professionalism keeping him calm, Reeve climbed in and lowered himself to where she lay, careful not to step on her. The car reeked of gasoline, plus a hint of spice, as though of rich perfume—and the metallic stench of blood.
Finally kneeling beside her, he turned her over, automatically reaching for her wrist to check her pulse.
A pain so sharp that it might as well have been physical pierced Reeve’s heart.
The woman was visibly near term pregnant.
“Damn it,” he swore shakily.
He would not lose either one. This time.
KNUCKLES WHITE as he steered his Volvo, Reeve followed the shrieking ambulance to the emergency room door, then parked behind it. As he jumped out of his car, the ambulance’s flashing red light swept over him and reflected on the wet pavement. The rain was slower now but had not completely stopped.
The emergency medical technicians responding to Ernie’s 911 call had arrived not long after Reeve did. He had already stanched the flow of blood from a severe laceration on the woman’s arm, and together they had stabilized her. Her baby was alive but in distress.
Holding an intravenous bag in the air, the EMTs wheeled the woman into the medical center on a gurney. The staff had been alerted to expect the emergency, and Larry Fletcher, a fine obstetrician and a friend of Reeve’s, was waiting.
“What do you think?” he asked Reeve without looking at him. He was already checking over the woman. “Was she conscious at all? Do we know how close the baby is to term?”
“No. She looks pretty far along, though.” A wave of helplessness washed over Reeve, but he quickly set it aside. “The baby’s heartbeat is weak and thready,” he told the obstetrician. “The trauma may have caused a separated placenta.”
“If so, emergency C-section’s the way to go,” Larry stated. “Nurse!” He called to one of the emergency room team and began issuing orders.
For the first time, Reeve got a good look at the injured woman. Her short, dark hair, still containing shards of glass, was a stark contrast to the color of her pale skin. Her long, thick eyelashes were a lighter shade than her hair. There were bloody scratches on her face and arms in addition to the deep cut that had bled so profusely, and she had a large bump on her forehead. She wore a loose maternity dress that bulged out in front. She seemed a pretty woman, and she looked utterly fragile.
Her pallor was deathlike.
Anguish he’d thought he had forgotten threatened to swamp Reeve, but then he noticed her eyelids flutter. Her lips parted, and she seemed to be trying to talk. He leaned toward her. “What did you say?” he asked gently, though a voice inside screamed for him to lift this woman, hold her, force her baby and her to be immediately healed.
Her eyes opened just a slit. He couldn’t tell what color they were, and he doubted that they were focused on him. Her brow was furrowed as though she was in pain.
He saw her hand rise slightly from where it rested beside her on the gurney, and he clasped it in his. It was cool and damp and seemed as limp as a shroud.
This time, when she spoke in a quiet rasp, he made out the words. “Help me. Please.”
“I’ll do all I can. I promise.” His blood pounded in his ears. What if—
No, that was another mother, another baby. He had no business thinking about them now. He was the only physician with pediatric experience at the hospital at this hour. He had work to do.
CATHERINE’S EYELIDS WERE heavy. She struggled to open them. They fluttered first. With concentrated effort, she managed to raise them just a little.
She saw only a blur of white. “You are awake,” said a deep, soothing voice. A familiar male voice. It made her feel relaxed. Safe.
“I thought so. Can you tell me your name?”
She didn’t want to talk. Too tired. But she had to respond to the calming voice. “Ca—” she started to say. She stopped, trying to remember why she didn’t dare mention that name. “Polly,” she finally said. The word came out as a croak. That was the answer she had to give. She had to think of herself as Polly, not Catherine. But as muzzy as her mind felt, she was not sure why.
“Polly what?”
“Black,” she managed to answer. Why did she hurt so badly? She felt as though she had been run over by a truck.
Truck? No. The car. She had been so tired, and then…and then…
She came fully awake as suddenly as if she had been pinched. “The accident,” she gasped. Why didn’t her head clear? She was in a bed in a strange room. A man wearing a white jacket hovered over her. Did she know him? He wore a name tag. She struggled to focus on it. Dr. R. Snyder, it read. A doctor? Where was she?
She looked around. She lay in a narrow bed with railings on the sides. Her sore left arm was hooked up to a long tube that led to a bottle hanging upside down: an IV. Her right arm was swathed in bandages. The place smelled of something sweet and antiseptic. Obviously, she was in a hospital. White sheets were tucked over her nearly flat belly.
Flat?
Everything came back to her suddenly. “My baby!” she screamed, struggling to sit up despite arrows of pain stabbing through her. “What happened to—?”
“Shh.” The doctor pushed her back gently onto the bed. “It’s all right. You have a beautiful little girl. She’s fine.” His baritone voice was tranquil and familiar, though she didn’t recall ever meeting him. But he sounded as if he cared about her. “Sleep now, and when you’re feeling a little better I’ll make sure someone brings her in to see you.”
“Now.” Her heart pounded unmercifully, magnifying each pain.
Nothing alarmed her as much as the fear that the doctor, despite his kind, calming voice, had lied to her. That something was wrong with her baby.
Or that someone had stolen her away.
She searched the man’s eyes. They were a golden brown beneath thick ginger brows, and like any good doctor’s, they were filled with compassion. But she couldn’t trust him.
She couldn’t trust anyone.
“Please,” she said, making her voice as forceful as she could. “Let me see my baby.”
“I think we can arrange that. She was small, you know. And we were worried about her condition after the accident. That’s why we delivered her right away. She’s doing well, but she’s been under observation since she was born.”
“When was that?” Polly was almost afraid to ask. How long had she been unconscious?
“About—” the doctor pushed the sleeve of his lab coat up from a broad, hair-dusted wrist and looked at his watch “—ten hours ago.”
Ten hours. Her baby had been born that long ago, and she hadn’t been awake to see her. To hold her. Polly felt tears rise to her eyes. “You’re sure she’s all right?”
“I’m certain,
