Trauma Plan (34 page)

Oh, brother!
Riley leaned back against the granite counter, laughing out loud. Where was her brain? She’d been far less indecisive perched in the doorway of that skydiving plane.
With Jack.

Aaah . . .
Her stomach did another in a series of dips—the most ridiculous having occurred when she took the cap off her bottle of peach shampoo. Now that was certifiably crazy. And dangerous. She laughed again, imagining how she’d explain her swoon and subsequent near drowning to the paramedics. She needed to get a grip. Coffee would help.

She poured herself a steaming cup, took it back into the living room, and sank onto the leather couch. It was cool—too much so—from the overnight air-conditioning. She set the coffee down while she spread out a knit throw . . . which made her remember the blanket on the hill overlooking the peach orchard. And the sunset.
With Jack.

She grabbed her coffee and took a gulp, hoping the milk-laced brew would calm the new giddiness. Returning doubts did a better job.
Can I trust this?

The same whispering doubts had kept her awake long after Jack walked her to the door and gathered her close for one last, lingering kiss. Riley held the cup to her cheek, adding even more warmth to the memory. She’d hoped that sleep would smooth out the confusing tumble of emotions—giddiness, uncertainty . . . fear? But she suspected that her feelings came from more than yesterday’s heart-skipping moments. The past two weeks had been a roller coaster of hope and despair for herself and for so many around her. Stacy, her family, the baby, the staff at Alamo Grace . . . her attack outside the clinic, the bad news about the job proposal. How much of that colored what she was feeling for Jack? It was more than a possibility.

If Riley were counseling traumatic stress victims, she’d dispense the experts’ advice: delay any serious decisions until your life becomes more normal. Don’t change jobs, move, enter into contracts, make decisions about key relationships . . . or fall in love?

Riley clutched her coffee cup as her stomach swan dived again. Was Jack someone she could love? And could she even recognize love when her life was still so far from normal?

She lifted her right palm away from the cup and flexed her fingers, testing the faint tingle that had been a source of hope. For her career. And maybe even her faith.
If
God healed her,
if
she could get back to the ER,
if
the nightmares ended, then she’d feel like herself again and all doubts would go away. Everything hinged on that fragile hope.

She flexed her fingers again and glanced toward her Bible on the coffee table.
You know how much I need this. Please . . .

Her cell phone buzzed, trembled on the surface of the table—a text message. Riley reached for it, thoughts leaping to scenarios at Alamo Grace: Stacy Paulson, the baby . . .

Her pulse quickened, oblivious of her heart’s doubt—it was from Jack.

Check your porch.

Her porch?

Riley stood, battling suspense, and padded to the door—wishing, for the first time ever, that she didn’t have so many stupid locks. Slider, chain, dead bolt . . . she forced her numb fingers to deal with them while her pulse did a two-step worthy of the Luckenbach dance floor. She reached for the knob at last, took a breath, opened the door . . . and jumped, covering her ears as the security alarm began wailing without mercy.

Eeep, eeep, eeeeeeep. Brinnnnnng. Whoop! Screee . . .

“Aagh!” Riley slammed the door and whirled to the keypad, punching the code as quickly as her fingers would comply.
Unbelievable.
She leaned back against the wall, hands over her mouth, torn between a laugh and a groan. Heat flooded her face. Never once in the year since her attack had she forgotten to arm—or disarm—the security system. It had seemed a veritable lifeline. And now one little text had changed things. . . .

She double-checked the alarm status.
Green light: go.
She opened the door and saw the bakery box on the mat. Tied with string, pink as a hill country sunset. It was topped with a fistful of just-picked Texas bluebonnets. Her breath caught.

“Everything okay, Riley?” Wilma asked, holding a newspaper against her robe. The neighbor’s kind concern floated over the silvery sage bushes dividing their driveways.

“Yes—I’m so sorry about that.” Riley picked up the box and glanced quickly toward the street, half-expecting to see . . . “I was hurrying to get this bakery . . . delivery.”

“Ah.” Wilma nodded graciously, respecting Riley’s privacy as always. Her lips tugged toward a smile that hinted she understood a bit more. “Good, then.”

Riley waved and carried the box inside, the scent of just-baked pastry stirring her senses. She set the bluebonnets on the coffee table, slid the strings aside, lifted the lid . . . and warmth flooded through her. Peach cobbler.
How on earth did he . . . ?

Riley’s phone danced on the table again.

You forgot something on the porch.

She didn’t know how she got back to the door, walking or floating. Only that when she opened it, Jack was there.

* * *

“So all things considered,” Jack teased, standing in the foyer with Riley in his arms, “it’s a good thing I decided against wearing the Easter Fire bunny suit.” He chuckled against her damp hair. “Your alarm would have blown my ears off.”

Riley’s shoulders trembled with laughter, and Jack tightened his arms, enjoying her blushing mirth. He glanced discreetly at her collection of locks.
You’re safe with me. I promise you that.

“C’mon,” she said finally, leading him toward the living room. “After that embarrassing welcome, the least I can do is offer you coffee.”

Riley insisted she didn’t need help, so Jack waited on the couch while she poured the coffee and gathered plates for the cobbler. It was comfortable here. The couch, the colors Riley chose, and the way the morning light filtered through those honeycomb window shades. Upbeat music—contemporary Christian, Jack guessed—spilled softly from speakers near the mantel. He noticed, once again, the Hale family photos displayed there. Today felt very different from the last time he’d been here . . . except that he was thinking about kissing her then too. At least this time his odds for success had improved considerably.

