the phone spilled onto the profile of a woman, head slumped against the headrest, eyes closed.
His stomach flipped—a familiar sick feeling that never failed to show up no matter how much injury or death he’d seen in his life. No. Come on. Be okay. He wedged open the door, the soft earth only allowing him to get it halfway open, and leaned into the car to put fingers against the woman’s neck. The strong thump, thump, thump of her pulse touched his fingers.
“Thank you, God.” He touched her clammy cheek. “Ma’am, can you hear me? You’ve been in an accident. We’re going to get you some help.”
Though, with the nearest hospital forty-five minutes away, he wasn’t exactly sure when said help might get there. He hit another button on his cell phone.
Marc, one of his managers, answered on the first ring. “Hey, Grant, what’s up?”
“I need you to find Dr. Montgomery. I think he was playing with Janessa tonight in a cabin on the west side.”
“You want me to interrupt a scene?” Marc asked, the surprise in his voice evident. “Is everything okay?”
Grant quickly explained what was going on and told him to also put in a call to 911 to get an ambulance headed this way. Once he’d given Marc his marching orders, Grant returned his focus to the woman in the car. He’d learned first-aid skills in the military so knew not to move her neck or try to get her out of the car. But he checked her breathing to make sure nothing was obstructed.
Her seat belt was on, so she’d had some protection in the crash. But based on the swelling knot on her forehead, she’d hit her head on something—most likely the steering wheel. With gentle fingers, he brushed her hair away from the tender spot to examine it closer and make sure it wasn’t bleeding. He leaned in to get a better look, but a low moan made him halt.
He turned his head and the woman’s eyelashes fluttered. Another garbled sound passed her lips.
“Shh, easy now,” he soothed, using the tone he employed when dealing with skittish horses. “Try not to move, darlin’. We’re going to get you some help.”
Her entire body went rigid, and her lids flew open, her eyes going wide with fear.
He backed out of the car a bit, so as not to freak her out more, but put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’ve been in an accident. I need you to stay still until the doctor gets here to check you.”
She blinked, her lips parted as if to say something, but then she winced and her hand went to her head. “Dizzy.”
“You’ve hit your head. Try to take some nice, slow breaths.” Grant kept his voice coaxing as he watched her follow his directions. “Can you tell me your name, darlin’?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, continuing to take deep breaths. “Uh…Charlotte, no…Charli.”
“Okay, good, Charli,” Grant said, relieved to hear she still knew her name. “Do you know where you are or what happened to you?”
“I’m…I…” A crease appeared between her brows as if she were trying hard to locate the information. “I can’t remember.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “That’s all right. We’ll worry about that later.”
The sucking sound of feet hitting wet earth drew Grant’s attention back toward the ditch’s embankment. Dr. Theo Montgomery was making his way down, wearing a pair of pajama bottoms and an open oxford shirt, and holding one of the well-stocked first-aid kits from The Ranch. Red marks, no doubt from Janessa’s flogger, marked his bare chest.
“Status,” Theo said, all business.
“Name is Charli. She just woke up. Breathing is fine. Probably concussed—can remember her name but nothing about what happened. Contusion on her forehead. I haven’t moved her.”
“Good.” Theo moved in when Grant stepped out of the way. He introduced himself with the short, quick style of an ER doctor and started his examination. Charli would be in good hands.
An hour and a half later, the sun was starting to peek over the horizon as an EMT checked Charli over one last time and discussed the situation with Theo. Grant stood off to the side, watching as the beautiful redhead tried to stay focused on the conversation these people were having about her.
“Looks like it’s only a mild concussion. We can bring her back to Graham Regional and keep her for observation,” the EMT told Theo.
“I don’t want to go to the hospital,” Charli said, her voice low and hoarse. “I just want to go home and rest.”
The young guy frowned down at her. “Ma’am, do you have someone at home who can keep an eye on you for the next twenty-four hours?”
She closed her eyes, rubbing the bridge of her nose, like it hurt to think. “Uh, Tom Brady.”
The EMT’s head tilted. “The quarterback?”
“My cat.”
The ever-serious Theo smiled a bit at that. “Charli, I don’t think your cat can call 911 if you go unconscious again.”
“He’s very smart,” she said, not opening her eyes, but her mouth twitching at the corner. “Could probably…figure it out.”
Her voice was fading a bit, her exhaustion evident.
“No, I think you’d better let them take you in,” Theo said. “You need to have someone with you for a little while. And you can’t drive home right now, anyway. It’s not safe and your car is trashed.”
She raised her gaze then, a flicker of fight-or-flight passing through those green eyes. “Please, don’t make me. I hate hospitals.”
The underlying quiver in her voice hit Grant square in the sternum. He prided himself on being able to read even the subtlest of clues in others. It had served him well when extracting information from people in his days in the CIA and made him quite the formidable dominant now. And what he was sensing was honest fear in this woman. It was more than not wanting the inconvenience of a hospital—she was genuinely freaked out at the thought.
Before he could think it through, he stepped forward. “If the lady doesn’t object, she can stay here for the day. I have unoccupied cabins at my vineyard. She’s more than welcome to use one, and I can check on her every few hours.”
Charli’s attention slid to him, her eyebrow lifting beneath the knot on her forehead. “You have a vineyard?”
He chuckled. No doubt his muddy jeans and plaid work shirt didn’t scream that in addition to his covert side business, he ran one of the most successful wineries in Texas. He held out his hand. “Grant Waters, owner and operator of Water’s Edge Wines.”
She took his offered hand, and Grant felt the slight tremor go through her fingers, caught the quick-as-lightning glance at the open collar of his shirt, the slight hitch in her breathing. Well, well. His body warmed in a wholly inappropriate way at her subtle signs of interest. He quickly dropped the handshake and stepped back. She’s had a blow to the head, horn dog.
