“Um...I’m going to stick around for a bit. I want to make sure everything’s okay with the little girl.”
“It was an accident, Hardy. I was there, so stop blaming yourself.”
Hardy swiped a hand through his hair. “Tell that to my stomach.”
“It’ll get better.” Wyatt patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll catch you tomorrow.”
Hardy tossed his coffee cup in a trash can and went to the nurse’s desk to ask for the little girl’s room number. She was in the pediatric ward, and it didn’t take him long to find it. But he hesitated outside the door. Angie wasn’t going to like him being there.
The hall was quiet and the lights had been dimmed for the night. Parents were with their children. He should leave and come back tomorrow. But he couldn’t do that. He pushed the door open slightly.
Angie had a chair pulled close to the bed, and she was sitting in it, stroking her daughter’s hair back from her forehead. The light was low, but he could see her clearly. She looked so different from that young, innocent girl she’d been a long time ago.
There was nothing remarkable about Angie’s looks—she had golden-brown eyes, sandy-brown hair and a smooth complexion. Back then she’d been slim. Now her figure was more mature, and her hair was different, too. Evidently, her beautician sisters had highlighted it or something because it was more blond than brown now. She wore it in a ponytail with several strands curling around her face.
Yet Angie had a special quality that endeared her to everyone. When she talked, she spoke with a smile in her voice. She was open, honest and sweet. Everybody liked her. He was no exception.
The little girl stirred, and Angie was on her feet. An IV was still in the child’s arm. Angie leaned down and whispered, “Erin, baby, Mama’s here.”
“Mama?”
“Yes. I’m right here.”
“I...I feel funny.” The tiny voice was soft and weak, and Hardy’s stomach tightened like a balled fist.
“You’ve been in an accident, baby.”
“What...happened?”
“You were running after your beach ball and—”
“Yeah. I didn’t want it to go into Mrs. Wimby’s yard...’cause...she keeps things.”
Angie kissed the girl’s forehead. “I know, baby. Go back to sleep and we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“Have to get my ball, Mama, to go on our trip.”
“Shh. Go back to sleep. Mama’s here.”
“My head hurts.”
“I’ll get the nurse.”
Erin’s eyes opened wide. “Where...where are we?”
“In the hospital.”
“Why?” The little girl began to cry, and Hardy’s stomach clamped that much tighter.
“Shh, baby. You’re okay. Please don’t cry.”
The girl closed her eyes and drifted into a drug-induced sleep. Hardy stepped away from the door and sank into a chair in the hall. The girl wasn’t okay. She was in pain. He took a couple of deep breaths, knowing the knot in his gut wasn’t going to go away for a while. He was so angry with himself. It was a neighborhood with children. He should’ve been more careful. He should have—
He heard them before he saw them. Loud voices. Angry voices. Could only belong to Wiznowskis. It was the twins. There was no mistaking them. Colorful and flashy were their trademarks. He never could tell them apart, so he’d stopped trying.
One had on at least three-inch red clogs with a short skirt and a tank top. The other had on orange high heels, shorts and a gypsy-type blouse. Both wore necklaces, bracelets and earrings that jangled when they walked. Their hair color seemed to change weekly. Today one was a blonde with a bluish tint. The one in shorts had black hair with orangey highlights.
“She’s going to be pissed,” the one in the shorts said.
“So? I can be pissed, too,” the other replied.
“AnaMarie said we should respect her wishes.”
The blond-haired one laughed. “Since when do we listen to AnaMarie? She’s an old fart.”
“She’s two years older than us.”
“Do you have to argue about everything?”
“It’s not me. It’s you.”
“Yeah, right.”
They both stopped when they saw him. The one with the black hair stepped closer. “What are you still doing here? Haven’t you done enough?”
He got to his feet, really not in the mood for another round with the Wiznowskis. “Making sure everyone is okay.”
The blonde’s eyes narrowed. “Does Angie know you’re out here?”
“No.”
“Then you’d better leave.”
He glanced from one to the other. “You know, I can never tell you two apart, so you’ll have to introduce yourselves. I’d really like to know who I’m talking to.”
“I’m Mary Patricia—Patsy,” the black-haired one said.
“And I’m Mary Margaret, but everyone calls me Peggy.”
“Well, Peggy, I’m not going anywhere until that little girl is better.”
Peggy jammed a finger into her chest. “We’ll take care of Erin. We’ve always helped Angie with our little angel. Your presence here only complicates things. Get my drift?”
“Not really. Your sister asked for some time alone with her daughter.”
“Ah.” Patsy waved a hand at him. “She was just upset. She needs us like she did when that bastard left her.”
“Don’t you think someone should call the little girl’s father?” Angie had been very evasive when he’d asked about him, but if it were his kid, he’d want to know. He was sure the man felt the same way.
Patsy got into his face. “I think you’re sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”
“We can discuss this all day and all night, but my position is not changing.”
Angie stepped into the hall, interrupting the heated conversation. “What are y’all doing here? I could hear you in the room.”
Patsy approached her sister. “Don’t go all mama bear on us. You didn’t really think we’d leave, did you?” She held up a bag.
