Divine by Choice (26 page)

“He needs a doctor, Shannon. Come on!” Clint's voice sounded strained.

Quickly, I stroked the side of the willow. “Thank you for my father's life.”

You are well and truly welcome, Epona's Beloved.
The answer was a gentle farewell echo in my mind as I stumbled and half fell my way to Clint's side.

Without hesitation I grabbed Clint's free hand, willing strength and warmth into him. My palm burned as energy passed between the two of us.

“No,” he gasped. His pallid face was set in deep lines of pain. “Save it for him. I'll be fine.”

Reluctantly, I dropped his hand and we struggled our way back to the barn.

The three remaining dogs were silent and withdrawn as we
entered the barn. A groan of pain escaped from Clint's rigid lips as he lay Dad gently in a pile of hay near the door.

“Give me your scarf.”

I yanked it off and handed it to him. He wrapped it tightly around Dad's still-bleeding hand.

“Get a blanket from the tack room,” Clint ordered. I sprinted off while he checked Dad's pulse.

By the time I came back with several horse blankets clutched in my arms, Clint had Dad's coat and sweater stripped off.

“Cover him and talk to him while I bring the Hummer here.” Before he turned to go, he said, “Now is the time to share the tree's healing power.”

I nodded and began wrapping blankets securely around Dad. I was horrified by the blue-gray color of his skin and his stillness. I took his uninjured hand in mine. Quickly centering myself, I focused all the warmth from the willows I had stored within me into that hand. I felt the familiar burning tingle through my palm.

“Dad, can you hear me?” I took an edge of one of the blankets and rubbed at his water-soaked hair. The ends were brittle and frozen. Please be okay. Please be okay. “Dad, you have to wake up now.” I poured all the heat I could from my body into his.

His eyes flickered and opened, but they had an odd, glassy look.

“Dad!”

“Bugs?” His voice was gravelly and faint, like he had a terrible case of laryngitis.

“It's me. You're okay.”

He blinked and looked around like he didn't know where he was, then the light of remembrance returned to his eyes.

“The pups?” he rasped.

I shook my head. “There was nothing you could do.”

“Mama Parker's going to be upset.”

I wanted to say that she'd be much more upset if he'd gotten himself killed, but I decided that this was one of the times I should keep my mouth shut.

His eyes were closed again, and I squeezed his hand frantically, worried that he'd fade away. But he squeezed back and I resumed breathing.

“I believe you now.” I almost missed his hoarse whisper. “About Partholon. I believe you.”

The Hummer roared up. Clint moved quickly but stiffly back to Dad's side. Dad looked up at him.

“Ready, big guy?” Clint asked.

“Just give me a minute. I can walk,” Dad whispered.

“Maybe another time.” Clint chuckled, and then heaved him back over his shoulder, staggering the few feet to the vehicle, where he deposited Dad in the back seat. I saw the grimace of pain flash over Clint's face as he tried to straighten, but he was all calm authority when he spoke.

“Shannon, get in the back with him. Keep channeling into him all the power you can spare.” He smiled grimly at me. “Just be sure you don't drain yourself like you did in the grove. There's not much opportunity for you to recharge right now.”

“What about you?” I asked as I climbed into the back seat next to Dad.

“We'll worry about me later.” I was alarmed by the stiff, crooked way he sat behind the wheel. “Hold on, this will be a fast, slippery trip.” Clint gunned the engine, turned in a tight circle and shot toward the lane.

My respect for military vehicles, and military men, grew with each second.

“Check that hand,” Clint said, glancing in the rearview mirror.

It was his right hand that had been cut, and Dad was holding it cradled against his chest. I was sitting to his right, and I leaned close to him.

“Let me see it, Dad.”

He grunted painfully, but he let me have his hand. It had soaked through the scarf and was leaking red streaks on the horse blankets.

“Still bleeding,” I told Clint.

“Here—” he unwound the scarf from his neck “—wrap this around the wound and keep pressure on it. It's cut pretty bad.”

“Sorry, this is going to hurt,” I said to Dad. Then I wrapped the blood-drenched hand with Clint's scarf, tied it and pressed firmly, focusing more warmth from me to him. Dad closed his eyes.

