Morgan's Son

by Lindsay McKenna

  Sliding both hands around the small cup, Craig felt the warmth of it begin to permeate the iciness inside him. How long had it been since they’d arrived at the hospital? Shutting his eyes, he bowed his head, feeling the last of the adrenaline giving way to utter exhaustion. Tears leaked out of his eyes, small beads clinging to his lashes. Working his mouth against a sob, he stiffly rose to his feet. Unable to meet Killian’s gaze, Craig opened his eyes only after he’d turned away. Walking on sore feet and aching legs, he forced himself over to the window. He carefully set the cup down on the windowsill before his shaking hands splashed the burning contents all over him. Not that it mattered. The only thing that mattered was Sabra.

  He felt Killian approach and glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes. The merc stood next to him, his mouth thinned, a scowl on his brow.

  “She could die….” Craig forced out the statement in a low, shaken voice.

  “Yes.”

  Killian wouldn’t lie about anything, especially not something this serious. This heartbreaking. Craig tried to shore up his roiling emotions. “How’s the kid?”

  “Jason?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They took him to the children’s wing. The doctor on duty said he was fine. No wounds. At least, not physical ones.”

  Craig heard the derision in Killian’s tone. “Yeah, he was pretty shaken up.”

  “It’s none of my business, but I think you ought to get looked at and then go visit Jason. He’s asking for you.”

  Turning, Craig said, “Me?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “He doesn’t know me from Adam. He knew Sabra.”

  “Maybe so, but the kid knows you helped save his life. I think he’s reaching out.” Killian looked at the bank of phones on the wall. “Laura’s on her way. I just got off the phone with her and Jake. She’s taking the first commercial flight available out of D.C. Shah Randolph, Jake’s wife, is escorting her.” Killian looked at his watch. “It’s 0500 now. She’ll to arrive in Maui at 1500 this afternoon. I’ll go pick them up and bring them down here, but until then Jason’s alone.”

  Craig stood tiredly and tried to swallow his unshed tears. “Sabra’s still in surgery—”

  “Dr. Parsons knows you’ll be in the hospital somewhere, if she gets done sooner than you think.” Killian placed his hand on Craig’s slumped shoulder. “Get medical treatment, get a shower and then go see Jason. The kid needs you. He needs to be held.”

  Brokenly, Craig nodded. Even now, he couldn’t be selfish. The boy had gone through a hell few people would ever encounter in their lives. To have endured it at such a young age had probably traumatized Jason forever. Rubbing his brow, he nodded. “Okay, I’ll go down. Will you—”

  Killian nodded darkly. “I’ll stay up here. When Dr. Parsons comes out of surgery, I’ll tell her where you’ve gone.”

  The lump in Craig’s throat refused to go away, no matter how many times he swallowed. Belatedly, he looked down at his hands. They were cut all over from the flying Plexiglas. Dimly, he was aware that he’d probably have to have shrapnel taken out of his legs, too. The pain of a doctor digging the metal out of his body would be easy to take in comparison to the mere thought of losing Sabra. She couldn’t die. She just couldn’t. He loved her. And God forgive him, he’d never told her that.

  As he wearily turned toward the elevators, Craig replayed the awful trip by ambulance to the hospital. If Dr. Parsons hadn’t been there, Sabra undoubtedly would have died en route. And all Craig had been able to do was sit there, watching dumbly as Parsons worked to stabilize Sabra’s life. Bits and pieces of the crash in the desert had overlaid Sabra’s ghostly features as tears leaked uncontrollably from Craig’s eyes. He had wished over and over that it had been him hit by that unlucky metal fragment. If anyone deserved to live, it was Sabra. He was worthless in comparison, a man controlled by a haunting past he couldn’t overcome, while she was so strong and beautiful and confident. Life hadn’t tortured her as it had him. She had hopes and dreams. Craig wished with every bone in his body that he could trade places with Sabra on that gurney.

  All that time, Jason had been in his arms, clinging to him, his head buried against Craig’s chest. Craig divided his attention between them, keeping his hand on the boy’s dirty hair to protect him from seeing the blood, from seeing someone he loved like that. No child deserved such trauma. Craig had rocked Jason back and forth, numbly whispering that it would be all right, that Sabra was going to be all right. The boy had sobbed wildly, almost hysterical in the aftermath. They were lies, Craig thought bitterly as he repeated the soothing words. But he felt helpless and didn’t want Jason to be any more upset than he already was. It had been the longest forty minutes of Craig’s life.

