by Nora Roberts
He felt the light brush of her hand on his cheek. When he looked down at her face, her lips trembled open. “Don’t—don’t tell my parents,” she whispered. “I don’t want them to worry.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY
He would have wept if it would have helped. He’d tried everything else. Swearing, pacing, praying. Now he could only sit, his head in his hands, and wait.
The Conroys were there. Jed wondered if Dora would be surprised at how tough they were. He doubted it. There had been tears, and there had been terror, but they had all drawn together, a solid wall, in the hospital waiting room to count the minutes while Dora was in surgery.
He’d waited for recriminations. They had given him none. He’d wanted blame. But it hadn’t come from them. Not even when he had stood, smeared with Dora’s blood, and told them that he’d left her alone, left her defenseless, had they blamed him.
He wished to Christ they had.
Instead, John had gotten them all coffee, Lea had gone down to wait for Will to arrive from New York and Quentin and Trixie had sat side by side on the sofa, holding hands.
After the second hour had crawled by, Trixie murmured to her husband. When she received his nod of agreement, she rose and went to sit beside Jed.
“She was always a tough little girl,” Trixie began. “She used to pick fights in school—well, not pick them, precisely, but she never would walk away from one without dignity. It used to amaze me that she would scream like a banshee if she fell and banged her knee. But if she came home with a split lip or a swollen eye, you never heard a peep. A matter of pride, I suppose.”
“This wasn’t her fight.” Jed kept the heels of his hands pressed hard against his eyes. “It shouldn’t have been.”
“That’s for her to decide. She’ll want lots of pampering, you know. She was never sick often, but when she was—” Trixie’s voice broke, betraying her. She mopped quickly at her eyes and steadied it. “When she was, she expected everyone’s devoted attention. Dora’s never been one to suffer in silence.”
Gently she touched the back of his hand. When he lowered it enough, she gripped it firmly. “It’s so much harder to wait alone.”
“Mrs. Conroy . . .” But he didn’t have the words. He simply leaned against her and let himself be held.
They all rose to their feet at the quick slap of crepe-soled shoes on tile. Still in her scrubs, Mary Pat stepped through the doorway. “She’s out of surgery,” she said quickly. “It looks good. The doctor will be out soon.”
It was then Trixie began to cry, with hard, racking sobs and hot tears that burned through Jed’s shirt. His arms went around her automatically as he met Mary Pat’s eyes.
“When can they see her?”
“The doctor will let you know. She’s a tough one, I can tell you that.”
“Didn’t I say so?” Trixie managed. She stumbled blindly into Quentin’s arms so they could weep out their relief together.
* * *
It wasn’t until he was alone again that Jed started to shake. He’d gone outside, had fully intended on going home. It was a time for family, he’d told himself. Now that he knew she was going to pull through it, there was no need to hang around.
But he couldn’t make it across the street to hail a cab, so he sat down on the steps and waited for the tremors to subside. The sleet had turned to snow that fell quick and light and damp. There was something otherworldly about the way it danced in the streetlights, something hypnotic. He stared at one beam of light as he smoked one cigarette, then another. Then he walked back in and rode the elevator to the floor where Dora lay sleeping.
“Figured you’d be back.” Mary Pat smiled at him out of eyes red-rimmed with fatigue. “Damn it, Jed, you’re soaked. Am I going to have to dig up a bed for you?”
“I just want to see her. I know she’s sedated, I know she won’t know I’m there. I just want to see her.”
“Let me get you a towel.”
“MP.”
“You’re going to dry off first,” she told him. “Then I’ll take you in.”
She was as good as her word. When she was satisfied he was dry enough, she led him into Dora’s room.
Dora lay, still and white as death. Jed’s heart careered into his throat. “Are you sure she’s going to be all right?”
“She’s stabilized, and there were no complications. Dr. Forsythe’s good. Believe me.” She didn’t want to think about the amount of blood they’d had to pump into Dora, or how long it had taken to get that feeble pulse to steady. “The bullet’s out—and there’s some tissue damage, but it’ll heal. She’s going to be weak as a baby for a while, and she’s going to hurt.”
“I don’t want her to hurt.” His control slipped a dangerous notch. “You make sure she gets whatever she needs so she isn’t in pain.”
“Why don’t you just sit with her for a while?” Mary Pat ran a soothing hand up and down his back. “It’ll make you feel better.”
“Thanks.”
“I go off duty in an hour. I’ll check back.”
But when she did, one look had her stepping back and leaving them alone.
He was still there in the morning.
She awakened slowly, as if swimming toward the surface of still, dark water. The air seemed too thick to breathe, and there was a whooshing sound in her head like waves lapping gently on the shore.
He watched her break through, every flicker of the eyelid. Her hand flexed once in his, then lay still again.
“Come on, Dora, don’t go back yet.” He brushed his fingers over her hair, over her cheek. She was still too pale, he thought, much too pale. But her lashes fluttered again, then her eyes opened. He waited for them to focus.
“Jed?” Her voice sounded hollow, lifeless, and the sound of it almost broke him.