“Shit!” The word whistled through his gritted teeth. “It was better when I couldn't feel it.”

“At least your voice sounds better.”

“Yeah, just in time for me to cuss a blue streak.” Dad's teeth were beginning to chatter, which I took for a good sign. His eyes locked with mine. “That Goddamnable thing was down there. It was part of the pond.”

“I know. He's not fully formed here, not like he was in Partholon. His body is more liquid and darkness than solid mass.”

“It's evil. I could feel it.”

I just nodded and kept focusing on channeling power into my father.

Suddenly Dad tried to sit straight up, and I had to scramble to get him to be still.

“That thing's still there with the rest of my animals!”

“Sir,” Clint spoke quickly. “I've trapped it, at least for a while. And I don't think Nuada would think to attack an animal unless it was directly tied to a human—like the way he
lured you out to the pond through your pups, or the way Shannon described him attacking her mare in Partholon. We're gone now, so there's no reason for him to focus on your animals.”

Dad relaxed a little.

“He's single-minded.” I agreed with Clint. “And right now he's fixated on anyone I love. He wasn't after the pups. He just used them to get to you.”

Dad nodded. “Makes sense—if any of this makes sense.” He looked at me. “How could that thing believe you called it here?” Dad's voice broke between his chattering teeth.

“I don't know, I'd never—” A sudden thought made me pause. “Unless Nuada was being called here, but not by me.”

Clint met my eyes in the rearview mirror, and he nodded in grim agreement.

“Rhiannon called him,” I said.

“Why would she or anyone do that?” I was pleased that Dad sounded more pissed than wounded and weak.

“She's into some bad stuff, Dad.” An idea was forming within my mind. Again, I caught Clint's gaze in the mirror. “Bres was definitely into dark powers and such. Alanna knew that. And ClanFintan told me about that awful evil god, and how the people at Guardian Castle had started worshipping him. Maybe Rhiannon opened herself up to that evil without really understanding the consequences. She might not have meant to, but whatever she's been doing has called Nuada here from the dead. You said she kept trying to get you to help her, right?”

“That's right.” Clint nodded. “She went on and on about how together we could harness the power of the forest.”

It made sense. “It's like the power from the trees is amplified if I channel it through you. I didn't understand that until we blundered into it, but Rhiannon has had considerably
more experience with magic. She'd know about you the moment she met you—” I thought about his sapphire aura “—or even before. But when you wouldn't let her use you, she needed to find someone who would.”

“Or
something,”
Clint added.

The Hummer bounced over a dip in the road and a grunt of pain escaped Dad's pursed lips. The grunt turned into the words “How could anyone believe they could control evil?”

“Rhiannon is used to being in charge of a world, and everything in it. There's nothing she doesn't believe she can control.” As soon as I said it I knew it was true. I felt it like it was part of my own being, and I wondered—not for the first time—if I would have been as dark and twisted as Rhiannon if I had been raised differently. Was that capability within me? I didn't like to think so.

“Isn't the Broken Arrow hospital just down the street off Elm?”

Clint's question made me sit up and look around us, and a wave of dizziness butterflied through my body.

“Yeah,” I said weakly. “It's between 91
^st
and 101
^st
Streets.”

Clint made the turn and I caught him studying me in the mirror.

“Keep your eyes on the road, Colonel.” I tried to sound perky. Instead, I slurred my words like I was drunk.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Parker?” Clint asked quickly.

“Better, son. Better.” And I had to admit that he did sound more like his old self.

“Let go of his hand, Shannon,” Clint ordered.

“What?” I'd heard the words, but I was having trouble understanding their meaning.

“Sir, you need to take her hand from yours. She's used all of the willow's stored power, and now she's sharing her own with you. It's not good for her, or for her baby.”

That set off alarm bells in my mind, but I couldn't seem to make my hand respond. Thankfully, Dad wasn't likewise affected.

“Here, now, Bugsy old girl. Let go. I'll be just fine. Let's look after that granddaughter of mine.” He pried his hand from mine and patted me roughly. I tried to smile at him, but my face wouldn't mind me.

