By Your Side

by Candace Calvert

  “Hey . . .” Fletcher reached out, grasped Macy’s hand, and drew her to him, hugging her close. “Shh,” he whispered into her hair, desperate to still her shivering and stop her pain. “Shh. It’s okay.”

  “But it’s not,” she insisted, her voice cracking. “It was never okay after that. Leah ran away. Started drinking, got involved with drugs. I tried so hard to find her.”

  “And you did.” Fletcher cradled the back of Macy’s head in his palm. “You’ve found her, Macy. And you’re helping her. That’s huge. Like a second chance.” He thought of his sister. “That doesn’t always happen. Trust me.”

  She’d stopped shivering. Her sigh warmed his skin.

  “All right, then.” Fletcher stepped back a little and searched her eyes. “Tell me about this house you’ve found.”

  They’d started to walk again. Fletcher was still holding her hand. Macy wasn’t going to overthink it. Right now it felt okay—more than that, really. She knew it was probably this place as much as it was Fletcher Holt, but for the first time, it felt better to talk than to keep all this stuff bottled up inside.

  “It’s a little house,” she explained. “A bank foreclosure. But you can feel that it was a real home for a long time. You know, with kids. And dogs probably.” Macy remembered Elliot down on his hands and knees checking the carpet with observable disgust. “Dogs definitely. And trees in the yard. It’s been empty awhile and the previous occupants took some things. Like the stove, a few faucets, and even the front door hardware.” Macy dared to smile. “But I can fix that.”

  “Hiking boots . . . and a tool belt, too?”

  “I’m more determined than handy, I’d say. I never thought I’d be doing this at all. But . . .”

  Fletcher gave her fingers a squeeze. “But you want a second chance with your sister.”

  “Yes.”

  “I can understand that,” Fletcher said with a sigh.

  “Because you lost your sister.”

  “Yeah.” He tugged Macy aside as a trio of kids raced toward them, heading the other way. A beleaguered mother followed behind, shrieking at them to slow down and be quiet.

  The boisterous family disappeared in the distance, leaving Macy and Fletcher alone in the quiet again. They stood alongside the path, shadows beginning to deepen around them. “Did you say your sister was three? At the time of the accident?” Macy asked as gently as she could.

  “Right.” Fletcher looked up the trail. “’Bout the same size as that feisty one in the lead just now. Beth was like that—no one could stop her.”

  Except a drunk driver. It was Macy’s turn to give Fletcher’s fingers a squeeze. “Were you injured?”

  “Mom’s ankle was broken in three places. I had a gash in my chin. The impact threw us. But I was still able to get up and try to—” Fletcher’s grimace said it first. “I tried to haul Beth out from under the car; she was whimpering and fighting to get her breath. Choking. I kept trying, but she was pinned tight.”

  Macy stepped close. Fletcher’s eyes looked smoky dark in the shadows, his expression somber. She reached up, rested her palm against his jaw. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Long time ago.” He swallowed and took a slow breath. “But this thing with my mother . . . the cancer. She’s been through too much, Macy. I’m going to make sure she gets past this. If it’s the last thing I ever do.”

  “She’s lucky to have you,” Macy managed, barely above a whisper. Somehow she’d moved closer until there was no measurable space between them. Her fingers brushed the stubbled warmth of his cheek. “And Charly’s strong. Really strong.”

  His eyes held hers. “You are too. Strong, caring. Beautiful inside and out.”

  “Fletcher . . .” Macy wasn’t sure if she’d risen on tiptoes or if he’d leaned lower. But somehow her arms were around his neck and his lips found her cheek. A tentative kiss. Warm and gentle, but more than enough to make her heart flutter like a captured bird. She breathed in the clean, masculine scent of him: skin-warmed cotton flannel, a hint of musky soap. The perfect mix with mountain air and redwoods . . .

  “Thank you,” Fletcher told her, his lips brushing her brow. “For inviting me along. I didn’t know how much I needed a day like this.”

  “You’re welcome.” Macy leaned back, leaving her hands exactly where they were—fingers sifting the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “I needed today too. And . . .” She decided to risk it. Trust the moment, even in this uncharted territory. “I’m glad that the first person I invited here was you.”

