by Terry Odell
"Better," Mom said. "I don't know why they wouldn't let me go home. I got a little dizzy, that's all. It's happened before, and it passes right away."
Frankie almost tipped the water container. "It's happened before? When? Does Dr. Sedgewick know?"
"I don't bother him with little things like that. At my age, if I complained about every little thing, I'd spend half my time in the doctor's office."
"Mom, Bob said they did a CAT scan. Are you okay?"
"Just fine. They didn't find anything." She laughed. "Your father always said I had a head full of empty."
"You're smart as a whip and Daddy knew it." Frankie set the cup on the bedside table. "Seriously, Mom. They're monitoring your heart. You have to tell the doctors when things don't seem right."
"My heart is perfectly healthy. I'm sure that's exactly what all this monitoring will show, and I'll be out in the morning."
"Bob said he was staying with you tonight." She hesitated, then decided not to mention that Bob said Mom hadn't wanted her around.
"I sent him away. The same way I'm going to send you away. What time is it, anyway?"
Frankie looked at her wrist. In her haste, she hadn't put on a watch. She found the clock on the wall. "Eleven forty-five."
"Well, you go home now and get some sleep. You have to work tomorrow. It's not good for a substitute to need a substitute, especially when you've only been working a few weeks."
"Tomorrow's Saturday, Mom. And the start of Spring Break, remember?"
Mom blinked. "Of course—whatever they put in this IV has made my mind all fuzzy."
"Molly and I will be here as soon as you're released."
"Molly doesn't need to be here. I'm sure the hospital will scare her unnecessarily. Bob will pick me up." Her tone had taken on its school principal quality.
Frankie gave her mother's hand a squeeze. "He seems to care about you."
She settled into her pillow and smiled. "Yes, he does. Does that bother you?"
Of course it did, but she'd analyze her feelings later. Forcing a smile, she said, "Not if you're happy. Get some sleep." She kissed her mother's forehead and straightened her blanket. Before leaving the room, she listened to the bleeps from the monitor, comforted by their regular pattern. If there were heart problems, wouldn't they be erratic?
In the hall, the nurse glanced up as Frankie passed, but didn't ask questions. Frankie leaned against the wall while she waited for the elevator. By the time it arrived, an elephant had levitated off her shoulders. On the ground floor, she found the green stripe and retraced her steps.
As she rounded the last corner, boots clumped, rubber soles squeaked, and people shouted medical terms she didn't comprehend. Paramedics rushed alongside a gurney, doctors and nurses materialized from double doors, and the smell of smoke mingled with the antiseptic perfume of the room. A man, wrapped in a blanket, stood with his back to her, trying to hold the blanket around his shoulders and gesticulate to one of the doctors at the same time. She couldn't hear what he said, but there was a lot of head shaking, followed by some reluctant nodding. He leaned over the gurney, spoke to the man lying there, and then the doctors wheeled the gurney behind a curtain.
Curious, Frankie watched as the man spoke to the receptionist at the desk. There was another bunch of head shaking, but the clerk shrugged and clicked at her keyboard. The man leaned his arms against the counter for a moment, his head bowed into his hands. He signed some papers, turned, and her breath hitched. It was Jack, or whatever his name really was, from the bar. His face was smeared with soot, giving his beard a piebald appearance. Someone spoke to him, nodded, then turned and disappeared behind a curtain. Silence filled the now-empty room.
Jack stared after the doctor for a moment, then slumped and sank into the nearest chair. His eyes caught hers, although she didn't think he was aware she was standing there. His world didn't seem to exist beyond whoever he'd brought to the ER.
Without hesitating, she crossed the waiting room and lowered herself into the chair beside him. He smelled of smoke, pine, and gasoline. His feet tapped the floor in a rapid staccato, seemingly out of his control. His fingers shook as he clutched the blanket around his bare chest.
"Do you want me to call the doctor back for you?" Frankie asked.
Still gazing at the floor, he shook his head. "No," he croaked. "I'm fine."
"I'm no doctor, but it's obvious that you're not. Can I get you some water, Jack?"