“Shannon my girl? You still with us?” Clint's eyes kept sending worried glances back to me through the mirror.

I tried to say yes, there's nothing to worry about, I'm suddenly just really, really tired, but my voice wouldn't cooperate. I did manage something that sounded like
mumph.

Dad touched my forehead with his good hand, cussing at the pain the movement caused in his other hand.

“What the hell's wrong with her?” he yelled at Clint. “She's cold as ice. She was fine just a minute ago.”

“Here's the hospital,” Clint said as he skidded the Hummer into the side road marked Emergency Room Entrance Only. He was out of the vehicle, opening the door for Dad, and pulling him toward the entrance ramp in what felt like seconds.

“Get Shannon help first!” I could hear Dad arguing weakly with Clint.

“The help she needs can't be found within walls.”

The two of them disappeared with a swoosh of the electric doors. I let my head fall against the leather seat back. It felt good to just sit there. I took a deep breath and wondered why my chest felt so tight. Maybe I should just go to sleep. I probably needed to rest….

“S
hannon! Damnit! Wake the hell up!”

The sound of Clint's panicked yelling brought my eyelids open. Then he was grabbing me out of the back of the Hummer and carrying me in his arms like I was an overgrown baby. He waded determinedly through the snow-covered parking lot behind the emergency room.

I wanted to tell him to put me down, that all of this carrying around of folks couldn't be good for his back, but my voice didn't seem to be obeying me. Instead I lay my head on his warm shoulder and closed my eyes.

“Shannon!” He shook me roughly. “Don't you pass out on me!”

I tried to glare at him. I really just friggin wanted to sleep. Wouldn't anyone let me get some damn rest?

Then I was plopped on top of an ice-crusted drift. Clint shoved my back hard against something very rough. One of his hands pressed my shoulder, holding me firmly against what I now realized was a tree. With his teeth he pulled the glove off his other hand and pressed his palm against the bark.

“Please help her!” he whispered urgently.

Epona's Beloved!
The voice that popped into my head
sounded young and excited. Instantly my back began to tingle, then warmth shot from the bark into my body.

“Huh!” I gasped aloud as the power flowed into me.

Forgive me, Beloved of the Goddess. I shall be more careful.
The jolt of power slowed to a steady, bearable stream of warmth.

I closed my eyes, this time not because I was losing consciousness, but because I was savoring the return of feeling to my body. I told myself I didn't even mind the painful tingling in my hands and legs. Then my eyes opened and I barely had time to shout a warning to Clint and let him jump back out of the way before I was bending sideways and projectile vomiting my once-yummy breakfast all over the pristine snow. When I was done I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and scooted around the tree away from the steaming pile of puke. I looked up at Clint, who was leaning heavily against the side of the tree.

“At least this time I didn't quit breathing,” I said softly, glad my voice was returning.

“I told you to stop before you drained yourself.” He tried to sound pissed, but the hand that pushed a stray curl back from my face then traced the line of my cheek was gentle.

“It's hard for me to tell when enough is enough.” I smiled and pressed myself more firmly against the warm bark. “It sneaks up on me, and by the time I realize what's going on, well, um, I'm…”

“Almost dead?” he finished sardonically.

“No, almost unconscious.”

He blew out through his nose in a gesture that was so like ClanFintan that I had to laugh.

“What's funny?”

“You.” I started to push myself to my feet, slipped on the slick, snowy surface, and Clint's arms steadied me. I looked into his familiar face. “I was just thinking that you'd make a pretty damn good centaur.”

His arms tightened around me and I allowed myself the luxury of resting my head against his chest.

“I don't like horses, Shannon my girl.”

“Centaurs aren't horses,” I countered.

“They're close enough.”

“ClanFintan would be annoyed to hear you say that.”

“Tell him to come here and take it up with me.” I could hear the smile in his voice.

“He may just do that.”

“Good. We know how to handle horses here in Oklahoma. I'll bet he'd make one heck of a barrel pony.”

