mother could hurt for her child. Automatically her hand swept the front passenger seat for Carly’s prescription. Instead, she contacted a tube—of lipstick. She gripped the wheel tight with one hand and brought the tube up for inspection. Odd, it wasn’t a color she wore. It was red. Priscilla’s red. Kate’s warnings about men having affairs strummed through her conscience. No, Grant wouldn’t—
A horn blasted and the vehicle swerved around her, clipping her rear bumper. Panic streaked through her. She braked again. The guy had been following too close, but this…this was crazy. Was he drunk?
An oncoming set of headlights flashed in the bend of the road. Emma slowed so that the other vehicle—it looked like some sort of SUV—could pass. Instead, he grazed her again, and she skidded sideways toward the side of the road. She clenched the steering wheel as she fought to control the car, her heart pounding. The oncoming vehicle blasted its horn. Oh, God! Her car was going to collide with an eighteen-wheeler!
Emma fought the slide, bringing her Honda back in the lane. The sports vehicle suddenly slowed, falling in behind her again. The air exploded from her lungs. The oncoming truck passed, a hairbreadth from her bumper, and blared its horn again. Perspiration trickled down her face.
She glanced in the rearview mirror and panic welled inside her when the sports vehicle sped up again. Metal ground against metal as he slammed her from behind. Whoever was driving the car was hitting her on purpose! She began to pump the brakes, but her car skidded off the road.
Burning rubber filled her nostrils. The force of the skid ripped the steering wheel from her hands. She grabbed it again and tried to get control. The SUV side-swiped the Honda once more, this time with such jarring force her car jolted sideways and spun 180 degrees.
The windshield exploded. Shards of glass gouged her arms and face. Pain tore through her head and blood, hot and salty, filled her mouth. As the world went dark, an image of Carly and Grant flashed through her mind. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She should have told them she loved them one more time.
And she should have kissed them both goodbye.
GRANT WADSWORTH stared in horror as rescue workers tried desperately to pry open the door of Emma’s small car. She lay inside, unconscious, blood dripping down the side of her face, her skin chalky white. He shuddered, feeling sick all over. A chill engulfed him, not from the cold January wind blowing outside, but from raw stark fear. Another mile and she would have been home, safe and sound with him and Carly. But now…
“Please don’t let her die.” He choked on the last word.
A police officer stood beside him, one hand on his arm as if he expected Grant to bolt for the Honda at any minute. He would, if he thought he could rescue her without harming her more. Chaos surrounded him. They’d dragged out rescue equipment he’d never seen or heard of. Emergency workers, firefighters, police officers, all racing against time to save his wife. While he simply stood by, helpless.
At last the mangled door was torn off, and two paramedics secured Emma’s head and neck, then took her vitals. Another radioed in the information. Their voices and orders faded in and out of his consciousness as he tried to make sense of what was happening.
“Pulse sixty-five, weak and thready, respiration thirty, shallow, BP eighty over fifty…start an IV drip of…let’s cut away her seat belt…on three, we’ll lift her. One, two, three.”
He stared at the dangling seatbelt, now in shreds. Thank God she’d worn it. If only she’d had an air bag. “God, if she dies, I’ll never forgive myself.” He lunged forward to reach her, but the policeman grabbed his arm.
“Let them take care of her. They need to stabilize her.”
Grant collapsed against the side of the police car.
“Are you all right, sir?”
Grant shook his head. “I will be when I know she’s okay. I’m not losing her,” he said through gritted teeth. “Not now, not ever.”
“Looks like there might have been another car involved,” the police officer said quietly. “I found two sets of skid marks. And there’s black paint chips on the Honda. I’m Detective Warner. My men are questioning the crowd for witnesses.”
Grant nodded, confused. So where was the other car? His gaze tracked the parcel of gatherers at the scene. Could someone have seen Emma’s accident?
The detective cleared his throat. “How did you make it here so fast?”
Grant’s head jerked up at the implication. Or had he imagined the suspicious tone in the detective’s voice? “I live about a mile from here. When you called I…I raced right over.”
The detective grunted in acknowledgment. “They say most accidents happen within five miles of your own house.” He chewed the inside of his cheek. “Doesn’t make it any easier, does it?”
“No,” Grant mumbled, his gaze on the mangled car. The rescue workers yelled they were ready to go, and he clenched his hands by his sides as he watched them secure Emma onto the boarded stretcher. Panic and guilt clogged his throat. Memories of another young woman floated into his consciousness—she was bleeding, still and lifeless…he should have done something… God, no, Emma couldn’t die.
He couldn’t lose Emma. He moved to her side and took her limp icy hand in his, kissing it ever so gently, careful of the scrapes on her palms. “Hang on, honey, please hang on. I love you. And I need you so much.”
“Let’s go.” The paramedics hoisted her into the ambulance.
He climbed inside and knelt beside her, massaging her hand between his, a sick feeling swirling inside him at the blood matted in her honey-colored hair. “You can’t leave us, Emma. Carly and I both need you. We love you, sweetheart.”
“We found this in the car,” an officer said, holding up Carly’s prescription.
“It’s for my baby,” Grant explained. “She’s at home with the sitter.”
“I’ll get someone to drop it by.”
Grant recited his address as he traced a finger over the delicate curve of Emma’s chin. The siren screeched and the ambulance jerked into motion. The EMT put an oxygen mask over Emma’s mouth and monitored her vital signs, communicating with the hospital staff over the radio. Her face was so pale. Beneath her eyes her skin had turned a strange bluish color.
“I love you, Emma,” he whispered again. “Don’t you dare die on me.” He kissed her hand, memorizing every detail of her face. She had to make it. She had to survive. He couldn’t live with another woman’s death on his conscience. Especially his wife’s.
THE HOURS DRAGGED into days as Grant held a vigil at Emma’s bedside, praying for a miracle. But her condition hadn’t changed. No news about the person who’d hit her, either.
The steady drip of the IV echoed in the silence of the hospital room, and Grant rubbed his hands up and down his arms, wondering if he would ever be warm again. A few days ago, he’d thought he had everything—a beautiful wife, a new baby, a budding career. If Emma didn’t make it…
Emma’s sister, Kate, crept into the room. “How is she? Any change?”
Grant shook his head, unable to speak.
