Trauma Plan (35 page)

“You’re not . . .” Riley’s breath stuck in her throat. “You’re not planning to confront them?” Her stomach tensed at the look on his face. Anger, aggression . . .
worse.
“That would just fuel them more. Wouldn’t it be better to wait until the council meeting and—?”

“What? Ask Bandy to pass peanut butter sandwiches around? Or bring those clown noses and do a happy little skit about saving lives?” His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “Yeah, maybe I’ll let them shoot Nerf balls at me, get it out of their systems. Then we’ll all hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’—you can loan Andrea Nichols your Fiesta wreath.”

“Jack . . .” Riley set her cup down before he could notice that her hands were beginning to tremble. “Please.”

“What?” he asked, his hand clenching atop his thigh. “Accept it? Let them put a stop to everything I’ve been doing to help people who have nowhere else to turn?” His voice lowered to a near growl. “I can’t, Riley. I won’t let them do this to me.”

“Please . . .”
Oh, God, please . . .
Riley squeezed her eyes shut against the image of Jack’s hands around the throat of the boy who snatched her purse. “Don’t.”

* * *

What had he done? She was shaking. “Riley?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, finally meeting his gaze. “When you get angry like that, it . . . worries me.”

Scares you.
Her beautiful eyes were dilated with fear. Jack’s chest constricted—he’d sworn to himself that he’d be careful.

“Here,” he said gently, taking hold of her hand. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t dump this on you.”
Please don’t look at me like that.

Riley exhaled. “It’s just that I know that isn’t who you are. This hostility and bitterness—it’s not
you
, Jack.”

What if it is? What if that’s all I am?

She managed a smile. “I know you now. You’re kind and caring and so generous. Every good thing you do comes straight from your heart.”

Riley . . .
Jack tried to swallow past the sudden ache in his throat. He wanted what she was saying to be true—he’d never wanted anything more.

Riley rested her hand along his jaw. “I’m going to come to the city council meeting. Tell them all the good things that you’re doing at the clinic—and how much I believe in you.” Her thumb brushed his skin. “I do, Jack. I believe in you.”

“I . . .” He swallowed, not trusting himself to speak. Breathing was hard enough. After all his plans to persuade Riley to help him, she was freely offering this?

“So,” she continued, tipping forward to plant a kiss against his cheek, “it’s settled. Bandy, Hobo, and I will be Alamo heroes to your Commander Travis.” Riley smiled at him.

“Okay.” Jack brushed his thumb across her lips. “Except the Alamo didn’t finish so well, if you recall.”

“We’ll rewrite history—think you can handle that?”

“Yes.” Warmth flooded through him.
With you . . .

He cradled her face in his hands and kissed her lightly, then chuckled.

“What’s so funny?”

“First your shampoo and now . . . you taste like peaches too.”

“Oh, please. You are
not
going to say—”

“Yes, ma’am.” He drew Riley close again. “Peach lipstick. My finest work by far.”

She tried to laugh, but Jack barely gave her time to breathe before his lips found hers again.

28

Was it Saturday? Vesta stopped in the hallway and tried to think. Her brain was becoming as blurry as her eyes. Yes, Saturday. Friday she’d found the business card wedged under her door:
Eric Erikson, Private Investigator.
There was a penciled scrawl on the back of the card, almost illegible even with her reading glasses:
Would like to speak with you at your convenience.

It wasn’t convenient. And it wouldn’t happen—Vesta couldn’t talk about Jack Travis. To anyone but God. And she was fairly certain he didn’t want to hear her cowardly excuses anymore. Guilt swirled, compounding her dizziness. She put her palm against the wall to steady herself, then moved on toward the living room.