I laughed and pushed him away. “You're awful.” I looked up at the tree against which we had been resting and realized it was a small Bradford pear. It couldn't have been more than five years old. Amazed, I pulled off both gloves and laid my palms, and then my forehead, against the grainy bark. “Thank you, little one, for your gift.”

Oh! Beloved! You are most welcome!
The small voice bounced around inside my head.

I winced, but I adored the exuberant, childlike intensity of the young tree. “May the Goddess bless you and make you grow tall and strong.” I caressed the bark in parting. I swear I felt the tree quiver like a happy puppy beneath my hands.

“Let's go check on Dad.” I looped arms with Clint, and we started back to the emergency room. “Hey, it's quit snowing.”

“It stopped as soon as I trapped Nuada in the pond.” He studied the sky before saying, “It won't last, though. Look at those clouds, they're filled with snow. Can't even see the sun.”

I almost tripped over an especially high snowdrift.

“Careful, there.” Clint righted me, and I saw him grimace at the pain in his back.

“Shouldn't you rest against the tree for a while yourself?
Your back can't be doing very well, what with carrying me and my family all over Oklahoma.”

“It doesn't work like that for me,” he said, obviously uncomfortable with the topic. “I'll be fine when I'm surrounded by the forest again. Until then, this is about as good as it gets.”

I was willing to bet it would get a lot worse if he didn't get back to his forest, but the closed look in his face kept me from questioning him further.

Fluorescent lights and warmth rushed out in welcome as we entered the sterility of the hospital. A clean, medicinal smell enveloped us. It brought back my college years, and reminded me of long nights when I had worked as a unit secretary for a large hospital just off campus near the University of Illinois. My nose wrinkled—that hospital smell just never changes.

“May I help you?” A plump nurse slid the glass window open and smiled efficiently at us.

“Yes, I'm Richard Parker's daughter.”

“'Course,” she said with a warm windowside manner and a long, sweet Okie drawl. “I'll check on him for ya. I believe the doc's with him right now.”

“I'd like to see him, please.”

“Let me just make sure he can have visitors.” She glanced at Clint.

“Oh, this is my husband.”

She nodded and gave Clint an appreciative look. “Have a seat in the waiting area, and I'll be back in just a minute.”

We sat. I could feel Clint's dark eyes on me.

“Husband?”

“Don't start,” I said. “I'd elbow you in the side, but I don't want to hurt your friggin back.”

He chuckled.

“Mr. and Mrs., um…” The nurse struggled for a name.

“Freeman,” Clint spoke up proudly, helping me to my feet and putting a possessive arm around my shoulders. “Mr. and Mrs. Freeman—that's us.”

“Y'all may see your daddy now, but only for just a sec. The surgeon's been called in and it looks like she'll have to perform reconstructive surgery on that hand, so we'll need to get busy cleaning and prepping it.” She chattered and we followed her back to the U-shaped emergency department. “But he'll be just fine. Doctor wants to keep him here a couple days after the surgery for observation, though. Hypothermia can be dangerous, and he does have a nasty bump on his head.”

“Good thing his head is so thick,” I whispered to Clint.

“Like father like daughter,” he whispered back.

She motioned us into Room 4, where Dad was reclining half horizontally in a bed that his bulk made look small. Tubes were running from an IV that was attached to his left arm. His right hand was lying palm up on a raised stand with a little protruding arm, which sat next to his bed. The hand rested on a pile of blue cloth, and was still slowly seeping scarlet. I only glanced at it, and swallowed hard. It was split wide open and looked disquietingly like a gross baked potato. My eyes studied his face instead. He did have a horrible-looking welt on the left side of his forehead that had already begun to turn several brilliant shades of red and purple. I was shocked to see how pale he looked against the bleached pillows.

A male nurse was rummaging through some jars and drawers in a cabinet at the far side of the room. He nodded to us politely.

“How're ya doing, Dad?” I disengaged myself from Clint's arm and took Dad's uninjured hand, being careful not to mess with any of the tubes.

