Beth Andrews - Small-Town Redemption

A reprieve. He was smart enough to be thankful.

Then again, the more she stabbed at him, the longer his mind was occupied and he didn’t have to think about anything else. Such as how much it hurt just to breathe. Hell, he’d gladly forgo the process altogether if it wasn’t an instinctual, and necessary, act to remain alive. How pain swamped him with every movement, no matter how slight or how slowly done, making his stomach turn. How the mother of all headaches pounded at the base of his skull, blurring his eyesight and making him want nothing more than to go home, down a few shots of whiskey and slip into a dreamless, painless sleep.

Too bad he’d given up drinking.

But the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the memories.

The familiar sights and sounds of the hospital threatened to drag him back to the past. Reminding him of the accident that had almost cost him his life.

That had almost taken away the most precious thing in his world.

And it had been all his fault.

“Sorry about that,” Red said as she returned to his side. “Okay, here we go.” She bent over his hand and that’s when he realized her hair was different. Short, like a pixie, the red strands loose and waving slightly. “Slight pinch,” she murmured, inserting the needle into his vein.

He barely felt it.

And he’d let her rip off his good arm and beat him over the head with it before he admitted it.

She taped the port to his hand then gave it a gentle pat. “You were very brave,” she told him soberly. But her eyes gleamed. “Want a lollipop?”

She smiled. A real smile, one that reached her eyes and made a dimple in her left cheek form. A sudden, vicious craving swept through him, a hunger for something sweet.

Something like skinny, small-chested Charlotte Ellison.

He must have hit his head harder than he thought.

In answer to her smart-ass question, he scowled. But that only made his head hurt more, so he stopped.

As if sensing she’d won the point, she tossed the packaging from the IV into the trash. “I’m going to let you rest. If you need anything before I get back, just press your call button.”

She was leaving. He should be glad. Was glad. He could use some quiet. Some peace.

But the quiet gave him too much time to think. To remember. And peace had always been beyond his reach.

“You cut your hair.”

He winced at how accusing he sounded. As if he gave a shit about it. She could shave it all off and it wouldn’t matter to him.

Turning to face him, she lifted a hand toward her head only to curl her fingers into her palm and slowly lower it. “Months ago,” she said as if this was old, old news and he had no reason to be bringing it up.

“Months, huh? Well, I haven’t seen you at O’Riley’s for a while,” he said. “Must be how I missed it.”

She raised both eyebrows. “I hadn’t realized you’d been looking for me.”

He hadn’t. But he had thought of her once or twice. Dreamed of her more often than he’d liked.

And that pissed him off but good.

“Just noticed after your little visit to my apartment you’ve kept your distance,” he said. “No need to be embarrassed, Red. You’re far from the first woman to throw herself at me. You weren’t even the last.”

She flushed, color washing over her cheeks, a pretty pink that made her look flustered and as tasty as the lollipop she’d offered him. “How comforting. Now I can sleep peacefully as I’ve thought of nothing but you and that night since it happened.”

It was as if she didn’t really mean it. “You don’t have to avoid O’Riley’s. No need to hide from me, Red.”

“I’m not hiding,” she said, humor lacing her tone. “I’ve been a tad too busy to hang out at bars.”

“Getting your hair cut.”

She gave him that grin again, the one that had her dimple winking. “Yes. Along with a few other things, such as working, moving into and decorating my new house. And of course, working some more to pay for said house.”

“Aren’t you a little young to buy a house?”

“That seems to be the consensus. But please—” she held a hand out in the universal stop sign “—spare me the wisdom of your advanced years—”

“Advanced years?” he muttered, his eyes narrowing.

“I’ve already heard it all from my parents, Sadie, coworkers and friends. Even the loan manager at the bank acted like she wanted to pat me on the head when I signed the papers for what promised to be a long and healthy mortgage. So you see,” she continued with that same grin, that same amused tone, “as much as it may shock you—and bruise what appears to be your very big ego—I haven’t been avoiding you. I haven’t, actually, given you much thought at all.”

Obviously knowing the strength of getting the last word, she walked out of the room leaving him with his thoughts, his memories and his past sins.

* * *

KANE JERKED AWAKE, his body lurching to a sitting position. His heart raced, his chest throbbed, a cold sweat coated his skin. The remnants of his nightmare clung to his consciousness, blurring the lines between dream and reality. His throat was dry, sore, as if he’d been yelling. Screaming, like in the dream.

He covered his face with his good hand, gulped in air. The IV tugged sharply. His lungs burned, the stabbing pain almost doubling him over. Bringing with it a slow, dawning awareness. Relief.

He wasn’t a terrified twenty-year-old being wheeled into St. Luke’s hospital in Houston, a neck brace holding him immobile, his own injuries forcing him to lie still, leaving him to stare up at the bright lights as they raced him down the hall.

He was a grown man in a dimly lit room at Shady Grove Memorial, his arm in a sling. An hour ago they’d reset and casted his arm. They’d cut off his shirt, stripped him of his pants and checked every square inch of his person for injuries, then put him in a pair of lime-green scrubs. He’d been poked and prodded, had his blood drawn and his chest and arm X-rayed. He’d answered questions about his medical history and given his statement to the cop taking the accident report.

The panic, the fear, the coppery taste of blood filling his mouth, the frantic screams, were all part of a dream. A memory.

One he relived, over and over again.

As he should. After all, the memories deserved to be kept alive, nurtured so they didn’t fade. What better way to pay homage to the moment that had, in the weird, circular way karma had of doing things, saved his life?

Made him a better man.

Someone knocked twice on the door. “Good news,” Charlotte said cheerily as she walked into the room like a freaking ray of sunshine. “Dr. Louk is on his way.”

“What?” Kane asked, his voice hoarse.

She glanced at him, her eyebrows raised. “Dr. Louk. The attending physician who did your initial exam? He’s on his way to do your sutures. You’ll be out of here soon.”

Kane lifted his good hand, touched trembling fingers to the bandage on his forehead, then scrubbed his palm over his face. He reached for the cup of water on the table next to his bed, but misjudged the distance, knocking it over.

“Oops,” Charlotte said, pulling several paper towels from the dispenser on the wall above the sink.

She lightly brushed his hand away when he went to straighten the cup. Mopping up the mess with one hand, she poured more water with the other. Tossed the towels into the trash and gave him the cup.

His hand shook. Water sloshed over the edge, splattered his arm and the leg of his jeans.

Without a word, Charlotte covered his hand with hers, helped him lift the cup to his mouth. He drank deeply.

“Thanks.” His voice was gruff, and warmth crawled up the back of his neck.