Sally Berneathy - Private Vows

A small crowd of half a dozen people was starting to gather around them—concerned citizens, curiosity seekers.

The bride moaned and moved as if she was going to turn over. Well, she couldn’t be very comfortable with her face shoved into the street.

“Easy,” he cautioned. “Try not to move until the ambulance gets here.”

She gave no indication she even heard him, but rolled slowly and languidly, one arm flung above her head, as though she were turning over in her bed at home. She gazed up at him, light blue eyes blank in shock, not yet registering her situation.

She blinked then. Confusion surfaced and finally the fear again, her pupils shrinking to a pinpoint, the surrounding blue so pale it appeared almost silver in its translucence.

“No!” she choked, pushing herself into a sitting position, and he saw for the first time that the front of the dress was splattered with blood—lots of blood.

Cole broke into a sweat as the image of another woman, covered in blood because of him, flashed across the screen of his memory.

The woman in the bridal gown scooted away from him…toward the traffic in the street.

“Damn it, lady!” He grabbed her arm to pull her back, to keep her from further injury, and she burst into tears, collapsing against him.

“Let me go! Please let me go!” she begged.

Much as he’d like to do just that, let her go and pretend the whole thing never happened, he couldn’t. Instead, he held her as securely as he dared, considering the extent of the wound he must have caused.

“You’re going to be all right,” he assured her, though he wasn’t certain that she would be with all that blood on her dress. “That bum who was bothering you is gone.” The guy was probably harmless enough and her reaction to him had been, Cole thought, a little over the top, but he’d say whatever necessary to reassure her.

He stroked her back soothingly, the roughness of his palms snagging on the smooth satin. Her clean, innocent scent of lily-of-the-valley or some other white flower drifted up to him, cutting through the smell of hot pavement. She was thin and fragile, as if she would snap from too tight a grip.

Again that image of a broken doll, broken because of him, assaulted him.

Damn! This shouldn’t be happening. For the twelve years he’d been a cop he’d had no problem dealing with murderers and thieves and drug dealers, looking them in the eye and backing them down without even breathing hard. But this was asking too much, to expect him to cope with a terrified, fragile woman. He couldn’t. He’d long ago proven that.

“Lie back,” he ordered brusquely.

“No, no, no!” Face still buried against his chest, she shook her head, the netting of her veil shivering with the movement.

“There’s blood on your dress. I need to see how badly you’re hurt.” Reminding himself that she was in shock, he spoke more softly, made an effort not to startle her.

She continued to shake her head and cry.

He gripped her thin shoulders and pushed her away, forcing her to look at him. “Listen to me! I’m not going to hurt you. But you need to let me examine your wound.”

A woman from the group of onlookers knelt beside her. “Let me see, honey. Okay?”

Her tears stopping as if something inside had turned off, the bride gave the woman a puzzled glance then lifted her gaze to the chattering group around her as though she’d suddenly noticed her surroundings, suddenly woke up.

“The front of her dress,” Cole directed, and the woman nodded, gently turning the now-pliant bride to face her.

“Oh my God!” the woman exclaimed when she saw the crimson stains.

The bride’s gaze followed the other woman’s, and she gasped, then lifted her eyes to his again. Those eyes were even wider and more confused than ever, more frightened.

Now that Cole had a better look at the blood, he saw with a rush of relief that it was not coming from a fresh wound, nor was her gown torn. Either it had come from a preexisting wound or from somebody else. Not from her. Not from a wound caused by him.

Had she cut the man who’d approached her?

Automatically he rose to investigate the sidewalk where she and the man had been before she’d run into the street, to check for blood or a weapon.

“Don’t leave me!”

A hand gripped his arm with surprising strength and he turned to see the bride struggling to her feet. She was tall, which only emphasized her slender build, and she swayed as if she might not be able to stand without his support.

On the positive side, the fact that she was able to stand at all meant she couldn’t be hurt too badly. He clung to that, to the faint hope that he hadn’t caused her any permanent harm.

“A minute ago you were doing your damnedest to get away from me,” he reminded her.

“I know.” She released his arm and lifted both hands to her face. Hesitantly her slim fingers traced its tear-stained contours as if she’d never felt them before. “I mean, I don’t know. I don’t know why I wanted to get away from you. Who are you?”

“Cole Grayson. Who are you?”

She touched her face again. When her fingers encountered the edge of the veil, she frowned, fumbled for a second then yanked it off, releasing a cascade of quicksilver-blond hair. She studied the veil, turning it over as if secrets were hidden in its gauzy folds, looked down at the bloody gown then back up at him. The fear in her eyes had escalated to panic and spots of pink stood out on her porcelain cheeks like clown makeup. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

A siren screamed inside Cole’s head. Amnesia. Concussion. Brain damage. His fault.

Her head jerked upward, and he realized the siren was real, not just inside his own haunted mind.

“Ambulance, police, fire truck…maybe all three,” he reassured her. “It’s okay.” Liar!

She nodded. “I know what the sound is. I just don’t know who I am.”

“Relax. You’re probably in shock. You’ll be all right in a few minutes.” Please, God, she’d be all right in a few minutes. Please, God, he hadn’t hurt somebody else. “The blood. Can you tell me where it came from?”

Looking down at her midriff, she brought her hand within half an inch of touching the stain then drew back with a shudder. She bit her lip and shook her head slowly, the slight movement shifting the glow of the streetlights in her shiny hair. “I don’t know that either,” she whispered.

Maybe she was lying. As a P.I. and a former cop, that should be his first response. They all lied.

But some remnant of the man he once was, some remnant long buried and forgotten, believed she was telling the truth. Her fear was too real.

“Did you have a knife? Did you cut that man who scared you?” he pursued, forcing himself to act on logic, to beat back his unreliable emotions.

“Man?” she repeated blankly.

“You don’t remember the man who came up to you, put his hand on your arm, and you started hitting him before you ran into the street?”

She shook her head again. “No. I don’t remember any man.” Her gaze darted from him to the people, the street, the buildings on one side, the creek on the other. He could see and feel her terror expanding to fill her universe as shock loosened its hold and she realized the extent of what had happened to her. She gripped his arm. “How did I get here? Where am I?”

A patrol car squealed up with the ambulance right behind. Doors flew open and police and paramedics swarmed out of the two vehicles.

One of the officers was Pete Townley, and Cole was both glad and embarrassed to see his old friend and former partner…and angry at himself for being embarrassed. He had nothing to be ashamed of. He was still performing an honorable service, catching lawbreakers, helping people.