Saturday. The action committee would hold that meeting in the library in a few hours. She’d been surprised—awakened, truthfully—by a reminder phone call this morning. A woman too new to the neighborhood to know that Vesta never went out. She’d told Vesta that the committee was hosting a police sergeant, that there would be catered food, and that the topics of discussion were “vital matters of personal safety and well-being.” Vesta smiled grimly. The caller had no idea that Vesta had long ago taken those matters into her own hands. With a securely locked door and an aluminum baseball bat. But it was hard to find that comforting when she could no longer see much beyond the closest bird feeder in the yard.
Can’t see if he’s out there . . .

Riley Hale would be calling today to check on her. The chaplain cared; it was obvious in everything she did. That fact had become more comforting to Vesta than the locks on her door. Riley would ask how Vesta was feeling and she’d get the truth: no more chills, no more backache, less of a headache . . . just so very weak. She’d slept most of the day away already. And even now felt too tired to eat or measure her sugar. When had she done that last? Vesta wasn’t sure. But she’d taken her insulin . . . she thought. She’d check her log. After she slept a little more.

Vesta turned and headed to the bedroom. She’d refill the water pitcher in the bathroom—
so thirsty
—and crawl back into bed. Just for a little while. Until Riley called. She’d watch TV while she waited. It was close enough to the bed that she could see it fairly well. The woman from the committee said they’d hoped to get some news coverage of the meeting.

What they were trying to do to Dr. Travis wasn’t right, but there was nothing Vesta could do about it now.

* * *

“Fever?” Bandy asked, leaning against the doorway to Jack’s office. He adjusted the brim of his SeaWorld ball cap. “From the way you’ve been acting today, I figure you’re runnin’ a mighty high one. Or—” he smiled, the edges of his eyes crinkling—“it might have something to do with an especially enjoyable day off.” His gaze did a quick dart toward the ceiling as if he’d made some divine arrangement for that.

“Nope. No fever,” Jack pronounced, feigning cluelessness—and trying to decide just how long to torture his friend. He’d already dodged Bandy’s hinting questions when he called yesterday to check on the clinic. He leaned back in his chair. “Went skydiving . . .” Jack dragged it out, toying with the man’s infinite patience. Hobo barked. Jack shrugged and then slowly smiled. “With Riley.”

“No.” Bandy’s mouth fell open; the space was immediately filled by an immense, toothy grin. “Well, I’ll be . . . You don’t say!”

“I do say. And then we went to dinner and dancing in Luckenbach, and . . .” Jack inhaled, warmth spreading enough to give support to Bandy’s fever diagnosis.

“That’s okay. I won’t pry.” Bandy’s eyes twinkled. “Even a gentleman who runs with bulls shouldn’t kiss and tell.”

“No one mentioned kissing.”

Bandy snorted. “No one had to, Doc.”

Jack shook his head, still amazed. “Riley wants to come to the city council meeting. She said she plans to tell them that she believes in me. Not just in the clinic and what we’re doing here, Bandy. She said she believes in
me
.” He met Bandy’s gaze. “I can’t quite get my head around that.”

“Well, I’d say that’s something a man can get his whole heart around.” He was quiet for a moment, then winked. “Grab you some fresh coffee?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Bandy went to brew the coffee and start the patients’ sandwiches. Jack glanced at the clock. The clinic would open in less than an hour. But he’d arranged for Gretchen to cover him for a while. So that he could—

Jack was hit with a memory of the look on Riley’s face when he’d talked about the action committee’s emergency meeting at the library. She’d been frightened by his anger.
“You’re not planning to confront them?”

He hadn’t answered her directly. And it wasn’t as if he had a solid plan. But he had to be there. He couldn’t simply stand by and do nothing. Riley didn’t understand. And it made Jack sick to think that something he did could frighten her. But he had to show up at the library today. Being there, doing whatever it took to make things right . . .
is who I am.

