Redemption's Touch (Kimani Romance)

by Ann Christopher

  She crept closer, her hands itching to touch him and provide some comfort, but her mangled pride kept her on a short leash. So she hovered, trying to be the voice of calm in his crisis.

  “So we need to get to the hospital.”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll drive you.”

  He nodded again.

  “You should get dress—”

  Suddenly he looked up at her, his eyes dry but way too bright, almost feral. “He’ll be okay, won’t he?”

  It would have been so nice to lie, but she couldn’t do that. If nothing else, he deserved the truth. “I don’t know,” she said helplessly.

  A third nod, and then his face twisted and he rested his forehead against his hands again. His shoulders heaved, and that was more than she could take. Whether he was a jerk or not—and they would get to the bottom of that issue sooner or later—he needed her now. And as she’d already discovered last night, she couldn’t turn away from this man.

  She put a hand on his nape, caressing the soft, damp thatch of dreadlocks and trying to soothe him, just a little. He looked up again, but now he didn’t seem so lost in his pain. He studied her, his gaze searching her face for unknowable things. And then he tried to smile.

  “Most holy, huh?”

  That got her. She almost laughed. “I’m a regular angel.”

  “I know,” he said, serious now, and then he pulled her to him.

  Pressing his cheek to her breasts, he held her and she held him back, and she forgot, or maybe decided not to remember, that she’d spent most of last night hating his guts and swearing that she’d never let him, or any other man, get to her again.

  “Thank you, angel,” he whispered.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, pulling him closer.

  Arianna navigated the endless maze of colored tape on the floor, turning right here and left there, leading them into the depths of the building that could very well be the place where his father died. Dawson trailed after her, feeling lost and also somehow found, and he couldn’t shake the unaccountable certainty that things could only be so bad if Arianna was with him. After an elevator ride, they arrived outside a section of the hospital with an ominous overhead sign: Neuro-ICU.

  He checked at the juncture of the nurses’ station and the waiting area, his feet incapable of taking him through those double doors.

  Jesus, Pop. I don’t want it to end like this.

  “I found him,” Arianna announced.

  She veered into a large private room just off the main waiting area, with Dawson on her heels. The small, tasteful sign to this private enclave, he noted with disgust, identified it as the Reynolds Warner Lounge. Typical. His so-called family threw their money around and ruled whichever tiny corner of the world they could reach.

  The generalized surliness that was as much a part of his genetic makeup as his height and bone structure kicked in, and he hovered in the doorway, frozen with an indecision that only grew when he saw the avid faces all around the room. Wasn’t this just a cozy little extension of the scene in the library this morning? Sofas and chairs; scowls and coffee. The only things that’d changed were the locale and the paper cups that substituted for Arnetta’s fine china.

  Like magic, every expression darkened when they saw him, every mouth thinned. He told himself it didn’t matter—would never matter—but it did.

  Well…screw them.

  Backing up a step, he addressed Arianna, the only one worth a damn out of the whole bunch. “I’ll just wait out here—”

  Imperious Andrew, sitting on a chair in the corner by the window, looking like some third-world despot posing for a statue, snorted. “What’s the matter, Joshua? I thought you were so anxious to claim your rightful place. Why not stay in the Warner lounge with the Warners? Afraid we might have some words for you—”

  “Andrew,” Arianna snarled.

  “—or that someone might point out that this is your fault?”

  Heat shot up Dawson’s face, a blast of scorching orange lava from some emotional volcano deep inside him. Andrew was right, of course, and they all knew it. This was Dawson’s fault, and his malignant spite was to blame for the old man lying in the hospital bed down the hall. And if Bishop died—

  No. He wouldn’t go there.

  He wouldn’t be shamed. Not here, not by Andrew. He’d survived things in prison that would make a lesser man, like Andrew, scuttle under the table and curl into the fetal position, and he’d survive the awkwardness of this moment, where the truth was the worst possible weapon against him.

  Leveling his hardest gaze at his half brother—You want a piece of me, man? Well, bring it—he strode all the way into the room and brought the subject around to the only thing that mattered right now.