“Fine, fine.” He sounded his usual gruff self. “These idiots keep trying to give me morphine, and I keep telling them that I act goofy on that stuff.” He raised his voice, motioning toward the back of the male nurse. “Shoot, I played ball against Notre Dame in '60 with a broken arm. Beat the hell outta them. Just put some damn butterfly stitches in it and let me go home.”

The nurse turned around and glared at Dad. He had an evil-looking syringe in one hand. The other was planted delicately on his hip. His voice was pleasingly soft, but his tone said he was tired of Dad's heroics. “See here, Mr. Thing, I understand you're a handsome, muscular tough guy, but your playing-football-with-a-broken-arm days were FORTY-PLUS YEARS AGO.” He made a very
In Living Color
snap with his free hand. Sounded like this argument had been going on for some time.

Dad opened his mouth and I jumped in, hopefully saving the scene from deteriorating into a tasteless brawl. “Dad, would you please take the shot? I don't think I can stand to see you in any more pain.” I leaned close to him and whispered, “Don't make me call Mama Parker. You know what she'd say.” We both knew I'd threatened to bring in the big guns, and he threw me a fearful look.

“No need to bother her.” He squeezed my hand, and then growled to the nurse. “Go ahead, give me that damn shot. But just this once.”

“Well, thank you, Your Majesty.” He rolled his eyes, gave me an exasperated girlfriend look and thoroughly injected Dad.

I figured it was good for him. (Dad, not the nurse.)

The surgeon, Dr. Athena Mason, chose that moment to appear. She was a professional-looking, attractive, middle-aged woman whose voice and manner immediately instilled
confidence. She seemed to be one of those rare doctors who actually treated her patients as if they had functioning brains as well as bodies. Plus, I thought her first name was cool.

Dr. Mason already had Dad's chart, and after exchanging pleasantries with Clint and me she took her stance next to the mangled hand. After a nod from Dad, she told me the situation.

“Your father's hand has severe nerve damage. With surgery, I can probably bring its function back to eighty percent. Without surgery, he will not be able to maintain a grip on objects, nor will he have feeling below his wrist. He and I have concurred that surgery is the best choice of treatment.”

“Will he be okay?” I felt a little light-headed.

“Yes.” She gave me a reassuring smile. “I'm ready to take him immediately into surgery. If you and your husband will wait outside, we will prep your father. I'll have you called back in before we take him up.”

I gave Dad a quick kiss and allowed Clint to usher me from the room and back to the E.R. waiting area.

“I can't tell you how much I hate hospitals,” I muttered to Clint after we had resettled ourselves into the almost comfortable chairs.

Clint leaned over and spoke into my ear. “You're telling a man who spent the better part of a year in a hospital ward? The smell alone makes my skin crawl.”

“There's coffee and snacks around the corner in the break room,” the healthy-looking nurse advised us through the half-open window.

We nodded our thanks like marionettes.

“Want something? I think I'd better get some coffee—seems like it might be a long day,” Clint said as he pulled himself awkwardly to a standing position.

I watched his expression war with his pain. It was obvious he was trying to mask it, and it made me feel horrible that I was the reason behind that pain.

“Clint,” I spoke with low intensity, trying to make him believe my words. “You don't have to stay. Go on back to the forest. Dad will be fine. When he's out of surgery I'll see he's settled and then I'll…” Here I faltered, wondering what the hell I was going to do next. “I'll, um, I'll borrow one of Dad's trucks and drive down to your place. Then you and I can plan what we'll do next from there.”

“Don't patronize me.” Clint's eyes had gone flat.

“I'm not patronizing you!” I shouted, then immediately lowered my voice at the curious look from the nurse. “I just hate being the cause of your pain.”

“You are not the cause of it, Rhiannon is.”

“You know what I mean,” I said, exasperated.

“Yes, I know what you mean.” He sat next to me, but his body was ramrod stiff—he wouldn't touch me. “What you mean is that I'm not involved enough with you or your family for you to allow me to stay here with you. I know you don't believe I love you like he does, but I thought that my actions have proven to you that I belong with you for as long as you are here and as long as you need me.”

I didn't know what to say. If I acknowledged what he was saying wouldn't I simply be causing him more pain?