* * *

Kate skimmed her bare foot over the bath bubbles and caught a faucet drip with her big toe. It was painted a shade called “Do You Think I’m Tex-y?”—an impulsive clearance-bin purchase more for the crazy name than the berry-pink color. It was apparently from a past season’s Texas collection, popular enough that there were few remaining choices. But hoot-worthy, all: “Houston, We Have a Purple,” “Suzi Loves Cowboys,” and “Big Hair . . . Big Nails.” She’d laughed out loud in the Walgreens cosmetics aisle, looked around for someone to share it with, and wished so much that Riley were there.

Rah-lee
 . . . Kate sank lower in the tub, knowing she had some repair work to do in her relationship with the chaplain. At this point she wasn’t even sure Riley still wanted her as a roommate. They’d missed each other at the hospital yesterday because Kate left early. But they had spoken briefly by phone later; Riley cut it short to answer a page. Kate didn’t think it was because Riley wanted to avoid talking to her. And she did promise to call Kate back. That was hopeful. Meanwhile, maybe the neurosurgeon’s report would come through and prove that Riley could be cleared for employment as an ER staff nurse. Riley seemed convinced it would happen. Kate wasn’t so sure. As difficult as it had been to admit—to the ER director and to Riley—she honestly believed Riley wasn’t ready yet. Kate hoped she was wrong. It wasn’t as if she’d never been wrong before.

Kate glanced toward her little black dress hanging on the closet door. And the Italian heels waiting for freshly painted toes. Griff had called to say he was back from Dallas but was going to be unexpectedly detained at a meeting he hadn’t planned for. He had concerns regarding their dinner reservations, so Kate insisted on meeting him at the restaurant—Bohanan’s near the Majestic Theatre. Griff protested in that deep Rhett Butler voice and then finally agreed—
“Promise I’ll make it up to you, darlin’.”
And in a blink it was there again, that confusing mix she’d felt from the first moment she’d met him at Alamo Grace: undeniable attraction, curiosity, and temptation. Along with a breath-catching frisson of risk—which, she reminded herself, she’d already safely dismissed. The simple fact was that Kate
needed
tonight.

She smiled, wiggling her feet in the bubbles. California Kate with Tex-y toes. Something about that felt like firefly magic.

* * *

The air was thick, cloying, and the darkening sky rumbled with thunder. The grackles had their eyes on it.

Ugh.
Riley plowed through a stubborn flock of the birds gathered at the side door of the hospital, shuddering as a feather brushed her ankle.

Stacy Paulson’s condition had deteriorated overnight. And despite a prescription for sedatives, Lorna Collins slept poorly and was having a rough time. Riley promised the nurses that she’d offer whatever she could. She pressed her numb fingers against the door’s security pad and headed for the elevators.

The ICU charge nurse greeted Riley like she was there to heave a life preserver to drowning victims—always a bad sign. And the sad scene at Stacy’s bedside confirmed it.

Lord, help this family . . .

“Stacy’s having a hard time breathing,” Mr. Collins said, watching his wife sponge their daughter’s face. “Lorna thought that if she kept her lips moist, it might help.” He flinched as a monitor alarm began a muffled but insistent dinging.

Heart rate . . . 39.

“Yes.” Riley stepped closer. “That will be a comfort.” She glanced toward the IV equipment, glad to see the morphine pump in place. Chemical comfort, too. Thank heaven.

“Father Ned was here,” Lorna said, barely above a whisper. Her eyes met Riley’s. “Everyone’s been so kind.” She winced, face paling as her daughter drew in a deep, snoring breath. “She was croupy as a baby. I think we wore out half a dozen humidifiers. But Stacy never wanted a night-light—such a brave girl.”

Brave.
Riley thought of her grandfather. He’d said that about her.

Lorna reached for Stacy’s hand as the hungry breath was followed by a second and third. And then by shallower ones until there was an agonizing moment of apnea. Broken by another deep breath as the painful cycle began again.

Cheyne-Stokes breathing from the head injury . . . and impending death.

Riley ached for them all. She stepped up beside Lorna, touched her arm. The woman turned to her, eyes shimmering with tears.