This time he looked up, and she knew those eyes, bloodshot and full of anguish, recognized her. In the harsh emergency room lighting, she saw they were the color of the whiskey he drank.
"Gladys?"
"Frances, actually. Frankie. Gladys is my bar name. What happened?"
"Car crash. My father."
He shuddered, and beneath the soot stains, his face faded to the color of parchment. Before she could call out, he clutched her forearm. Despite his condition, his grip was strong. She pried his fingers loose, but held on to his hand. It was frigid, and she cradled it, rubbing gently to transfer some of her warmth. He seemed oblivious to her touch.
"Well, then can I call someone for you? Your mother—does she know about the accident?"
With an uneven breath, he sat up straight. "She's dead."
"Oh, my. In the crash? I'm so sorry. I didn't think."
Shaking his head, he said, "No, she died years ago." He stared into space with hollow eyes.
"Let me get someone to help."
"No. No doctor. Need to catch my breath is all."
Still holding his hand, which she noted was warming slightly, she talked to him as if he were one of the stray pets she used to rescue. The words didn't matter, it was all in the tone. "My dad died when I was a kid, too. Somehow, we think they'll live forever, and then something happens and you realize you'll be alone some day. But you still refuse to believe it, don't you? My mom was admitted tonight, but I know she's going to be fine. Same with your father. No way would they both leave us, right?"
Color returned to his face. He gave her a wry grin.
"Yeah. Pop's too stubborn to die. Not like this, anyway."
From the counter, the receptionist called Jack's name. He jumped to his feet, letting the blanket fall to the chair. Without giving Frankie a glance, he strode to the desk. Back straight, shoulders squared, probably unaware he wasn't wearing a shirt. Braced for the worst, Frankie thought.
Moments later, a woman in a white coat approached. She smiled, said something, and Jack lifted his head toward the ceiling. For several minutes they spoke in quiet murmurs Frankie couldn't understand. He shook the woman's hand, and she raised an index finger before pivoting and leaving the counter. Jack glanced downward, then leaned against the counter, and Frankie saw the deep breaths he was taking. The woman returned with a green scrub shirt and handed it to Jack. He shrugged into it and shook her hand once again.
When he turned toward Frankie, there was no disguising the relief in his eyes.
She smiled. "I told you he'd be all right."
"The doctor said it didn't look too bad, but they're going to keep him a day or two to make sure. Nothing I can do, and I need to get out of this place." He swayed and grabbed the back of the chair.
Frankie took his elbow. "You're still shaky. I think you should stick around here, where someone can keep an eye on you."
His mouth narrowed. "No, I need to get away. It's complicated, but I don't want anyone to know I'm here." He stared over he shoulder for a moment, as if it took a long time for the words to line up before he spoke. "Can I impose on you for a lift to a motel? I'd like to be nearby." He lifted his arms shoulder height, palms upward, then did a slow pivot. "I'm not armed. And I don't bite. Promise. In a few minutes I'll be out of your hair."
Logic said to give him cab fare. She checked her wallet, and didn't think three dollars would get him anywhere. She remembered his gentle touch on the dance floor. At the moment, he was in no condition to do anything to hurt her, and she'd have
him at a motel in a few minutes. Instinct trumped logic. "My car's outside. Can you walk?"
"Thanks. I really appreciate it." He stood, swayed, and she reached for his elbow again. He backed away. "I'm fine."
"Right," she muttered. "Follow me."
What on earth was she doing, agreeing to give a lift to a man she'd met a few hours ago? She pulled her keys out of her purse. Then again, this wasn't Boston. This was Broken Bow, Montana, where people left their doors unlocked. Nothing exciting ever happened in Broken Bow.
She headed for the cluster of motels beside the highway. At the Holiday Inn half a mile from the hospital, "No Vacancy" flashed in red neon above a "Welcome, ASM" sign.
"Looks like there's no room there," she said. "Let's check the next one."
Her passenger shifted in his seat and patted his pockets. "Problem," he said. "I seem to have rushed out without my wallet." He raked his fingers through his hair, looked at them, and wiped them on his jeans. "I know we just met, but if you could lend me enough to cover a night, I'll pay it back."
