Small-Town Redemption

by Andrews, Beth

  “Aren’t you a little young to buy a house?”

  “That seems to be the consensus. But please—” she held a hand out in the universal stop sign “—spare me the wisdom of your advanced years—”

  “Advanced years?” he muttered, his eyes narrowing.

  “I’ve already heard it all from my parents, Sadie, coworkers and friends. Even the loan manager at the bank acted like she wanted to pat me on the head when I signed the papers for what promised to be a long and healthy mortgage. So you see,” she continued with that same grin, that same amused tone, “as much as it may shock you—and bruise what appears to be your very big ego—I haven’t been avoiding you. I haven’t, actually, given you much thought at all.”

  Obviously knowing the strength of getting the last word, she walked out of the room leaving him with his thoughts, his memories and his past sins.

  * * *

  KANE JERKED AWAKE, his body lurching to a sitting position. His heart raced, his chest throbbed, a cold sweat coated his skin. The remnants of his nightmare clung to his consciousness, blurring the lines between dream and reality. His throat was dry, sore, as if he’d been yelling. Screaming, like in the dream.

  He covered his face with his good hand, gulped in air. The IV tugged sharply. His lungs burned, the stabbing pain almost doubling him over. Bringing with it a slow, dawning awareness. Relief.

  He wasn’t a terrified twenty-year-old being wheeled into St. Luke’s hospital in Houston, a neck brace holding him immobile, his own injuries forcing him to lie still, leaving him to stare up at the bright lights as they raced him down the hall.

  He was a grown man in a dimly lit room at Shady Grove Memorial, his arm in a sling. An hour ago they’d reset and casted his arm. They’d cut off his shirt, stripped him of his pants and checked every square inch of his person for injuries, then put him in a pair of lime-green scrubs. He’d been poked and prodded, had his blood drawn and his chest and arm X-rayed. He’d answered questions about his medical history and given his statement to the cop taking the accident report.

  The panic, the fear, the coppery taste of blood filling his mouth, the frantic screams, were all part of a dream. A memory.

  One he relived, over and over again.

  As he should. After all, the memories deserved to be kept alive, nurtured so they didn’t fade. What better way to pay homage to the moment that had, in the weird, circular way karma had of doing things, saved his life?

  Made him a better man.

  Someone knocked twice on the door. “Good news,” Charlotte said cheerily as she walked into the room like a freaking ray of sunshine. “Dr. Louk is on his way.”

  “What?” Kane asked, his voice hoarse.

  She glanced at him, her eyebrows raised. “Dr. Louk. The attending physician who did your initial exam? He’s on his way to do your sutures. You’ll be out of here soon.”

  Kane lifted his good hand, touched trembling fingers to the bandage on his forehead, then scrubbed his palm over his face. He reached for the cup of water on the table next to his bed, but misjudged the distance, knocking it over.

  “Oops,” Charlotte said, pulling several paper towels from the dispenser on the wall above the sink.

  She lightly brushed his hand away when he went to straighten the cup. Mopping up the mess with one hand, she poured more water with the other. Tossed the towels into the trash and gave him the cup.

  His hand shook. Water sloshed over the edge, splattered his arm and the leg of his jeans.

  Without a word, Charlotte covered his hand with hers, helped him lift the cup to his mouth. He drank deeply.

  “Thanks.” His voice was gruff, and warmth crawled up the back of his neck.

  She shrugged. “The meds leave some people unsteady. No big deal.”

  Meds they’d given him through his IV. He didn’t want to take them, didn’t want to need them, but he knew he did.

  He hated that she was seeing him so vulnerable. So out of sorts and messed up.

  She laid a sterile pad on a rolling metal tray. “I know it’s been a long night. How are you holding up?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Standing close enough so her sweet scent—the same scent that had lingered in his apartment for days after her failed seduction attempt—wrapped around him like a cloud, she studied him. Trying to see inside his head, no doubt. Gauging his mood, his words, to see if they were the truth.