  Now in the elevator, he tried to pull himself together. Only then did he become aware of how badly he stunk, as the odor of fear and the metallic scent of blood registered in his sensitive nostrils. As he left the elevator and headed for the emergency room, Craig saw nurses and patients staring at him as if he were some kind of avenging ghost come to haunt them. He was covered with mud from the field, bloodied by glass and shrapnel. He must look like hell. Or the walking dead.

  One of the nurses in ER gave him another cup of hot, black coffee to drink. He sat on a gurney, stripped down to his shorts while a doctor examined him. Later, he lay on the gurney, fighting waves of pain as the doctor pulled more than thirty pieces of glass from his face, neck and shoulder, and two pieces of twisted metal from his lower legs. But the pain of the extraction remained small in comparison to his worry for Sabra. He lay there afterward as his wounds were being swabbed and dressed, wondering how she was doing. How much blood had she lost? Had he put enough pressure on that torn artery to save her life? Had he not?

  The agony of waiting shredded Craig. Finally, a nurse showed him to a shower and brought in a surgeon’s smock and pants for him to wear in lieu of his filthy, bloody clothes. Craig stood under the warming flow of water, hoping it would ease the pain in his chest. All his injuries were minor, and a shower was permissible. Awkwardly he ran the bar of soap through his hair, then stood beneath the spray again, tears streaming freely down his cheek. Sabra couldn’t be torn from him! She just couldn’t. He gasped for breath, the water stinging his eyes as he leaned weakly against the stall, his fists clenched against the wall at that terrible possibility.

  She had loved someone who hadn’t had the guts to tell her he loved her—whatever his reasons. Craig had thought it too soon to tell her. But why hadn’t he? Oh, God, why hadn’t he? If Sabra had known, it might have helped her fight harder to live. He bowed his head, water running in rivulets across his frozen features as his chest shook with a great sob. In here, no one would hear him cry. It was the only safe place to weep for a loss he was sure was coming. Even with tightly shut eyes, he could see Sabra’s warm gray eyes dancing with love for him, and suddenly Craig knew, deep in his injured soul, that she did love him. Sabra wasn’t the kind of woman to rush into anything; that’s why she’d withheld her real feelings from him.

  Why did everything have to happen so suddenly? He’d become so jaded, so hardened against life since the crash. The idea of falling in love with someone as beautiful and warm as Sabra had never entered his sordid reality. Not until she’d crashed into his life, tearing that sense of hopelessness away from him, breathing new life into him, making him reach out and hope once more—and realize the depth of the personal, lonely hell he’d fallen into. Bitterly, Craig opened his eyes and slowly eased away from the wall. Would he ever be able to tell Sabra how much she’d given him? She’d literally handed him back his life. When he’d slept in her arms, he’d felt peace for the first time in years. Her presence strengthened him and allowed him to amass his own strength for healing himself.

  Such was the miracle of Sabra, he realized, turning off the faucets and standing, dripping, in the stall. Life hadn’t exactly been kind to her, either, yet she’d moved ahead despite it. Craig opened the do
or and reached for the thick terry-cloth towel. Damn his practical realism. He’d been so good at being logical, he’d almost missed the most important person in his life—Sabra. He rubbed the towel against his face, uncaring if some of the small cuts started to bleed again. Water dripped off his hair, and he went through the motions of drying it, feeling overwhelming numbness coupled with exhaustion.

  Jason. He had to see Jason. After donning the green cotton clothes, Craig went in search of a nurse who could direct him to the boy. With every step he took it felt like twenty extra pounds of weight were bearing down on his legs and feet. He couldn’t recall ever feeling this low. But then, he’d never before had the woman he loved lying on a surgery table, her life in jeopardy.

  Nurse Bonnie Blaire, a pert, young, red-haired woman, led him to Jason’s private room.

  “The doctor has given him a mild sedative because he was hysterical, Mr. Talbot.” She smiled sadly as she halted at the door. “If you want the truth, I think the little boy just needs to be held….”

