A Life Rebuilt

by Jean Brashear

  But right now, he was all the boy had.

  “You are going to be fine,” he said. “We’ll take it slowly, and you tell me to stop whenever it’s too much, all right?” Roman didn’t wait for an answer. If this kid’s lung was collapsed, as his gasping indicated, that, along with the confusion, meant it was critical that a doctor see him immediately.

  With one arm he lifted Freddie a couple of inches, using his other hand to brace the boy’s upper body. Freddie groaned but remained as still as possible.

  “You’re doing good,” Roman soothed as he let one arm protect the boy’s body from hitting any of the wood. He drew Freddie out with the other hand as smoothly and gently as the close quarters would allow.

  Sweat rolled into Roman’s eyes. Freddie’s face had gone tight with pain, but inch by inch, Roman got first the upper body then the lower out of the cabinet, easing the boy to the floor on his back for a closer examination.

  Immediately, Freddie cried out in pain and curled up on the filthy floor, tears rolling down his cheeks, his breathing coming in hoarse, shallow pants. Roman did a quick scan of his extremities and checked his heart rate again while listening to his breathing, examining his pupils and their reaction to the light.

  When he touched the boy’s belly, the boy cried out again. Curled into a tighter ball.

  Crap. Internal bleeding.

  Freddie coughed, and he writhed in pain. “What happened?”

  A second cough, this time with blood. Freddie began crying in earnest.

  Damn it. The limited medical training every Special Forces team member got wasn’t enough for him now. But keeping Freddie calm was essential. “Shh,” Roman said as he stripped off his shirt to press against the boy’s head, tying it in a rough knot at the front. “Freddie, you have to stay as calm as you can, all right?” Why the hell hadn’t he brought a pack full of supplies? Or a damn cell phone to call for proper assistance? How long would an ambulance take to get here if he could call?

  Moot point. He didn’t have a cell. Freddie’s survival was up to him.

  As he’d always been able to do in times of crisis, Roman’s world narrowed to the moment, his mind deadly calm and cold.

  He had no gurney, no medical kit. There was only him and his body, a body that hadn’t been seriously tested since it had been broken to pieces.

  Didn’t matter. This boy was not going to die on his watch. No one else was, ever again.

  “Freddie, I have to go to my truck.”

  Desperate, frightened eyes stared into his.

  “You’ll be fine. I’ll be back real quick. I’m going to make you a bed from your blanket and quilt, okay?” He wished he had a backboard or something, anything to keep the boy’s movement to a minimum. “Freddie?”

  “What happened? Who are you?”

  He’d seen this before, the confusion, the asking of questions again and again. You still had to answer them, especially when there was need for the patient to be calm. Though everything in him shouted for haste, he answered once more. “It’s Roman, Freddie. You’ve been hurt, but you’re going to be all right. I’m going to get your blanket and your quilt, all right?”

  A tiny nod.

  “No one’s going to get past me. You’re safe.”

  Hopeless eyes peered into his, and Roman couldn’t blame the kid for not trusting him. When had Freddie ever had anyone to count on?

  “You’re going to be okay,” he repeated. “Be back in a second.”

  He made record time assembling a pallet in the bed of his pickup. If he’d had a new truck with a second seat, he wouldn’t have to put the boy back here, but there was no way Freddie could sit up, and fastening a seat belt around him was out of the question.

  He returned to find Freddie silently crying as much as his gasping breath would let him. Roman crouched beside the boy and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s me, Roman. You’re safe.” He bent and scooped the boy into his arms as gingerly as possible, but he could see the agony on the boy’s face from the movement. Every step seemed to take an hour as Roman tried not to jostle him, but crossing unsteady ground with only the moon to light the way made the task nearly impossible. He couldn’t hold the flashlight—he required both hands to hold Freddie without squeezing him more than absolutely necessary.

  When he laid the boy down on his side in the truck, Freddie screamed, then went limp, passed out from the pain. It was a mixed blessing. Unconsciousness was not what you wanted when a head injury was involved, but the fifteen minutes or so it would take to get to the trauma center wasn’t likely to be an easy trip. Roman did a quick second check for pupil response—it wasn’t great, but no worse than before.

  He used what he had in the bed of the truck to cradle Freddie and secure him the best he could manage.

  “Freddie,” he said, leaning over the pickup bed, talking to ease them both, even if only one of them was listening. You never really knew what people could hear at times like this, and a soothing voice could help. “Stay with me. You are going to be fine.” I promise would have been a stronger reassurance.

  But Roman knew only too well the limits of promises he’d made in the past.

  He climbed into the truck and started the engine, windows down, listening hard for sounds from the back.

  Hold on, Freddie. You have to hold on.

  He didn’t want to watch another child die.

  * * *

  “HELLO?” JENNA CROAKED into the phone when the ringing woke her.

  “It’s Roman.”

  Roman? She glanced at the clock. Three in the morning.

  “I didn’t want to call you, but—”

  “Are you in trouble?” She sat up quickly and flicked on the lamp.

  “No. It’s Freddie.” His tone was ominous.

  Her breath seized. “You found him?”