  “You don’t look fine.” Her voice gentled, and he hated that almost as much as the sympathy in her eyes. She set her hand on his shoulder, her touch light, her fingers warm. “Are you having pain?”

  He wanted, more than he could admit even to himself, for her to keep her hand there. To reach up and link his fingers with hers, to hold on to something real. Something to ground him in the here and now, to yank him out of his past.

  In the guise of sitting up, he shifted and her hand dropped back to her side. “I’ve had worse.”

  “Oh. Well, good. Not good you’ve had worse pain,” she rushed on, a blush staining her cheeks. “But that it’s not that bad now.”

  He’d embarrassed her. Flustered her. He hadn’t meant to. He didn’t care about the pain, he just wanted out of the hospital.

  Before he lost what little control he had left.

  The medicine they were pumping into him made his head heavy, his thoughts blurry—like when he’d spent most of his time wasted, wanting nothing more than the next high. The room, the sights and smells of the hospital, the sound of doctors being paged, of codes being called, tortured him with memories.

  The only time he could breathe, could forget for a few minutes where he was, could pretend his past wasn’t pressing down on him, was when Red came in the room.

  She was a distraction, he assured himself. That was all. A way for him to forget the pain. Yes, she was interesting and intelligent and, he supposed, attractive in a unique way. But that wasn’t why she occupied his thoughts. Focusing on her was a way to keep his control.

  She looked so naive. Innocent. It was partly the freckles, he thought, taking in her profile as she laid out the instruments needed for his stitches. Hard to come across as mature and tough when it looked as if God himself had sprinkled cuteness across your nose and upper cheeks. Or maybe it was her hair. No adult should have hair that bright.

  But, he had to admit, the particular shade of orangey-red suited her, went with the pale creaminess of her skin, the new super-short cut accentuating the sharp angle of her jaw, the shape of her eyes.

  She was in her element here, surrounded by the sick and injured, the constant noise and odd smells. Gone was the awkward, slightly gawky girl he’d first met at his bar when he’d pissed her off by asking to see her ID. There was no sign of the angry woman who, a few weeks later, had accused her older sister of stealing her one true love, or the nervous, desperate woman who’d come to his apartment. Here she was confident and in control. In charge.

  It suited her.

  Someone knocked and the doctor, the one who looked like some actor Kane couldn’t quite put a name to, came in.

  “How are we doing, Mr. Bartasavich?” Dr. Movie-Star asked in nasally, flat tones that should be illegal in the good old U.S. of A.

  “If I had to guess,” Kane said, tired enough to let out his own accent, “I’d say you’re doing a hell of a lot better than me at the moment.”

  Washing his hands, the doctor grinned at Kane over his shoulder. “I’d have to agree with you.”

  Charlotte took the bandage off Kane’s cut and cleaned the cut, then the doctor gave him a shot to numb the area. Kane almost asked to forgo that step. The sting would give him something else to focus on, something other than the panic trying to wash over him.

  But he wasn’t a masochist. Just completely messed up.

  “We’ll give
it a few minutes to work,” the doctor said while Char cleaned up once again.

  They left. He almost called Char back, almost said something else like his inane comment about her hair to keep her in the room with him. It was easier when she was with him, all bright and capable and whip-smart. But once she left, it was as if she took all the air in the room with her. His heart rate increased. The memories threatened, there, at the edge of his mind, pushing, pushing, pushing to be let loose.

  He stared at the TV mounted on the wall, the images of an old movie flashing by, the sound muted. Concentrated on nothing more than his next careful breath. Inhaling, he filled his lungs, his ribs pinching, and counted to five. Exhaled for another five. Again. And again.

  Finally, they returned. “All right,” the doctor said, putting on the gloves Red handed him. “Let’s get this done so you can go home.”

  He could do this. He could do this. But his stomach turned. His throat tightened.

