“No.” Fletcher shook his head, thinking it could have just as easily been their father who was killed. Maybe the sniper had been aiming for the K-9 officer. . . .
“And then there’s Andi. There’s nobody as unselfish as that woman, more caring—about everyone. She never judges. Do you know how many times she sat down with Bob Harrell to talk with him about his mother, answer questions . . . listen to him? Did you know she prayed for that family?” She glanced sideways at Fletcher. “Everyone who knows Dr. Carlyle knows about her faith—if they missed it, it’s just a matter of time. God’s first on her speed dial. And then today that man runs her down. Never looks back.” Macy’s breath caught. “She’ll be lucky if she’s able to walk inside of six months. Of course, that’s if she doesn’t die from a fat embolus or a clot to her lung.”
Fletcher grimaced, torn between ordering her to stop talking and the urge to fold her into his arms.
“Andi’s pregnant,” Macy added, barely above a whisper. “She told everybody just this week. Brought cupcakes and a copy of the ultrasound. Fourteen weeks along. A kid couldn’t be more wanted. Couldn’t ask for a better home. But with the surgery and the stress, that baby might not survive.” She shivered, hugged her arms around herself. “Where’s God in all of that?”
“Macy . . .”
“I have a sister,” she whispered, not letting Fletcher answer her question. “Her name is Leah.” Macy wished she could stop, but she was so tired, and there was something about the kindness in this man’s eyes, the way he’d shared all that about his own family. “She’s twenty-four now. But before a few weeks ago, the last time I saw her, she was only fourteen.”
Fletcher’s brows scrunched.
“She’s not a blood relative,” Macy explained, feeling the familiar ache in her chest, “but she’s still family. We . . . met in foster care. When I was nine.”
“In San Francisco?”
“Near there.” Macy waited for a moment, listening to a boat’s bell somewhere on the river, dull and lonely against the peals of childish laughter on the boardwalk. “My mother died in a fire when I was six. There were a lot of foster homes.”
“No other family?” Somehow Fletcher had stepped closer, enough that her elbow brushed his jacket sleeve as she crossed her arms. “Your father . . . ?”
“Not in the picture.” Even fatigue couldn’t weaken her enough to say more than that. “Only Leah.”
“She’s here? In Sacramento?”
“In Tucson. I’d been trying to find her for so long and then, sort of out of the blue, she called me.”
“That must have felt good.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Macy nodded, wishing that there were some way to make “good” feel the way it did for people like Fletcher Holt. How could he possibly understand that in her life, good had been only temporary? She knew better than to trust beyond that.
“That’s a lot of catching up to do,” he said, voice deep and gentle.
“She’s thinking she might want to work in the medical field,” Macy told him, for no other reason than she wanted to hear how it sounded out loud. Test it. “Maybe become a nurse.”
“That’s great.” Fletcher’s jacket brushed Macy’s arm again. “She couldn’t have a better role model.”
Tears gathered without warning. “Leah’s always been this sweet, trusting girl. Like a lost, hungry kitten almost. The ones that twine around your legs and want attention so badly . . .” Macy wished she could stop talking or take off running. “Leah’s in trouble. Drugs. It’s not the first time. I’m trying to help her, but . . .” She was trembling now, and it only got worse as Fletcher’s arm slid around her shoulders. It loosed the sob she’d struggled to hold back all day. Tears spilled over. “I’m so sorry. I never cry. But I can’t stop—”
“Macy . . . here.”
Fletcher drew her to him, held her close against his chest to still her shivers, his stubbled chin brushing her temple and his arms strong and capable. Macy closed her eyes, heard his muffled heartbeat beneath her ear. Whether they stood that way for several minutes or only a few seconds, she didn’t know. But it was long enough that she finally relaxed, let Fletcher’s caring warmth, if only for a moment, be the “good” in her day.
