Lifeline Echoes (29 page)

"Are you cold?"

"No," she said quickly. "How—how did . . .
Mac die?"

"Earthquake," Sean answered. "You remember
the big one in L.A. about seven years ago?"

"Oh, man. Sandy
actually
felt
pale. Even she could hear the shaky warble in her voice. "I
remember."

"They were clearing a building after a gas
explosion when it collapsed. Mac died—whoa!"

Sandy felt herself sliding off the chair.
She saw the white and beige floor tiles coming up toward her
face.

****

"That was a strong one," Mick said.

"A strong what?"

"Aftershock. Feel it? It's still
moving."

Sandy looked around the room. Coworkers were
manning the other boards. All was silent. And still.

"Aw, jeez," Mick said softly. "'The course
of true love never did run smooth.'"

Sandy instantly recognized
Lysander's line from
A Midsummer Night's
Dream
. "It can," she insisted. "It will,
Mick!" Tears welled.

"Angel . . . I'm sorry. I think—we could
have had something good—"

Crashing and crunching sounds came over the
comm, then a burst of static and then nothing, not even the hiss of
open air. The connection had been abruptly severed.

"No!" she shouted in frustration, earning
everything from covert glances to concerned stares from the other
dispatchers.

Frantically, her hands worked the outdated
radio system, trying to reestablish a connection, but the link
remained silent.

"It's okay. His battery died, that's all,"
she said to herself.

One by one, the clock ticked off the minutes
of radio silence.

Sandy stared at her console, willing it to
light up again. But when it did, it was just an outside call, and
one of her coworkers picked it up.

"They got through!" someone shouted.

"They made contact," said Ellen at the next
workstation. She listened to the report, one hand on the link in
her ear. But as the happy grin on her face began to fade, dread
gripped Sandy's heart.

Then the chaplain was at her side.

"No!" she exclaimed. "Don't you say it. I
was just talking to him. He was fine!"

"They got through a few minutes ago,"
Chaplain Hindson said gently. "I'm sorry. They were both gone when
search and rescue got to them."

Sandy closed her eyes against the tears he
hadn't wanted her to cry. She stopped breathing, drowning in a
tsunami-sized wave of pain. She'd known this was a possibility;
worse, it was the likely outcome. But she'd never given up hope.
And now . . . there was no more hope to hold onto. Mick was gone
before she'd ever had a chance to really get to know him. She
closed her eyes against the pain and drew a deep breath.

"Thank you for letting me know," she said
stiffly. Sitting back at her work station, she checked her watch
and made a final notation in her log: Duration of contact 23:57:00.
Then she excused herself, stepped outside and allowed the hot tears
to fall freely.

****

Sean's face, even more pale than it had been
earlier, was leaning over her, his green eyes clouded with
worry.

"You think you can sit up, girl?" Justin's
gravely voice brought her to the present.

She tried to piece her
revelation together. "Not Mick. It
was
Mac. Mac MacKay." She pulled in
deep breaths of air, not interested in meeting the floor so up
close and personal again.

"I'll go get help," said Sean.

"No!" she said sharply. She sat up, took
Justin's hand and let him pull her to her feet. "I'm, um, I'm good.
I, ah, need to tell you something."

Justin cupped her elbow and helped her back
to her seat. She smiled and assured him she was fine.

"I was an EMT dispatcher for Central L.A.
during that quake. We all did rotations on both sides of the job."
She drew a shaky deep breath, blew it out. "I was the dispatcher
who sent them—Ryan and Mac—into that mess. I . . . met Mac right
before he died. We were going to go out. I had—feelings for him. I
knew he was from Wyoming but I didn't know exactly where. He's the
reason I came here."

Sean's brow drew together into a frown. "You
knew Mac?"

Sandy nodded, brushing at
the tears burning her eyes. "I didn't know he lived
here
. I didn't know
exactly where he lived. He talked about Wyoming a lot but in
general terms. He loved it here, missed it so much. I came here to
see The Red Desert because he mentioned the sunsets were
amazing.

