By Your Side

by Candace Calvert

“Ah . . .”

  Fletcher was sure Macy had stopped herself from quoting the same statistics his mother had about the likelihood of a tissue match. The math didn’t matter. He’d never been so certain of anything. “So . . . all good.”

  “I’m glad.” Macy glanced toward the parking lot, frowned. “Oh, brother. Looks like Andi didn’t get away after all.”

  Fletcher saw what Macy did: the short woman in scrubs standing in the parking lot, arms crossed over her chest. A huge GMC pickup truck idled beside her. “Dr. Carlyle?”

  “Yes.” Macy sighed. “We treated that man’s mother. Sad outcome. Which reminds me . . .” She turned back to Fletcher. “The police dog, Titus. Do they have any idea if he was targeted?”

  “No clue.” The next words slipped out. “Even in my line of work, it’s hard to stomach this kind of senseless . . . stuff. Lately I’ve had all I care to take.”

  “I hear that.” Macy studied Fletcher like she was seeing him for the first time. “Looks like we’ve got something in common after all, Deputy Holt. I wouldn’t have guessed that could be possible, but—”

  They both turned at a loud engine roar, followed by squealing tires and—

  “He hit her!” a voice shouted. “He ran that woman down!”

  17

  “TELL ME HIS NAME, Macy—just that much.” Fletcher sucked in a breath, pulse still hammering; he’d chased the truck to the hospital exit, tried to get a look at the license plate as it peeled away. No luck. And now . . . He stepped aside as yet another hospital employee joined Macy on the asphalt beside Dr. Carlyle. Someone spread a paint-spattered tarp over her for warmth. It looked like she needed so much more. Blood coming from her nostrils, a raw abrasion running from temple to jaw, skin too pasty white. “Macy, I need that driver’s name. I’ve got to relay it to dispatch, get units out there.”

  “It’s Bob.” Macy pressed her fingertips against the unconscious doctor’s neck, then glanced up at Fletcher, anxiety etched on her face. “Bob Harrell. Robert maybe. I don’t know for sure.” She repeated the last name, spelled it. “I think he still has family members up in the ICU.” Her black ponytail whipped as she turned to shout toward the ER. “C’mon, get that stretcher out here. Backboard, C-collar, now!”

  “Harrell. Got it.” Fletcher jabbed a finger at his speed dial for the comm center.

  In seconds, the stretcher clattered alongside and was dropped low to the ground by ER staff. Help swarmed like Texas fire ants: technicians, white-coated MDs, and a couple of paramedics who had a rig parked in the ambulance bay. Macy continued to give the orders, watching every move made and urging people to act carefully but quickly. Probably unnecessary—it was obvious they were giving their fallen teammate every chance possible.

  “Okay, let’s roll!”

  Fletcher followed close behind as the ER team propelled the gurney carrying Dr. Carlyle toward the ambulance bay doors. If he could get in through here, he’d split off toward the ICU, try to confirm an address on Harrell, and—

  “Fletcher!” Macy hung back as the stretcher disappeared through the automatic doors. Her lips pressed together in a grim line. “Be sure you get that guy.”

  “I’m on it,” he promised, fighting the urge to climb into his Jeep, gun it out of there, hunt the guy himself. Address or not, it still offered much better odds than finding that lousy dog shooter . . . or fighting blood cancer single-handedly . . . or convincing Jessica Barclay she was choosing the wrong man. A clear win right now would go a long way.

  “What’s going on?”

  Taylor Cabot caught Fletcher as he was about to follow Macy through the ambulance doors. The redhead was dressed in street clothes, her green eyes anxious, face flushed. “I was on my way up to see your mom when a visitor said there’d been some sort of accident. I saw the gurney . . .”

  “A hit-and-run in the parking lot,” Fletcher confirmed, wishing there were a gentler way to convey this. He thought of the look on Macy’s face as she knelt beside her teammate. “It’s Dr. Carlyle.”

  “No.” Taylor’s fingers rose to her lips, smothering her gasp. “Andi?”

  “A truck ran her down.”

  “Oh, dear God,” she breathed, the color draining from her face. “I’d better get in there.”