“It’s okay,” he told her, lips against her hair. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”
20
MACY SET THE CELL PHONE beside the student loan documents and reached for her mug of tea. Not her usual green, but cinnamon today. Nonni’s favorite. The day begged for it. This morning she’d ridden fifteen miles along the American River bike trail as a small scattering of leaves crunched under her tires. There had been a refreshing nip in the air and an earthy breeze made fragrant by the trees that lined the trail: willows, huge oriental planes with bark that peeled like puzzle pieces, liquidambar, and Chinese pistache—come autumn their leaves would go crimson, orange, and a showstopping gold. Like the paint on Tower Bridge.
“You folks take that whole California ‘mother lode’ thing seriously.”
Macy’s stomach shivered without warning. Fletcher Holt.
She would have turned down his invitation, absolutely, if she hadn’t been so tired and heart-weary after what had happened with Andi. But she’d turned down Elliot’s offer of a dinner, the very same menu. What was it about Fletcher? He was good-looking—very. She’d been aware of it even when he’d made her so furious out there on the freeway. Ordering her to turn over the care of that injured girl and threatening to arrest Elliot for driving under the influence. And then he’d protected her when the sniper sprayed the highway with rifle fire.
Macy sighed. Maybe that explained it: she’d accepted the cop’s invitation out of gratitude. Even if he’d beaten her to the check—and spared her from sharing Chipotle leftovers with a mooching Labradoodle.
Macy smiled, thinking of Fletcher’s admission about his cat. A six-toed, laser-chasing Maine coon. Mentioning the animal at all was a slip he’d clearly regretted. A cat owner wasn’t how he saw himself. Apparently he’d offered to adopt a bird dog, but the pet rescue volunteer had started to quote grim kill statistics and . . . If Macy had to guess, she’d say this man probably saw himself as a rescuer, even beyond the badge and gun. Certainly with his mother; he’d put his life on hold in Houston to come out here, volunteered his bone marrow. Macy knew how that rescuer instinct felt.
She pulled her mug close to her chest. She shouldn’t have told Fletcher all those things about Leah, shouldn’t have let her guard down and cried. Macy couldn’t remember the last time she’d weakened enough to let that happen. Fletcher had felt obligated to comfort her. . . .
Her embarrassment gave way to a memory of how it had felt to be held close in his arms. His solid strength, the warmth of his breath against her hair as he tried to soothe her tears. “It’s okay. . . . Don’t worry. . . .” He’d said almost the same thing to her on the freeway when she’d been anxious for paramedics to arrive on scene. Maybe it was something he learned at the law enforcement academy, an assurance he uttered by rote now. The way a nurse approaching an anxious patient for an injection might promise, “I’m going to do this as gently as I can.”
It wasn’t personal; she knew that. But what happened between them had kept her awake half the night, thinking. Not about Fletcher—about her sister. About how to really help her this time. Because if Leah was ever going to have that future she dreamed of, it wasn’t going to happen by parroting a list of twelve-step pledges or pinning her hopes on the man who got them both arrested. And though Nonni, Andi Carlyle, Taylor, and Charly Holt and her son would disagree, Leah’s happily ever after wasn’t going to be assured by a divine and hopeful plan. Macy meant exactly what she said to Fletcher last night: at some point you had to accept that putting all your trust in God was like knocking on the wrong door. That point was long past for Macy. She trusted herself, period. And now she had a plan.
She reached for her phone, refreshed the screen still displaying the calculator she’d used t
o check and recheck her finances. Figuring remaining debt, her frugal expenses—where they could be cut additionally—savings to date, an estimate of what she could earn in overtime, plus a loan from her 403(b) account . . .
Macy’s pulse quickened. It would take all she had. But this was for Leah. She owed her that much.
She closed the calculator app, brought up her list of contacts, tapped the number. Waited as it rang.
“Macy!” Elliot laughed. “You read my mind. I was just going to—”
“I want to buy a house, Elliot. Right away.”
“Well, that’s . . . great.” There was no hiding the surprise in his voice. “Glad to hear it. That’s a smart decision. We’ll talk about it over lunch. I’ll bring the newest property listings from my broker and—”
“I don’t need a list,” she interrupted. “I know the house I want. It’s a foreclosure. Vacant.” Macy glanced toward the well-worn brass latch set lying on the table beside her mug of tea. It was going to fit perfectly; she had never been so sure of anything. It was the right door. She could already imagine Leah crossing the threshold.