Sean exchanged a puzzled look with his
father before turning his attention back to Sandy. "If you didn’t
know where Mac was from, how did you end up here?"

"I stopped at Valentine's for some dinner. I
was so tired of driving around, knowing no matter where I went, I
wasn’t going to find Mac. Tom had a help wanted sign behind the bar
and suddenly I just wanted to put down roots. Orson's Folly seemed
as close to anything Mac had described as anything else." Sandy
spread her hands, helpless to explain why Orson's Folly had felt
like coming home. She picked at the hem on her dress, frowning when
she saw the blood streaked across her lap. Ryan's blood. She
brushed at it but it had long since dried into the fabric.

Sean crouched in front of Sandy, stilling
her hands. He searched her face, speaking softly. "Ry doesn't know,
does he? He doesn't know you were seeing Mac."

Sandy shook her head slowly, still feeling
dazed. "I don't see how he could. I didn't realize it myself."
Restless hands plucked at the hem of her dress. "It's mind-blowing
. . . weird . . .all the coincidences, the connections. Suddenly
everything feels very complicated."

Sean captured one of her trembling, agitated
hands. With his other hand, he placed his thumb beneath her chin in
a gesture so like Ryan's, her tears welled. Gently, he raised her
face to meet his eyes.

"We'll all get through this, Sandy. You and
Ryan love each other."

But doubt was becoming her constant
companion these days, and once again, it crept over her, invading
her mind, dispatching reason into exile. Would they really get
through it?

"Family of Ryan McGee?" A green-clad doctor
with thinning gray hair and horn-rimmed glasses stood in the
doorway.

When the three of them looked up, he closed
the distance between them.

"Mr. McGee is stable. His injuries are
severe but not life-threatening. He's more exhausted than anything
else. He woke up for a few minutes but he was agitated so we had to
sedate him. You can all see him for a couple of minutes. Then, you
can take turns sitting with him, one person at a time. Maybe when
the sedation wears off he won't be as agitated if he sees a
familiar face."

The doctor began to lead the way, then he
hesitated and turned around. "He kept—asking for chicory. We
thought he was experiencing expressive aphasia but he insisted he
was saying what he meant to say. He wants someone to make sure the
chicory is safe."

Tears streamed down Sandy's face. "That's
me. He's talking about me."

****

Justin insisted Sandy sit with Ryan. "He
asked for you. It's you who'll be able to ease his mind the
most."

Sandy couldn't let go of Ryan's hand.
Cradled in hers, she noted the faint bruises on his knuckles, with
tiny abrasions, which were already scabbing over. The esophageal
tube had been removed once the bleeding from his nose had stopped
choking him. Now his breathing was deep and even. His face was hard
to look at. Even cleaned up, he still looked like he'd run
head-first into a wall. The stitched-up, C-shaped laceration just
below his left eye was going to leave a scar. His eyes were closed
in deep, drug-induced sleep, but Sandy didn't think they would open
very far even if he was awake.

He was alive.

"I know it'll be a while before you can ride
but I want to race across the plains with you. I want to go out at
sunrise and get home just as the sun's going down." She had no idea
what, if anything, he heard, but she kept talking. "I want to go
camping in the mountains with you, and stay in the cabin up there.
I want to make love with you at night with all the stars above
us."

His hand moved in hers. "Stay," he whispered
weakly. Then he drifted off again.

She kept talking. Every so often he would
surface from the darkness for just a moment. His words were slurred
and thick, difficult to understand, but she got the gist. He was
repeatedly begging her to stay with him.

"I'm not going anywhere."

When he grew agitated, she gently rubbed the
sensitive spot on his temple with her thumb. "I'll wait right here.
I promise. I'll wait until you come back to me."

****

Hanging at the edge of consciousness, Ryan
didn't want to wake up. He could listen to her talk forever. Her
words painted the color into his dreams.

"I want to kiss the most beautiful girl in
the world," he mumbled. His mouth was stiff, his tongue felt
swollen. The words came with difficulty. "My girl. Stay with me.
Don't go away, please."

