thing?”
“Because when I went in the living room to see if he still had my tablet, he said something about his father and paybacks and justice. I don’t mean to sound cruel, but his ranting was rather difficult to process.”
The boys didn’t talk and barely moved, not even to sip water. The scent of charred wood and popcorn mingled with thin strands of smoke that floated near the overhead light. Outside, firefighters’ shouts merged with the rumble of diesel engines. Inside, just the popcorn popping and the clock counting out the seconds.
The microwave timer dinged, making them all jump.
Eden shook the popcorn into a too-small bowl and put it in the middle of the table. “When did you last see Thomas, Luke?”
“I can’t answer, not with any great accuracy, at any rate.” He glanced at the clock and shrugged. “Thirty to forty-five minutes ago, perhaps?”
More than long enough for Thomas to sneak outside, make his way to the barn and—
A deafening blast rattled dishes in the cupboards, sent a few kernels cascading from the bowl and onto the table. The boys looked from Eden to one another, then to the window wall, eyes wide as they saw the plume of fire, pulsing and roiling above the barn before it merged with existing flames.
Chairs squealed as the boys shoved back from the table.
One silhouette, backlit by the fire, staggered away from the barn. Nate, cradling an unconscious Thomas in his arms.
“If any of you takes a step off this deck, you’ll be grounded until you’re eighteen. I mean it!” she shouted.
And then she ran for all she was worth toward him. She’d just reached him when Nate dropped to his knees. One paramedic took Thomas to a waiting rescue vehicle as another knelt beside Nate.
“Got a problem here,” said the second.
A firefighter stepped up, threw his gloves and helmet to the ground. “What the…” He knelt on the other side of Nate, who met Eden’s eyes.
“Don’t look so scared, kiddo,” he said through clenched teeth. “Thomas is gonna be okay.”
Eyelids fluttering, he slumped forward. If not for the burly men holding tight to his upper arms, he would have landed face-first in the gravel.
When they finally eased him to the ground, Eden stifled a gasp at the sight of a foot-long shard of wood sticking out of his back.
*
THE BOYS OPTED to stay with the Marshalls while Eden went to the radiology unit with Thomas.
He’d carried on something fierce, nearly knocking down one nurse, and Eden had to sign a form giving them permission to sedate him.
“The X-rays show that he inhaled a lot of smoke,” the doctor began. And then he rattled off so much information—carbonaceous sputum, elevated carbon monoxide levels, the potential for acute respiratory distress—that Eden had a hard time processing it.
“He has a few minor burns, but our main concern is the smoke inhalation. We’ll need to keep him, at least overnight, to monitor his symptoms, to ensure we aren’t dealing with anything more serious. We’ll keep him on oxygen and a low dose of benzodiazepine for now, and if his condition doesn’t improve by morning, we may have to treat with corticosteroids.” He pat
ted Eden’s hand. “I know it’s easier said than done, but relax. He’s being monitored closely, and he’ll be fine.”
After scribbling something on Thomas’s chart, he added, “You might as well get some rest and come back in the morning. He’s going to be out of it for quite a while.” Sliding his ballpoint into his lab coat pocket, he lowered his voice and frowned. “The police have already said they want to talk with him, soon as he comes to, find out what he knows about that fire. You might want to be here when they do, so make sure the nurses have your cell number.”
With that, he left her standing beside Thomas’s bed. He looked so peaceful lying there, so young and angelic that it was hard to believe he could have set that fire. And the sad fact was, he probably didn’t understand why any better than she did.
Eden leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Rest well,” she said, while you can.
When she joined the boys and the Marshalls in the surgical waiting room, Devon grabbed her hand.
“Nate’s been in surgery for two hours,” he whispered. “Nobody has told anybody anything. What do you think is going on in there?”
“Waiting is hard,” she said, leading him to the bank of chairs across the room. “I wish I could tell you something, but I’m not family…”
She glanced around the room, at Zach, staring at some unknown spot on the carpet between his boots. At Hank, leafing through a magazine so quickly that the pages created a draft that mussed her bangs. At Carl, who paced like a caged tiger, and the ranch hands who cracked their knuckles. And Nate’s parents, who flinched every time a door opened.
“…I’m not family, so I don’t want to upset them by asking questions.”
She pictured her maternal grandparents on the night her parents were shot. She and Stuart had clung to one another that night, and they’d done the same thing when Gramps had his stroke, and yet again after Gran’s heart attack.
Surely the medical team realized that facts—even vague ones—would be easier for the family to cope with than nothing. How severe were Nate’s internal injuries that they felt the need to shield the Marshalls from the truth? The possibilities were endless, and the longer they waited, the more anxious Eden became.
“How’s Thomas?” DeShawn asked.
Eden explained the situation as best she could without providing too many details.
“They gonna put him in jail?” Carlos wanted to know.
“Why would they do that?” Devon ground out.
“It’s a legitimate question,” Luke said in his customary calm-and-informed manner. “Arson is against the law. The authorities may go easier on him, considering he’s a minor and all, but—”
Mercifully, a doctor entered the waiting area and interrupted Luke’s recitation of the legalities.
“Mr. and Mrs. Marshall?” he said.
Maeve and Royce stood, crossed the room and met him near the hallway doors.
“Barry Tremayne.” He shook their hands. “They’re wrapping up in there, and your son will head into Recovery in a few minutes. Things went better than anticipated, and because he’s young and healthy, he should come through this very well.”
Should? That wasn’t good enough for Eden, but it wasn’t her place to speak up.
“Your son has a mild concussion, a broken jaw and some cracked teeth, probably sustained when he lost his footing on the loft ladder.”
Had he guessed at that, Eden wondered, or had Nate been able to speak before surgery?