“Yeah, baby. Right here.”
“I had a nightmare.” He pressed a kiss to her hand, fighting the need to simply lay his head on the bed and let go.
“It’s all right now.”
“It seemed awfully real. I—Oh God!” She shifted, sending an arrow of pain radiating through her arm.
“You’ve got to lie still.”
Like the pain, memory burst back. “He shot me. Jesus.” She started to move her hand to the fire blooming in her shoulder, but he clamped his fingers on hers. “It was Finley.”
“It’s all over now. You’re going to be fine.”
“I’m in the hospital.” The panic came quickly, surging along with the pain. “How—how bad?”
“They fixed you all up. You just need to rest now.” None of his fourteen years on the force had prepared him to deal with the terrified pain clouding her eyes. “I’m going to get a nurse.”
“I remember.” Her fingers trembled as she groped to hang onto his. “He was in the apartment, waiting for me. He wanted the painting back. I told him I didn’t know where it was, and he shot me.”
“He won’t ever hurt you again. I swear it.” He pressed his brow against their joined hands and felt himself crack. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”
But she was swimming down through the dark water again, away from the pain. “Don’t leave me alone here.”
“I won’t.”
The next time he saw her conscious, she was surrounded by flowers, banks and bouquets of them from sweet little nosegays to towering exotic blooms. Rather than the drab hospital gown, she was wearing something frilly and pink. Her hair was washed and she was wearing makeup.
But to Jed she looked horribly frail.
“How you doing, Conroy?”
“Hi.” She smiled and held out a hand. “How’d you break in? They’re vicious about proper visiting hours around here.”
“I pulled rank.” He hesitated. The hand in his felt as fragile as bird wings. “If you’re too tired, I can stop back by later.”
“No, if you stay you can chase them away when they come in with their needles.”
“Sure, my pleasure.” Mis
erably awkward, he turned away to study the forest of flowers. “Looks like you ought to go into a different business.”
“Great, isn’t it? I love being fawned over.” She shifted, winced and was grateful his back was to her. “You ratted on me, Skimmerhorn.”
“What?”
“You told my family.”
“I figured it was better than having them read it in the papers.”
“You’re probably right. So what’s happening in your world? Mary Pat tells me you kicked Goldman out early and went back to work.”
“Yeah.” He’d had to have something filling his days, or go quietly mad.
“Can I see your badge?”
“What?”
“Really.” She smiled again. “Can I see it?”
“Sure.” He pulled out his shield as he crossed to the bed. She took it, studied it, opened and closed it a couple of times.
“Pretty cool. How does it feel?”
“Right,” he told her as he slipped it back into his pocket. There was no possible way he could stand there and make small talk when he kept seeing the stark white bandage peeking out beneath that frilly pink nightgown. “Listen, I just stopped by to see how you were doing. I’ve got to go.”
“Before you give me my present?” When he said nothing, she drummed up another smile, though it was becoming harder as her medication wore off. “That box you’re holding? Isn’t it for me?”
“Yeah, it’s for you.” He set it on her lap. “I’ve been by a couple of times when you were zonked out. After I saw the flower shop in here, I figured you wouldn’t need any more posies.”
“You can never have too many.” She reached for the fussy bow, then sat back again. “Give me a hand, will you? I have a little trouble using my arm.”
He didn’t move, but his eyes were eloquent. “They told me there wouldn’t be any permanent damage.”
“Right.” Her mouth moved into a pout. “Like a scar isn’t permanent damage. I’m never going to look the same in a bikini.”
He couldn’t handle it, simply couldn’t. Turning abruptly, he strode to the window and stared blindly out with the heavy scent of roses tormenting him.
“I should have been there,” he managed after a moment. “You shouldn’t have been alone.”
His voice was so angry, his shoulders so stiff, that Dora waited for the storm. When it didn’t come, she plucked at the bow with her good hand. “From what Brent tells me, Finley slipped right through LAPD. Nobody had a clue he’d left California. I don’t see how anyone could have imagined he’d waltz right into my apartment and shoot me.”
“It’s my job to know.”
“So, it’s going to your head already. What do they call that super-cop thing—the John Wayne syndrome, right?” She’d managed to pull and tug the ribbon off and was lifting the top off the box when he turned. “Well, pilgrim,” she said in a very poor Wayne imitation. “You just can’t be everywhere at once.” Though her arm was beginning to throb, she dug happily into the tissue paper. “I love presents, and I’m not ashamed to say so. I don’t particularly care to get shot to . . . Oh, Jed, it’s beautiful.”
Stunned, really completely stunned, she lifted out the old wooden-and-gesso box, delicately painted and gilded with figures from mythology. When she opened the lid, it played “Greensleeves” softly.
“It was hanging around in storage.” He dipped his hands into his pockets and felt like a fool. “I figured you’d get a kick out of it.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said again, and the look she sent him was so sincerely baffled he felt even more foolish. “Thank you.”
“It’s no big deal. I figured you could put junk in it while you’re stuck in here. I’ve really got to take off. You, ah, need anything?”
She continued to run her fingers over the box as she looked at him. “I could use a favor.”