  Craig nodded wearily. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.” Who didn’t need to be held right now? Hell, he ached to have Sabra’s arms slide around him. He’d crush her so tightly against him that the air would rush from her lungs. Well, that wasn’t possible, but maybe he could help the boy.

  The nurse quietly closed the door behind him, and Craig tiptoed forward. Jason looked awfully small in the large bed. Someone had given him a toy—a well-loved teddy bear. Absently, Craig remembered that Jason’s favorite blanket and toy were still in their car at Kula.

  He lay on his side, his face pressed into the stuffed bear. The numbness left Craig’s heart as he walked closer. Jason’s eyes were shut, and the tracks of tears he’d cried had dried across his flushed cheek. Craig reached over and gently mussed his hair.

  The boy gave a small whimper. Craig kept stroking his head and watched the effect it had on him. The small hands, once clasping the teddy bear in tight fists, gradually began to loosen. The blanket that covered him was thin, and Craig felt him trembling.

  Easing down the guardrail, Craig sat on the edge of the bed, facing Jason. A long time ago his mother had rubbed his shoulders and back when he was sick, so he did it now for the boy. Craig knew he couldn’t take the place of Sabra, Laura or Morgan, but at least he could try to give Jason some solace. Little by little, he felt him begin to relax. The child looked so innocent lying there, and he himself felt so beat-up and battered by life. Jason had his whole life in front of him. Sabra might have hers taken from her. And Craig would be left alone.

  Pain shattered his heart, and without thinking, he eased himself up on the bed and gently bundled the small boy into his arms, teddy bear and all. Maybe he couldn’t hold Sabra, and he knew no one was going to hold him, but he could make Jason feel safe—and loved. Jason moaned a little and buried his head on his chest, his small hand stretching outward, then relaxed completely against him.

  Craig’s mouth curved slightly as he felt the child entrust himself to him. The feeling was warming. Almost euphoric. He slid his arm across Jason’s small back, his own eye-lids closing. Craig could feel Jason’s tiny heartbeat against him. The shallow rise and fall of the boy’s chest told him he was now asleep. A ragged sigh escaped Craig’s lips as he felt his muscles, one by one, begin to release the tension they’d held so long. Then he fell into an exhausted sleep, holding a little boy and praying for Sabra’s life.

  “Craig?”

  He felt fingers squeezing his shoulder tentatively. Sleep pulled at him, and he fought to come awake. The voice was unfamiliar. Who? He forced his eyes open and realized groggily that Jason was curled tightly in his arms, still asleep. Blinking to clear his vision, he looked up toward the voice.

  Dr. Parsons smiled wearily. “Killian told me to be careful how I woke you.”

  Instantly, Craig came awake. He eased Jason onto the bed, still keeping one hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Sabra?” His voice was hoarse with sleep. His heart pounded hard in his chest, fear gutting through him.

  Ann tightened her grip on his shoulder. “I think she’s going to make it. Right now, she’s critical, but she’s in recovery.”

  Relief avalanched through Craig. He was dizzied by the news. Dr. Parsons still wore her green surgery gown, the cap over her hair, the mask hanging around her neck. Searching her smiling eyes, he rasped, “She’s alive?”

  “Very much so. We had to give her a blood transfusion. Nearly two pints.” Ann lost her smile. “She went into cardiac arrest on the table due to blood loss, but we brought her back, thank God.” She patted his shoulder. “She’s doing much better.”

  Cardiac arrest. Stunned, Craig felt tears flood into his eyes. He’d nearly lost Sabra. Somehow, he had known that; such was the invisible line of communication he had with her. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he fought against the tears. “When can I see her?”

  “Now, if you want. She won’t know you’re there, though. It will be an hour or two for the anesthesia to wear off. You can’t stay more than five minutes an hour until we upgrade her from from intensive care.”

  Carefully, Craig divested himself of the sleeping boy. Easing himself off the bed, he made sure that the teddy bear took his place as much as possible. Tucking the blanket over Jason’s shoulders, he said, “Will someone be with Jason? He’s really shook up over all this.”

  “I’ll make sure a nurse comes in and sits with him,” Ann said gently.

