Solomon's Decision (27 page)

"Move your legs!"

He did, although it cost him most of his strength.

"Arms!"

Again he complied.

"Turn your head!"

That didn't hurt as much as lifting it. Not quite.

The man did painful things to his body after that. At one point Erik felt as if he
was being lifted into the air, but he refused to open his eyes. Hallucinations hurt almost as
much as the reality that kept fading in and out. It was easier to keep the world shut out.
That way the man didn't ask him to do things that hurt.

Once he thought he heard Kyle's voice. But never Ginger's.

Who are Kyle and Ginger?

Someday, a long time later, he felt a gentle hand on his cheek. "You're going to be
all right, Erik," a hauntingly familiar voice said.

* * * *

"I'm staying here," Madeline said, glaring back at Dr. Franklin.

Slipping an arm around her shoulders, he led her to a chair in the brightly lit hall.
"Then you're going to do what I say. This is my hospital." He pushed and she found herself
unable to resist sitting.

"Only if you'll let me in to see him."

"As soon as he's in his room, you can do anything you want but climb into bed
with him," Ed Franklin agreed.

Madeline fought the urge to burst into laughter. Into tears.

She clutched at the doctor's sleeve. "He's really going to be all right, Ed?"

"He's going to hurt like hell for a few days, and be on crutches for a couple of
weeks. Other than that, it's just a matter of letting time heal the cuts and bruises."

The doctor stood, shaking his head when Madeline started to do the same. She
relaxed back into the chair, grateful for its support. She was
so
tired!

"When can I take him home?" When she took Ginger and Kyle home, tomorrow
morning, she wouldn't be able to stay at Erik's bedside. But if she had him on the sofa bed
in her sewing room, she wouldn't be torn between her children and the man she loved.

"We'll see. I want to keep an eye on him until we're sure he doesn't develop
pneumonia," Ed said. He looked down at her as if he were trying to decide something.
"Look, Madeline, I probably don't have any business saying this, but is there something
between you two?"

Madeline felt the hot blood rush to her face. "I love him," she said, not knowing
what else to say.

"That's pretty obvious," the doctor said. "But there's more, isn't there? Something's
coming between you."

Madeline nodded. "We've got some problems to work out," she admitted. "But
nothing major. We'll be fine."

He seemed doubtful, making Madeline wonder what Erik had told him.

"I hope so. He was pretty wild for a while there, before we got him sedated. I don't
think he was aware of what he was saying, but he kept yelling that something was his, and
you weren't going to take them away from him."

"Did he..." Madeline swallowed the enormous lump that had somehow formed in
her throat. "Did he say what he thought I was trying to take away?"

"No. Just 'They're mine. Don't take them away. They're mine,' over and over.
Sometimes he'd plead with you to let him share them." Ed was obviously trying not to let
his curiosity get the best of him.

Madeline chewed her lip. She'd already told her lawyer and Jon. Jethro had
figured it out all on his own. How long before the whole town knew the identity of the
twins' father?

Motion down the short hallway caught Madeline's attention. The two EMTs were
just coming out of Erik's room, pushing an empty gurney. She half rose.

"Go ahead," Ed said. "Just don't disturb him tonight."

Madeline almost ran to the still-closing door. Barely inside she stopped. Light
from behind her shone on the bed, and the man it held.

He lay so still. Bandages covered his forehead, one arm, and the other shoulder.
The sheet, pulled just above his waist, was tented over his legs, and she knew that the left
one was encased in a cast. She tiptoed to the bed, stood next to him. An IV was inserted
into the back of his left hand. His face was gaunt, with deep scratches marring his cheeks
and chin.

The room was silent. Carefully she laid one hand on his chest, needing
reassurance that he was indeed breathing. His skin was cool and his heart beat slow but
strong under her palm.

Without thinking, she leaned over and kissed him, feeling his breath on her cheek,
soft and faint. "I love you, Erik Solomon," she whispered, her lips almost touching his,
"and I'm going to marry you."

She stood beside him for a while longer, before going back to the room that held
her children.

How was she going to tell them they had a father?

