said thickly. “I promise.”
And with a low moan, he slumped to the ground and out of sight.
Every part of her body felt cold and numb and strangely distant, as if she weren’t really here. As if she might, please God, be dreaming.
Dimly, she heard Molly wailing from the truck. In front of her, Kevin was still slumped over the wheel, motionless. Unconscious, unresponsive, unaware.
And Grant... She couldn’t see him at all, and somehow that was the worst, as if she were an astronaut free-floating in space, her lifeline snipped in two.
The emptiness of infinite space roared in her ears, and she wondered if she’d gone deaf.
But then, finally, she heard the noise she’d been waiting for, the one sound her ears, her heart, her entire soul had been listening, straining, praying for.
The sound of the ambulance, screaming toward them through the rain.
IT WAS ALMOST midnight before Grant was able to go home.
Actually, he was secretly shocked that he’d been able to talk the doctors into discharging him at all. Given how scrambled his brain was right now, he wouldn’t have thought he could talk a bear into sleeping in the woods.
But luckily Harry Middleton was the doctor on duty, and Harry had bought Grant’s first foal, Tender Night, out of Charisma Creek. So a few corners could be cut. Besides, once they set Grant’s arm and did a CT scan on his brain, they didn’t have anything left to hold him for.
“Observation” wasn’t a good enough reason to keep a man in the hospital, not when he had a ranch to run single-handedly.
He looked down at the cast that covered his right forearm from palm to elbow. Single-handedly, indeed. He might have smiled at his inadvertent pun, except his head hurt like a demon, and his bruised ribs were killing him.
And who could feel like smiling about anything while Kevin lay up there on the third floor, unconscious? Sure, Grant’s right ankle was sprained and his arm broken, but that was nothing compared to the crushing Kevin had suffered. He’d never regained consciousness after the accident, and no one seemed sure when—or if—he might wake.
Condition serious but stable, they called it. Whatever that meant. Grant shook off the memory of Kevin’s bandaged form. He didn’t have time to dwell on worst-case scenarios. He had to stay focused. Not only were there chores to do, horses to look after and accounts to settle...but he also had a baby to take care of.
With one hand.
Earlier, while he’d been waiting for his CT scan, Crimson had sent word that Marianne Donovan would babysit Molly for the evening. He’d been surprised at first, because Crimson normally never missed a chance to be with the baby. But he realized how dumb that was. Of course Crimson would want to stay at the hospital as long as she could, even though they wouldn’t let her in Kevin’s room.
She would want to be as close to him as she could get.
If Grant had ever been fool enough to wonder about Crimson’s feelings—to wonder whether maybe Molly was more the attraction than Kevin himself—he knew better now. The look on her face when she first saw Kevin slumped over the steering wheel had said it all. She had been pale with terror, mute with grief.
God, the quiet hospital hallway seemed endless. The polished floor reflected the overhead lights in hazy circles, as if someone had spilled milk at intervals—and the line of circles seemed to stretch on forever.
He’d lied to Harry and the nurses about how much his ankle hurt, hoping they wouldn’t insist on a wheelchair. Limping as little as he could, he followed the path of watery lights to the waiting room on the second floor.
Crimson had sent word she’d be there, and she was.
To his surprise, though, she was deep in conversation with another female, a teenager, he’d guess, and a bottle blonde. The two huddled together in adjoining chairs by the far wall, talking in low tones even though they were the only two people in the room.
They both looked up as Grant entered. Only then did he see that the blonde had a black eye, a swollen upper lip and a bandage across the bridge of her nose.
“Grant!” Crimson rose jerkily. “Is there news?”
He shook his head. “Nothing since I sent the note around nine.”
She nodded. “Thanks for that. No one would tell me anything.”
He’d figured as much. A couple of weeks ago, when Kevin had learned that his new law firm would be sending him overseas periodically, he’d filled out forms naming Grant his official healthcare surrogate and the emergency guardian for Molly.
It was a sudden outburst of practicality, which, frankly, had been a shocker. In their college days, Kevin had been the least sensible person Grant knew.
Of course, he hadn’t seen Kevin in years, so maybe he’d grown out of that long ago. Working with the law could make you overly cautious. And fatherhood changed even the craziest frat boys.
Grant knew that, too.
So now Grant got all the medical updates. Crimson, who had no official standing, couldn’t force the doctors to admit Kevin existed, much less that he lay in one of these rooms, unconscious.
“They may move him to Montrose in a day or two,” Grant said, uncertain whether he’d included that in his note. The painkillers they’d given him were powerful, and a lot of tonight was a blur. “They don’t have neurosurgeons here in Silverdell. The brain scan looks normal, and he does respond to light and stimulus...”
He let the sentence drift off. He’d included the details to provide hope, but even he wasn’t sure what they meant. Clearly the doctors weren’t sure, either. All they were certain of was that Kevin wasn’t brain-dead, and therefore he would probably require a higher level of care.
Crimson nodded silently. She didn’t look shocked, so he assumed his note had covered the basics well enough. But she did look grave. She must hate the idea of Kevin being moved—it would be harder to get to Montrose, which was about an hour away from Silverdell.
On the other hand, she would want him to get the best care possible. Poor Crimson. Her emotions clearly were a heavy weight to carry. Her hazel eyes, normally lit with both intelligence and mischief, were dulled with grief and fear.
Without ever meeting Grant’s gaze, the mystery girl standing next to Crimson fidgeted with her purse strap. She tentatively touched Crimson’s arm.
“I probably should go. Rory’s waiting for me downstairs, and he has to work in the morning.”
Crimson frowned, but even the frown was blunted. When she didn’t agree with something, she ordinarily zapped you hard. Now, though, her voice was softly troubled. “Becky, Rory isn’t—”
“It’s okay!” The girl smiled so brightly it looked out of place here, in the dim, hushed chill of a hospital waiting room at midnight. “He’ll watch out for me. After I fell, he practically carried