"I can't. I mean, I would, but I've only got a few dollars with me. Do you live far?"
He nodded. "In the mountains. Outside of Stanton. Little over an hour." One corner of his mouth twitched, but there was no humor in it. "Unless you've got lights and sirens."
"I'm about fifteen minutes away." What was it about him that had words falling out of her mouth before her brain kicked in? Must be his eyes. Like Rascal, the mutt she'd almost convinced Mom to keep.
"Thanks. I promise, I'm no bother. I'll wait outside if it'll make you comfortable."
"You're not a deadly killer, are you?"
It took him a beat to respond, a beat that sent a shiver down her spine. Then his expression softened and she saw raw honesty behind the pain.
"You're safe with me, Frankie. I need some sleep." He crossed his arms across his chest, leaned against the window and closed his eyes.
"You got it." Besides, he had no way of knowing there wasn't a big, burly man in the house. Or a hundred-pound Rottweiler. With added confidence, she pointed the Cavalier toward home.
*****
Aware of someone chattering beside him, Ryan clawed his way out of a nightmare. The lights he thought were explosions transformed into streetlights and car headlights. Bathed in sweat, he wiped his face with the back of his arm.
Damn, he'd been through a hell of a lot worse than this and hadn't come apart. Losing someone who was like family didn't come close to almost losing someone who was family. The memory of seeing the crash, thinking his father had died, made him shake again. The chattering continued, and he focused his attention on Frankie.
She glanced in his direction. "You're awake. I've got the heat on, but it's not very effective. Are you cold?"
"A little." He rubbed his hands together. "I left the blanket in the waiting room. No big deal—it belongs to the paramedics anyway."
"We're almost at my place." She chewed on her lower lip. "You like the Three Elks? They say you're in there every night."
"Passes the time."
"What do you do?"
Small talk. Cover stories. Keep it simple. "Between jobs at the moment." He watched as they navigated through Broken Bow's town center, past a park, and through a residential neighborhood.
Frankie pulled into a driveway and yanked on the parking brake. "We're here," she said.
His knee protested his earlier run down the mountain as he slid out of the car. He shivered. The Cavalier's heater had done little to dispel the chill that had tunneled into his bones when he'd seen his Mustang in flames. He stared at the large wooden house with its sagging porch. The weathered Victorian huddled under the oak trees didn't match the effervescent Frankie. "This is your place?"
"The old family homestead. Dad got a good deal on it right after Claire was born. She's my older sister. Anyway, it's been home ever since. Except I was living in Boston until Claire said Mom needed me, and she and James—that's her husband—moved to London so she couldn't live here anymore."
"Frankie."
"What?"
"You're babbling."
"Sorry. I do that when I'm nervous."
"There's no need to be nervous. I can sleep in the car. Or on the porch."
"No, that's stupid. You're shivering, and it's warmer inside. Come on." She trotted up the steps.
Inside, she pointed up a wooden staircase. "Up there. End of the hall on the left."
He hauled himself up the stairs with Frankie a safe distance behind him. He smiled. All she'd need to do was touch his screaming knee and he'd be at her mercy.
At the end of the hall, she moved ahead of him and opened the door. "Here you go." After flipping on the light, she crossed to the bed and shifted throw pillows to one side before folding back a floral comforter.
He zeroed in on an easy chair in the corner, sat and bent to unlace his boots. Without lifting his head, he pried them off, waiting for the wave of pain to pass.
"You need anything else?" she asked.
"A couple of aspirin would be nice, if you've got them."
"I'll be right back," Frankie said. "Bathroom's through there, and there's an extra blanket in the bottom drawer of the dresser."
She disappeared and he limped across the room to the bed, punching Dalton's number into his cell. His only coherent thought was someone had found him and sabotaged his Mustang. His best bet was for whoever did this to think they'd succeeded. For now, he was dead.
