A New Forever (10 page)

Elodie lay beneath him, still clutching at his shoulders although her quakes had been reduced to small, trembly tremors. Her eyes were wide open, as if she'd just seen a ghost, and she had.

April.

She felt April's presence there—in that room, despite the change of furniture—as surely as she'd ever felt anything else, and the stark reality of what she'd done made tears seep into her eyes. When she finally had to close them, the moisture dribbled down the sides of her face and into her hair.

What had she done? Was she crazy? How could she have been so adamant about not wanting to get involved with Clay, and then end up doing exactly that? Where was her brain? She was lying in her sister's bedroom, with her sister's husband lying on top of her. It didn't matter that April was gone—it didn't matter one bit!

She knew she was overreacting, but she couldn't help it. She felt dirty. She felt as if she'd crossed the point of no return. Elodie didn't recognize her own behavior. Obviously, she'd begun thinking with her overactive sexual need rather than her brain. She never meant to dishonor April's memory in such a way. That was the last thing she'd ever wanted to do, and yet it was exactly what she'd ended up doing. She felt sick, as if her stomach wanted to rebel against her behavior as well as her mind.

Elodie wanted to melt into the bed beneath her, to disappear, to be forgotten and forgiven. But that wasn't likely to happen here, lying under her dead sister's husband. The only thing she could think of right now was being alone, and doing some sort of penance. She didn't know what, but it wasn't going to be pretty, she knew that.

But Clay didn't seem to be going anywhere. In fact, she could swear she could hear him snoring in her ear, and that was the last thing she wanted. She had absolutely no intentions of sleeping with him tonight, so she began to shift herself subtly beneath him, hoping to either wake him enough to get him to roll off her, or be able to sidle out from under him so that she could get up, get dressed, and leave.

He didn't seem to wake up, but he did roll to one side, so that the only part of him that was really still over her was his arm, which she was able to gingerly, very gingerly, scoot under, holding his wrist up by her fingertips as if it was a particularly odious snake, then replacing it on the mattress where she had been. She gathered up her clothing as carefully and quietly as she could, all the while checking him nervously where he lay on the bed, glancing down at him, ready to sprint out the door at a moment's notice if he should wake.

But he didn't, thankfully.

Elodie paused at the door, though, looking over her shoulder at his broad back. She had a lot to think about, a lot to reconcile before she could see him again. She hoped he'd understand about that, although she didn't have a lot of hope. What Clay wanted, Clay got, one way or the other.

She shrugged and closed the door behind her without making a sound, wending her way through the house and out to her car mindlessly, deliberately not thinking about anything but getting herself home, not seeing anything in front of her except a vision of a very unhappy April glaring down at her.

She needed to be home.

*****

When the phone rang in the middle of the night, it was never a good thing, unless you knew someone who was pregnant, and Clay didn't recall anyone expecting a baby amongst anyone who had his private number. Unfortunately, the nature of his business meant that there were occasional dead of the night phone calls from a foreman if cattle or horses got loose or sick, so he was instantly, fully awake.

He picked up the phone and punched the talk button. "Carver."

"Clay Carver?"

He was already sitting on the edge of the bed, reaching to turn on the lamp. "Yes."

"Do you know an Elodie West?"

His head swiveled around so that he could look at the other side of the bed, where she should have been sleeping as soundly as he had been. But it was empty, and when he touched the sheets, cold.

Dead cold.

Clay was beginning to have an uncomfortable flashback to the phone call he'd gotten five years ago about April. But he swallowed hard and said, "Yes."

"I'm Officer John Clark, Mr. Carver, of the Harden P.D."

"And?" he asked impatiently. He wished the damned man would just spit it out, whatever the news was.

"Your name was in her wallet as her emergency contact. There was an accident. Ms. West was taken to the hospital."

Every corpuscle of blood he owned froze in his veins. Not again. He wouldn't—he couldn't—live through it again.

"Was she—" he corrected his tense, "is she all right?"

"I don't know, sir. She was alive when I last saw her, although she's hurt pretty bad."

Clay shot up and began gathering his clothes. He almost shut off the phone before asking, "Where'd they take her?"

"Liberty Med."

He hung up the phone and tossed it on the bed, shucking into his jeans without underwear and throwing on a t-shirt while calculating how long it was going to take him to get to the hospital, who he knew that he could call before he got there to see what was going on with her—if they'd tell him anything.

