By Your Side (31 page)

“Y
OU OKAY IN THERE?
”

What? Where . . . ? I’m in the car?

“Everything okay?” There was another tap on the darkened window.

“Yes, we . . .” Macy fumbled with the ignition, confused, wrist throbbing. She lowered the window halfway and found a smile. “Fine, Officer. We were just
 
—” She stopped, stared. Not a police officer. Hospital security.

“Macy Wynn?” The elderly guard smiled back at her. “I thought that was your car. But I told myself you don’t usually work nights.” He chuckled. “We’ve been friends how many years now? You don’t have to call me officer.”

Macy managed a laugh; she’d almost told him her uncle Bob was a police officer in Wyoming. The clinic’s pain pill had made her fuzzy. She’d been waiting to peek in on
Fletcher one more time, but . . . “I had a little accident,” she told him, lifting her cast. “I thought I shouldn’t drive until the medication wore off.”

“Well, my goodness. Sorry to see that.” He glanced toward the hospital doors, his heavy ring of keys jingling with the movement. “You don’t want to come inside? The surgeons’ lounge is empty. I could grab you some coffee while you wait.”

“Thank you,” Macy told him, touched by the kindness. “But no. I’ll just sit here a little longer. If that’s okay.”

“More than okay.” The guard winked. “Take as long as you like
 
—sleep if you need to. Make yourself at home, Macy. I’ll look out for you.”

Fletcher shifted in the bed, prompting a flash of pain that seared deep into his thigh. He groaned, opened his eyes.

Jessica raised her head from where she’d been resting it on the edge of the mattress. The blanket had left a small imprint on her cheek.

“You’re still here?” he asked her.

“Of course.” Her hair was sleep tossed, smile as warm as Houston. “Where else would I be? Neiman Marcus?”

Fletcher shook his head. “I won’t kid myself
 
—it’s closed.” Her fingers found his. “Hey, seriously. Thanks for being here.”

“Least I could do. You always gave me half your Halloween candy.” Her eyes rolled. “Okay. You never gave me a hard time for stealing all the good stuff.”

“You’re . . . the good stuff,” Fletcher told her, embarrassed
by a rush of emotion. Too much medication . . . too much of everything. He glanced toward the door. “Mom and Dad?”

“I made them go get some sleep. Aunt Thena’s been here too.” Jessica smiled. “The reporters will have their hands full if they try to get past her. By the way, you should expect a ‘Sorry You Got Shot’ poem.”

Fletcher chuckled. “Lots of news coverage?”

“To put it mildly. You’re a national hero. Promise you’ll let me pick out your clothes for the White House lunch
 
—I can’t trust you with something that critical.” Her eyes filled with sudden tears. “Thank God you’re okay, Fletcher. Don’t
ever
do this to me again.”

“I won’t.” He squeezed her hand. “Any more word on the firefighter?”

“Holding his own, last I heard. They said fifty firemen volunteered to donate blood
 
—almost as many as the cops who rolled up sleeves for you.” Her lips quirked. “Of course, we’d have twice as many in H-Town.”

Fletcher glanced up at the IV poles and the blood transfusion bag. It all seemed surreal. Seeing the Buick, hearing the shot. The shooter up on the roof.
And the way he stared at me. Like he was daring me to kill him.

“I guess he left a note
 
—more of a book, sounds like.” Jessica met Fletcher’s gaze. “That sniper, Ned Archer. He wrote one of those manifestos. About how he didn’t trust the US government. Or this city. How they caused his father’s dementia, poisoned his dog, stole their house. He said it was all a plot involving the Chinese . . . Pretty crazy stuff.”

“Sounds crazy.” Fletcher grimaced against a wave of pain. “Aagh.”

“Hurting?” Jessica leaned close. “Want me to push the button on the med pump?”

Fletcher nodded. “Thanks.”

“There.”

He glanced toward the door again, squinting at the distant blur of scrubs. “Has anybody else come to visit?”

“A guy name Seth. But you were asleep. I think they’re limiting visitors. He’s a chaplain?”

“Yeah.” Fletcher blinked, feeling the medication’s effects.

“You were expecting another visitor?”

“Not really, I guess.”

“A gorgeous dark-haired nurse . . . sort of exotic-looking?”

His breath stalled. “Why are you asking that?”

“Because she’s peeked into this room at least three times and said she had the wrong room when I asked. But she doesn’t look like someone who gets lost.” Jessica smiled. “She looks like she could lead a trek across the Andes without a map. Who
is
she?”

“Sounds like Macy Wynn.”

Jessica was quiet for a moment. “And who is she to you?”

“We were sort of seeing each other. But not anymore.”

She tilted her head. “I don’t believe you, Fletcher.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that look on your face just now. When you said her name. Like even if you’ve taken a bullet to a major artery, you could trust everything will be okay as long as you have her.”

“It’s . . . complicated.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

No.
He tried to shake his head, but the morphine whispered,
“Relax. It’s all good now . . .”

“You don’t want to tell me about Macy?”

“No. But I think . . .” He told himself it was the narcotic effect, that after twenty years there was no point in
 
—“I think we should talk about us, Jessica. You and me.”

The best part of this day
 
—yesterday now; it was after midnight
 
—was that Macy arrived home to a mercifully empty house. Sally was working nights at UCD Medical Center, and her other roommate had left a note to say she was bunking with her sister tonight. And not to worry; she’d taken Dood with her. Worrying about the goofy Labradoodle would have been comparative bliss.