  She punched in the door code for both of them, and they headed in different directions, each dealing with this newest tragedy. Fletcher thought of Macy, those few seconds when she stood enjoying the sun on her face. That moment of peace was cut short for both of them, something that happened far too often in their separate workday worlds. “Looks like we’ve got something in common after all, Deputy Holt.”

  Right now, he wished it were something entirely different.

  “I’m starting that second IV line now, Andi,” Taylor explained, despite the fact that the injured doctor had roused only a few seconds at a time since her arrival in the trauma room. And then it was to moan and call for her husband. Taylor prayed they were dealing with a concussion and not a serious brain injury. And that she could do what needed to be done for Andi without battling too many memories of Greg’s death. Car versus pedestrian—it was the same set of circumstances. “This is a 16-gauge needle, so it’s going to pinch—and you know how we totally fib with that mercy word. Hang in there. Here we go . . .”

  “X-ray’s here!” a tech shouted over the din of voices and electronic beeps.

  “Give me a minute, one more minute.” Taylor stretched the skin taut, wishing the first liter of saline had raised Andi’s veins more. Too flat. Oh, please don’t let that be from hemorrhage . . . She tapped the vein with a gloved finger, pierced the skin with a quick thrust, then slid needle and catheter farther. She held her breath until she saw blood rush back into the flash chamber. In the vein, thank you. “Got it, Andi. I just have to advance the catheter, tape it down, and start that fluid going.”

  She’d placed the last of the tape and adjusted the flow on the second liter of saline when Macy slid in beside her, a whiff of her almond lotion mixing with the pervasive scent of disinfectant.

  “A 16-gauge,” Taylor reported. “Wide-open. X-ray’s up next. Point me at anything else you need done.”

  “You are the best for being here.” Macy took a step away from the gurney to be out of earshot. “Pitching in like this.”

  “It’s Andi.”

  Macy groaned. “Obvious femur fracture. Bruising, no deformity of that forearm. But she’ll be lucky if her pelvis isn’t broken. That truck was monster size, and Andi is, what? Five foot two standing on tiptoe?” She glanced to where another nurse was setting up for a Foley catheter. “We need to see if there’s blood in her urine—her belly didn’t seem distended and there’s no obvious bruising, thank goodness. And the baby . . . From what Andi’s told people, she’s about fourteen weeks along. Her OB ordered an ultrasound; he’s on his way here. But no matter how much we want it to be different, fourteen weeks just isn’t viable. The only way to protect the pregnancy is to keep Andi oxygenated, stabilize her blood pressure. And—”

  “Pray.” Taylor took a slow breath, wondering if anyone in that trauma center two years ago had ever considered Greg viable. “I called for the hospital chaplain, and I’ll try to find out her pastor’s name.”

  “Sure . . .” Macy hesitated. “Good. That will be important to her. While you’re praying, be sure to ask that she doesn’t bleed out from something we haven’t discovered yet. I don’t like her color, and—” her gaze swept the monitors—“those numbers aren’t even close to where we want them.”

  “No.” Taylor scanned the digital displays: blood pressure 87 over 48, heart rate 128, pulse ox 99 percent on the high-flow oxygen, though her breathing still looked shallow and air hungry. Andi’s hand, despite the pain of an injured arm, spread over her lower abdomen. Protecting her baby.

  “I’ve got to check on the rest of the department.” There was regret in Macy’s voice. “I’ll be back in a few. You’re staying for a while?”

  “Try to
kick me out.” Taylor found a smile as Macy gave her shoulder a grateful squeeze. “I saw a few deputies heading down the hallway. Going up to question the Harrell family?”

  “I’d think so. I heard that Mrs. Harrell was pronounced dead about fifteen minutes ago. I’m guessing the ICU staff is getting pretty jumpy.”

  “Worried Bob Harrell might come back?”

  “It’s possible.”

  Taylor’s gaze moved to the woman on the gurney, small and vulnerable. Nothing like the vibrant and dedicated physician who strode through these rooms less than an hour ago. It was still so surreal. The tech who removed Andi’s cartoon socks—cutting one with trauma scissors because it was so caked with blood—had been unable to stop her tears. Taylor connected with Macy’s gaze. “Our staff’s been on edge too, after the freeway shooting and then with the news of the police dog. Now this. We’ll all be looking over our shoulders. I hope one of those deputies is planning to hang around the ER until Harrell is found.”