Clay fired up his pickup, and laid rubber getting out of the driveway and down the dusty road off the ranch. He tried to stay positive in his mind during the fifteen-minute drive, but it was hard. This was just way too close to home—to his heart. It was the nightmare of five years ago replaying itself. He was afraid that, by the time he got there, she was going to be gone, just like April had been, and again, he wouldn't have had a chance to say goodbye to another love.

Another love.

He loved April.

But now, he also loved Elodie.

And Elodie was here with him—at least for now, he grimaced. He couldn't bear the idea that he might lose her, too, especially having just come to the realization that he loved her as he'd loved April. The same, he thought, but different, because Elodie was as different from April as the sun was from the moon. He was a different person than he'd been with April, a little older and little wiser, and much more of a workaholic than he'd ever been with April, who had done her level best to distract him from his work at any given opportunity, up to and including calling him for phone sex on occasion.

Since her death, he'd thrown himself into his work, and Elodie had only just begun to scratch the surface there—in fact, she'd always tried to be very careful about not interrupting him. He didn't think she'd ever called him during a work day at all.

There was so much more for them to do—besides phone sex at work. They had just begun to come together, really, after all that time of barely knowing each other. He wanted it all—he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, if she'd have him.

If she lived to be asked, it was the first thing he was going to say to her when he saw her, he swore. The very first thing.

Clay put his accelerator to the floor, flying down 295 well past the fifty miles an hour speed limit around the city, then cutting off on exit four over to Danforth street to get to Liberty Med. He parked in the E.R. parking lot, in a police car spot—damn the consequences and the parking garage—stalking through the sparsely populated lobby and past the receptionists as if he owned the place, his eyes sweeping for any sign of Elodie, calling out her name and opening doors he shouldn't have, attracting a following of nurses and, eventually, security guards.

"Sir, sir, you're going to have to go back to the waiting room, sir." A large man who wasn't quite Clay's size tried to convince him and corral him back there, but Clay wasn't going anywhere except to Elodie's side.

"Elodie West?" The receptionist heard him yelling "Elodie", and knew immediately who he was. "Are you Clay Carver?"

"Yes—where is she?"

"What's your relationship to her?"

The look Clay gave her made the small round woman look away uncomfortably. "Where is she?" he repeated, his tone making it perfectly clear that he didn't intend to ask again.

"If you'll just take a seat—"

Since she didn't seem to be prepared to be any help, Clay pushed off the smaller security guards and barreled into the exam area, where there were about twenty beds with curtains pulled around them, surrounding the nurses' area in the middle. "Elodie?" He was fully prepared to peep into all of them in order to find her, and he started doing just that when an older, white-haired man came up to him.

"Clay?"

He knew Dr. Jay Douglas from way back, and it was the first time he felt like he'd seen anyone who was going to be of any help to him. "Where is she?"

"I just want to take you to a place where we can talk before you see her."

"Is she alive? Is she dying? What the fuck is going on? No one's told me a thing, dammit, and I want to know if she's okay!" All of the fear and frustration that had been building in Clay since he'd gotten the call—the first call five years ago—came into play, and Jay just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But even though he was older, he was at least as big as Clay was, and he was able to guide the younger man to an unused cubicle where they could both sit down.

His voice breaking as he sank into an uncomfortable orange plastic chair, Clay said, "If she's dead, man, just tell me. Don't drag it out."

"She's not dead, Clay. She's not dead." His tone was soft and quiet.

With tears in his eyes, Clay pinned Jay with his gaze. "Yet? Is there a 'yet' coming?"

"No, she is not in any immediate danger of dying. But I'm not going to lie to you. She's badly busted up, and all I want to do before you see her is prepare you. She's got a lot of tubes and wires coming out of various parts of her, and she's bruised and swollen everywhere. I think you could safely touch her left elbow, but that's about it right now. She went through the windshield, and was found about twenty feet away. She has broken ribs, a broken right arm, road rash on her face, a broken ankle and a concussion. She's going to be here for a little while."

Clay nodded, relief flooding through his body and making him feel weak as a kitten. "What happened, do you know?"

"Someone ran a red light—or what they're saying was a yellow light. He was in an SUV, and she—"

"Drives a little rattletrap cracker box," Clay interrupted, punching himself mentally because he hadn't replaced that awful thing for her, despite any protests she might have voiced.

"Yeah."