Jack relaxed, reassuring himself that despite her exasperation with the alarm, Riley seemed glad to see him. He was relieved that his instincts had been correct, because for the first time ever, he was hesitant to trust them. As he’d explained to Riley about skydiving—all his sports, all his endeavors, really—Jack’s tendency was to leap in, ask questions later. But now, with her, Jack sensed he should proceed with caution. Be careful. Take it slow. But what did that look like in practice? He shook his head. The Army trusted Jack to carry out a trauma plan in the chaos of combat, yet he was having trouble formulating a plan to handle a new relationship. Why was that? His gaze moved to the Bible sitting next to the bakery box. Maybe because he wasn’t sure if he was prepared for—

“Here we are,” Riley said, arriving with a tray. “All set. I’m sorry it took so long. I had a message from the chaplain’s office.” Sadness flickered across her face. “The Collins family requested last rites for Stacy.”

Jack winced, remembering the girl on his clinic porch. “Do you need to leave?”

“No.” Riley sat down beside him. “The priest was already there. And our social worker is standing by. They were reminding me that I’m on call for the weekend. In case . . .”

He nodded. In case the brutalized girl died . . .
like Abby.

“And if that happens, I’ll go in. Be there for them.” Riley exhaled softly and then reached for the serving spoon.

Jack raised his plate, watching as the morning sunlight slanted through the windows and played over her freshly washed hair.
Beautiful woman with an amazing heart.
Riley would be there for the Collins family; Jack had no doubt of that. He admired her more than he could say. But right now he was selfishly grateful that she was here with him. They’d be working opposite shifts today, which meant he probably wouldn’t see Riley until tomorrow, Saturday. Jack wasn’t going to waste a moment of the time they had right now. Or do anything to spoil it.

* * *

Collins . . . Stacy Paulson’s mother?
Kate winced, wishing she’d checked the name of the patient sooner. She would have traded places with the staff nurse stanching that stubborn nosebleed. This was too painful.

She took a breath and walked in.

“Mrs. Collins, I’m Kate,” she said, glad to see the woman already had a box of tissues. And her husband.

“I’m . . . sorry,” Lorna Collins’s voice choked. Her gray eyes, red-rimmed and smudged with mascara, met Kate’s. “I’m usually so much stronger than this.”

“Our daughter’s a patient here,” her husband explained, his expression no less shell-shocked and grim. “We had the priest give her last rites . . .” He paused and his wife clasped his hand.

“The doctors say that Stacy probably won’t live through the weekend,” Lorna continued. Her fingers moved to a small gold cross lying against her blouse. “She was beaten so badly. Brain damage. We’ve been searching for her for two years. Ever since she . . .”

Ran away. Like I did.

“I’m so sorry.” Kate glanced up at the woman’s husband, trying not to think of her own father. “I was here when Stacy was brought in.”

“Then you know that there’s a baby,” Mr. Collins said.

Kate’s knees went weak. “Yes.”

“She’s having problems too. We’ve been running back and forth between intensive care and newborn intensive care. The doctors thought that if Lorna could get a sedative to help her sleep tonight . . . There will be decisions to make and arrangements. You can’t imagine how hard this has been.”

I don’t want to . . . but I can.

“I’ll . . .” Kate cleared her throat. “I’ll let our doctor know.”

“Thank you so much, Nurse.”

Kate stepped out into the corridor, willing herself to stop trembling. To push aside the sick, sad feeling. She took a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. She was leaving early today because one of the other charge nurses wanted some extra hours. And tomorrow started Kate’s weekend off. She very likely wouldn’t be here when the Collinses’ runaway daughter died and they were forced to choose a future for the baby they never knew she was carrying.

Kate sighed. The last couple of weeks had been filled with misery, not the least of which was the painful new conflict with Riley, the first real friend she’d made here. Kate had no idea how that would resolve. An ache rose in her throat. She was no stranger to loneliness—she’d handle it, either way. But tomorrow night she had a date with Griff Payton. Dinner and then the Majestic Theatre to see
Wicked
.

Right now there was no better prescription for what ailed her. A handsome and charming man, the opportunity to break out the little black dress and the eBay designer pumps she hadn’t worn since leaving California. Maybe she’d end up in Griff’s arms by the end of the evening. Kate’s face warmed at the thought. She needed that connection. And its validation that—despite her obvious flaws—she was still someone special. Even if it was only a warm good-night hug. Everyone deserved at least that much.

* * *

If Riley could stop time, she’d do it in a heartbeat. Nothing had ever felt so safe, so wonderful, as being cradled in Jack’s arms. Except maybe . . . She smiled as his lips brushed her temple.

“I don’t want to let you go,” he whispered, shifting his position on the couch. He laughed, his breath puffing against her hair. “But my arm’s falling asleep. No, wait. Don’t,” he groaned as she moved away, his handsome features morphing toward a boyish pout. “Unfair.”

She waggled her fingers. “One numb arm’s more than enough.” Riley’s heart tugged as Jack grasped her hand and then gently folded her fingers back to press a kiss against her palm.

“You’re working in Kerrville today?” she asked.

“Yes.” After kissing her fingertips, he sighed and reached for his coffee. “Not till three, but I need to go over some things for the next board meeting.” He caught the confusion on her face. “The clinic’s monthly board meeting—lately I’m more of a firefighter than a director. Putting out the hostile bombs the action committee keeps hurling at me.” A muscle twitched along his jaw. “They’re holding an emergency meeting at the library tomorrow.”

“And the council meets next week. To hear the neighbors’ . . . concerns.”

“Complaints. About me. Never mind that they trusted me to patch up Hector Silva when he fell twenty feet from one of those hallowed roofs.” Jack’s expression darkened ominously. “When they couldn’t be bothered to call for an ambulance despite the fact that he could’ve died before their eyes. I wonder how that gritty revelation would taste with the fancy finger food they’ll be serving in the library.”