Melanie leaned close, felt her daughter’s breath on her cheek, and kissed her. “Wake up, baby.”
“We need to move her, Miss Bartlett,” one of the medics told her.
Melanie gripped the side of the basket and didn’t let go. She’d never let go again.
A helicopter was on standby in the center of the clearest point of Miss Gina’s lawn.
Melanie vaguely caught the mass of people who watched from the side as someone pushed her into the helicopter and wrapped a seat belt across her lap.
The blades of the chopper started to turn, the noise drowned out everything.
Medics worked in frantic haste beside her daughter.
Melanie felt the eyes of someone and lifted her head to see Wyatt staring.
He lifted a hand as the helicopter pulled away from the ground.
His fingers gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles.
He’d controlled it . . . the urge . . . the need. After all, he was a professional now. People paid him to take care of their problems.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have taken things as far as he had, but he had to prove to himself that he was in control.
One deep, satisfying breath helped him release the wheel and run his hands over his thighs.
He was in control.
The police escort to the hospital in Eugene reduced the normally two-hour drive down to an hour and fifteen minutes.
He’d attempted to text Melanie in hopes of an update, but didn’t receive a reply.
The stress, pain, and yes, even guilt of the day should have made him want to fall into a heap on the floor of his truck, but instead, he drove behind Jo’s flashing lights as they pulled into the emergency room parking lot.
“I’m going through the back,” Jo yelled as she ran from the car. “I’ll call you in the minute I can.”
Jo disappeared through the glass doors of the ambulance bay.
Wyatt ran a hand through his hair and proceeded into the busy lobby. It was after ten, children were everywhere, people sleeping in uncomfortable chairs with their knees tucked under them, heads rested against shoulders and walls. It smelled of illness and antiseptic.
Ten minutes passed before Jo poked her head through a door he assumed led to the heart of the ER and waved him in.
“How is she?”
“Responding, according to Mel. Broken arm. The head scan showed a small bleed behind her ear, which probably kept her unconscious.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
Jo shook her head. “She’s lucky we found her when we did. Her temperature was dropping, which wouldn’t have ended well.”
“What was she doing out there, Jo?”
Jo’s jaw physically tightened. “I don’t know. Between you and me, I don’t like it. Something feels completely off about this whole thing.”
A nurse brushed past them with an armload of IV solutions.
Wyatt moved out of her way and glanced around. “Where are they?”
Jo nodded in the direction she started to walk. “Mel’s a wreck.”
“I know.”
Jo captured his arm. “No, she’s feeling guilty about being gone last night.”
Yeah, he understood the feeling. As irrational as he knew it was . . . guilt weighed on him, too. “I know,” he repeated.
The private glass doors of the bay opened and Wyatt felt as if someone punched him in the gut.
Hope looked like a tiny wrapped bundle with wires and tubes running all over her little body. Melanie sat at her side, her hand holding Hope’s, her head lowered on the side of the bed.
“Hey, darlin’,” he whispered.
Melanie lifted her red, tear-filled gaze to his.
He waited for an invitation, wasn’t sure there would be one.
When she lifted her free hand to him, he stepped inside the room, knelt at her side, and wrapped her in his arms.
And she cried.
Soft, quiet tears until he felt her shaking with the effort to hold back the noise he knew was deep inside her soul.
The scuffle of shoes had Wyatt glancing toward the door, where he saw Jo step outside the room.
“It’s okay. She’s safe now.”
Melanie kept sniffling as if attempting to hold back. “I’ve never been so scared.”
“I know, honey . . . I know.” And he did. He leaned back and ran his thumb under her eyes to catch some of the moisture and tried to smile.
“I should have come home. If I hadn’t spent the night—”
“Darlin’, stop. You can’t blame yourself.”
“But—”
The agony in her eyes spoke volumes. If he looked deep enough, he’d probably see the same depth of guilt in his own. “Shhh.” He placed his thumb over her lips and attempted a soft smile of understanding and support.
Melanie offered half an attempt at a grin and returned her gaze toward her daughter.
“What did the doctors say?” he asked as he pulled a second chair close to Hope’s side.
“They called in a pediatric neurologist. But he isn’t here yet.”