Morgan's Son (33 page)

Jason had come up to him, sobbing wildly, calling Sabra's name. Jerking a look up, Craig realized dazedly that the lights of cars were coming their way, bouncing over the piles of cane stalks. Were they friend or foe? It could be Garcia's men having followed the noisy, limping helicopter. Sobbing for breath, applying pressure to Sabra's neck, Craig knelt in the field, feeling her lifeblood leaking through his aching fingers. Sabra's face was startlingly pale in the flickering light. Her lips were parted, as if in a scream she'd never released. Her body was limp and slack against his. Tears stung his eyes as he continued to place pressure on the wound.

The headlights halted, trained squarely on them. Was it Garcia? Oh, God, he'd kill them all right now. There would be no mercy. With his free arm, Craig dragged the boy behind him, trying to shield him with his body. They had no weapons. No way to defend themselves. Tears splattered down his drawn face. Sabra was dying. With each thud of her heart, he could feel the pulse beneath his fingers weakening—from a beat, to a feeble flutter.

Craig's heart clenched in grief, and he watched helplessly as four men appeared from the two cars. The headlights were blinding him. He couldn't see. Jason stopped crying and clung to him, hiding behind him.

Then, in the harsh glare of the lights, Craig recognized Killian's taut features. He let out a cry for help. Instantly, Killian came on the run, followed by the others. To Craig's relief, he saw Dr. Parsons awkwardly flailing toward them, her physician's bag in hand. As Killian ran up to him, Craig's voice cracked with alarm.

"Sabra's dying! She's bleeding to death. Oh, God, help her! Help her!"

Craig sat numbly in a plastic chair on the surgery floor of the
Maui
Hospital
. The ache in his heart wouldn't stop, the pain encompassing more and more of his chest. He rubbed his smarting eyes tiredly, with dirty, bloodstained hands.

"Talbot?"

He heard Killian's gruff, low voice. Gradually, he became aware of the other man's presence and the fact that he was holding a paper cup of coffee toward him. Woodenly, he reached for the cup, his hand shaking badly.

"You need to go down to emergency and get looked at," Killian said, slowly easing into a crouched position in front of him. "There's nothing you can do up here to help Sabra. Dr. Parsons is working with the best surgeon this hospital has. If Sabra has a chance, it's here and now."

Sliding both hands around the small cup, Craig felt the warmth of it begin to permeate the iciness inside him. How long had it been since they'd arrived at the hospital? Shutting his eyes, he bowed his head, feeling the last of the adrenaline giving way to utter exhaustion. Tears leaked out of his eyes, small beads clinging to his lashes. Working his mouth against a sob, he stiffly rose to his feet. Unable to meet Killian's gaze, Craig opened his eyes only after he'd turned away. Walking on sore feet and aching legs, he forced himself over to the window. He carefully set the cup down on the windowsill before his shaking hands splashed the burning contents all over him. Not that it mattered. The only thing that mattered was Sabra.

He felt Killian approach and glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes. The merc stood next to him, his mouth thinned, a scowl on his brow.

"She could die…." Craig forced out the statement in a low, shaken voice.

"Yes."

Killian wouldn't lie about anything, especially not something this serious. This heartbreaking. Craig tried to shore up his roiling emotions. "How's the kid?"

"Jason?"

"Yeah."

"They took him to the children's wing. The doctor on duty said he was fine. No wounds. At least, not physical ones."

Craig heard the derision in Killian's tone. "Yeah, he was pretty shaken up."

"It's none of my business, but I think you ought to get looked at and then go visit Jason. He's asking for you."

Turning, Craig said, "Me?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"He doesn't know me from Adam. He knew Sabra."

"Maybe so, but the kid knows you helped save his life. I think he's reaching out." Killian looked at the bank of phones on the wall. "Laura's on her way. I just got off the phone with her and Jake. She's taking the first commercial flight available out of D.C. Shah Randolph, Jake's wife, is escorting her." Killian looked at his watch. "It's 0500 now. She'll to arrive in
Maui
at 1500 this afternoon. I'll go pick them up and bring them down here, but until then Jason's alone."

Craig stood tiredly and tried to swallow his unshed tears. "Sabra's still in surgery—"

"Dr. Parsons knows you'll be in the hospital somewhere, if she gets done sooner than you think." Killian placed his hand on Craig's slumped shoulder. "Get medical treatment, get a shower and then go see Jason. The kid needs you. He needs to be held."

Brokenly, Craig nodded. Even now, he couldn't be selfish. The boy had gone through a hell few people would ever encounter in their lives. To have endured it at such a young age had probably traumatized Jason forever. Rubbing his brow, he nodded. "Okay, I'll go down. Will you—"

Killian nodded darkly. "I'll stay up here. When Dr. Parsons comes out of surgery, I'll tell her where you've gone."

The lump in Craig's throat refused to go away, no matter how many times he swallowed. Belatedly, he looked down at his hands. They were cut all over from the flying Plexiglas. Dimly, he was aware that he'd probably have to have shrapnel taken out of his legs, too. The pain of a doctor digging the metal out of his body would be easy to take in comparison to the mere thought of losing Sabra. She couldn't die. She just couldn't. He loved her. And God forgive him, he'd never told her that.

As he wearily turned toward the elevators, Craig replayed the awful trip by ambulance to the hospital. If Dr. Parsons hadn't been there, Sabra undoubtedly would have died en route. And all Craig had been able to do was sit there, watching dumbly as Parsons worked to stabilize Sabra's life. Bits and pieces of the crash in the desert had overlaid Sabra's ghostly features as tears leaked uncontrollably from Craig's eyes. He had wished over and over that it had been him hit by that unlucky metal fragment. If anyone deserved to live, it was Sabra. He was worthless in comparison, a man controlled by a haunting past he couldn't overcome, while she was so strong and beautiful and confident. Life hadn't tortured her as it had him. She had hopes and dreams. Craig wished with every bone in his body that he could trade places with Sabra on that gurney.

