“You’re engaged to Dr. Thorson,” Wellborn said.
“Yes, I am.” Proudly, she stuck out her left hand so they could admire her flashy Tiffany-cut diamond. “We’ll be married next year.”
“Or sooner,” Aunt Glenda said. “Patricia mustn’t wait too long, doesn’t want to add any more wrinkles before the wedding. She’s fourteen years older than the doctor, you know.”
“Please, Aunt Glenda.” Patricia pinched her thin lips together. “The FBI doesn’t need to know about my personal affairs.”
“Agent Wellborn might want to watch out,” Aunt Glenda continued. “He’s a very attractive man, and he’s wearing a Burberry scarf.”
“You’ll have to excuse my aunt,” Patricia said.
“It’s no secret that you prefer younger men. You’re a cougar, my dear, and a successful one. You should be pleased with yourself.”
“How dare you!”
“Cougar.”
Their infighting made him sick. Connor hated that Emily had wasted some of the best years of her life in the company of these harpies, and he vowed to never again complain about his huge Irish family in Queens. Sure, the Gallaghers did a lot of yelling. But there were also hugs, apologies and tears. Under all their blarney and bluster, there was love.
“Ladies,” Wellborn said, “I’d like to get back to the central issue. Did you move Emily on the advice of Dr. Thorson?”
“We wanted to take her to the ranch,” Patricia said before her aunt could throw another barb at her fiancé. “You must have forgotten, Aunt Glenda, but we spoke to Eric about our plan, and he told us there might be a problem with the paperwork.”
“I didn’t forget,” Glenda snapped. “My mind is as sharp as it ever was.”
“Of course it is.” Patricia’s voice dripped with condescension, and she rolled her eyes. Not a good look for a bona fide cougar. “We were so concerned about Emily that we didn’t pay enough attention to Eric’s advice. It was for the best, we decided, to avoid a confrontation with Connor. Emily needs to be home and surrounded by family before she passes on.”
“She’s not dying,” Connor said.
Patricia schooled her expression to appear sympathetic. “I understand the denial. But, Connor, you must be aware that Emily flatlined on the operating table. It happened twice. She was technically dead. Her heart stopped.”
He hadn’t heard this before. Though he wouldn’t put it past Dr. Thorson to make up a story like this if it suited his purposes, there had been other doctors present. No one had told him that Emily was so near death. “You’re lying.”
“Think what you want,” Aunt Glenda said. “That girl is hanging on by a thread.”
It wouldn’t do any good for him to explode. Connor threw up a mental wall, blocking their innuendo and deceit. Glenda and Patricia wanted Emily under their control; they’d admitted as much. But why?
“If Emily died,” he said, hating the words as soon as they passed his lips, “what would happen to the house she inherited?”
“You seem to be acting as her attorney,” Patricia said. “You tell us.”
It was an interesting question—one he needed to research. As far as he knew, Emily had no living relations. She’d been an only child. Her parents were older when they had had Emily, and they’d died from natural causes when she was a teenager. He doubted she had a current will reflecting her divorce. There were documents he’d drawn up when she and Jamison were first married, but that was a long time ago.
A further complication when it came to ownership of the house she’d inherited was the actual transfer of property. Emily didn’t have a deed. The probate court would surely step in. He handled transactions like this on a regular basis, and the paperwork was intense.
While Patricia launched into another diatribe about how her brother had been taking care of the property and deserved compensation, Wellborn leveled an assessing gaze in her direction. Connor had the sense that the good-looking black agent was accustomed to dealing with self-obsessed rich people who wouldn’t stop talking. He maintained an attitude of calm. The only sign of his annoyance was the way he tapped his Cross pen as though flicking ashes from a Cuban cigar.
“Last night,” Wellborn said, “was the reading of the will for Jamison Riggs. Start at the beginning and tell me everything that happened.”
Patricia settled back in her chair and sipped her coffee. “I should probably start with the list of individuals who had been invited. My assistant has a copy, as does our family attorney.”
Inwardly, Connor groaned. This conversation or interrogation—whatever Wellborn called it—could take hours. He couldn’t spare the time. Emily needed to be moved to Denver, where he could make sure she was safe.
When Adam, the paramedic, texted him to let him know that they were ready to transfer Emily to the helicopter, he was relieved to get away from the Riggs women.
With a wave to Wellborn, he opened the door to the office. “I’ll stay in touch.”
* * *
IMPRESSED WITH THE efficiency of Adam and the other medical emergency personnel, Connor watched as they carried Emily on a gurney into the orange-and-yellow Flight For Life helicopter. They moved slowly and with extreme care but couldn’t help jostling her.
Though she showed no sign of being disturbed, every bump made Connor think he might be making a mistake. Transporting her to Denver, where she could get the best care, seemed rational and prudent. He’d spoken to Dr. Charles Troutman, a neurologist with a stellar reputation who had taken a look at Emily’s brain data and had agreed to take her case. Connor’s instincts told him he was doing the right thing, getting her away from the place where she’d been threatened. But what if moving her caused her condition to worsen?
With the big cast on her left arm and the plastic boot on her left leg, she was hard to handle. But Adam and his associates managed to transfer her onto the bed where they readjusted the IVs and monitoring equipment. Connor stared at the wavy lines and the digital numbers on the screens. The emergency medical transport was equipped with all the equipment in the hospital and more. The crew included a pilot, an EMT copilot, a nurse and Adam, who vouched for the others.
Connor couldn’t take his eyes off Emily. Even when she was being moved, the monitors showed very little change. Though that was what the doctors wanted—a smooth transition—he longed to see a reaction from her or to hear her speak—just a word. He wanted some kind of sign that she was all right.
When she was safely secured, belted himself into a jump seat and watched her as the chopper swooped into the clear blue skies. Through the window, he glimpsed snowcapped mountains. Soon, it would be winter. The golden leaves of autumn would be gone, and snow would blanket the tall pines and other conifers.
“You’ll be better by then,” he said to Emily.
“What?” Adam looked up from the equipment he’d been monitoring.
“I