  “How is he, Arnetta?”

  Poor Arnetta was so shell-shocked and grave, her color so translucently pale, her eyes so wide with bewilderment, that she didn’t answer. Her silver-fox bob was ruffled, as though she’d been running her hands through it, and she seemed beyond tears or emotion, beyond anything but staunch terror. She sat alone on a love seat, her rigid spine not touching the back, and the place beside her, where Bishop would normally sit, was empty.

  “Arnetta?” he repeated softly.

  Arianna was already in motion. Sweeping past Dawson with a flutter of her skirt and the fleeting scent of flowers, she took Arnetta’s hand and settled beside her. This roused Arnetta enough to blink and look around at Arianna, to flash her the quick beginnings of a reassuring smile.

  Eric, meanwhile, took mercy on Dawson, though he didn’t look particularly happy about it. “The surgeon was in right before you came. He’s had a transient ischemic attack—a TIA.”

  “A mini stroke?” Dawson wasn’t sure whether this was good news or bad.

  “Basically,” Eric agreed. “He’s got major blockages in his carotid arteries. They’re prepping him for surgery.”

  Holy shit. “What—now?”

  This seemed to be more than Andrew could take. Uncurling from his chair, he walked toward Dawson and didn’t stop until he was right in his face. “Yeah, now. That seemed like the best option, seeing as how they’re trying to save his life.” He sneered. “Not that you care one way or the other.”

  The low-level buzzing Dawson had been hearing reached a crescendo and burst open, as though a hornet’s nest had exploded inside his head. Without thought, he lunged for Andrew’s throat and the two of them clashed with the force of charging sumo wrestlers. “No,” cried one of the women, but Dawson was impervious to everything but the need to reach down Andrew’s throat and pull his tongue out by the roots.

  They struggled together, ricocheting off one wall and hitting another, Eric trying to come between them and giving it a good effort, the women hovering. Dawson saw nothing but the rage-distorted face of the man he’d grown up with and loved like a brother. The man who’d turned his back on him years ago and blamed him now. The man whose betrayal had hurt the worst next to Bishop’s.

  The man whose features he was going to rearrange into mincemeat.

  Jerking one arm free and balling his fist, ready to launch Andrew into next month, Dawson hit something with his elbow. Arianna yelped.

  That one moment of clarity cut through Dawson’s rage and left a stark terror that made the news of Bishop’s collapse seem like a Candygram.

  Not Arianna, God.

  Wheeling around, he discovered her in a sprawled heap on the floor, rubbing her shoulder and grimacing. Dawson hit the floor beside her, propelled by some combination of his knees giving way and the raw, desperate need to make sure he hadn’t hurt her.

  “Jesus.” He examined her in minute detail, looking for a bump or a bruise. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Get off me.”

  She smacked his hands away, bristling with impatience and struggling to roll over and get up on her own power. Screw that. Dawson lunged up first, hauling her with him—God, he’d forgotten how small she was—and did
n’t let go until he was sure she had her feet back under her. The babbling continued.

  “Are you okay, baby?” He ran his hand over her bare shoulder again but saw no outward signs of damage, but you just never knew. Could he have torn her rotator cuff or something? “Maybe you should get checked out while we’re here.”

  Arianna planted her palms on his chest and leaned into a push that nearly slammed him against the wall. “I said, Get off me!” She divided her glare equally between him and Andrew. “Aren’t things bad enough without you two clowns brawling like this is a playground?”

  Dawson flinched with increased shame, but Andrew kept right on trucking, one dark eyebrow on the rise as he stared at Dawson with open speculation. “Baby?”

  Arianna pointed her manicured index finger at Andrew’s nose. “Don’t you start again—”

  “What’s, ah, going on in here?”

  They all looked around as a guy wearing scrubs and god-awful orange Crocs strolled into the room. Nurse, doctor, physician’s assistant, it was impossible to tell. All Dawson knew was that, judging from the suspicious and disapproving light in the dude’s eyes, he was one second away from calling security.

