By Your Side

“Wow. Calvert really captures the intensity of the drama that our crisis volunteers face out on the streets with cops and firefighters every day.
By Your Side
will be my standard gift this year for every occasion, and even for no occasion.”

 
—DAVID VINCENT, DIRECTOR OF US CRISIS CARE

“Candace Calvert has created the perfect recipe for medical romance. A tenacious but vulnerable heroine. A dashing but troubled hero. A pulse-pounding story. But most importantly, a generous helping of hope.”

 
—JORDYN REDWOOD, AUTHOR OF THE BLOODLINE TRILOGY

“[
By Your Side
] is a wonderful love story, a super tribute to emergency workers in general, to chaplains specifically, and an honest portrayal of faith in the lives of hurting people.”

 
—JANICE CANTORE, AUTHOR OF
CRITICAL PURSUIT
AND
ACCUSED

“
Life Support
is a fast-moving novel that explores the dynamics of family and faith. Believable and endearing characters alongside family disputes and critical medical crises make this book hard to put down.”

 
—
ROMANTIC TIMES

“In
Life Support
, Candace Calvert provides authentic medical thrills from characters so real you miss them when you turn the last page.”

 
—RICHARD L. MABRY, MD, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF
HEART FAILURE
AND
STRESS TEST

“Calvert’s adventuresome story of romance and drama infuses faith into her characters’ motivations and makes readers eager for more.”

 
—
BOOKLIST
ON
RESCUE TEAM

“Candace Calvert makes hearts race, raises anxiety levels, and heightens emotions
 
—all against doctor’s orders
 
—but it seems to be an ultimate cure for anyone in need of their reading fix!”

 
—RELZ REVIEWZ

“Just like an outstanding episode of
Grey’s Anatomy
,
Trauma Plan
weaves medical, community, and personal issues with blossoming romance and strands of mystery.”

 
—
BOOKLIST

“
Trauma Plan
is a humor-filled romance, woven throughout with suspense, medical intrigue, and faith. Readers will look forward to the rest of the Grace Medical series.”

 
—
ROMANTIC TIMES
, 4½ STAR REVIEW

“Calvert . . . infuses her story with detailed medical procedures and terminology along with honest questions
about faith that anyone might ask in the face of difficulties. The characters are likable and receive rich and thorough development in this enjoyable ‘hope opera’ page-turner.”

 
—
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
ON
TRAUMA PLAN

“Candace Calvert has crafted another gut-grabbing medical thriller.
Trauma Plan
kept me engrossed from beginning to end. . . . The faith message was clear, the medical traumas heart-stopping, and the romance heart melting.”

 
—LYNETTE EASON, AWARD-WINNING, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE WOMEN OF JUSTICE SERIES

“If you need an infusion of hospital drama,
Code Triage
is just the prescription.”

 
—IRENE HANNON, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE HEROES OF QUANTICO SERIES

“[
Critical Care
] flows well and keeps the reader’s attention. . . . Characters find not only psychological healing, but also spiritual renewal.”

 
—
CHRISTIAN RETAILING

“If you like
ER
and
House
, you’ll love Logan and Claire and their friends at Sierra Mercy [in
Critical Care
]. Give me another dose, and soon!”

 
—SUSAN MAY WARREN, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF
HAPPILY EVER AFTER
AND
TAKE A CHANCE ON ME

Visit Tyndale online at
www.tyndale.com
.

Visit Candace Calvert’s website at
www.candacecalvert.com
.

TYNDALE
and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

By Your Side

Copyright © 2015 by Candace Calvert. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph of man copyright © laflor/iStockphoto. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph of police uniform copyright © George Doyle/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph of red lights © Image Source/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph of woman copyright © Maridav/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph of operating room copyright © Monkey Business Images/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.

Designed by Mark Anthony Lane II

Edited by Sarah Mason

Published in association with the literary agency of Natasha Kern Literary Agency, Inc., P.O. Box 1069, White Salmon, WA 98672.

Scripture taken from the Holy Bible,
New International Version
,
®
NIV
.
®
Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.
®
Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.
www.zondervan.com
.

By Your Side
is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Calvert, Candace, date.

  By your side / Candace Calvert.

    pages ; cm.
 
—  (Crisis team ; #1)

  Summary: ER nurse Macy Wynn learned essential, gritty lessons in the California foster care system: Land on your feet and trust no one. She’s finally located the fellow foster child she loves like a sister, but the girl’s in deep trouble. Macy’s determined to help, no matter what it takes. Her motto is to “make it happen” in any situation life throws at her
 
—even when she butts heads with an idealistic cop. Deputy Fletcher Holt believes in a higher plan, the fair outcome
 
—and his ability to handle that by himself if necessary. Now he’s been yanked from Houston, his mother is battling cancer, and he’s attracted to a strong-willed nurse who could be the target of a brutal sniper. When everything goes wrong, where do they put their trust?