  “I don’t think we need to worry about that.” Macy nodded toward the corridor to the ambulance bay. “Looks like we have our own private protection.”

  “Hospital security?”

  “Fletcher Holt.”

  “I saw him out there. We were on the same mission, I’m sure. I was on my way up to visit Charly.”

  “Well . . .” Macy squared her shoulders, took one more glance at the monitors. “I’m glad you were both here, whatever the reason.”

  Taylor watched Macy thread her way through the crowded staff, directing people she thought needed it, being her usual woman in charge—not ready to fully rely on anyone but herself. But then that was Macy.

  “Eee . . . f,” Andi moaned, eyes snapping wide as her oxygen mask fogged. “Pl . . . ease.”

  “What?” Taylor moved close again. “I’m not sure what you’re saying. Tell me again. Do you need something? Pain meds?”

  “No. I’m all right. But . . .” The ER doctor closed her eyes for a moment, a tear sliding from beneath her lids. “Elf . . . our baby. Make sure X-ray knows I’m pregnant.” She groaned, pupils dilating with what had to be a cruel wave of pain. Her tongue swept across her pale lips. “I’m afraid I’ll lose this baby. Would you . . . pray with me, Taylor?”

  “Sure,” Taylor managed, tears threatening. “Of course.”

  She signaled to X-ray that she needed another minute. Then Taylor rested her hand over Andi’s and bowed her head, trying her best to carve out a peaceful moment amid the clatter, whirs, and hisses of the trauma room—all necessary. But so was this: a simple prayer for a mother and her unborn child. This couldn’t end tragically. Not again. Not like Greg.

  “Merciful God,” Taylor began.

  “Thanks for the offer, but no. I’m going to drag myself home and crash on the couch. If my roommate’s dog hasn’t managed to devour it completely.” Macy plucked at the sleeveless purple tunic she’d pulled over a tank and black exercise tights. “I was heading to the gym, but I’m not up to it.” She gazed across the hospital parking lot. It was still hard to believe what had happened there. Macy shifted her gym bag to the other hand. “Awful, awful day.”

  “But you have to eat,” Elliot insisted, loosening his tie. “I’ll take you to Rio City Café—we’ll stop first and you can change into something more appropriate. We’d still be early enough to get a great table.” His smile broadened. “You can order that grilled salmon you like. I owe you since we got detoured last time.”

  By a bullet. If Elliot was expecting to perk her appetite with that walk down memory lane, he was failing utterly. Macy resisted the temptation to check if Fletcher was still talking on his cell phone outside the doors to the ER waiting room. “Another time. I don’t have enough energy left to chew.”

  “You did a great job in there today,” Elliot offered, giving her arm a pat. “Quick work getting Dr. Carlyle stabilized and off to surgery to pin the femur fracture. It has to be a huge relief that the ultrasound showed her pregnancy hasn’t been affected.”

  Macy’s lips tensed. Elliot had been asking questions. About a woman he barely knew beyond a cordial nod in the hallways. Even if this financial planner was a familiar face around the hospital, there was no way staff should skirt privacy issues. Time for a HIPAA review. “You know I can’t discuss patients’ medical care.”

  “I’m not asking.” Elliot’s smile was warm. “Except about dinner.”

  “Rain check,” Macy assured him, hating that she’d probably sounded abrupt before. The Rushes had been nothing but good to her. Fatigue and stress were obviously taking a toll. “Another time. Promise.”

  “I’ll hold you to it.”

  She’d made it to the car and was stooping to unlock the door when she heard a voice behind her—close enough to make her jump.

  18

  “I’M SORRY—DIDN’T MEAN TO STARTLE YOU,” Fletcher said. “Not a good day to take anyone by surprise.”

  “No,” Macy agreed, keys pressed to her chest.

  “Good reflexes, though,” he observed. “You whipped around pretty quick.”

  Her lips twitched toward a smirk. “You’re lucky I’m tired; I could have planted a foot square in the middle of your chest.”

  “You’re probably not threatening ballet.”

  “Kickboxing.” Macy pointed to the black gym bag at her feet. “Gloves, ankle wraps, the works. All I need is a worthy target.”