  Recovering quickly, Dawson smoothed his clothes and pretended he was calm. “Family discussion,” he said idly. “Happens all the time.”

  The medical professional’s gaze swung around to Andrew for confirmation.

  Andrew produced a crooked smile. “You heard the man.”

  “Right.” The guy narrowed his eyes and flashed warnings in all their directions—Behave or I’ll bounce you on your asses, Warner family or not—before he came to the reason for his appearance. “Is there a Josh in here? Mr. Bishop wants to see you before the procedure.”

  Dawson stepped forward. “I’m Joshua,” he said, because suddenly he was.

  “I want to prepare you a little bit.” The guy’s expression sobered, slamming the door firmly shut on the possibility of any good news, at least for now. And here Dawson had thought he’d maxed out on the whole scared thing for the day, but no. “Mr. Bishop is awake and lucid, but his speech is a little garbled right now—”

  A ripple of alarm made its way around the room, touching everyone.

  “—and it’s too soon to say how extensive the problem is, or how long it’ll last. Okay? And the other thing is,” he continued, “that we’ve got him prepped for surgery, so you know he’s got an IV line and—”

  “We understand.” Dawson tried to keep the impatience out of his voice, but it was hard when he couldn’t shake the terrible certainty that his father was down the hall dying while they were in here yakking. “Where is he?”

  They all trooped after the guy and passed through the automatic metal doors into the Neuro-ICU itself. It didn’t seem to have occurred to anyone else that Bishop had asked for Dawson and not the entire gang, and Dawson did not, for once, have the heart to do the vindictive thing and tell them all to get the hell out. Much to his surprise, his spite only went so far, and keeping Bishop’s loved ones away at this crucial hour turned out to be a line even he wouldn’t cross.

  They passed several windowed and curtained rooms, all filled with people who looked to be in the kind of dire medical straits that required a priest, minister or rabbi—possibly all three—and then Dawson saw him, in the farthest room.

  The nurse or whoever walked right in and beelined for the bed, but Dawson hung back, hovering in the open doorway. The others didn’t even come that far. He almost wished he could duck behind them and send them in first. Once they made sure Bishop wasn’t dying, not today, not yet, then Dawson would be happy to go in. If that made him a coward, then he was happy to paint his belly yellow right now.

  The indecisive lingering might have gone on forever, but then, from the depths of the bed, Bishop turned his head and looked at him. Raising a shaky hand to beckon him closer, Bishop opened and closed his mouth. Once. Twice. Three times. Only a jumbled growl came out. On the fourth try, long about the time Dawson felt hot tears burning his eyes and an excruciating knot of pity and embarrassment collecting in his throat, Bishop produced something intelligible.

  “Josh-a.”

  Still Dawson couldn’t move. The awful shock of seeing this hospital room, the white-sheeted adjustable bed, the beeping monitors and instruments, the multiple IVs with tubes snaking down to the taped and gnarled back of Bishop’s hand, and there, almost as an afterthought amongst all that medical stuff, the tiny old man with the white hair, was too much for Dawson. He was overcome with emotion and choked by a sob that wouldn’t quite rise up and wouldn’t quite slide down.

  This whole time he’d thought he hated the old man. Huh. Yeah. Sure. Right now the only thought in his head was that if he could unstick his feet from the floor he’d run to the bed and beg his daddy not to die on him.

  “Josh-a,” Bishop said again, that hand still extended to him.

  Something brushed by Dawson and squeezed into the room past him, jarring him just enough to look around, blink and recover some of his senses. Arianna was there, thinking faster than him, lightening the room and the situation the way she always did.

  “I’ve got a few words for you, Bishop.” She breezed right up to that bed like she visited hospitals and critical-care units every day of her life, the way Dawson imagined she’d greet Bishop if she ran into him in the rose garden and they stopped to admire a butterfly together. “You scared us half to death, you know that? Don’t you do that again, okay?”