* * * *

Erik called, "Come!" in response to the light tap on his door. Dr. Franklin had told
him arrangements were being made for his release this afternoon, but wouldn't give him
details. Why did medical people act as if being injured diminished one's intelligence? He'd
noticed the phenomenon before, and he hadn't liked it then, either.

The door opened and Jethro Zenger stepped into his room. "Mornin', young fella,"
he said. Without being told to, he pulled the straight chair the Sunset County Clinic
deemed appropriate for visitors to the side of Erik's bed and sat. "You gonna live?"

Biting back a chuckle, Erik admitted he probably would. "I'm not sure I want to,
though. Everything hurts."

"That was a brave thing you did," Jethro said.

Erik felt himself blush. The volunteer who'd brought his breakfast had been full of
comments on his heroism and he hadn't known quite what to say in response. He had only
dim memories of anything since the night before the Fourth. And they were tangled with
all too familiar nightmares.

A child spilling from a boat and being carried away. His throat growing raw from
his screams as he called, "Gail, Gail! Ga-a-ail-l-l!" over and over until strong hands pried
his fingers from the gunwales of the old rowboat and pulled his shivering body from the
rushing water.

A new vision, of a pixie-face peering through tangled willows, scratched and
bruised, but wearing a smile bright enough to light up all outdoors. Then tumbling,
churning debris, sweeping down on him, and after that, nothing. Nothing except pain and
cold. He'd been cold, so cold.

Even now he felt as if he'd never be completely warm again.

Dr. Franklin had told him he'd rescued the Pierson children from a flood, but the
details eluded him. The praise for his bravery embarrassed him, since he remembered none
of it. He almost felt as if he should deny doing anything out of the ordinary, since his cast
wouldn't let him scuff his toe in the dust and mutter, "Shucks, 'twarn't nothin."

Jethro's next words brought him back to reality.

"'Course, you'd 'a been a lot smarter to leave it to them as is trained to do that sort
of thing."

This time he chuckled, and never mind how much it hurt. "Mr. Zenger, that's
exactly what I've been telling myself ever since I woke up in this bed," he said.

They chatted of inconsequentials for several minutes. Jethro explained why the
children had needed rescuing, and Erik found that he could remember snatches of a
nightmare time when he'd been almost bereft of hope.

"Jon Pierson, he grounded the lot of 'em," Jethro said. "No Little League, no
camping, and no floatin' down the Boise River for them this summer." Jethro leaned back
and scowled. "Course, I woulda' tanned their little bottoms good, but then I'm not their
folks."

Erik agreed that the kids would probably prefer to be spanked. Five more weeks of
summer vacation and no place to go. How he would have hated that at their ages.

Once the subject of the children had been thoroughly covered, Jethro sat silent for
a minute or so. He seemed to be thinking. Erik was also silent, relieved that Jethro didn't
seem to require entertainment. He liked the old man, found him comfortable to be
with.

Eventually Jethro reached into the inside pocket of his vest and pulled forth an
envelope. Tapping it on his palm, he studied Erik, eyes narrowed.

"Doc Franklin tells me you can't remember what happened?"

Erik nodded. The only vivid memory he had was of Madeline's voice, telling him
he would be all right. Telling him the children were safe.

"Well, that's probably for the best. Both you and Linnie said some things that
oughta be forgot, and if you're smart, you will, even after your memory comes back." He
cleared his throat. "Now, then, I got somethin' to say."

Erik waited.

"Those kids of Linnie's, they're just like my own kin," Jethro said. "I reckon Jesse
would have been proud to claim them."

Remembering the warmth that had drawn him, a lonely, friendless teen, into
Jesse's orbit, Erik had to agree. "He was a good man."

Jethro nodded. "Right from the first I thought of them as my grandkids, even
though they're none of my blood. I guess that makes you some kind of shirt-tail kin,
too."

For a moment, his words failed to penetrate Erik's comprehension. When they did,
they triggered a burst of memory, so that everything that had happened in the past two
weeks was totally, painfully clear. Before he could say anything, before he could even
think how to respond, Jethro handed him the envelope.