Clay ran his hand over his face and into his hair. "I want to see her."

"Follow me. But you can't stay."

"Of course I'm staying. As long as she needs me."

Jay held open the curtains to an exam room in the corner. When Clay first saw her, he wanted to start crying again, but didn't, in case she was awake. He didn't want her to become frightened if she saw him bawling all over her.

She was swathed in casts and bandages from head to foot; there wasn't much left for the gorgeous hospital johnnie to cover. Her face was swollen and bruised between the bandages, and he could see spots where the blood from the road rash cuts and scrapes had bled through. Her arm and opposite leg were in casts, and her eyes were closed. At least, he thought her eyes were closed. Her face was so swollen that it was hard to tell.

As if he knew what Clay was thinking, Jay said, "She's had some pain meds, so she's probably asleep. If you're gonna stay, then I'll have the nurse bring you a chair."

Clay wasn't paying him one bit of attention. His eyes were for the patient. Jay sighed and remained in place for a second. "West. Is she related to April?"

"Sister."

Jay nodded. "I'll be keeping an eye on her. She's going to be admitted, and the both of you will be more comfortable there."

Clay didn't notice whether or not he left. Jay had been right, though. About the only place he could touch her skin was her left elbow, which was exactly where he put his hand, feeling the warmth of her skin, and hoping that his touch would help her know she wasn't alone.

"I'm right here, honey. It's Clay. I'm right beside you, and you're gonna be fine. Sleep all you can, baby. It's good for you, and it'll help you heal. I'll be right here when you wake up, I promise." He tried to keep his voice as steady as he could, but it was a real struggle.

A tall, thin woman in a nurse's uniform appeared with a chair, and Clay barely thanked her before sinking down into it and resuming his former position.

He stayed that way for hours, until she finally began to stir, moaning with each movement. Clay was instantly at her head, and although he itched to touch her he didn't, for fear he would accidentally hurt her. "Sh-shh-shhh, sweetie. It's okay. It's Clay. I'm right here."

Those green eyes opened—barely—and seemed to be only slightly fuzzy. "Cl…ay?" Her voice was raspy and uncertain.

"Yes, baby, I'm right here." He leaned toward her, still excruciatingly careful not to touch her anywhere that might hurt, which seemed to be pretty much everywhere.

"Where am I?" she croaked.

"You're in the hospital, sweetpea. You had an accident."

"I did?"

"Yeah. But you're going to be fine."

"I am?"

"Yes, you are. And I'm going to be right here with you always, okay?"

She tried to nod, but that wasn't a good idea. Her yelp of pain made him start.

"Elodie, I just want you to stay still. You're pretty hurt, but you're going to be okay. It's nothing that can't be fixed, and your headache is a concussion. You're gonna be in the hospital for a few days, but it's nothing more serious than some broken bones that'll heal right up, baby. No problems. You just go back to sleep, and I'll stay right here next to you."

She was asleep again before he finished his sentence, and he wasn't at all sure that she was going to remember anything of what he'd told her the next time she woke up.

That wasn't until after dawn, when he'd spent the entire night in an extremely uncomfortable chair. Nurses had been popping in and out for quite some time because they'd found her a room, and no sooner had she awakened than the transport team arrived to take her upstairs.

"Clay?" she asked, sounding like a worried little girl.

"I'm right here, Elodie. Right here."

*****

His soothing tones washed over her, taking her tension and fear with it. If Clay was here, everything was going to be all right.

She couldn't remember much about what had gone on yesterday—at least not after they'd made love—but she knew she was in a hospital; she recognized the airiness of the wardrobe. Her arm and one leg were immobilized by casts, and her head hurt like a bitch—worse than any migraine she'd ever had. She felt as if it was trying to split open, like some sort of alien from a sci-fi movie.

The ride up to a permanent room was uneventful, and Clay stayed in her line of vision the entire time, even crowding into the elevator and putting his hand on her elbow so that she could feel him there as well as see him. "You're going to be all right, honey."

She was learning not to nod her head. "I know." Her eyelids closed all by themselves, and the next time they opened, someone was putting a breakfast tray in front of her.

As soon as she opened her eyes, Clay was right there, standing beside her with a small smile on his face. "I took the liberty of ordering for you when they asked a couple hours ago. I hope you're hungry."

There was enough food on that tray to feed an army, and she had literally no interest in any of it. "You can eat it," she pronounced, her eyelids fluttering closed.