  “Yeah. After Mako and his boys beat the hell out of him. I’m at Mercy Hospital with him.”

  Oh, Freddie. “How bad is it?”

  “Bad. They haven’t determined the extent of his injuries yet, but a concussion at a minimum, probably cracked or broken ribs, possible internal bleeding.” He sounded weary and hollow. His voice was nearly a monotone.

  “Are you all right, Roman?”

  “Yeah.”

  He didn’t sound fine. “I’ll be there as soon as I get dressed.”

  “Not asking that.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m coming anyway.” She was already slipping on jeans and searching for a shirt. “Why would you call if you didn’t— Oh, God, he’s going to be okay, right?”

  “Hope so.” But he still sounded off.

  “Roman, thank you. For finding him, I mean. And for taking care of him.”

  “Yeah.” He exhaled. “I called because the nurses have already contacted Child Protective Services. Damn it,” he muttered, the first real sign of life in his voice. “I promised.”

  “Promised what?”

  “That he’d be safe. Knew better than to promise.” The depth of Roman’s despair didn’t match the situation.

  “He will be safe with foster parents,” she reassured him. “I’ve met quite a few of them. People don’t get involved with that program if they don’t care about kids, and they’re screened. He’ll be fine, Roman.”

  “Nobody’s safe,” she thought she heard him say.

  Just what had he seen in Iraq? She thought of Diego’s advice. Push him, but not too hard. Be his friend. Give him space but not too much.

  Instinct told her this wasn’t the right time. Being physically present might help, however. “I’m on my way,” she said. “Are you in the E.R. waiting room?”

  “Yeah.” He sounded exhausted and discouraged.

  “Have the police shown up yet?”

  “No.”


  “There’s someone I can call. He’ll help us. Don’t leave, Roman, please, just wait for me.”

  She disconnected as she headed for her chest of drawers, grabbing the first T-shirt she could find—but then she hesitated. If she was going to have to fight CPS or the cops for Freddie, she’d better appear a little more professional. Though it made her uneasy to take the time when Roman sounded strange and had a habit of vanishing, she paused long enough to change into slacks and a top, grabbing a snappy jacket to cover it. A slick of lipstick, a quick brushing of her hair, and she looked more like a woman than the teenager she was too often mistaken for. Sensible pumps on her feet, and she was already dialing as she walked to her car, apology on her lips as the phone rang.

  “Coronado,” answered the deep, sleepy voice.

  “Vince, it’s Jenna. I’m really sorry to wake you, but I need help.”

  “Where are you?” He sounded instantly awake. “Are you safe?”

  “I am, but someone I care about isn’t. A boy, and it may be both gang- and drug-related.”

  Vince Coronado was an Austin police detective and member of VICTAF, an interagency violent crimes task force. He had a special spot in his heart for kids and a great deal of experience with gangs.

  And he was almost family, married to her dear friend Chloe, the sister of Diego’s wife Caroline.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Freddie’s fifteen. He’s at Mercy, badly beaten. He’s a kid I know. From one of the Foundation houses.” Jenna resisted an inner sigh. There was no way Vince wasn’t going to put the pieces together eventually and learn all about her incident.

  And he would spread the word in the family. She so did not want to have the discussion that would ensue then.

  But Freddie was in need, and she was clearly fine now, so maybe Vince would only lecture her and not bring the rest of the family into it.

  Uh-huh. Sure thing.

  “You know who beat him up?”

  “Roman said it was a guy named Mako and his boys.”

  “Roman?”

  Yep, going to get complicated, all right. “He’s a…friend.”

  “Okay.” But she could hear both a smile and a cocked eyebrow in Vince’s voice. “Give me details.”

  “I don’t have any. I’m headed to the hospital now.”

  “Stay home. I’ll call you when I know more.”

  “I’m already on my way. And they need me.”

  “They?”

  Jenna sighed. “It’s a long story.”

  “I’ve got nothing else to do while I’m driving over.” She heard him say something to his wife and heard Chloe’s sleepy answer. As a cop’s wife, Chloe was no doubt accustomed to late-night calls.

  But then Jenna heard the unmistakable sound of kissing. “I love you,” Vince said softly to his wife.

  “Love you, too. Be safe.” Chloe’s voice was faint.

  “Always.” A few moments of silence, the sound of a door opening and closing. “Okay, kid. Spill. Who’s this Roman, and what are you doing involved with a kid with gang problems?” He paused. “As if I can’t guess, Ms. Bleeding Heart.”

  “Vince, can we keep this between us? Please?”

  “A mystery man, a kid you get me out of bed in the middle of the night for, and you’re asking me to lie to the family that adores you? I don’t think so.”

  “I’m not in any trouble. There’s— It’s just…” She exhaled in frustration. “Vince, Freddie needs your help. Please, can we start there? I’m fine, and I’m not in any danger. This is just about a homeless kid I’m trying to help.”

  “Freddie’s homeless? What’s his last name?”

  “It’s Miller.”

  “Any priors?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “In a gang?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “So how come this gang attacked him?”

  “I’m not sure. Roman might know. He’s the one who found Freddie hurt.”

  “Where?”

