What the River Knows (37 page)

At that moment, officers arrived at the back door. In the whirlwind of explanations and examinations, Scott lost track of Charlotte, until the first ambulance left with Devlyn and an officer, and he and Charlotte stepped into the second. She wore handcuffs, and an officer sat beside her.

“Thank you for saving my life,” Scott said as the big rig swayed its way out of the driveway.

“Thank you for saving mine.” Charlotte smiled. “In more ways than one.”

Chapter 83

Scott told his story at least four times to three different officers, including Bates, as well as a doctor. Finally, after they stitched up the worst of the cuts Devlyn had bestowed, they insisted he spend the night in the hospital.

Exhausted from his ordeal, still drugged from what Charlotte had confessed was five sleeping pills, and sore as the local anesthetic wore off, Scott didn’t even react when Rica walked into his room and grasped his hand.

“Scott, I’m so proud of you.” She brought his hand to her cheek and kissed it.

“Thanks,” he said in a leaden voice. “I’m tired.”

“I know you are.” She laid his hand down gently and patted it. She stepped closer to him, and folded her hands behind her back. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Rica.” He felt his eyes trying to close. “What’s done is done.”

“But it could be undone.” Her voice was soft and musical.

His eyes flew open. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—maybe I rushed things, maybe I made a mistake in wanting to be away from you.”

A month ago, those words would have made his heart sing. Now they just made his head hurt. “No, really, Rica. It’s probably for the best.”

“But, Scott—”

“Neither of us was really happy, Rica.” He was surprised to hear the words coming from his mouth; maybe it was the sleeping pills. No, he had realized as he lay there trussed and helpless, with death coming through the door at any minute, that he wanted to live for himself, not for Rica or anyone else. “It’s better that it’s over. You can move on.” He managed to focus for a moment. “In fact, you have.”

“Ambrose?” Her eyes flashed for a moment, before the tears gathered. “Turns out I was just flavor of the month. Once I was free to be with him, he wanted to be with someone else. And head surgical nurse went to Bonnie.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Rica.” His eyes closed, hard as he tried to keep them open. “But he was just the catalyst to get you to make the move you needed to make for a long time.”

“But, Scott, I—”

“I have some things I need to work on about myself, but you do, too.” He shook his head, trying to clear it. “When we’re done working on them, then we’ll be ready to connect with someone. Not before.”

“Then we really are done?”

He tried to nod, though he wasn’t sure which direction his head actually went. “Never say never, Rica, but I’m certainly not ready to try again, with you or with anyone.” He yawned. “I’m not saying we can’t be on cordial terms. There was a lot of good between us.” He opened his arms to her, and she rushed to him to lay her head gingerly on his chest. “Just not enough to overcome the differences.”

“Oh, Scott, I was such a fool.” Tears soaked through the thin hospital gown. He patted her shoulder.

“We both were.” He yawned again. “I’m sorry, Rica, but I can hardly keep my eyes open.” She pushed off his chest and stood beside him again. “Maybe if I’m still here when you come on shift again, we can talk some more.”

“I don’t work again till Tuesday, Scott.”

He shrugged, forgetting the stitches, and wished he hadn’t. “Another time, then.” He yawned once more and his eyelids drooped. “You still have my number.” He didn’t even hear her leave.

Epilogue

His mother, brothers, and their families all came down for the ceremony awarding Scott the Department’s Distinguished Service Medal. He had protested that it was no big deal, but they insisted that it was simply an excuse to celebrate an early Christmas. As Scott sat on the dais, he saw his family, Al, Bates, his other colleagues, Ms. Frank, so many people who meant so much to him. Far in the back of the room, near the door where she could slip out, he saw Rica. And felt—nothing.

Bates beamed when Scott went forward for the chief to pin the medal on him. He beamed even more when Scott’s speech was simply, “I was just doing my job like any other officer would do.”

When the Mayor’s much longer speech was over, many officers shook Scott’s hand or clapped him on the shoulder, accompanying their gestures with comments like, “Gettin’ a medal for bein’ beat up by a
girl
!” Yet they were glad he had made it through the ordeal.

He invited Al to join his family and the Bateses for lunch. They hung back as the rest of the crowd trooped into the restaurant. “Well, Scott, you kept at it till you solved the case.” Al held the door open for Scott. “Did you learn anything along the way?”

Scott looked up into the bright December sky. “You know, Al, if I get tired of this line of work, I just might finish my degree and hang up my shingle as a counselor.” He met Al’s eyes. “There are a lot of messed up people out there, but they are still people. If they can get help, maybe they won’t mess up someone else.”

“Scott, I think you learned something that most people never figure out.” Al smiled. “Now, let’s eat.”

A word from the author…

I vividly remember when I first considered writing. I was less than five years old, galloping about our yard at the farm, probably pretending to lead a cavalry charge or round up a stampede. On one of the few smooth limestone slabs that made up our sidewalk, I paused and turned to face the east, where the yard sloped down into a grove of evergreens that led to our garden and the highway. I focused on something far beyond the highway, even past the hay meadow and the locust-forested pasture. “Maybe I should write books,” I thought. “Someone has to.” I pondered this momentous choice for a while. Then I decided that it would be more logical for people who could read to write books, and galloped off again.

Like many people, I began writing in my teens. Unlike others, though, the stories within would not allow me to stop. Ideas clamor “Pick me, pick me!” to be let out of the files and into a completed story.

A thirty-year career in state government has afforded me insight into the layers of motivation that keep the world turning—and authors writing about it.

http://katherinepritchett.com/

Thank you for purchasing
this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.