"You can think of that as a thank-you for savin' those youngsters, if you want, or
you can call it their inheritance," he said, holding Erik's gaze. "I don't care. But you take
good care of it, and don't never let it be changed."

He stood and put his hat on.

"I told the missus last night that we got more money than we'll ever be able to
spend, if we live to be a hundred," he went on. "I figure a man has to do more than leave
behind his kin when he goes, and I haven't done nothin'.

"I'd take it as a kindly gesture if you'd put up some kind of memorial to my boy,
out there in your preserve."

He was out the door before Erik found his voice. With trembling hands, Erik tore
the envelope open. It contained a deed--a deed to Wounded Bear Meadow, "for the sum of
one dollar and services rendered."

* * * *

Madeline caught her breath when she saw him. Now that she acknowledged the
relationship, she couldn't get over how much he and Kyle looked alike. Why hadn't she
seen it before?

"What are you doing here?" Even in a wheelchair, covered with bandages and
bruises, Erik radiated strength and charm. And impatience.

"I came to get you. Didn't Ed tell you?" She frowned at the doctor, who shrugged
sheepishly. The coward! "You're staying at my house until you get your walking cast."

"No way!" Snatching his crutches, he struggled to stand up. "I'm going to my
apartment."

"Not without help," Ed said, shoving him back into the chair with a hand on his
shoulder. "You didn't read the fine print. I released you with stipulations."

Madeline heard the laughter in his voice.

Erik was still muttering rebelliously as he struggled into her car. She wondered if
she was making a mistake.

No. She was doing the only thing she could. Giving them time together to settle
their differences. At least that had been the theory, when she'd volunteered to care for him
until he was free of the crutches.

* * * *

"Supper's ready."

Erik looked up from the book he'd been halfheartedly reading. Agatha Christie
was not his favorite mystery writer, but it had been lying on the coffee table, easier to put
his hand upon than those in the bookcase across the room.

He reached for his crutches and found himself reminded that his upper arm had
sixty-odd stitches holding itself together.

"Are you all right?" Madeline's quick question told him she'd seen his wince of
pain.

Ignoring another twinge from the stitches, he swung himself upright. Blood
drained from his head and he had to concentrate on keeping his balance. "Fine," he
grunted. "Just fine." In a few seconds the world stopped spinning and he was able to follow
her to the kitchen.

He'd forgotten how long her downstairs hall was.

"I hope you don't mind soup," Madeline said, as he painfully levered himself into
a chair. The bowl she set before him was redolent with herbs and ham.

His stomach growled. "Delicious." Bean soup was just about his favorite supper
dish, even on a warm summer night.

"Erik, we have to talk about...about the children."

While his bowl was almost empty, hers was still almost full. Crumbs and
fragments lay scattered around her plate, telling him that she'd eaten very little of the
delicious cornbread.

"What about them?" He was glad they were out at the Double J. A day or two
from now, when he felt a little stronger, would be soon enough to see them. Too soon, for
it would be the last time.

"The only thing our fighting about custody of Ginger and Kyle will accomplish is
to confuse and hurt them. I've acknowledged that you're their father, but I don't think that's
enough. They want--they
need
--a father-in-residence. Someone to go to soccer
games with Kyle, someone who can watch the races with Ginger. They need a father who'll
be there on parents' night at school. And when they're older, Kyle will need a role model
and Ginger an ideal."

"I'm nobody's ideal--"

"Please," she said, "let me finish. You really hurt me when you said you wanted
just Kyle. I couldn't understand how you could reject your daughter, just like that." She
snapped her fingers. "Then I remembered what you told me about your mother."

When he finally raised his head and met her eyes, he read understanding.

"You need Ginger and Kyle as badly as they need you, Erik. You need to be
loved, so you can learn to love."

He wanted to tell her he had learned, but his throat ached with a lifetime's tears.
All he could do was reach across the table and take her hand, clutching at it as he would at
a life preserver.

"I want you to live here, to be a father to the twins," she said, her voice breaking
on
father.