Reagan's Redemption: Book Eight In The Bodyguards Of L.A. County Series

by Cate Beauman

  Reagan’s Redemption

  Copyright © January 2015 by Cate Beauman.

  All rights reserved.

  Visit Cate at www.catebeauman.com

  Follow Cate on Twitter: @CateBeauman

  Or visit her Facebook page: www.facebook.com/CateBeauman

  First Print Edition: January 2015

  ISBN-13: 978-1507503645

  ISBN-10: 1507503644

  Editor: Invisible Ink Editing, Liam Carnahan

  Cover: Demonza

  Formatting: Rachelle Ayala

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  DEDICATION

  To my friend Laura Torres, web designer extraordinaire.

  Table of Contents

  DEDICATION

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THE BODYGUARDS OF L.A. COUNTY

  Coming Summer of 2015

  Chapter One

  Bronx, New York

  June 2015

  “It looks like a bad case of strep and a little dehydration, but Jarrin seems to be doing better already.” Reagan winked, smiling at the five-year-old lying in the big bed helping himself to the applesauce the nurse brought in.

  “But he’s so swollen, doctor.” The worried mother brushed her fingers through her son’s wavy brown hair, sitting close at his side.

  “The swelling and fever are part of the body’s response to the infection.” Reagan rested her hand on Jarrin’s mother’s shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze of reassurance. “You should see the inflammation start to subside as the Amoxicillin does its job. Jarrin responded well to the IV and his first dose of antibiotics. He’s eating and drinking on his own. I want you to follow up with his pediatrician tomorrow, but I feel confident he’s ready to go home when he’s finished snacking.”

  “Can I have some more?” the sweet-eyed boy asked as he set down the empty plastic cup.

  “Good stuff, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  Grinning, Reagan grabbed hold of little toes beneath the blanket, giving them a wiggle, thrilled to see the lethargic kiddo who’d cried in his mother’s arms only a couple hours ago looking better. “You bet, buddy.” She returned her attention to Mrs. Weaver. “We’ll get him some more applesauce, and I’ll have Kim, your nurse, take care of his discharge.”

  “Thank you, doctor. Thank you so much for everything you’ve done.”

  “You’re welcome. Go home and get some sleep, push the fluids and next dose of medicine when Jarrin wakes up, and follow up with his pediatrician first thing tomorrow.” She wiggled his toes again. “Make sure you drink lots of water and rest so you can get back to the swimming pool.”

  “Okay.” He nodded as much as his swollen neck would allow.

  “Bye.” She stood up from her seat at the edge of the mattress and stepped out from behind the curtain, making her way to the nurse’s station on achy feet.

  Kim glanced up from the computer, her fingers pausing on the keyboard. “Well if it isn’t the energizer bunny. What is this, hour fifteen?” The pretty redhead took a pen from the desk and brought it up to her mouth like an imaginary microphone. “Doctor Rosner, how does it feel to know you’re mere moments away from ending yet another endless shift?”

  Reagan grinned as her friend extended the pretend microphone to her. “I’m too tired to come up with something witty.” She chuckled as Kim did. “Was there a full moon or something? I can’t remember the last time this place was so insane.” She walked around to one of the unoccupied computers, yawning as she logged on, clicking boxes with instructions that would help Jarrin’s mother get him through the next few hours. “The little guy behind curtain four is requesting another applesauce. He’s all set for discharge.” She signed off on her last patient, handing over the sheets the printer spit out. “Here you go. Tell Jarrin’s mother she can call me at home with any questions or concerns if she has trouble getting ahold of the pediatrician.”

  “Reagan,” Kim said in her warning tone shaking her head, “You’re never going to get any sleep if you keep giving every worried parent your private number.”

  “I don’t give it to everyone.”

  “Practically.”

  She shrugged. “Mrs. Weaver will rest better knowing I’m just a phone call away. She probably won’t even use it.”

  “Kind of like that creep father who didn’t call you non-stop for two weeks?” Kim sent her one of her know-it-all smirks.

  She winced, remembering the man who’d been more concerned with scoring a date than remedying his son’s flu virus. “That’s only happened once. I can’t let one moron ruin a good thing for everyone else. Besides, I like following up with our pediatric strep throats and stomach bugs.” Too often they dealt with massive traumas that had far less favorable outcomes. Illnesses easily cured by antibiotics, rest, and plenty of fluids were a welcome change. It was satisfying to watch the not-so-sick walk away. “I don’t mind easing worried parents’ minds. I like knowing Jarrin will be swimming and playing with his friends again by mid-week. Most of our patients aren’t so lucky.”

  “I’m fairly certain you’re in the running for sainthood.”

  Reagan laughed. “I don’t think so.”

  “Get out of here, Mother Teresa, and call me when you get back from the woods.”