"I want you to eat something, Elodie. You need to feed your body in order for it to heal."

"I'm not hungry," she stated flatly.

Clay brought the tray closer to her, saying in a no nonsense tone, "I didn't ask you if you were hungry, Elodie. I want you to pick out at least three things from this tray that you're going to eat for me. I'll feed you, but you're going to eat every morsel."

She opened her eyes for the sole purpose of glaring at him, not that it did any good. It never did. Sighing in exasperation, she tried to sit up further in the bed, slow painful process that it was. The tray didn't look any better once she was sitting up than it had before. It was over laden with food: pancakes, waffles, syrup, butter, biscuits, yogurt, canned peaches, toast, orange juice, milk and coffee. "I'll have the yogurt, the juice and the milk," she croaked.

*****

It wasn't what he would have picked for her, but at least it got something into her stomach. She was on some high-powered pain relievers, and he didn't want her to have to contend with a sour stomach on top of everything else. Elodie was trying to reach for what she'd asked for, but he got there first—not that it was much of a contest—and opened everything for her, sticking a straw in the juice, then scooping up a spoonful of the creamy strawberry yogurt and holding it up to her mouth.

"You don't have to feed me you know."

Clay knew by the tone of her voice that she was trying to frown, but her face was too swollen to show it. "I know I don't. I want to." He put the spoon into her mouth as gently as he could, but firmly enough that she couldn't refuse it.

He wanted her to finish the whole thing, but she started to avoid the spoon when he was only half way through. She did finish the juice, however. Seconds later, she was back asleep.

Clay didn't want to leave her, but he did want her to have some of her own things around her. Those hospital johnnies weren't the most comfortable of things. At least he'd been able to get the hospital to give her a private room, but only by giving them his platinum card number first. He had no idea whether or not she had health insurance, but somehow he doubted it. Waitresses rarely did, in his experience.

He wanted to go to her apartment and grab her some pajamas and a robe and some slippers, her toothbrush, things she would want when she got to feeling a little better. But the hospital wouldn't give him her keys, or access to any of her personal belongings. He'd found out while he was arguing with the head nurse that he was the second name on her emergency call list, and he was dying to find out who was on it above him. It could be that she hadn't updated it and April was the first name, but in that case, they would have called the house asking for April.

Both situations were going to drive him crazy, but there was little he could do about being second in line—for now. Clay grimaced as he looked at Elodie as she slept, then made up his mind that he was going to go get her things. He slipped out of the room without waking her and flagged down the first CNA he found, asking her to tell Elodie that he'd just stepped out and would be back very shortly if she woke while he was gone and asked about him.

When he got to his pickup, he took a moment and sat behind the wheel, leaning forward to put his head against the cold leather steering wheel cover, and said a short, sharp prayer of thanks that she was, essentially, going to be fine.

Then he pulled out of the parking lot and made his way back to Harden, to the wrong side of the tracks, where Elodie's apartment was. The building was skuzzy and nondescript on the outside. He knew she lived in number twenty-one, and it was the middle of the day so there was no one around. Clay took a silver ring of keys out of his glove box and stuck it in his back pocket. It held every key to everything on his ranch from sheds to old tractors, and he was pretty certain that April had put a spare key of her sister's on that ring.

When he was facing her door, he took out the group of keys—some marked and some not—and luckily, he had her door open in less than five minutes. He took the key off the ring and put it in the front pocket of his jeans to add it to his main key ring for future use. Elodie may not like it, but he figured that, with her current condition, he would need to be visiting her place often.

Her apartment was dingy and depressing, but neat as a pin, just as he expected. There was very little furniture besides a big comfy looking chair that had seen better days, a mini stereo that he remembered he and April had given her for Christmas one year, and a tiny TV.

But what was there glued him—dumbstruck—in place for about ten minutes. Paintings. Tons of them. All around the perimeter of the room. Lighthouses, waves crashing spectacularly onto rocks—some spots he recognized from his own trips up and down the coast. The occasional, obligatory beach scene, then one set at sunset with a dad and his little one on his shoulders frolicking in ankle-deep surf. Oceanscapes and red flowers, almost all of them.

Except one.

Unlike the others, this one was framed, and hung on the wall above the television. It was April—his April. Clay could no more prevent himself from walking over to stand in front of it than he could stop the sun from setting at night. He had to. It called to him, and he called to her on a whispered breath. "April."