“Where’s it located?” Elliot asked.
“In Tahoe Park.”
“It’s a fine balance—and a risk,” Andi told them. She adjusted the oxygen cannula in her nostrils, grimacing as it rubbed against the raw and weeping abrasions on her cheek. “Thinning the blood to prevent clots while not endangering my pregnancy.” Her brave smile hinted at the familiar dimples. “I’m glad I’m not the doc on this mess. But I have to trust that it’s going to be all right.” She glanced between Taylor and Seth Donovan. “How is Bob? Have you heard?”
“Still at behavioral health,” Taylor told her, thinking this doctor looked no more than twelve years old lying in the ICU bed. Face and forehead shiny with antibiotic ointment, one eye swollen partially shut. Her left arm lay swathed in bandages and a sling, though there had been no bone fractures. The staff was monitoring several deep puncture wounds for signs of infection. Investigators estimated the big truck’s grille had caught her there, at the same instant the bumper shattered her leg and flung her—
Taylor fought a wave of dizziness, forced herself to concentrate on Andi’s question, not memories of Greg’s accident. “The only real information I’ve heard about Bob Harrell is what the media is reporting.”
“Speculating,” Seth countered, his expression saying he was far too familiar with that. His voice, however, was filled with gentle concern. “At least in here you’re not subjected to all that. Do you remember much of what happened before you were struck?”
“More of it now.” Andi shook her head. “It’s so silly, but I remember drinking tea from my Keebler mug. And being selfishly relieved that Bob decided not to wait in my office after all. Matt and I were going to shop for a crib.”
Taylor’s heart tugged. “And then Bob found you in the parking lot.”
“They’d made the decision to take his mother off life support. His family did—I don’t think Bob was on board. He didn’t trust doctors. I got that from the first day in the ER; he didn’t believe I’d done all I could. I went over it with him on at least a half-dozen separate occasions. I know Dr. Laureano did too—we all tried.”
“There was nothing you could say that would have changed things,” Taylor offered. “He had issues none of us were aware of.” For some reason she thought of that burn patient, Ned Archer, who bolted from the ER. She made a mental note to call his neighbor today. “Sometimes a situation just sets people off.”
“And then it’s a matter of proximity. Lucky me.” Andi glanced between them, tears springing to her eyes. “I’m more than lucky—I’m blessed. Family and friends. How’s my team doing down in the ER?”
“Hanging in there as best we can.” Taylor glanced at Seth. “The director’s asked a crisis team to meet with the staff. Sort of touch bases.” She hesitated. The last thing she wanted was to burden Andi with any of this. “Folks are a little edgy with all the sniper news coverage. And now . . . this.”
“Now me.” Andi wiped at her eye. “I think it’s good what you’re doing. Let them know they’re being supported and encourage them to keep an eye on each other. Safety-wise and emotionally too. Medical people . . . we want to believe we’re immune. Unbreakable.”
Taylor and Seth excused themselves when two sheriff’s department detectives arrived to interview Andi, promising they’d reassure the ER staff that she was hanging in there. They walked toward the emergency department, each saying very little. Taylor was certain Seth was going over the plan for their meeting with the staff. She was more focused on tamping down her reaction to seeing Andi like that, knowing she’d been mowed down by that truck on purpose.
Seth came to a halt along the ER corridor. “Are you going to be okay with this? Being part of the staff debriefing?”
“I think so. I’ve taken part in a few now. So . . .”
He met her gaze. “I meant personally. Andi’s in that ICU because of a car-versus-pedestrian incident. Maybe too much like Greg’s death.”
“Did Charly say that? Earlier, when you went up to visit her?”
Seth’s lips twitched. “We might have shared some mutual concern.”
“I think I’m okay with it. It’s just . . .”
Seth stepped closer. “What is it, Taylor?”