“We repaired the punctured lung, but as you likely know, there isn’t much we can do about broken ribs.”
“Broken ribs, too?” Maeve echoed. “How many?”
“Three. And according to the paramedics, it could have been a lot worse. Their report indicates he walked quite a distance, carrying a boy?”
Maeve hid behind her hands.
“Shock and adrenaline,” the doctor said, “pure and simple. No way he could have accomplished that otherwise.”
He glanced at Nate’s chart, then took a deep breath and continued. “The most severe injuries were to his left leg—lacerations, torn meniscus and tendons—and to his left arm. He lost a lot of blood, but we’ve taken care of all that. We don’t anticipate any complications, but if any of you are A-negative, you might want to have a word with his nurse.” He paused, glanced at every worried face in the room and stopped when he saw Eden. “Any questions?”
“How long will he be in recovery?” she asked.
“Oh, another hour or so. I’d say he’s facing five, six days here, at least, followed by several weeks of physical therapy.”
“And restrictions once he’s released?” she pressed.
“Well, he won’t be competing in any rodeos for a good long while, that’s for sure. He’ll need to avoid stairs, lifting, bending…” He winked. “But don’t worry. We’ll send him home with a detailed list of dos and don’ts.”
He took a step backward. “Well, if that’s all, I’ll see if they’ve moved him into Recovery. A nurse will let you know when he’s awake. For now, you might as well grab a bite to eat.” He promised to update them when he made his morning rounds, and left.
Half an hour later, Eden’s phone buzzed. She stepped into the hall to take the call from Thomas’s doctor, informing her that they’d moved him to the psych ward. “And for his own safety, we had to increase the dose of benzodiazepine.”
She knew what that meant: Thomas had come to enough to fight the IVs, and they’d been forced to restrain him.
After thanking the doctor, she sat down beside Zach. “I heard the boys’ stomachs rumbling. With all the…the excitement, they missed supper. They’re tired and scared, too.”
Zach nodded. “Can’t say as I blame ’em.”
“If I try to send them to the cafeteria, they’ll say no. But if you ask them…”
He smiled and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “My folks are in the same boat, so maybe I can kill two birds with one stone.”
“If it’s all right with you, I’ll stay…in case Nate wakes up before they expect him to. Because it’d be awful if no one was there when—”
“You don’t need to explain yourself to me, Eden. I get it.” He gave her hand another squeeze. “And I approve.”
Within minutes, she sat alone in the waiting room, watching news headlines crawl across the bottom of the silent TV screen. Eden switched seats and put her back to it. She had no interest in any announcement, except to hear that Nate was awake.
“Eden Quinn?”
She turned and met the gaze of a middle-aged nurse. Her pink cheeks almost matched her scrubs.
“Mr. Marshall is asking for you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE NURSE WARNED her that Nate would be in rough shape. She hadn’t exaggerated.
A gauze skullcap hid his beautiful golden waves, and his left arm, wrapped in an L-shaped cast, rested on his chest. A canvas sling elevated his left leg. The steady beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor was oddly comforting. The bulging bag that held blood, on the other hand, was not.
“Eden?”
His voice was raspy, no doubt a combination of smoke inhalation and the breathing tubes they’d used during surgery.
She leaned on the safety rail of his bed. “How are you feeling?” The minute the words were out, she felt like an idiot. “Sorry. Just call me the mistress of dumb questions.”
“Knock it off,” he said through wired-shut teeth, “it hurts to smile.”
“How much do you remember?”
“Everything. They say I have a concussion, though, so…”
“Are you in much pain?”
One corner of his mouth lifted in a weak grin. “Let’s just say I’ve felt better.” Then, “How’s Thomas?”
Eden gave him a quick rundown of the boy’s condition, but thought it best not to tell him that Thomas was in the psych ward, drugged, to keep him quiet and still.
“Is my whole family’s here?”
“Pretty much.
” She rattled off the names. “Zach was going to take your parents to the cafeteria, then drive Summer home. Swollen ankles, you know?”
“The boys are down there, too?”
“Of course.” Eden found his hand, and patted it gently. “I can’t believe I’m the first person you asked for.”
His eyes twinkled. “Yes, you can.”
His long-lashed eyelids fluttered and slowly closed. Soft, steady breaths told her he’d fallen asleep.
“Good,” she whispered. “You rest, because—”
A sob choked off the rest of her sentence. Nate was in bad shape, but he was alive. Dropping onto the dusty-pink seat of the plastic recliner beside his bed.
“I love you,” she whispered. Then she rested her forehead on his fingertips and let the grateful tears come.
*
NATE REMEMBERED THIS SENSATION, and he didn’t like it, like riding a roller coaster underwater.
He felt woozy and dry-mouthed and a little afraid. Nate blamed the concussion. The pain. And the meds dulled his senses, but not the constant ache of his injuries. How is this even possible, he wondered, in an age when people could connect electronically from just about any place in the world and astronauts were training for a trip to Mars.
It was the way he’d felt after another accident, years ago. In the morning, when the doc made his rounds, he’d find out how long they’d keep him here. A week, give or take a day, Nate guessed, followed by a couple of months of physical therapy. Older and wiser—and tougher—he wouldn’t slide into that chasm of self-pity and self-recrimination like he did last time, because this time, he had a lifeline.
Had she really stood to his right and whispered “I love you”? Or had he dreamed that? Whether she had or hadn’t, he intended to say it. He’d come close to dying, again. Life was fleeting and precious, and Nate refused to waste one more second of it waiting for things to get perfect.
They’d get past all the misunderstandings, and figure out ways to prevent them in the future. That’s what people who were meant to be together did, right?