  ISBN 978-1-4143-9032-1 (sc)

  I. Title.

  PS3603.A4463B9 2015

  813'.6
 
—dc23                                                             2014033702

ISBN 978-1-4964-0365-0 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-9033-8 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4964-0366-7 (Apple)

For the heroes of law enforcement and crisis chaplaincy, whose courage, heart, and selfless dedication offer hope to their communities.

Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.

MATTHEW 7:7

“O
FFICER,
HELP
!
”

Deputy Fletcher Holt spotted a woman waving her arms overhead, a frantic flash of purple in the crush of idling cars. Sacramento’s afternoon rush hour had been brought to a tire-squealing halt by an overturned gravel truck blocking all four southbound lanes. He’d seen it happen in his rearview mirror.

“We need you . . .” The woman’s voice strained over a continual, indignant barrage of car horns. “Over here!”

Fletcher signaled back, then broke into a jog, sucking in a breath made acrid by asphalt, car exhaust, and burnt rubber. Sweat trickled beneath his protective vest despite the mild, early June weather. He’d been headed to the Florin substation, end of watch, when the dump truck did its kamikaze dive across the freeway, causing at least a dozen
vehicles to skid on gravel and bounce against each other like a Six Flags bumper car ride. It was Highway Patrol’s jurisdiction, but there was no way he’d drive on and not help. In the last ten minutes, he’d set out flares, offered his assistance to the arriving CHP officers, and now
 
—

A horn blared: vintage M-class BMW, its driver wearing a business suit, sunglasses, and an openly belligerent look. “What’s the deal? When can we get out of here?”

“Hang on. . . . They’re working on it,” Fletcher huffed, the edge in his voice coming from more than physical exertion.
You’re not the only one who’s got someplace else to be, buddy.
“Stay with your car
 
—be patient, okay?”

He pushed his stride and covered the last dozen yards, coming to a halt beside the vehicle of the woman who’d waved to him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, noting that she appeared unharmed. “You called for help?”

“Not for me,” she explained, turning to point toward the far lane. “Over there, that van. I think someone’s hurt.”

Fletcher spotted a clutch of people, phone cameras held aloft. No surprise social media was getting a look before first responders. Tweet-a-wreck.

“Thank you. Stay with your car,” Fletcher told the woman, relieved to hear sirens in the distance. Paramedics. Amazingly, the truck driver had climbed from the cab without a scratch. And as far as Fletcher knew, there had been no serious injuries. Hopefully that mercy would continue.

“Cop’s here!” someone announced as Fletcher approached the vehicle. Even from several yards away, he saw the shattered window and crumpled side panel. It
was an older-model minivan with a faded business stencil. Balloons, kites . . .
kids?

Yes.

Little faces pressed against the remaining windows. And another child was on the ground beside the van. A young woman knelt alongside, offering aid. A teacher? Probably not, the way she was dressed. Black hair, sort of pulled up in a loose knot, a short blue skirt . . . long stretch of bare leg, high heels. None of it meant for herding kids or crawling around on a gritty freeway.

The young woman turned for a second to gaze across the lanes. Her white top was smeared with blood.

F
LETCHER DROPPED TO ONE KNEE
beside the woman. She was still intently focused on the victim in her care: a girl maybe kindergarten age. Blood trickled from beneath the child’s brown bangs, down her cheek, and onto a frilly pink T-shirt. Her eyes were closed.

“Is she unconscious?”

“No, she rouses.” The woman, probably in her midtwenties, tore her attention away from the child and met Fletcher’s gaze at last. “Alert enough to tell me her name. Annie Sims. But I suspect she has a concussion at the very least. I phoned 911 right away.”

“Medics have already been dispatched, and I just radioed an update,” Fletcher confirmed, blindsided by her striking features: inky hair, high cheekbones, dark brows and lashes framing incredible eyes. He’d never seen that color before:
amber, he’d call it. Almost catlike in shape. He realized he was staring and turned toward the van. “The other kids . . . they’re okay?”

“Five others. All fine, according to the driver and the two field trip chaperones. I haven’t been inside.” The woman’s capable hands, blotched with blood, cradled the little girl’s head, gently stabilizing it. “As soon as I saw the driver carrying her out, I ran over to help, of course.” There was something in her tone that said she’d expect nothing less of herself. Or anyone else worth breathing in this world.