He hoped the medical staff would play along with his request to keep his father's accident off the radar. The clerk had been willing to register Pop as John Daniels, as long as the insurance information was right. Daniels. That name had come out of the blue when the paramedics and cops had arrived. He thought about Frankie. Maybe not totally out of the blue.
Ryan explained the situation, told Dalt where he was.
"Your daddy okay?" Dalton's easy drawl calmed him.
"Concussion. Cracked ribs. I told them to keep him an extra day, while I regroup. Dammit, Dalt. It might not have been an accident. In which case, it should be me in the hospital. Or worse." A shadow moved across the hall. "Gotta go."
"Hang tight. Lay low. I'll be there in the morning."
Ryan set the phone on the night table. Frankie came in carrying a glass of water. She handed him the water and dropped two blue capsules into his hand.
"I asked for aspirin. What are these?"
"Drugstore sleeping pills. Mom says one knocks her out. You're twice her size, so you get two."
"I don't need sleeping pills. Aspirin will be fine."
"You don't understand. I'll sleep better if I know you're sleeping."
"I'm not going to hurt you Frankie. If you thought I would, I'd still be at the hospital."
She looked at him, chewing her lower lip. Then she sat in the chair and crossed her arms. "Sometimes I act before I think things all the way through. You looked like you needed a friend. But I don't really know anything about you, except you care about your father and you're a good dancer. And your name's not Jack Daniels."
He set the pills on the table. "You're right. But my knee is killing me, and my head aches. I'm going to get into bed, if that's all right with you. Then we can talk."
When he pulled himself to his feet and reached for the button of his jeans, she locked eyes with him, as if she knew he was testing her. "You mind?" He twirled a forefinger in the air.
Instead of turning, she flicked off the light, leaving her backlit in the dim glow from the hallway. He shrugged and turned around, grabbing the bed post for support. With his jeans on the floor, he slipped between the sheets. They were cool against his skin, and he glanced at the pills. Maybe a night of oblivion was what he needed. Then again, he had no idea what kind of pills they were. He let them lie beside his phone.
Frankie's voice came from the shadows. "You said you learned to dance for work. Are you a dance instructor?"
He laughed. "No. Navy man. Or I used to be."
/> "A dancing sailor." He could hear the smile in her voice. "Not a lot of call for that in Broken Bow. Or Stanton, for that matter."
"Nope. I came back to visit my father. I grew up on a ranch in the mountains."
She yawned, and he couldn't help but yawn in response. The post-adrenaline crash rolled over him like a tidal wave. The mattress seemed to envelop him. His eyes felt like they were filled with sandpaper.
He blinked. "You're tired. I'm tired. We could both use some sleep, and I'll be gone in the morning." He blinked again, but his eyes didn't reopen.
"You're right. Pleasant dreams, Jack."
He heard the door close and relaxed into the mattress. "It's Ryan," he whispered. Sleep drew him in.
Until the nightmare came after him like a twenty-five-ton Bradley fighting vehicle. Ryan fought toward the surface of the terror, to wake up and end it, but the images wouldn't release him. In the swirling darkness, a tiny angel appeared, backlit by an amber glow. He knew he was dying. Or had the angel come for Pop? He tried to cry out.
Something tickled his nose. The angel spoke. "Here. Mr. Snuggles will make the bad dreams go away." The angel kissed him, a feather-soft brush on his cheek.
Chapter 5
The aroma of fresh coffee trickled through Ryan's consciousness. Sunlight filtered behind his eyelids. Last night burst through the cocoon of sleep and he jerked awake, fumbling for his cell phone. He squinted at the display. No messages, no new calls. He punched Dalton's number. "Talk to me."
"I'm outside Missoula. Should be at your door in under an hour. Any word on your daddy?"
"No, but the hospital would have called if anything happened. I need to check on him."
"Understood. We'll take care of everything."
Ryan's protesting bladder insisted on being the next order of business, and he stepped into the bathroom. One look in the mirror explained Frankie's insistence on the sleeping pills. Covered in blood and soot, he was a scary sight. Last night, he must have looked ten times as frightening. Surprised she'd taken him in at all, he turned on the water for a quick shower.
