by Rula Sinara
Hurtful as all of that had been, it was history, and she’d survived it. Dredging it up now served no useful purpose, so Finn hid a fake yawn behind one hand and put her mug into the sink. “Can I get you anything else before I turn in?”
“No, I’m good.” He crossed the room in two long strides and stacked his plate and mug atop hers. “I hate seeing you so unhappy, honey,” he said, kissing her cheek. “And it breaks my heart that I’m the reason.”
Finn knew what he needed to hear: that she was happy, that she didn’t blame him for mistakes of the past. She searched for a word or phrase to ease his conscience. Unfortunately, she’d grown tired of lying to protect him from himself.
Connor must have sensed it, because he sighed and said, “I think I’m going to turn in, too.”
“See you in the morning.”
She waited for his “you, too,” or “sweet dreams.” Instead, Connor said, “‘Five little angels ’round your bed, one at the foot, one at the head...’”
Last time he’d recited the bedtime prayer with her, Finn had been three or four. She hadn’t been able to tell him what he needed to hear a moment ago, but she could give him this:
“‘One to sing and one to pray...’”
He stepped back and looked into her eyes as, together, they said, “‘And one to take my fears away.’”
He kissed her forehead, then touched a fingertip to her nose. “Don’t stay up too late.”
“I won’t.”
“Love you, darlin’.”
“Love you, too, Dad.”
She felt him sigh as relief softened his features, and he left the room.
It was a heartwarming moment, one she’d cherish, and it brought to mind something he’d said earlier. That man is crazy about you. It gave her hope that maybe, just maybe, she could have that white-picket-fence life after all.
She thought about it as she changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt. As she made up the couch and slid between the cool, crisp sheets. Why had the possibility of a future with Sam made her heart pound and her stomach flutter?
“Because you want too much,” she whispered. “You want it all.”
What if she let down her guard, and an agent or producer offered him the chance to turn his dream into reality? Would he accept it? And if he did, would he leave like Connor and Misty had?
“You’re being ridiculous,” she muttered. He’d shown some interest in her, but not enough to inspire such thoughts or concerns.
Finn believed she knew why: if by some miracle something came of this...friendship with Sam, and he became a permanent part of her zany family, she’d never leave his side, no matter what sparkly temptation life dangled in front of her nose.
But she wasn’t at all sure he’d do the same for her. And until she was? Finn would keep right on doing what she’d been doing, and play it safe.
* * *
THE TRILL OF the phone roused her. Sitting up, Finn glanced at the clock. Only Misty would call at six on a Saturday morning. She answered with a gruff “Hello.”
“Sorry to wake you, Finn.”
“Dr. Peterson,” she said, on her feet now.
“I hated calling so early, but I’m leaving for a medical conference in a couple of hours. Didn’t want to keep you waiting until Monday to hear the results of Ciara’s tests.”
Shouldering the phone, she padded into the kitchen and filled the coffeepot’s carafe. “It’s good news, I hope.” Though if it was, would he be calling at this hour?
“It’s nothing critical.”
She spooned grounds into a paper filter and hit the on switch. “But...”
“Relax. There’s no but, either.”
Finn sat at the table and held her breath—the only way to stop herself from hammering him with a dozen questions—and waited.
“We didn’t find anything conclusive to explain Ciara’s symptoms.”
She heard the familiar rattle of the thin sheet of cellulose and pictured Peterson holding the image up to the light.
“There’s some minor swelling in an artery near the original impact site. If not for the sharp eye of a tech, I might not even have noticed it. But since it’s there, I prefer to err on the side of caution.”
“Exploratory surgery?”
“No, nothing that extreme. We’ll try a ten-day round of DexPak first. It gave us good results following her last surgery.”
True, the drug had reduced inflammation, but at a cost. “Headaches and dizziness were two of the main reasons I brought her to see you in the first place.”
“If she experiences those side effects, or any other negatives, call me, and we’ll try something else.”
She isn’t a human guinea pig, Finn thought.
“I have her chart right here in front of me, and she did fine last time. I’m reasonably certain the same will be true now.”
“Reasonably certain? That isn’t exactly comforting.”
She heard the click-click of his ballpoint. “Do you have a pen and paper handy?”
Finn rummaged in a nearby kitchen drawer and produced both. “Yes, I do.”
“You probably remember what to watch for, but just in case...” He recited the list, as if reading from a pharmaceutical handbook: headache, neck pain or stiffness, nausea or vomiting, dizziness, irregular breathing, vision or memory loss, difficulty speaking, loss of consciousness and seizures.