All that time, Jason had been in his arms, clinging to him, his head buried against Craig's chest. Craig divided his attention between them, keeping his hand on the boy's dirty hair to protect him from seeing the blood, from seeing someone he loved like that. No child deserved such trauma. Craig had rocked Jason back and forth, numbly whispering that it would be all right, that Sabra was going to be all right. The boy had sobbed wildly, almost hysterical in the aftermath. They were lies, Craig thought bitterly as he repeated the soothing words. But he felt helpless and didn't want Jason to be any more upset than he already was. It had been the longest forty minutes of Craig's life.

Now in the elevator, he tried to pull himself together. Only then did he become aware of how badly he stunk, as the odor of fear and the metallic scent of blood registered in his sensitive nostrils. As he left the elevator and headed for the emergency room, Craig saw nurses and patients staring at him as if he were some kind of avenging ghost come to haunt them. He was covered with mud from the field, bloodied by glass and shrapnel. He must look like hell. Or the walking dead.

One of the nurses in ER gave him another cup of hot, black coffee to drink. He sat on a gurney, stripped down to his shorts while a doctor examined him. Later, he lay on the gurney, fighting waves of pain as the doctor pulled more than thirty pieces of glass from his face, neck and shoulder, and two pieces of twisted metal from his lower legs. But the pain of the extraction remained small in comparison to his worry for Sabra. He lay there afterward as his wounds were being swabbed and dressed, wondering how she was doing. How much blood had she lost? Had he put enough pressure on that torn artery to save her life? Had he not?

The agony of waiting shredded Craig. Finally, a nurse showed him to a shower and brought in a surgeon's smock and pants for him to wear in lieu of his filthy, bloody clothes. Craig stood under the warming flow of water, hoping it would ease the pain in his chest. All his injuries were minor, and a shower was permissible. Awkwardly he ran the bar of soap through his hair, then stood beneath the spray again, tears streaming freely down his cheek. Sabra couldn't be torn from him! She just couldn't. He gasped for breath, the water stinging his eyes as he leaned weakly against the stall, his fists clenched against the wall at that terrible possibility.

She had loved someone who hadn't had the guts to tell her he loved her—whatever his reasons. Craig had thought it too soon to tell her. But why hadn't he? Oh, God, why hadn't he? If Sabra had known, it might have helped her fight harder to live. He bowed his head, water running in rivulets across his frozen features as his chest shook with a great sob. In here, no one would hear him cry. It was the only safe place to weep for a loss he was sure was coming. Even with tightly shut eyes, he could see Sabra's warm gray eyes dancing with love for him, and suddenly Craig knew, deep in his injured soul, that she did love him. Sabra wasn't the kind of woman to rush into anything; that's why she'd withheld her real feelings from him.

Why did everything have to happen so suddenly? He'd become so jaded, so hardened against life since the crash. The idea of falling in love with someone as beautiful and warm as Sabra had never entered his sordid reality. Not until she'd crashed into his life, tearing that sense of hopelessness away from him, breathing new life into him, making him reach out and hope once more—and realize the depth of the personal, lonely hell he'd fallen into. Bitterly, Craig opened his eyes and slowly eased away from the wall. Would he ever be able to tell Sabra how much she'd given him? She'd literally handed him back his life. When he'd slept in her arms, he'd felt peace for the first time in years. Her presence strengthened him and allowed him to amass his own strength for healing himself.

Such was the miracle of Sabra, he realized, turning off the faucets and standing, dripping, in the stall. Life hadn't exactly been kind to her, either, yet she'd moved ahead despite it. Craig opened the door and reached for the thick terry-cloth towel. Damn his practical realism. He'd been so good at being logical, he'd almost missed the most important person in his life—Sabra. He rubbed the towel against his face, uncaring if some of the small cuts started to bleed again. Water dripped off his hair, and he went through the motions of drying it, feeling overwhelming numbness coupled with exhaustion.

Jason.
He had to see Jason. After donning the green cotton clothes, Craig went in search of a nurse who could direct him to the boy. With every step he took it felt like twenty extra pounds of weight were bearing down on his legs and feet. He couldn't recall ever feeling this low. But then, he'd never before had the woman he loved lying on a surgery table, her life in jeopardy.

Nurse Bonnie Blaire, a pert, young, red-haired woman, led him to Jason's private room.

"The doctor has given him a mild sedative because he was hysterical, Mr. Talbot." She smiled sadly as she halted at the door. "If you want the truth, I think the little boy just needs to be held…."

Craig nodded wearily. "Okay, I'll see what I can do." Who didn't need to be held right now? Hell, he ached to have Sabra's arms slide around him. He'd crush her so tightly against him that the air would rush from her lungs. Well, that wasn't possible, but maybe he could help the boy.

The nurse quietly closed the door behind him, and Craig tiptoed forward. Jason looked awfully small in the large bed. Someone had given him a toy—a well-loved teddy bear. Absently, Craig remembered that Jason's favorite blanket and toy were still in their car at Kula.

He lay on his side, his face pressed into the stuffed bear. The numbness left Craig's heart as he walked closer. Jason's eyes were shut, and the tracks of tears he'd cried had dried across his flushed cheek. Craig reached over and gently mussed his hair.

The boy gave a small whimper. Craig kept stroking his head and watched the effect it had on him. The small hands, once clasping the teddy bear in tight fists, gradually began to loosen. The blanket that covered him was thin, and Craig felt him trembling.