Grace Green - A Husband Worth Waiting For

“Good morning, sweetie!” Sarah scooped him up and gave him a big hug.

He twined his arms around her neck. “I’s hungry.”

“Me, too,” Emma said. “Starving!”

Sarah slid Jamie to the floor, and Emma grabbed his hand. “C’mon, Jamie,” she said. “I know where to go!”

The kitchen smelled of coffee, but the coffeepot had been washed and the table was bare. If Sarah had hoped her host might have set out a breakfast for them, her hopes were dashed. The man was making it clear, in every possible way, that they were not welcome in his home.

She made scrambled eggs and toast for Emma and Jamie, and after pouring herself a glass of milk, she downed her daily quota of vitamin pills. Then tuning out the children’s chatter, she moved to stand at the window.

Through the rain, she could see the mountain slope, dark with evergreens. On a sunny day, she reflected, the view would be awesome.

But she wouldn’t be here to see it on any sunny day. She was to be out of this house within the hour.

Normally a cheerful, optimistic person, she felt dread settle over her. It was a scary world for a single mom with hardly any money; and especially for one in her situation, with no place to call home….

Though that wasn’t strictly true. There was always Wynthrop. But the thought of returning to that house—where she would be even less welcome than she was here—made her very soul shudder.

“Mom,” Emma said, “did our uncle come home yet?”

Sarah reined in her depressing thoughts. “Yes, he came home last night.”

“Are we going to stay here awhile?”

“No, honey. We’ll be leaving as soon as he returns. He’s taken a drive down the mountain track to make sure the rain didn’t wash it out.”

“So he’ll be back shortly?”

“Yes, he’ll be back shortly.”

When he hadn’t come back in an hour, Sarah felt uneasy.

After a couple of hours, she was nibbling her thumbnail, a habit she’d broken when she was thirteen. The man should have been home by now. On her own drive up the mountain—on an unfamiliar road in the stormy dark—she’d taken, at most, fifteen minutes. Where could he be?

She paced the sitting room, sidestepping Jamie who was lying on the carpet, playing with his trucks. Emma stood at the window, hands pressed to the sill, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other. The child had spent the past couple of hours reading, but now she was restless.

Just as her mother was restless.

“Mom, there’s a police car coming up the drive.”

“A police car?”

“Yup.”

Sarah hurried over to the window in time to see the car pull up beside her own. A uniformed officer stepped out.

Emma pressed her nose to the windowpane. “What do you think he wants, Mom?”

“Wait here. I’ll find out.”

“I want to come!”

“I want you to stay here.” If something was wrong, she didn’t want Emma to hear it. “Keep an eye on Jamie.”

Emma pouted. But she did as she was told.

The doorbell rang.

The last time Sarah had answered the door to a police officer had been on the day of Chance’s death. A sick feeling swam in her stomach as she crossed the foyer; a feeling that intensified when she opened the door and saw the serious expression on the young officer’s face.

“Ma’am, I’m Constable Trammer. You’re…?”

“Mrs. Morgan. Sarah Morgan.”

“You’re the wife of Jedidiah Morgan?”

“No, his sister-in-law.”

“I’m afraid there’s been an accident, Mrs. Morgan. Down at the foot of the mountain, at the four-way intersection. A truck went through a stop sign and knocked Mr. Morgan’s Range Rover off the road. The trucker’s unhurt, but Mr. Morgan…”

Déjà vu. The same disembodied feeling that had assailed her when she’d been told about Chance’s death threatened to undo Sarah now. She grabbed the edge of the door for support.

“He’s been injured, ma’am, and has been taken by ambulance to St. Mary’s Hospital in Kentonville.”

Injured. Not dead.

Sarah closed her eyes, letting relief wash over her. When she opened them again, the constable was frowning.

“You okay?” he asked.

Abstractedly, she gestured his question aside. “Are Mr. Morgan’s injuries life threatening?”

“He got a bang on the side of his head and with that kind of injury there’s always a risk. He was unconscious when we got to him.”

“The hospital…where did you say it was?”

“Kentonville. Ten miles west of here, on the river. Hospital’s right at this end of town. You can’t miss it.”

St. Mary’s Hospital was a peach-colored stucco building, situated between the Kenton Motel and the municipal library.

Sarah learned at the information desk that her brother-in-law was in room 345. She ushered the children to the elevator, and when they emerged on the third floor, she spotted room 345 across the way. But as she led the children toward it, she was accosted by a stout, redheaded nurse who came out from behind her desk.

“May I ask,” she said, “where you’re going?”

Sarah paused. “I’m Sarah Morgan. I’ve come to visit my—”

“Visiting hours don’t start till two. Who was it you wanted to see?”

“Jedidiah Morgan. Room 345. Sorry we’re not supposed to be here—we’ll come back later.”

“Mr. Morgan’s doctor wants him to rest today—it would really be best if he has no visitors. He’s had quite a knock.”

A reprieve. Sarah felt a surge of guilty relief. “In that case,” she said, “I guess we’ll be getting home.”

“If at all possible,” the nurse offered, “Mr. Morgan will be discharged tomorrow—we’re seriously short of beds. Phone in the morning, and if he’s been given the all clear, you can pick him up. He won’t be fit to drive…and anyway, from what I’ve heard, his vehicle’s a write-off.”

Goose bumps rose on Sarah’s skin as memories of another accident swept into her mind: Chance’s car, too, had been a write-off. Unfortunately, no angels had been looking out for him as they had been today for his brother.

“Are you okay?” the nurse asked. “You look pale.”

Sarah’s smile was wan. “It’s been a shock.”

The nurse hesitated and then said in a whisper, “Tell you what. The patient’s asleep right now, but I’ll look after the kids if you just want to have a peek at him.”

An offer, Sarah realized wryly, she could hardly refuse under the circumstances. Faking a grateful smile, she said, “Thanks,” and crossed to the open doorway of room 345.

Her brother-in-law lay flat on his back on a narrow bed, his eyes closed, his arms out over the covers, his hands clasped over his chest. If he had a bump on his head, Sarah reflected, it was concealed by his thick black hair. His face was chalk-white, his pallor accentuated by his dark, unshaven jaw.

Hardly aware of what she was doing, she moved quietly over to the bed and stood there, studying him.

His lips, she noticed, were dry.

Sensual lips, and thinner than Chance’s. The sooty black eyelashes were thicker than Chance’s; the ridge on the nose more pronounced; the jaw firmer.

So the two brothers weren’t as alike as she’d initially thought—

“Who the hell,” asked a slurred voice, “are you?”

The patient was not asleep. Startled, Sarah braced herself for the verbal attack that would surely ensue when he recognized her. When she saw his blank expression, her tension eased slightly. He must be hovering in some twilight zone, she figured; either groggy from the accident or drowsy from medication.

“Hush.” Impulsively, she set her hand on his. “I’m sorry, I’ve disturbed you. And I shouldn’t even be here.”