“Your vehicle
 
—you
 
—not injured?”

“Oh. Yes, fine.” She peered across the freeway lanes as if she’d forgotten how she got here. “We’re fine.”

We.
Her passenger stayed with the car, Fletcher figured.

“The driver said the impact threw Annie sideways against a row of seats,” she continued. “The cut on her forehead is from the broken glass. She shouldn’t have been moved without stabilizing her neck.” The child stirred, whimpered, and the woman gently stroked her temple with a thumb. “That gravel truck hit the van broadside just before it tipped over and went sliding. I saw the whole thing, Deputy
 
—” her eyes found his name tag
 
—“Holt.”

“A tire blowout, looked like,” Fletcher told her. “CHP’s handling things. It’s good of you to help, ma’am, but
 
—”

“Macy.” The amber eyes met his. “Macy Wynn.” Fletcher sensed it was more of a correction than an introduction. She’d offered no smile, only a continuing concern for her young charge. This woman could be the poster child for Good Samaritans.

“Okay. Macy, then,” Fletcher acknowledged. “We ap
preciate your help. But I’ll take over now. Go back to your car and
 
—”

“She’s at risk for brain injury,” Macy interrupted, clearly not good with his plan. “And for neck fractures, spinal complications.” Her expression was more than wary. More like something Fletcher had seen on the nature channel. On a growling mother bear. “You’re a paramedic too, Mr. Holt?”

“It’s Fletcher,” he heard himself say, though he rarely offered his first name. He told himself it was to put this woman at ease. “I’ve had advanced first aid and CP
 
—”

“I’m a trauma nurse,” Macy cut him off with a verbal swipe of her paw. “Clinical coordinator at Sacramento Hope ER. And I’m staying right here. You can go.”

She’s dismissing me?

“I can handle this,” Macy insisted as though she’d read his mind. “I’m sure you’re needed elsewhere. Go on . . . Do whatever else you need to do.”

Fletcher snuffed a flash of anger, lately more common than he cared to admit. He was tired, and getting into a verbal tug-of-war was always a mistake.

“As a matter of fact, I’m end of watch. Or should be. But there was this accident and I came back to help.” He connected with the stunning eyes and gave in to the temptation to mimic her:
“Of course.”

“Ah.”

A flush rose on her cheeks, but Fletcher felt no sense of vindication. He didn’t care anymore. All he wanted was to get out of here. Off this freeway . . . back home to Houston, away from the complicated mess his life had become. He didn’t like the kind of man it was turning him into.

“Look,” he told her, a jab of guilt summoning his manners, “they’ll have the truck cleared soon. Don’t worry.” He glanced toward the siren yelp that said the medics had arrived. “And here’s your qualified help now. It’s going to be okay. I promise.”

“I . . .” Macy bent low for a moment, whispering something soothing as the child fidgeted. When she gazed up at Fletcher again, her expression was softer. Almost
 
—but not quite
 
—conciliatory. The breeze whisked a tendril of hair across her cheek, shiny as a raven’s feather. “I didn’t mean to offend you . . . Fletcher. But Annie trusts me now. I promised I’d stay until someone gets in touch with her family. I’m sure you can understand that.”

“Uh . . . sure.”

He checked with the driver and chaperones
 
—who had the remaining kids busy singing songs and sharing sack-lunch snacks
 
—and waited long enough to make certain the medics didn’t need him for anything. Then he gave Macy a quick nod and started back toward his patrol car.

If CHP didn’t need him further, he’d get out of here. Take his mother to dinner whether there was something to celebrate or not. She’d been hopeful there would be good news at her doctor’s appointment. Charly Holt was a faith-filled optimist. Even when life stomped on her heart.

Cancer . . .
After all these months, the word still shook him to the core. Nothing he’d ever chased down, wrestled against
 
—even with gun, badge, body armor
 
—had prepared him for something so evil and merciless. It was wrong, completely unfair. But he’d get his mother through this. Fix it.
No matter what those doctors said, any other outcome was not an option.

By the time he made it back to his patrol car, the tow trucks had arrived and CHP gave him an all clear, along with a grateful thank-you for his assist. The medics were still on scene but would no doubt be leaving soon. All in all, things were much better, though you couldn’t tell it by the continuing scowl on the face of Mr. BMW Business Suit. If anything, the man looked more agitated, lifting his designer sunglasses to glare out across the sea of cars.

Fletcher’s cell phone signaled a text message. Jessica Barclay, back in Houston. That other thing he had to fix.