child was crying plaintively.
An elderly couple clung to each other.
Some teenagers talked too loudly in the hushed room.
Avoiding them, Abby bought a cup of coffee from a machine. Fortunately, she carried her wallet in her pocket. She found an empty chair. When she sipped the coffee, she spilled a few drops on her coat. Glancing down, she realized her hand was still shaking. She carefully set the cup down on a table.
Untouched, the coffee grew cold.
What was taking so long?
To distract herself, Abby watched a woman crocheting a pale-yellow wool scarf. Repeatedly, the ball of yarn rolled off the woman’s lap and onto the floor. Abby retrieved it twice before realizing the woman was apparently caught up in some inner turmoil and didn’t care. Abby wished she knew how to offer comfort. But the words remained locked inside. When the ball of yarn fell a third time, Abby looked away.
“Mrs. Slade?” The doctor had to repeat it twice.
Abby jumped. He was speaking to her. “Yes?”
He was frowning—not a good sign. “You came in with Jack Slade?” He looked down at some notes. “It says here you’re his wife?”
Abby couldn’t find the words to deny the connection to Jack. She nodded. And so, the web of lies grew.
And grew.
The doctor pinned her with a look that had her bracing her spine for bad news. “I don’t need to tell you he’s in pretty rough shape.” Not mincing his words, the doctor listed Jack’s injuries—a minor concussion, a broken arm, a couple of cracked ribs and a punctured lung, some possible internal injuries and spinal swelling. “We won’t know the extent until we take X-rays and run more tests.”
With each added word, Abby’s head spun. This was much worse than she’d feared. Poor Jack. Gradually, she became aware of what the doctor wasn’t telling her. “But what about the injury to Jack’s leg?”
The doctor wouldn’t meet her eyes. “We have to get him stabilized first. Then we’ll see.”
Abby took a fortifying breath. “Please, just tell me.”
“I’ll be frank. We’ll do what we can, but I can’t perform miracles. We may have to amputate.”
Abby gasped. “But you can’t do that!”
He argued, “We may not have a choice.”
Choices.
Abby tried to find words to persuade him. “But I know Jack. He would never give you permission.”
“He’s unconscious. In cases like this, we’ll need your permission as his next of kin.”
She clenched her hands and slid them into her coat pockets. “I won’t sign anything. I want Jack to have the best surgeon available. I don’t care what it costs.”
She could afford to pay the medical bills. More than likely, Jack would resent being an object of her charity. Well, he could just go ahead and hate her. At least, he would be alive and kicking—hopefully, with both legs.
The doctor offered no encouragement. “Flying someone up from Boston might take more time than we’ve got.”
“I’ll accept full responsibility.”
He frowned. “If you’re determined to do this, I won’t try to talk you out of it. I suppose you want to see him. I’m warning you, he’s not a pretty sight. The next hours are critical. If he’s going to make it, he’s going to need you to stand by him with every ounce of courage you can muster.”
Courage.
Abby wasn’t sure she qualified in that department. She’d never been tested, never had to fight for anything she wanted. Or anyone. Of course, the doctor was assuming she was married to Jack, which meant she must be in love with him. Thank goodness she wasn’t in love with the man! A woman would have to be out of her mind to love Jack Slade, or very reckless. And Abby was neither.
Apparently, taking her silence as consent, the doctor ushered Abby into the treatment room. There, she was shocked to find a hospital chaplain giving Jack the last rites.
Thus, while a medical team worked over Jack’s damaged body, the chaplain prayed for his soul. And Abby prayed for a miracle.
The lights glared bright and white; the room was green and sterile. A nurse said sympathetically, “I’m sure your husband can feel your presence. He’s semi-conscious, but if you speak to him, he might hear you.”
Feeling awkward, Abby leaned closer. “Jack, it’s me—Abby.” When she repeated the words, he turned his head, his eyelids fluttered. His face was ashen, the gash on his forehead stood out in stark relief. “You’re going to get well,” she whispered, touching her lips to his, as if to breathe more life into him. “Don’t give up.”
When he made no response, she held his hand. It was hard and calloused. And warm. Despite his grave injuries, his spirit was strong. She clung to that thought, wanting to believe it was true. From what she knew about Jack, he was no quitter. But would he recover from this latest blow? Even if he survived his injuries, the doctor didn’t hold out much hope when it came to saving Jack’s leg.
Jack clung to something.
Hope?
He wasn’t sure where he was. He didn’t remember many details of the accident. There were brief flashes of a helicopter ride; everything else was a blur. The pain was intense. He drifted in and out of consciousness, unaware of what was real and what was not, haunted by the fear that his leg had vanished into thin air. He couldn’t walk, couldn’t run. Voices penetrated the thick fog.
He opened his eyes, surprised to see his bedside surrounded by faceless shapes. Someone was praying over him. How many times did he have to repent? In truth, he was only guilty of making wrong choices and trusting the wrong people. Was he bitter? Yes. Nevertheless, the prayers soothed his soul and made him wish he had a life to live over.
Given a chance, he’d do so many things differently.
His grandmother had done her best to teach him right from wrong. She’d even insisted he serve time as an altar boy. Somehow, according to Gran, that was supposed to keep him out of trouble. It worked—but only after he’d beaten up the bully on the block who teased him for wearing a dress—standard altar-boy issue. After he won the boy’s respect, the other kids had left him alone, which suited Jack. He didn’t need friends, he didn’t need anyone.
Anyone who believed otherwise was a fool.
So much for the past. He didn’t have much of a future. He frowned when someone took his hand. Someone feminine clasped him firmly, palm to palm. He tried to hold on, returning the pressure, and felt the flutter of a pulse racing against his thumb. His own heart jumped in his chest. Reality started to fade. The room and its occupants receded, everything turned gray. More prayers. Jack couldn’t make out the words. But he recognized one voice.
Abigail.
He