  “Mmm.” Her lips curved, and she closed her eyes. “I can already smell the pine.”

  “A week off and you head for the middle of nowhere. What about the Bahamas or Cancun?”

  Reagan shook her head. She didn’t want white sand and crystal clear water. She craved to recharge in the shaded quiet of the mountains. “That’s what Derek wanted, but my power of persuasion is top notch.” She smiled.

  “I’ve never met people more opposite than the two of you, but somehow you make your relationship work.”

  They used to make their relationship wo
rk, but the last six months had been rough. She gave Kim a small smile, looking down. “You know what they say about opposites.”

  “I’ll see you when you get back. Don’t forget the calamine lotion and bug spray.”

  She snorted out a laugh. “They’re already packed.” She turned, making her way to the on-call room, and scrubbed her hands before bee-lining it to the fridge and the sandwich she’d been forced to abandon at three a.m. when the paramedics rang down with four gunshot wounds and two stabbings.

  She took a ravenous bite on her way to the table, moaning, rolling her eyes in ecstasy, craving her next sample of cafeteria tuna on wheat. Sitting, she pulled her aching feet from her Danskos and flexed her toes as she slid the elastic from her long brown hair.

  Sighing, she absorbed the moment of peace and quiet, perusing yesterday’s paper as she struggled to unwind after the grueling, endless night. She flipped pages, pausing when the article on the Appalachia Project caught her attention. The government-run program was struggling to maintain personnel. The organization desperately needed a full-time physician and nurse as the pilot program, which aimed to bring infrastructure to rural areas in the region, limped into its last year.

  She glanced at the gorgeous pictures of trees in bloom and pretty waterfalls among the mighty Appalachians. Serenity. “Perfection,” she murmured, considering the idea of applying for mere seconds. Then she chuckled—she was a city girl through and through. Seven days in the middle of nowhere was one thing, but an entire year? She yearned for a break from gunshot wounds and stabbings, car accidents and endless traumas of the ER, but a week was plenty to recharge. Perhaps a slower pace was appealing, especially after the night she’d just had, but among the triumphs and tragedies of practicing medicine in an inner city emergency room, she hadn’t yet met a situation that had broken her.

  She pushed the paper away and took another bite of her sandwich as the beeper on her hip alerted her to an impending patient arrival. She dismissed the familiar tone, shoving a chip in her mouth, reveling in the fact that she didn’t have to run down the hall. For the next little while medicine was on the back burner.

  She popped a green grape between her lips and took her phone from her bag, noting the new text she’d received moments after she made her mad dash to meet the incoming ambulances. She smiled, realizing the message was from Derek, opened it as the pager still hooked to her scrubs sounded for the second time, and stared at her screen. We can’t see each other anymore. It’s over.

  She read the words again in disbelief, pressing her fingers to her lips with the punch of pain. It was over? After a year he was simply finished? Brush off the hands, a two-sentence text, and they were through? A small, incredulous laugh escaped her as she looked at her phone once more.

  They’d grown apart since he switched hospitals several weeks ago, making do with quick phone calls before one of them fell asleep, exhausted after a shift. Then she’d gotten the news from the specialist, and he’d distanced himself further.

  “You ass,” she mumbled, blinking back tears, shoving her phone away. “You’re an ass,” she said again, frowning when her beeper went off for the third time. “What the crap?” She yanked the piece of plastic from the hem of her pants, scanning through the three calls the staff had received in less than five minutes. The ER was getting slammed. She pulled her white coat from the back of her chair and rushed down the long corridor.

  “Reagan, you’re still here,” Dr. Maxton said, jogging up to her side. “Take ambulance two coming in. Car accident. Seven-year-old female. Vitals are stable. Possible concussion. Peds is tied up with her brother who just came in—massive facial and head trauma.”

  She nodded. “Sure.”

  “I’ve got the gunshot coming in behind it.”

  “I wasn’t kidding when I said the whole night was like this,” she warned as the ambulance she was waiting on pulled up. She grabbed gloves on her way out the sliding door, greeting the paramedic, memorizing the vitals he gave her as the little girl with curly black hair and frightened blue eyes was wheeled from the back. “Hi sweetie. What’s your name?”

  “Mable. I want my mom.”

  Reagan studied the little girl’s pupils, creamy complexion, and bloody lip. “Your mom will come and see you very soon.” She took Mable’s hand as they reached the examination room and the small team waiting to assist her. “I’m Reagan. I’m going to help take care of you for a little while.”

  “Okay.”

  “Does anything hurt?”

  “My head.”

  “Where?”

  She pointed to the small gash along her temple as one of the nurses cut away Mable’s pink shirt and affixed electrodes to her chest.