  She took that outstretched hand and squeezed it, and then she leaned over the bed and hugged Bishop around the shoulders, kissing his forehead. She wasn’t scared. And Bishop tilted his chin up and beamed at her as though she were the sun and the moon, the stars and the universe, all tucked into one beautiful hundred-pound package.

  Dawson stared at the two of them.

  “Did the doctors talk to you about your blockages?” Arianna continued. “They’re about to run you into the O.R. and get you fixed up. I imagine they’ve got some Drano in there or something.”

  Bishop tried to smile, but things with his mouth weren’t working that well at the moment, and he wound up with a lopsided grimace that was still a comfort to Dawson. Because his father was still here, still in there. That hadn’t changed. The body may have been damaged a little, but a spirit like that would surely shine forever.

  Arianna kissed Bishop’s cheek again and soothed his forehead with rhythmic strokes of her hand. “So you need to focus on getting well soon, okay?” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Aunt Arnetta is already running amok. While we were out there in the waiting room, she called Cook and asked her to fix her some cinnamon rolls for dessert tonight. We can’t have that.”

  Bishop rumbled an indistinct warning and scrunched his face into a glower. No one within a five-mile radius of that expression could mistake that warning: You damn well better make sure Arnetta Warner doesn’t try anything sneaky while my back is turned. For good measure, he shook his head darkly.

  Arianna got the message. “I can only hold her off for so long, Bishop. You’re the only one who can handle that woman. So you get well. You got it?”

  Bishop opened his mouth with painstaking effort. “Ga. It.”

  For the first time Arianna faltered, and her face crumpled, just a little. “Oh, Bishop,” she murmured, sniffling.

  But Bishop didn’t have time for sentimentality now, and he turned his head toward the door again, his expression immovable, but his eyes fierce. That hand went out again. “J-Josh-a.”

  Arianna snapped back to attention and looked around, matching and probably exceeding Bishop in the ferocity department. “Joshua,” she said, extending her own arm. Her voice was loud and clear as a bell forged from iron, and even with all his emotions gone haywire, Dawson didn’t miss her determined use of his real name. “Your father would like to see you before he goes into his surgery.”

  So Dawson went. If Arianna could go into that room and touch Bishop, then so c
ould he. If she could be brave, then so could he. If she could handle a crisis, then he damn sure wasn’t going to cower in the doorway.

  When he got to the bed, Arianna put her hand to his back to pull him closer. When he reached the point where closer would have put him under the blankets with Bishop, she kept her hand there, in the small of his back, and it was a warm hand, a hand infused with the quiet strength of a mountain. And swear to God, he felt a billionth of her strength flow into his body and he soaked it up, greedy and needy.

  “Josh-a,” Bishop said again, craning his neck to meet his gaze.

  They stared at each other, each stricken with unwanted silence. Between the two of them, unsaid words accumulated and hovered, threatening to fall to the linoleum floor with a clatter.

  For the first time since he and God parted ways, on that horrific day when the prison bars slammed shut against him for a crime he hadn’t committed, Dawson sent up a real, fervent prayer: Please, God, don’t let this man die on the table. I’m begging you. Give me one more chance with him.

  And God, who must have been having a slow day, whispered to him.

  Touch him, Joshua.

  So Dawson took his father’s hand.

  And when Bishop squeezed it, long and hard, he squeezed back.

  Chapter 8

  The waiting started.

  Arianna spent a lot of time trying not to count every second or wonder how Bishop’s eighty-plus-year-old heart was holding up under the anesthetic. When that didn’t work, she tried not to think of scalpels and needles, blockages and the possibility of stroke during the procedure. No luck with that, either. Ditto with trying not to think about where Dawson had disappeared to and what he must be going through this very second.

  When the family—now joined by Andrew’s wife, Viveca, and Eric’s wife, Isabella, who’d cut short their zoo visit and dropped the children at home with the housekeeper—went down to the cafeteria for a late lunch, Arianna ducked out. She’d had vague thoughts of sticking around in case Dawson reappeared and fisticuffs broke out again, but why? Dawson was gone and Viveca and Izzy, who could surely handle any Warner male–induced emergency, were there.