  “Right.” His turn to smile. Macy Wynn was smart enough—maybe even streetwise enough—to figure Fletcher carried an off-duty weapon. He’d never met a woman this downright gutsy. He liked it. “Anyway, sorry I sneaked up on you. Rough enough day already.”

  Macy’s expression sobered as she looked back toward the hospital. “I’m glad the news vans are gone. Andi’s going to have a long road healing from those injuries and . . .” She hesitated. “It’s good the press is giving her some space. They’re probably digging for news on the hunt for Bob—”

  “He’s in custody. That’s why I came over here,” Fletcher interrupted. “To tell you. I just got word: Harrell turned himself in. His brothers drove him downtown.”

  “No problems?”

  “A slew of problems. He had some kind of a breakdown; the family’s trying to deal with that.”

  “And their mother’s death,” Macy added.

  “Right.” Fletcher had a sudden image of carrying his own mother, bleeding and unconscious, through this very parking lot. He had no idea how he might have reacted if things had gone south for her. “Bad deal all round,” he finished. “But the staff can breathe a little easier now that he’s not on the loose.”

  Macy nudged the gym bag with her shoe. “That just leaves our elusive dog killer.”

  Fletcher nodded, wishing he could make her smile again. If he was right about Macy being streetwise, he’d guess her streets had more than their fair share of potholes. “I thought you’d want to know about Harrell.”

  “I did . . . do. I appreciate your letting me know.” The late-afternoon sun made her eyes all the more intriguing—the color of caramels people melted onto apples when Houston pretended to have autumn. She swept her fingers through her hair. “I suppose you’re headed back up to sit with Charly.”

  “She kicked me out—FaceTime date with my dad. I told her I’d see her in the morning. I’m working swing shift tomorrow so I’ll have time to get her settled at home.” He glanced toward his Jeep, parked only three spaces from her car. “Guess I’ll go find something to eat.” The question slipped out before he could stop it. “Are you hungry?”

  “Sort of.” The amazing eyes met his. “Is that an invitation?”

  “If I say yes, will you kick me in the chest?”

  “No.” She smiled. “I’m sure you’re armed.”

  He’d pegged her on knowing that. But had no clue where to take it from here. Or even if he should. What am I doing?

  “It is an invitation,” he heard himself say. “Have dinner with me.”

  Macy glanced
down at her clothes. “I’m afraid what you see is what you get.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a minute—and I’m not afraid. Grab your bag. My Jeep’s right over there.”

  Fletcher let Macy open her own door, suspecting she’d prefer it. This wasn’t the time to wage a war about chivalry. He’d wrangle with that later. If there was a later. He was hungry, and right now that basic need seemed to include the baffling Macy Wynn.

  “Okay,” she told him, tossing her gym bag onto the backseat before sliding into the front. “I should warn you: I’m not one of those timid, girlie eaters.”

  “Still not scaring me.” Fletcher settled into the driver’s seat. He waited as Macy fastened her seat belt. “Okay then,” he told her, backing the Jeep out of the parking space. “Where to?”

  “You know Sacramento?”

  “I’ve probably covered most of the county now. Call to call: domestic disputes, barroom brawls, home invasion robberies, loose cattle.”

  Macy wrinkled her nose. “Where do you eat?”

  “Mom’s?”

  “Must be nice.”

  Fletcher couldn’t read her expression. What was that?

  “I usually just grab something fast,” he admitted, navigating the busy parking lot. “I haven’t had a lot of time to check out this city for recreation. The last time I visited, before Mom got sick, we took off to Hawaii for my parents’ thirtieth anniversary, and—”

  There was a short horn honk, and a familiar BMW pulled alongside.

  “It’s Elliot,” Macy confirmed.

  Fletcher put the Jeep in neutral, lowered the window.

  “Deputy Holt.” Even with sunglasses in place, the man’s posture said he was peering past Fletcher toward the passenger seat. “Macy. I didn’t know you needed a ride; I could have done that, no problem. The Audi acting up again?”

  “No.” Macy leaned across Fletcher to make herself heard; that scent of almonds swirled. “Car’s fine.”

  “Good.” Rush’s tone was curt. “Glad to hear it.”