“What I said to Andi. That nothing she could have said to Bob Harrell would have changed what happened out there in the parking lot. Maybe . . .” Taylor’s voice cracked.
Seth waited.
“Maybe there was something I could have said—should have said—to keep Greg from being out there that night.”
“What the—?” Fletcher sputtered, avoiding a mouthful of fur as Hunter’s tail feather-dusted his face. A final flourish in her perfect-ten Olympic vault from breakfast bar to stool to a perch atop his leather recliner. He laughed as a six-toed paw batted his cheek. “Okay, I’m impressed. C’mere, bird dog.”
He lifted the cat into his lap, heard her immediate rumbling purr. Then checked his coffee for stray hairs. He’d never intended to mention this crazy animal to Macy, but he was glad the story made her laugh—they’d shared more than a few laughs last night. He smiled, remembering their evening, from her playful threat to plant a foot in the center of his chest, to the way she’d savored every flaky bite of the grilled salmon, to how the setting sun seemed to set fire to that crazy cherry-cola stripe in her long, black hair. She probably didn’t notice the heads turning as they walked to their table, admiring the tall, long-limbed woman with compelling, even exotic, features. An obvious athlete; he’d have guessed that even without her mention of the gym and bicycle. That confident stride, air of competence and strength. Yet . . .
Fletcher scraped his fingers along his jaw, recalling their conversation in front of the train museum. The talk had turned so unexpectedly from history and weather to his sister’s death, his mother’s cancer, and Charly’s strong faith even in the face of all of that. Then to his own personal belief. It was obvious Macy had doubts, questions when it came to faith. “How long can you keep that kind of trust before you have to accept that you’re banging on the wrong door?” How could she not have doubts? After being raised in foster care, having an absent father, and still all that turmoil with her sister . . .
Macy’s tears had taken Fletcher by surprise. His reaction, pulling her close, attempting to comfort her, had been purely instinctive. The same way he’d block a punch, draw his duty weapon. A necessary response, no thinking. Except in hindsight. He’d turned the scene over and over in his mind until late last night. How she’d felt in his arms—much softer than she appeared—the scent of her hair, and the smooth warmth of her skin against his. But mostly he’d found himself recalling how quiet she’d been after she stepped away from him, so distant afterward though they’d walked close together to his Jeep. He doubted Macy said more than a few sentences on the drive back to the hospital parking lot. Even then, it was only to speculate on th
e weather for her morning bike ride and make a polite remark about his mother. It was clear Macy regretted confiding in him. And that his instinct to hold her had been all wrong. But what did it really matter? It wasn’t as if he was interested in—
Hunter twitched as Fletcher’s phone buzzed on the arm of the recliner. Fletcher grabbed for it before she could pounce.
“Macy, hi.” The uptick in his pulse made him a liar. She does matter.
“Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Talking myself into getting ready for work. What’s up?”
“I wanted to ask how it went. Your mother’s hospital discharge and getting her home.”
“Fine. But I had to make her promise she’d rest and not start baking cookies for the hospital staff.”
It sounded like Macy sighed. “What kind of cookies?”
“Oatmeal probably. With pecans. When I was a kid, I’d know it as soon as I opened the door.”
“Sounds . . . great.” Macy’s voice was funny. “Well, I’d better get going. I just wanted to check on your mother. And . . . thank you again for dinner.”
“You’re welcome.” The awkwardness was back. On both sides, he guessed. Fletcher kept his voice casual. “Are you heading out for that bike ride?”
“No. Did fifteen miles before breakfast. I’m running errands. And then I have an appointment at my bank.”
He inched forward on his belly, over the old Buick’s ripped-apart backseat and down into the dark trunk space. Then pointed the rifle barrel toward the four-inch hole he’d cut, resting the stock on an old Amazon box. It was exactly the right height to steady his aim from this distance. He shouldn’t have worried so much about parking; the cops were tracking white vans. He’d counted seven on his way here. No one was looking for a 1992 LeSabre. But he’d switched out the license plates anyway.
By Your Side Page 12