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s 7:00 a.m.”

  He’d slept two hours. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Craig’s heart soared with joy as he turned to the physician. “Thank you for saving her,” he rasped, and he reached out, gripping her long, lean hand. If Craig didn’t know better, he’d have guessed Ann Parsons was a painter, not a surgeon. But he supposed both were artists in their own way. One painted beautiful things, the other used the artistry of her hands to save a life. In this case, Sabra’s life.

  “I’ll be over shortly, Craig.”

  He nodded and quickly left the room, heading down the hall toward the bank of elevators. Feelings raged unchecked through him as he waited impatiently for the elevator to take him to the recovery floor. The depressing numbness that had sunk its claws into him had miraculously disappeared. The weight that inhabited his legs was gone, too. What was left of his exhaustion was torn from him as he hurried down the hall to the ICU nurse’s station.

  Sabra was going to live! The thought kept playing through him like a wonderful chord of music. Craig barely felt the tile floor beneath his feet, was scarcely aware of anything beyond an inner joy that made him feel as if he were walking on air. A nurse spotted him coming and must have known who he was, because she met him and walked him to the recovery room.

  “She’s not conscious yet, Mr. Talbot, but Dr. Parsons said for you to stay with her, talk to her and hold her hand. She won’t respond, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll come for you in five minutes.”

  Craig stepped inside the room. Sabra was the only patient there, IVs in both arms, the white sheet emphasizing her pale, slack features. Swallowing hard, he moved to the side of her gurney. Her thick, black hair had been gathered up in a white towel, and he saw the dressing that now hid the ugly, gaping wound the shrapnel had made in her neck. Her lips were colorless, her lashes lying softly against her taut skin.

  Gently, ever so gently, Craig leaned over the bed and placed his mouth against her slack lips. He didn’t care that she didn’t know he was there. He wanted to kiss her, to welcome her back to life—to him—if she would have him when this was all over. Life had never seemed so tentative as now, as he felt the coolness of her lips beneath his own. Her breathing was so shallow that at first he was alarmed, thinking she wasn’t breathing at all. He eased his mouth from hers and watched her chest for a long, fearful moment. Only when he saw the minute rise and fall of the white sheet draped across her did he release a ragged breath of his own.

  Lightly, he grazed h
er smooth, flawless brow with a fingertip, lost in the soft texture of her skin. Even now, Sabra was beautiful—untouched. Yet the woman had the heart of a lion, there was no doubt. She had faced death with him—and won. Slipping his fingers over hers, he felt how chilled she was and grew worried again. Was she warm enough? How badly Craig wanted to take her in his arms, hold her and warm her as he had Jason.

  “Five minutes,” the nurse murmured from the entrance, giving him an apologetic smile.

  Craig nodded. He leaned down, his lips close to Sabra’s ear. “Sweetheart, this is Craig. I want you to know I love you. I should have said it earlier.” He closed his eyes, choking back a wealth of feelings. “Listen, I just want you to get well, okay? Dr. Parsons says you’re going to make it. You’ve lost a lot of blood, but you’re going to be fine. I love you, Sabra. Don’t ever forget that. No matter what happens, no matter what life throws at us, just know I’ll always love you….”

  Sabra heard voices, heard a little boy’s high-pitched, excited tone. Then she felt the touch of a small hand on her arm—a warm little hand. Another voice. A woman’s, soft and strained. She fought to come awake, but her lashes felt like weights against her cheeks. And then she heard a very familiar voice, along with a touch that could never be mistaken. It was Craig. She felt his strong fingers wrap around her left hand. On her right hand, she felt the boy’s touch. The voices melded together in confusion. She stopped struggling, feeling so very weak. The voices ebbed away, and she felt as if she were floating once again within a warm cloud of light.

  The touch of Craig’s hand brought her back to consciousness, drew her out of that floating cloud of light. She felt his fingers stroking her arm gently, with reverence. This time she recognized the other voices—Jason’s and Laura’s. Fragments of scenes blipped in front of her closed eyes—of being hit with a bullet and flying five feet forward. Dully, Sabra felt the bruising pain in her back where the vest had stopped the bullet from penetrating her body. She should be dead, she thought.