  Even in the dark, Macy saw the crinkles at the corners of Fletcher’s eyes. He held her gaze long enough for her knees to feel wobbly again—if she’d been on the cables of Half Dome, she’d be a grim statistic. Then he leaned in a fraction of an inch closer . . .

  “It’s all right,” Macy whispered, hearing her heart in her ears. “I want you to kiss me.”

  “I’m glad.” Fletcher chuckled, hitching her closer against him. She felt his heartbeat through his shirt. “Are you always this direct?”

  “With most things.” She smiled at him. “I have no map for this.”

  “My turn, then.” He slid his pack from his shoulders. Dropped it. “That’s better.”

  Macy’s skin shivered as Fletcher swept his fingers along her face, then cradled it in both hands. He leaned lower, touching his lips to the corner of her mouth. Brushed her lips very lightly, more of a nibble than a kiss. He took a breath before capturing her mouth again, slowly and more deliberately this time . . . warm and still gentle. A lingering kiss that hinted at passion held respectfully in check. It sent Macy’s pulse racing nevertheless. She twined her arms more securely around his neck, responding to his kiss, and—

  “Marmots!” a youthful voice shouted. Far too close.

  “What?” Fletcher drew back, confusion in his voice and hands still knuckle-deep in Macy’s hair.

  A flashlight beam blinded them.

  “Oops, sorry, sir, ma’am. A bunch of marmots are all over your pack. I think I scared ’em. No, there’s still one—see?”

  “I . . . We . . .” Macy laughed, fighting a breathless wave of giddiness. She stepped away from Fletcher, catching sight of the remaining animal bandit. “Thank you for letting us know. We appreciate it.”

  “Right,” Fletcher added. A frustrated lie was never more painfully obvious. “Thanks, buddy.”

  “No problem.” The boy pointed. “I think he was trying to steal a treat.”

  Fletcher’s lips twitched. “I can relate.”

  “We should probably get headed back too,” Macy told him after the boy bounded away. “The last tram leaves in less than fifteen minutes.” She read pure reluctance in his eyes. She’d been right earlier: she had no map for this part of their day.

  “We walked up here.” He hefted his pack. “We could hike back out—no reason to wedge ourselves into a tram with a crowd of people.”

  “Except that it’s getting dark.”

  “Flashlight.” He patted his pack. “I think we covered that point when we first planned this adventure.”

  She smiled. “We still have a long drive home. You have to work in the morning.”

  “And you don’t.” Fletcher reached for Macy’s hand as though it was a given. “Did you take those extra days because of what you have going with Rush? The house purchase?”

  “It worked out that way.” Macy decided she liked that they were walking hand in hand, almost as if they were a couple. She decided, too, that honesty was still in the air. “I was at the bank because of the house. But I didn’t plan to take extra days off. My boss, the ED director, suggested I take a little time. Because of what happened there.”

  “Not a bad idea.” Fletcher’s fingers tightened very slightly over hers. “Seth Donovan, the law enforcement chaplain—you know him—met with the bank employees. He did one of his not-so-subtle checks on me too.”

  “He and Taylor talked with the hospital staff. About Andi Carlyle and now the shooter.
I didn’t go.”

  “Because you handle things fine alone.”

  “Yes. And it’s not like I’m having any issues.” A single nightmare—so real it had sent Macy to the bathroom to wash the horrifying sensation of blood from her hands—didn’t mean she was suffering from critical stress. This mountain getaway was all she needed to get things back on track.

  “You probably heard the speculation that your being at two of the scenes wasn’t a coincidence,” Fletcher said. “The reporters are reading a lot into it.”

  “Sharks. Sense a little blood in the water . . .” Macy regretted the analogy immediately.

  Fletcher nodded. “Keeping things stirred up. Whatever it takes.”

  Macy decided not to mention her conversation with Taylor. The hint that some of the hospital staff might share the media’s absurd fantasy. Probably the same people who refused to say the word quiet in the ER for fear it would conjure up a horrific bus crash. “There’s no reason for that sniper to target me.”

