Linda Goodnight - The Last Bridge Home

By now, Jilly had arrived, panting and breathless. “What happened?”

“She passed out.”

“I saw that much.” She leaned forward, hands on her knees to stare at his patient. “Should I call 9-1-1? Anything?”

“I am 9-1-1. Give me another second.” He hitched a chin toward the kids. The yowler had escalated to something just short of siren velocity while the little girl had wandered off toward the street. “The kids.”

“Oh, sure.” Good old Jilly herded the toddler back to the fold. With one hand on the little one’s arm, she hunkered beside the yowler and stroked his back. “It’s okay. She’ll be okay. Zak’s a fireman. He’ll take care of her.”

The yowler wasn’t impressed. The older boy was. His flat expression livened up a tad. “A real fireman?”

“Real deal,” Jilly said. “He rides in a fire truck and everything.”

Too concerned about his patient to bask in firefighter adoration from a grade-schooler, Zak checked Crystal’s pulse again. Her eyelids fluttered. “She’s coming around.”

With a moan, Crystal opened her eyes and blinked blankly at her surroundings. She licked dry lips and managed a whisper. “What happened?”

“You passed out.”

As she struggled to sit up, Zak offered his strength. At six feet three and one-eighty-five, he could have shot-put Crystal across the street. Careful lest he break her matchstick arms, he assisted her to her feet. She was light. Scary light.

“We should get you to the hospital.”

She made a face. “Absolutely not. I’ve had my fill of those.”

He turned her loose. She wobbled. He reached for her again. “Hey.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, and I’m a unicorn.”

She rubbed a shaky hand over her forehead. The three children, all corralled by Jilly, stared up at their mother. The yowler had stopped crying and was now sucking his thumb. The little girl had a very baggy diaper.

“Bella’s wet,” the oldest boy said, a hint of annoyed resignation in his voice as he headed toward the beat-up car. The passenger door opened with a groan and Mr. Serious dragged out a diaper bag, scraping it across the concrete as though it weighed a ton.

Zak’s head buzzed on overload. What was Crystal doing here in his driveway after all these years? How had she found him? And why? She was sick, obviously, but what did that have to do with him? Now that she’d fainted in his front yard, what was he supposed to do with her? He couldn’t stick her back under the steering wheel and send her out into traffic in this condition with a carload of kids. And no safety seats.

The older boy tugged on Crystal’s hand while studying Zak with suspicious brown eyes. “Is this him, Mama?”

“Yes, Brandon. That’s him.”

Him what? Zak wondered, but his conscience kicked in. The woman, regardless of who she was, was sick and weak and shaking like one of Jilly’s rat terriers at bath time.

“Come in the house for a minute,” he offered. “I’ll get you something to drink while you get your bearings.”

He wasn’t sure what else to do. Obviously, Crystal hadn’t tracked him down to faint in his driveway and then go merrily on her way. But what she wanted remained a complete mystery—and from his experience, Crystal always wanted something. That’s what had gotten him into trouble before.

With one hand on the wobbly woman’s arm, Zak led the way into his house. His home was one of the modern few in Redemption, Oklahoma, a small historic town populated with big, beautiful turn-of-the-century Victorians and pretty little cottages. Today, he especially appreciated the lack of tall steps.

Once inside his spacious, slightly cluttered, ultra-male living room, the three children flocked around the mother like chicks around a hen.

“Mama, you want me to change Bella?” Mr. Serious asked, still toting the diaper bag.

“Yes, Brandon.” Crystal took the little girl by the arm and pushed her toward Brandon. “Go over there in the corner, Bella. Brandon will change you.”

Zak felt sorry for the boy, but it wasn’t his place to interfere. “Can I get you some water or a Pepsi or something?”

She shook her head. “Nothing for me. The kids are probably starving.”

Crystal was still Crystal. Needy and unembarrassed to ask. “I’ve got baloney and wieners.” What could she expect? He was a guy. Sandwiches and ’dogs were his mainstay. “Will they eat that?”

“Anything.”

Jilly, who’d helped herd the children inside, spoke up. “I can make sandwiches, Zak.”

Thank goodness for Jilly. He was a little rattled at the moment. “Thanks.”

Jilly disappeared into his kitchen, knowing her way around from the many times they’d hung out. She was a pal like no other. And she made sandwiches and herded unfamiliar rug rats. Great neighbor.

“What’s this little dude’s name?” he asked, chin hitched toward the yowler with a thumb in his face. The boy looked a little old for thumb-sucking.

“This is Jake. He’s almost seven. That’s Brandon. He’s nine. And Bella. She’s three.”

“Cute kids,” he said politely although inside he was going loco. His heart thundered like a spring storm, his palms leaked sweat and every rational brain cell suspected an unpleasant reason for Crystal’s visit. “So what’s going on, Crystal? We haven’t seen each other in what? Ten years?”

“About that.” A ghost of a smile pulled at her gaunt cheeks, more of a grimace than joy. “I was really stupid back then, Zak.”

Wary of apologies at this juncture, his anxiety jacked up another notch. “We were college kids. Stupid is normal.”

She fidgeted; her skinny hands twisted in her lap. From the kitchen came the sound of Jilly digging in the fridge, cellophane crumpling—normal sounds—while in his living room sat the biggest mistake of his life.

“I shouldn’t have gone with Tank that second time.” Her smile was wan. “Or the third. He was a jerk. Just like you said.”

Tank Rogers had gotten her pregnant and dumped her—on Zak. Then, the creep had come back “for his woman.”

“That was a long time ago, Crystal.”

Her sigh was tired and whispery and full of regret. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. I don’t want my kids to suffer for them.”

Okay, what did that have to do with him? He sat with hands gripped together between his knees and waited her out, not knowing what else to do.

“I don’t suppose you have a cigarette,” she said.

“No.”

She made a wry face. “I thought about quitting, but now I figure, what’s the use? I’m sick, Zak.” She drew in a shuddery breath. Hollow eyes focused on the boy in the corner changing his sister’s diaper. “The doctors stopped treatment last week. I have cancer. I’m dying.”

Even though he barely remembered this woman, other than the humiliation he’d received at her hands, the pitiful statement made him ache. He was a certified paramedic/firefighter, a serve-and-protect kind of guy, who liked people and wanted the best for them. Crystal was too young to die and leave behind three kids.

He shifted, cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.” Sorry seemed a pathetically useless word in the face of death.

“That’s why I looked you up, why I’ve driven across the state to find you. You have to help me.”

Now they were getting down to the purpose of her visit, although he was still clueless. The sweat on the back of his neck said her reasons wouldn’t be good. “You need money? I don’t have a lot but maybe I can manage something.”

She shook her head. Her gaunt body sagged against the fat pillow of his napping chair. “No.”

“You sure you don’t want to go to the E.R.?” Even a paramedic was limited in what he could do without equipment.