  Reagan noted the dark bruising cutting across the little girl’s trunk from her seatbelt. “Does your tummy feel sick or hurt anywhere?” she asked as she pressed gently around the child’s abdomen, searching for signs of internal trauma.

  “No. Just my hip.”

  She glanced at the welt where the buckle had dug into her skin. “I bet it does. Are you dizzy?”

  “No.” She sniffled, and a tear fell as Kim sent the IV needle into the top of Mable’s little hand.

  “You’re doing great, sweetie,” Reagan soothed, swiping a piece of gauze from the table, dabbing at tears. “Have you been to the hospital before?”

  Mable tried to shake her head in the neck brace.

  Reagan shined a penlight into big blue eyes. “It probably seems kind of scary, but we do some pretty cool stuff here.”

  “Like what?”

  Reagan brushed her hand through the child’s hair, quickly scanning Mable’s vitals on the monitor to her left. “Well, we take pictures of bones.”

  “An x-ray?”

  She nodded as she examined Mable’s legs, feeling for any obvious breaks. “Do you think we could take a picture of your bones? We’re going to do something called a CT scan. It doesn’t hurt at all, then I’ll show you what the inside of your body looks like.” She leaned in close, whispering. “I’ll even let you take home a disk so you can show your friends.”

  Mable smiled. “Okay.”

  “I’m going to go talk to the radiology technologist. He’s the photographer. It’s kind of busy in here this morning so we might have to wait our turn.”

  “Will you come back?”

  “In just a second. I’ll find out when we can get an appointment while my friend Kim bandages the cut on your forehead.” She stepped from behind the curtain, picking up a phone. “This is Doctor Rosner in ER. I need a CT scan.”

  “Take a number.”

  She smiled. “Curtain ten.” She hung up as a frantic woman with blood on her shirt and mascara smearing her cheeks rushed down the hall.

  “Mable? Mable?”

  “Ma’am, I’m Doctor Rosner. Can I help you?”

  “I can’t find my daughter. My husband’s dead and they won’t let me see my son.”

  Her heart broke for the woman. “I’m Mabel’s attending physician. Come with me.” Reagan took the mother behind the curtain.

  “Mable.” The woman broke down in hysterical tears as she clutched her daughter tight. “Oh, thank God you’re okay. She’s okay? She’s all right?” She brushed trembling fingers over Mable’s curly hair and the freckles dotting her small nose, then took her daughter’s hand in hers.

  “She has a bit of a headache and some contusions on her hip from the seatbelt buckle, but I’m not seeing any symptoms of a concussion.” She pulled Mable’s covers back. “Mable does have some fairly significant bruising along her chest and abdomen here.” She examined Mable’s stomach region again with several presses of her fingers into soft skin, studying the little girl for any signs of discomfort. “So we’re going to do a CT scan to stay on the safe side, but at this point everything looks great.”

  “My baby’s okay.”

  Dr. Maxton poked his head behind the drape, his eyes grave as they met Reagan’s. “Mrs. Totton, I need to speak with
you.”

  Mable’s mother stood from the edge of the bed. “Do you have news on my son? Have they told you about Brock?”

  “If you could come with me,” Dr. Maxton said.

  Mrs. Totton swallowed as tears coursed down her cheeks. “I can’t leave Mable.”

  “Mrs. Totton,” Reagan took the woman’s hand, wishing there was some way to shield the mother from the news she was about to receive. “I’ll stay right here with Mable. I’ll take good care of her. I promise. We’re going to color while we wait for our turn in radiology.”

  “You’ll stay with her?”

  She squeezed the woman’s hand tighter, knowing deep down that Mrs. Totton already knew her son was dead. “Yes.”

  “She’s my baby.”

  “And she’s just fine. We’ll be waiting for you to come back. We’ll make a picture for you.”

  Mrs. Totton walked off with Dr. Maxton. Moments later her muffled wails carried down the hall.

  Mable started to cry. “Why is my mom crying? Where did she go?”

  Reagan sighed, hugging the frightened child. “She’ll be back in a little while, Sweetie. How about we make her something pretty?”

  “Okay.”

  “Let me get what we need.” She walked to the nurse’s station as her beeper went off again and several staff members headed toward the sliding doors, awaiting the next ambulance. Regan glanced around the pandemonium while someone in exam area thirteen moaned loudly. She grabbed the stash of coloring books and bucket of crayons and went back behind the curtain, pasting on a smile. “Here we go.” She pulled over a table, setting the contents down, reading Mable’s vitals again on the monitor. “Do you want to color or draw?”

  “Draw.”

  “Sure.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “What should we make?”

  “I’m going to make my family and you can draw the Statue of Liberty. That’s where we’re going today. We left the hotel early to get on the ferry but we got in the crash instead.”

  “I’m sorry that happened.”