“Name it.”
“Can you pull some strings, get me out of here?” It shamed her to feel tears pricking at her eyes. “I want to go home.”
It took him several hours, and a great deal of negotiation, but Dora finally laid her head down on her own pillow, in her own bed.
“Thank you, God.” Dora closed her eyes, sighed deeply, then opened them again to smile at Mary Pat. “Nothing against your workplace, MP, but personally, I hated it.”
“You weren’t exactly the ideal patient either, kiddo. Open up.” She stuck a thermometer in Dora’s mouth.
“I was a jewel,” Dora muttered.
“A diamond in the rough, maybe. Very rough. But I’m not going to complain; a few days of private duty suits me just fine.” Efficiently, she wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around Dora’s uninjured arm. “Right on the money,” she announced when she took the thermometer out to read. But Dora caught the quick frown over blood pressure.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing that quiet and rest won’t fix.”
“I’ve been quiet. I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but I’m tired of being in bed.”
“Live with it.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, Mary Pat took her hand—and her pulse. “I’m going to be straight with you, Dora. You’re going to be just fine with the proper rest and care. But this wasn’t any skinned knee. If Jed hadn’t gotten you in when he did, you wouldn’t be here to complain. As it was, it was close.”
“I know. I remember it all a bit too clearly for comfort.”
“You’re entitled to moan and bitch. I won’t mind a bit. But you’re also going to follow orders, to the letter, or I’ll report you to the captain.”
Dora smiled a little. “You nurses have ranks?”
“I’m talking about Jed, dimwit. He’s financing this operation.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’ve got round-the-clock home care for as long as you need it, courtesy of Captain J. T. Skimmerhorn.”
“But—I thought insurance was arranging it.”
“Get real.” Chuckling at the thought, Mary Pat plumped the pillows, smoothed the sheets. “Now, get some rest. I’m going to go fix you something to eat.”
“He shouldn’t feel guilty,” Dora murmured when Mary Pat started out of the room.
Mary Pat stopped, looked back. “He feels a lot more than guilt where you’re concerned. Did you know he didn’t leave the hospital for the first forty-eight hours?”
“No.” Dora looked down at her hands. “I didn’t.”
“Or that he checked on you every night.”
Dora only shook her head.
“A lot of women wait their whole lives for someone to feel that guilty.”
Alone, Dora reached for the music box. She opened the lid, closed her eyes and wondered what to do.
At the end of her shift, Mary Pat passed her patient’s progress on to her replacement. But she didn’t consider herself off duty yet. Marching across the hall, she rapped sharply on Jed’s door. When Jed opened it, she jabbed a finger into his chest.
“Couldn’t you find the energy to walk across the Goddamn hall and—” She broke off, scowling. “What are you doing?”
“I’m packing.”
Darts of righteous fury shot out of her eyes. “The hell you are.” Incensed, she stomped over and upended a box of books onto the floor. “You’re not walking out on her when she’s flat on her back and defenseless.”
“I’m not walking out.” He struggled for calm. He’d convinced himself, very logically, that what he was doing, he was doing for Dora. “She asked me to leave. It’s only going to upset her if she finds out I haven’t moved yet.”
Mary Pat fisted her hands on her hips. “You’re an idiot. I can almost accept that. But I never thought you were a coward.”
“Back off, MP.”
“Not a chance. Can you stand there and tell me you’re not in love with her?”
He reached for a cigarette. Mary Pat snatched it out of his hand and broke it in two. He glared. She glared right back.
“No, I can’t. But tha
t’s not the point. The doctor was real clear about keeping her free from stress. She doesn’t need me hanging around upsetting her.”
“Sit down. Sit down, damn it.” She gave him a quick shove. “I’m going to tell you exactly what she needs.”
“Fine.” He slumped into a chair. “I’m sitting.”
“Have you ever told her you loved her?”
“I don’t see that that’s any of your business.”
“I didn’t think so.” Impatient, she took a quick turn around the room, barely preventing herself from kicking his weight bench. “Have you ever picked her wildflowers?”
“It’s fucking February.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” She turned on him, slapped both hands on the arm of his chair to cage him in. “I’ll lay odds you never lit candles for her, or took her for a walk by the river, or brought her some silly present.”
“I gave her a damn music box.”
“Not enough. She needs to be wooed.”
Incredibly, he felt a flush creeping up on his neck. “Give me a break.”
“I’d like to break your butt, but I’m sworn to heal. You almost lost her.”
His eyes whipped up, sharp as a sword. “Don’t you think I know that? I wake up in a sweat every night remembering how close it was.”
“Then do something positive. Show her what she means to you.”
“I don’t want to push myself on her when she’s vulnerable.”
Mary Pat rolled her eyes. “Then you are stupid.” Feeling sorry for him, she kissed him. “Find some wildflowers, Jed. My money’s on you.”
The box arrived the following afternoon.
“More presents,” Lea announced, struggling to shove the huge box across the living room to where Dora sat on the couch. “I’m thinking of getting shot myself—as long as it’s a flesh wound.”