  He ran his fingers down his jaw, surprised once again by the feel of his skin. Plucked smooth like the carcass of a pintail duck—minus the buckshot holes. “Shoot ’em through the wing, Son; makes the dry plucking a lot easier.”

  He closed his eyes, remembering the primal smell of singed feathers and congealing blood.

  He’d shaved the beard. Had to. The same way he’d changed the plates on the Buick. Twice now. You couldn’t be too careful. He told himself it was why he was here right now. Caution, not curiosity or . . .

  “They say you’ve got a case of the paranoia, boy. And these pills will keep your brain trackin’ up better . . . stop you from imagining things that aren’t real.”

  His teeth ground together. He was here out of caution. Period.

  He’d arrived in the parking lot around six fifteen, still light, and parked near the administrative annex. His second trip here today. Twice as much risk, but he’d had to do it that way because there were eight-hour shifts and twelve-hour shifts. The twelve-hour graveyard shift started at seven. But maybe they didn’t call it graves here.

  The women had come and gone. Dozens, dressed in all different colors of scrubs. All ages, shapes, and sizes of women. He ignored the old ones, the short ones, the fat ones . . . the blondes. He’d waited in the gazebo out by the staff parking lot and watched for her. Tall, he thought from the photos in the paper, with long black hair, light skin, and eyes like—

  That.

  He stared at a photo in the glass case in the hallway outside the hospital cafeteria.

  Macy Wynn, RN—Emergency Department

  Hope Health Care Nurse Excellence Award 2014

  He’d found it by accident when hunger made him risk the open, unwatched door at the loading dock, drawing him to the food machines outside the basement cafeteria. He’d snagged some peanut butter–filled cheese crackers—packaged in the US—and a paper cup of coffee, tongue-scalding hot, dispensed as he watched. He’d skipped the creamer; no information on its origin. He burned his tongue, downed two crackers. And then found the award case. Found . . . her.

  Chinese—or part. Definitely. He stared at the small photo, memorizing her face.

  They couldn’t have predicted he’d come down here. See this. But even so, it wasn’t positive proof she was really a nurse. Even if she was, she could be working for them. The police, Sacramento County, the FBI . . . or a foreign government. Undercover deep enough that even the hospital didn’t know. She’d been on the freeway. At the bank. Maybe she’d been there at the school, too. He didn’t trust coincidence.

  He scraped his tongue between his teeth, testing the coffee scald. Then headed back toward the loading dock. It was dark now; he’d go home. Not to the river camp. To the house.

  And make a new plan.

  28

  “I’M NOT AT ALL SURPRISED the bank countered our offer,” Elliot told her, setting his e-notebook on the visitors’ table. “They have a rock-bottom figure in mind. And they know we do too. They’ll test us to see how far we’ll go. It’s to be expected.”

  “Maybe for you,” Macy told him, noticing that there were now two off-duty deputies posted near the ER entrance. A temporary beef-up in security demanded by hospital staff threatening to take their concerns to their respective unions. She turned her attention back to Elliot. “I’ve never made a real estate offer. I have no clue what to expect. I only know I need that house.”

  “I hear you.” Elliot reached across the table, gave her hand a quick pat. “You can trust me with this, Macy. We’ll counter back. Increase our offer to five thousand below what they’ve asked here. We didn’t lose any traction because I was out of town yesterday; it’s good to let them sweat a little. We’ll get the house.”

  “Okay.” Macy forced a smile, not sure what was causing her more discomfort—Elliot’s overly paternal hand pat and the way he kept saying our and we or the financial issue. Her stomach churned, proving it: the money talk was scaring her spitless. “If the Audi lasts another three years and I pick up as much overtime as I possibly can, I could make it work.”

  “Macy.” Elliot pinned her with the stop-being-stubborn-and-listen-to-me look he’d employed since she was a teenager. “You have close to a million dollars at your fingertips. I’ve presented options that can grow it upward from there. There is no reason for you to be—”

  “No. I won’t tap the trust. We’ve gone over this a thousand times.”