  The doctor put in the first stitch. Other than a slight tugging, Kane didn’t feel anything, but anxiety settled in his chest, growing and growing, pushing even the shallowest breath from his lungs.

  Bile rose. He swallowed it down and stared at a spot above the doctor’s head. Tried to forget.

  “You okay?”

  Red’s voice, calm and concerned. He couldn’t speak, though, and nodding while someone stitched his skin together didn’t seem like the best idea.

  She moved to the other side of the bed, brushed her fingers against his forearm. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “You’re doing great.”

  And she covered his hand with hers.

  He jolted. Met her eyes.

  The doctor said something in a sharp tone, but Kane didn’t catch it. Couldn’t. The blood was rushing in his ears, a roar of sound drowning out everything else. Until Red spoke, barely above a murmur, but to him her voice was clear, the low, soothing tones easing the ache in his chest.

  “Try to stay still.” She sent him a small smile. Gave his fingers a squeeze. “Only a few more.”

  Moving was not an option. He was frozen, held immobile by her light touch, the feel of her cool fingers on the back of his hand, the power of her gaze on his. He should pull away. Let her know in no uncertain terms he didn’t want her assurance. Didn’t need her comfort.

  He sure as hell didn’t deserve it.

  But he was weak. So weak he turned his hand, linked his fingers with hers and held on tight.

  * * *

  THERE WAS SOMETHING wrong with Kane.

  Something other than the injuries he’d sustained, Charlotte amended. Something—dare she say?—deeper. Emotional or psychological or a combination of both. Something that had him clutching her hand as if the link between them, the very basic, instinctive need for human contact—skin-to-skin—was the only real thing in his life. The only thing keeping him grounded.

  Keeping him safe.

  She would have shaken her head if she hadn’t been afraid to break the eye contact between them. Keeping him safe? Some sort of deep, emotional issue? Please. Her imagination was running wild.

  There was nothing deep or emotional about Kane. He was hard, caustic and cynical. Thinking there was more to him was ridiculous. Thinking he needed her to protect him from a few stitches, to save him from whatever had produced the haunted look in his eyes, bordered on delusional.

  And she was too smart, too careful and way too afraid of making another grand mistake to let delusions ruin her life again.

  But that didn’t stop her from murmuring nonsense to him, careful to keep her voice soft, her tone calm as she repeated how great he was doing, that it’d all be over in a few minutes and he just needed to hang in there. She was there for him.

  Time slowed. She had no idea how long they stayed that way, eyes locked, hands clasped. All sound seemed to dissipate so even her own words disappeared, though she kept up the mindless chatter. Her entire world narrowed so the only thing she saw was Kane. Color slowly seeped back into his face. His gaze sharpened, came back into focus. His hand warmed against hers, his palm rough, his fingers twitching with every pull of the thread. He inhaled, quick and shallow.

  “You’re okay.” She kept her voice quiet, her own breathing deep and even in the hopes he’d follow suit. “You’re okay.”

  “Last two stitches,” Justin said, his low tone mimicking her own.

  She stood, but Kane didn’t let go. She patted his hand. “It’s all right now. Dr. Louk is done, but he needs my help.” For a moment, she was afraid Kane didn’t hear or understand what she was saying. But then he slowly, reluctantly, slid his hand from hers.

  Wiping her tingling palm down the front of her thigh, she crossed to the hand sanitizer on the wall, cleaned her hands, then walked around the bed, all the while hyperaware of Kane’s intense gaze on her. She held the scissors out for Justin, hating the unsteadiness of her hands, of her heart. The way her mind raced with questions, with concerns. She wanted to get to the bottom of Kane’s behavior, wanted to ask him what had brought it on, what she could do to help him.

  She must be a complete idiot.

  Because no matter what had come over Kane, the last thing she needed was to try to fix him.

  One of the most difficult lessons she’d had to learn as a nurse was no matter how hard she tried, no matter her education or experience, no matter how skillful the physicians, how quick the first responders, they couldn’t save everyone.