  “I’m not sure of that, either. Roman called me from the hospital. I didn’t ask, I just—”

  “Jumped out of bed and raced toward the gunfire. Jenna to the rescue—no surprise there.”

  “There’s no gunfire.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I’m not an idiot, Vince. I’m a grown woman in charge of a whole organization, I support myself, I—”

  “Okay, okay, you’re right. I’m sounding like one of your brothers, aren’t I?”

  “You are. Please, could you just be my friend tonight?”

  “You didn’t call me because I’m a cop?”

  She had to smile. “Well, yeah. But you’re my friend, too.”

  “Okay, friend, next question—who is this Roman? And who is he to you?”

  For one of the few times in her life, Jenna didn’t have a ready answer.

  “I’m not sure,” she said slowly, realizing it was true. Somehow Roman wasn’t just one of her clients or one of, as her family called them, her charity cases. Even before the kiss that had rocked her to her toes, he’d had a hold on her, though he clearly didn’t return the sentiment. He didn’t want to be involved with people, he’d made that evident without saying a word.

  But he’d said we. We’ll find him. We’ll help him. We won’t give up.

  Then he’d searched for Freddie until he’d found him.

  And he’d called her. When he’d needed someone, he’d called her.

  “You still there?” Vince asked. “I’m five minutes away from the hospital.”

  “I’m parking across the street right now. See you inside?”

  “Absolutely.” Vince disconnected.

  Jenna did the same. Got out of her car and locked it, then quickly crossed the street and the circle driveway that led to the front door, veering to the right to head for the waiting room just across the lobby.

  And there he was, still in his running clothes.

  With blood smeared all over him. Though she didn’t think it was his, her heart stuttered.

  “Roman,” she said.

  He turned, and for a second she thought his eyes held gladness.

  Who is he to you?

  I’m not sure.

  She wasn’t.

  But whoever he was, he was becoming more important by the second.

  She smiled and walked toward him.

  He started to reach for her, but he quickly stepped back, his expression shutting down. “I’m filthy.”

  “I couldn’t care less.” She placed her hand on his muscled forearm. “Unless the blood’s yours. It’s not, right?”

  He was staring down at her hand, which seemed so small and so pale on his bronzed skin. Slowly his eyes met hers, dull and lifeless. “All Freddie’s.”

  Her stomach clenched, but she didn’t let herself react. He looked exhausted, and from more than the late hour, his weariness as much of the soul as the body. “Why don’t we sit down?” She took his hand and moved toward a set of chairs in the corner.

  Astonishingly, he followed. And with no argument.

  Once there, he sank heavily into a chair and let his head fall back against the wall.

  But incredibly, he didn’t pull his hand from hers.

  “Thank you.” She figured that was the best way to begin. “For finding him,” she added, then bit her lower lip. “He’s going to make it, right?”

  “One lung was collapsed. Pretty sure there was internal bleeding from the way he couldn’t lie flat. His head was bleeding like crazy, though head wounds always do. But he’s confused, and there are some other signs that might mean either a closed head injury or lack of oxygen from the lung— Damn it!” He launched himself from the c
hair and began to pace.

  Jenna was set to follow when she heard her name called and spotted Vince heading toward her.

  “Hey, kiddo.” He pulled her into a quick hug. “That him?”

  “Yes. Roman?”

  Roman spun at the sound of her voice. When he spotted Vince beside her, he closed down again.

  She crossed to him, Vince in tow. “Roman Gallardo, this is Vince Coronado. He’s a detective but also a member of the family.” So you can trust him, she tried to convey with her eyes.

  “Good to meet you,” Vince said as they shook hands.

  “Same here.” But the caution in his body didn’t disappear.

  “Listen,” Vince said. “I can get you some scrubs so you can change out of those clothes. They’re used to us asking.”

  Roman’s gaze shifted to hers. “No need.” He tore his eyes away. “But thanks.”

  “No problem. Let’s go in here.” Vince pointed to a room next door meant for doctors to talk to family members.

  Roman went in first but didn’t take a seat. Instead he walked to the far wall and leaned against it, still and poised.

  “I’m not gonna ask how you got involved with Jenna,” Vince began. “She already warned me off. Plus she’s little, but she’s snake-mean.”

  Jenna stuck out her tongue at him.

  Vince chuckled. Roman hardly reacted. Nonetheless, she appreciated Vince trying to take the tension down a notch.

  Even if the improvement was barely noticeable.

  Then Vince got to business. “So what can you tell me about who attacked the boy?”

  First Roman eyed the closed door. “Will they know to look for us in here? Because Freddie’s been in there awhile.”

  Vince glanced at Jenna, who really didn’t want to leave. Roman was a big man, even a little taller than Vince, but foolishly or not, she felt protective of him.

  Vince only lifted an eyebrow. “Jenna? Would you let them know where we are?”

  She was being sent to her room, and Roman would receive dire warnings about how many people stood in line to inflict punishment if he hurt her.

  Oh, Lordy. That one kiss would not likely be repeated.

  The story of her life.

  “I’ll go,” she conceded. “But you issue one threat, Vince, and I’ll—”