  Elliot adjusted the frame of his glasses, a familiar lip twitch saying he was humoring her. “We agreed to disagree. And you—” the gray eyes warmed—“are a force to be reckoned with, Macy Wynn. I don’t doubt your determination for a moment. We’ll counter the offer today. Jump through the bank’s hoops—make this happen. Trust me. And answer my calls, for pete’s sake.”

  She sighed. “I’m sorry. Out of cell range, I guess. I should have told you I was going to the mountains.”

  “Yes. Well, I admit it confused me when I swung by your house and saw the Jeep in your driveway. It took me a moment to recognize it.”

  Fletcher’s Jeep. She’d insisted on taking the Audi, driving them herself.

  “You usually go hiking alone.” If Elliot was attempting to look casual, he wasn’t pulling it off.

  “Spur-of-the-moment thing.” Macy shrugged, ashamed of her ungrateful urge to tell Elliot to back off. He’d always watched out for her. He and Ricki both. “Yosemite was on Fletcher’s bucket list.”

  “I can imagine. More than a few great places to visit while he’s here in California.” Elliot’s brows rose. “It’s not a permanent move?”

  “No. Houston’s home.” Macy was surprised by a wave of sadness. “He’s helping his parents out for a while. His father travels for his work, and his mother’s had some health problems.”

  “Ah, right. Ricki heard something about that. In regards to the chaplaincy gala, since Mrs. Holt was being honored. I guess it was touch and go whether or not she would be able to attend. A blood cancer, she heard.”

  “AML . . . leukemia,” Macy clarified, remembering what Taylor said: Charly was quite open about her diagnosis.

  “Did I hear that she was an ER patient recently?”

  Macy met his gaze. “You know I can’t—”

  “Sorry.” Elliot threw his hands up. “I was putting myself in Fletcher’s shoes. I watched my grandmother lose a battle with cancer. Sad for everyone. No guarantees even with top-notch treatment.”

  “No.” Macy thought of Fletcher’s offer to be a marrow donor and his vow to get his mother through this cancer . . . “if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

  “Well then, we’ll hold the good thoughts that the compassionate Mrs. Holt beats all statistics. And that her son can return to his life in Texas.” Elliot’s lips edged toward a tolerant smile. “With our Yosemite National Park crossed off his bucket list.”

  Our offer, our house . . . our park? Elliot Rush was in no danger of anemic self-esteem.

  “I should go back insid
e,” Macy told him, checking her watch. “I need to make sure everyone gets their lunch breaks.”

  “Okay then.” He stood. “I’ll get together with my broker and we’ll e-mail the counteroffer over right away. I’ll stop by your place later. We can grab a bite to eat while I fill you in on the next steps. Once we get the offer accepted, we’ll need to move on with the appraisal, inspections . . .” He smiled at Macy’s anxious grimace. “I’ll explain it all. Give you a checklist. When’s a good time to stop by?”

  “I don’t know . . . Could you e-mail it to me?” Macy glanced toward the ER waiting room doors. One of the deputies was talking on his radio, gesturing to the other. “If it’s a list, I could go over it. And if we get a green light, we could get together later with your broker. The three of us. That way, I can ask you both—”

  “You have plans tonight?” Elliot interrupted.

  “Not really. It’s just . . .” Macy’s lips tensed. She’d finally arranged for a FaceTime call with Leah. But there was no reason she needed to discuss that with Elliot.

  “Well, speak of the devil,” he muttered as Fletcher walked their way.

  “I’m not quite sure how to take that guy,” Fletcher admitted after Rush offered him a curt greeting and strode away. “I’ve met javelinas with more predictable temperaments.”

  “Hava . . . ?” Macy’s nose wrinkled.

  Fletcher smiled. “Wild animal—Texas game. I shouldn’t take it further since Elliot’s your friend. But he was sure in a hurry to get out of here.”

  “Probably concerned about his national parks.” Macy chuckled. “Never mind.”

  The faintest hint of color rose in her cheeks as she held Fletcher’s gaze. It hiked his heart rate more than it should. His gun belt creaked as he shifted his stance.