  Some people were beyond help.

  And she was done fighting lost causes.

  Justin tied off the last stitch, cut the thread and studied his handiwork. He gave a short, satisfied nod at the row of neat, tiny stitches. Stood. “All done.”

  Thank God.

  Charlotte blocked the sound of his very nice voice giving Kane instructions on caring for the stitches. As she cleaned up, she avoided any and all eye contact with Kane.

  Hey, she’d already slipped there for a moment, thinking he was some troubled, tormented man wanting only to escape the mysterious pain dogging his heels.

  Wanting only to heal him.

  She snorted softly. Realizing the room had gone silent, she lifted her head. Her face warmed. Oops. Guess her snort hadn’t been quite as soft as she’d hoped. Both men stared at her. She coughed gently. Cleared her throat, then smiled at no one in particular. “I’ll get the discharge papers.”

  By the time the papers had printed, she was calmer. Clearheaded. It had been a long night, after all. In less than fifteen minutes, her twelve-hour shift would end. She’d go home, get something to eat, maybe veg out in front of the TV for an hour and then get some much-needed sleep.

  She’d stop thinking about hard-eyed Kane Bartasavich. Stop worrying about him.

  She watched Justin come out of Kane’s room. She’d get back to thinking about her future husband.

  “Very good work in there, Doctor,” she called to him.

  Humble, wonderful man that he was, he grinned shyly as he joined her. “Thank you. But I doubt things would have gone as smoothly as they did if you hadn’t kept the patient so calm.” He paused, used his fingertip to move a paper clip on the desk from side to side. “Are you two...close?”

  “Who?” Realization dawned and she laughed, the sound more horror-filled than amused. “Me and Kane? No.”

  “You held his hand.”

  Her eyes narrowed. Was that an accusing tone she heard? “He needed me. I would have done the same for anyone.”

  “Right. Of course. Sorry. It was just... I thought...” He shook his head, a blush climbing his neck. “I thought maybe you and he were...friends.”

  Except the way he said it made it clear he thought she and Kane were more than that. Could he be... Was he...jealous? And if he was, shouldn’t she be thrilled instead of irritated?

 
“Well, we’re not. Friends, that is.” She doubted someone like Kane even had friends. “He’s my sister’s boss, but he and I barely know each other.”

  “Has your sister ever mentioned his problems with PTSD?”

  “You think Kane is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder?” Was it even possible when he acted so emotionless all the time?

  “If I had to guess,” Justin said reluctantly, making it clear he did not like something as nebulous as guesswork, “then I’d have to say yes. The hospital where I did my residency had an affiliation with a local VA hospital and Mr. Bartasavich is displaying several signs similar to what I saw during my shifts there.”

  “Sadie never said anything about it,” Charlotte said, staring at Kane’s door as if she could somehow see him through the wood. See if he was okay. “Then again, I doubt he’d mention it. He was in the service, though. He served in Afghanistan.”

  Though anyone could suffer from PTSD, not just veterans.

  “There’s nothing in his history,” Justin said, pointing to the computer screen where he’d pulled up Kane’s medical records. Shrugging, he closed out the program. “Maybe I’m wrong.”

  He pulled the next chart in the rotation. Charlotte wanted to snatch it from his hands, toss it aside. Wanted to demand he dig a little deeper into Kane’s past, figure out what had happened to him. But Justin was already on to the next case. As she should be, would be, once she got Kane discharged. It wasn’t up to her to get to the bottom of his problems.

  His demons weren’t any of her concern.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “YOU’RE ALL SET,” she said as she entered his room. Kane sat on the side of the bed, his booted feet on the floor. How he pulled his boots on, she had no idea. Must have been a painful experience. He looked much better, though; his face had color again, some of it bruising, but still... “Dr. Louk did a great job with the stitches.” They didn’t have a plastic surgeon on staff, but luckily, Justin did excellent work. “I doubt you’ll even have much of a scar.”