Macy shifted the ice-filled ziplock on her wrist, and a frigid rivulet found her stomach. She sighed. In a single day, she’d been lasered, assaulted by a longtime friend, and told that the man she’d come to care for had been felled by a sniper
 
—only to land in another woman’s arms. Macy squeezed her eyes shut against an image of Jessica’s lips brushing Fletcher’s hand. That incredible-looking blonde. With stunning eyes, a sugary drawl, and a heart-level connection to Fletcher that . . .
I’ll never have a chance at now.
The shooting incident
 
—its role in bringing Jessica from Houston
 
—had been horrifically dramatic, but it was only a final blow. Macy’s relationship with Fletcher had already been fatally wounded. Even without a rifle. Elliot had seen to that.

Macy ran a thumb over her cell phone screen, frowning. She’d received two frantic texts from Ricki Rush, the first
one along the lines of
You ungrateful snot, what did you do?
followed by a much more contrite
Please, please . . . we can fix this.
Fortunately, the police must have forced Elliot to surrender his cell phone. She shuddered, remembering how his face had twisted with anger as he raged about Fletcher, how he clumsily attempted to kiss her, and how he’d torn at her clothes, groped her.

Macy groaned aloud, sickened
 
—and angry with herself. Not because she thought she’d encouraged Elliot in any way; she wasn’t going to fall into that victim trap. But . . .
why didn’t I protect myself better? Block his first grab, get a defensive blow in sooner?
She was a kickboxer, not a ballerina. Elliot shouldn’t have been able to take advantage like that. But the ugly incident had taken her so much by surprise. Confused her and seemed too impossible because . . .
I trusted him.

Macy squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to cry at the sad, pathetic truth: the only person she’d come close to completely trusting
 
—in her whole life
 
—was Elliot Rush. And she’d had to bash him in the skull to stop him from violating her.

Macy lifted her cast from the pillow on her lap, trying to find a more comfortable position on the couch. She was stiff and achy from sleeping in the Audi. She shook her head, recalling her confusion when the guard awakened her; she’d thought for a moment that she was with her mother in that old car in San Francisco. Homeless and being told to move along by local law enforcement, much the same way that neighbor got rid of nesting swallows
 
—babies and all
 
—with the handle of his rake.
“Couple of good pokes . . . the only way they’ll get that they don’t belong there.”

He was wrong. The same way Elliot was wrong when he said that hateful thing about her mother. Her mother had simply made the same mistake Macy did: trusting the wrong person. Macy should never have risked that. And she wouldn’t anymore. She wouldn’t let anyone tell her that she couldn’t make it on her own. She wouldn’t let losing what fragile hope she’d had of a relationship with Fletcher stop her from moving ahead. The broken wrist would heal. She’d get Nonni’s door set back, polish it up again. Transfer the trust money to a safer place. She’d keep that contractor working and close escrow on the house. She had to. It was all that mattered now. Making a home for
 
—

Her phone rang. Leah . . . at this hour?

“I know it’s late,” she told Macy. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No. No problem. Is something wrong?” Macy grimaced at a jab of pain from her swollen wrist. “The baby?”

“No. All good there. The nurse said they’d have to watch things, but that the drugs I took probably wouldn’t have harmed my baby.”

“Good. I know you must be relieved.” Macy closed her eyes, seeing Leah in that beanbag chair, running her fingertips across her belly. She wished she’d been able to get those pictures of the house so Leah could choose a room for a nursery.

“I’m five weeks and five days.” There was awe in Leah’s voice. “They did an ultrasound. I saw our baby’s heart beating, Macy.”

Our baby.
Auntie Macy. She smiled. Could anything be
more perfect? She and Leah and the baby would have a home and
 
—

“Sean wants me to marry him.”

Macy’s throat closed.

“I told him about the baby, how I saw the heartbeat. He
cried
, Macy. He’s so happy about this. And
 
—”

“Leah. Wait.” Macy raised her cast, shushing her sister as if she were in the room. This could
not
happen. “We talked about that. Remember? Sean’s in no position to
 
—”

“That’s the other miracle. They’re counting his rehab as time served. He’s coming home!”

Home?

“Sean’s boss at the shipping company says he can start back next week. We’ll just squeak by on the rent with his first paycheck, but we’ll make it. His mom wanted to help, but he told her we need to make it on our own. Be responsible, start off right. Getting married is first.”

“But . . . the house.” Macy’s whisper was hoarse. “We’re set to close by the end of next month. And we planned
 
—”

“I know. I told you I might come out there and stay for a while. You were so sweet to offer. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your being there for me during rehab and . . .” Leah’s voice cracked. “I’ll always be grateful. You’ve been like a real sister to me during the hardest times of my life. And by my side these last few weeks. I’ll always love you. But . . . Sean and this baby . . . they’re my family now. My home is with them.”

They’d said good night
 
—at least Macy thought she’d said it too, though her voice had been choked by gathering tears.
She’d been too stunned. Heartsick. And now, half an hour later, she was still hearing Leah’s voice saying,
“You’ve been like a real sister to me . . .”

Macy hugged the couch pillow close, struggling to make sense of pain that was far beyond disappointment. She’d never considered the concept of “real” when it came to how she felt about Leah. The little girl she’d met at Nonni’s house had been her sister from that first day. Macy never thought of it any other way.