Her promise to stay with him sounded like it
was coming from the other side of a wall as he sunk into the
blessed blackness again.

****

Ryan fought to resurface when he heard the
familiar voice. She was here. She promised to stay. With a mighty
effort, he clawed and pushed his way out of the void, looking
around the room with eyes that didn't want to focus.

A figure sat next to the bed. She held his
hand, stroking the pain away from sore knuckles, making promises
she would stay with him; she would be there. With agonizing
slowness, his vision cleared, the room brightened. Little flares of
light seared along his optic nerves, each flash a hot needle
stabbing into his eyes. As his vision began to normalize, the pain
behind his eyeballs diminished. The room gradually whirled into
focus. His eyes settled on the woman next to his bed.

"Hey, you," he murmured.

His brain finally kicked into first gear,
and he registered Sandy's face, Sandy's clear, amazing eyes looking
at him with . . . love, he realized. Sandy was making promises and
talking about the things she wanted them to do together.

Ryan tried to smile but his swollen lips
turned the action to more of a grimace. Sandy had been sitting with
him, talking to him. If his head was a little disappointed, his
heart was leaping with pure pleasure. His girl with the amazing
eyes was waiting for him to wake up. He flexed the hand she held
and she stopped talking.

"You . . . waited for me," he whispered, his
voice hoarse. His throat felt like he'd walked for days across the
desert with no water. "My Chicory. You didn't disappear."

"I'll never leave you, Ryan McGee."

Relief bathed him in warmth. She was safe.
She was there, not going anywhere.

"I'm sorry, Chicory. Sorry about the fight
at your place."

A look of exasperation crossed her face.
"You're an idiot but you're my idiot. I won't tell the boss about
the fighting. This time." She leaned over and gently kissed his
cheek. Tears shimmered in her eyes. "You rest now."

Feeling her warmth spreading through him,
Ryan tried to smile, but the effort to keep his eyes open was
becoming too much for him. He gave in and let sleep overtake him
once again.

****

Chapter Fifteen

Ryan awoke with his hand fisted in Sandy's
cloud of dark hair as it spilled around her sleeping face.
Wondering how long she had slept in the chair next to his bed, he
studied the woman he loved. Makeup streaked her face, reminding him
a little of the way she had looked streaked with soot. How long
ago? He had no idea how long he'd been under but it felt like a
long time. He flexed his muscles, feeling the soreness, the
stiffness from immobility. More than a day.

Memories of another hospital awakening,
followed by long months in rehab, intruded on his current reality.
But this time was different. This time someone was there for
him.

Sandy came awake slowly, rubbing the sleep
from her eyes. She sat up, pushed her hair from her face, arched
her back, and stretched. Curves pushed against the loose, filmy
fabric of her dress.

For one sensual instant, Ryan wished he
could take her out of that dress. He also felt a profound sense of
relief when another part of his anatomy began to stir in response
to the gorgeous picture of Sandy waking up.

"Hello, beautiful," he whispered. When she
graced him with a slow, sizzling smile, he sighed. "What's a guy
gotta do around here to get a beer from the pretty bartender?"

Tears filled her eyes but she blinked them
back.

"Hey, this is a no-cry zone." Struggling to
sit, he was dismayed to find himself knotted up in tubes and
wires.

Sandy gently stopped his movements and
raised the head of the bed instead. "Take it easy, Cowboy. One step
at a time. You've been in and out all night and half a day."

Dang. "Concussion?"

She shook her head. "Exhaustion and
sedation."

Good. Then he could leave. "I meant it about
the beer."

Her smiled looked less than understanding as
she held up a Styrofoam cup filled with ice water. "How's your
imagination?"

Ryan eyed the cup with
distaste. "Not
that
good." But he reached for the cup anyway.

A long drink eased the dry sensation in his
throat. When the nurse came to check on him, he insisted the tubes
and wires be disconnected. Refusing to utilize any sort of bedside
facility, he made a very shaky, very embarrassing trip to the
bathroom.