Finn made a habit of memorizing the contraindications listed on the brochures included in each prescription package, but she wrote them down anyway.
“And what’s the plan if the DexPak doesn’t reduce the inflammation?”
“We could try a ventriculostomy—we did detect a small amount of fluid near where we placed the shunt following the accident.”
Finn had read all about that procedure. Peterson would have to drill a small hole in Ciara’s skull, insert a thin tube and drain the fluids. If successful, placement of the shunt could put an end to all of her symptoms. But if the drain became blocked, everything he’d just listed could happen, and more. As if that wasn’t enough, there was a risk of infection.
“How long would the shunt need to stay in?”
“How ’bout we cross that bridge when we get to it?”
“So you’re saying it isn’t likely that procedure will be necessary?”
“I’m saying that right now the DexPak is our best course of action. Are you still using the pharmacy on Twenty-First Street?”
Finn told him she was, and he offered to fax over the prescription right away. Finn thanked him.
“Happy to do it. You have my cell number, so don’t be afraid to call me if anything seems off.”
The call ended just as the coffeemaker hissed, signaling a full pot. Finn poured herself a cup and sat at the table, staring at the notes she’d written. Ciara would take the news in stride. She always did. Connor, on the other hand, could spin a tornado from a light breeze. Was it possible to keep the news from him a little longer? It would mean doling out meds when he wasn’t around. No, that wouldn’t work; his comings and goings were too unpredictable. Honesty, presented in a calm yet academic way, seemed to be her only option.
He walked into the kitchen puffy eyed and rumpled and grabbed a mug from the drain board. “What kind of idiot makes phone calls at this hour on a Saturday?” he grumbled.
“Ciara’s doctor. He’s heading to the airport to attend a medical convention and didn’t want us to wait until Monday to hear the test results.” She brought him up to speed using only the least worrisome details, and surprisingly, he took the news well.
“I can pick up her prescription, save you the trouble of doing it.”
“The pharmacy is only a few blocks away, and I have a few errands to run anyway.” Remembering how she’d hurt his feelings
last night, she added, “But it’s nice of you to offer.”
Connor helped himself to coffee and joined her at the table. “How ’bout when Ciara gets up, I make us a big country breakfast, like I used to. Everything I need for pancakes and sausage gravy is in the fridge. And I think I saw potatoes in the cupboard under the sink.”
He liked to boast that he made the best home fries this side of the Mississippi, and it drove Rowdy crazy, mostly because, despite dozens of attempts over the years, he’d failed to replicate Connor’s recipe.
“I’m sure Ciara will love it.”
“Ciara will—will love what?” She shuffled into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing her eyes.
“Conn... Dad offered to make us a big country breakfast.”
She brightened. “Sausage gravy and—and pancakes?”
He winked. “My famous fried potatoes, too.”
“Can I help like I did when I was little?”
“Wouldn’t be a Leary breakfast if you didn’t.”
“Call me when it’s ready,” Finn said. “I’m gonna make up the beds and throw a load of towels into the washer.”
“No need to make my bed.”
“Mine, either,” Ciara echoed.
“I heard the paper hit the top porch step. Why not put your feet up and relax, and let us take care of breakfast,” Connor suggested.
“Even setting the table.” Ciara looked up at Connor. “Right, Dad?”
He kissed the top of her head. “You betcha.” He shooed Finn from the room. “We’ll call you when it’s ready.”
She didn’t know how to react. Connor, behaving like a dad? Better enjoy it while you can, because it isn’t likely to last long.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SAM COULDN’T EXPLAIN his reaction to Finn’s “so far” comment. He thought about it long past midnight on Friday. He came to the conclusion that all she needed was a little time to herself, and resisted calling or dropping by.
But that hadn’t lasted long.
Early Monday morning, he’d received orders to report for a Thursday meeting in the chief’s office, and Finn was the first person—the only person—he wanted to talk to about it. She’d said some pretty insightful things in response to the Jasmine Epps story, and he craved more of the same confidence boosting. When she didn’t pick up, he used logic to fight off disappointment. She was busy monitoring Ciara’s health, checking on construction at The Right Note, jumping through hoops to keep booze out of Connor’s hands.
He also tried getting in touch that night, but the call went to voice mail yet again. As it had on Tuesday. By Wednesday, after Sam had sent three texts and left two messages, it dawned on him that her silence was a message to him.
He didn’t like admitting that maybe Aggie had been right, but what else was he to think, all things considered? Perfect timing, he told himself. He had classes to teach and a business to run. And if he hoped to come out of the meeting at headquarters with a job, he’d better show up with a clear head and a calm heart.
His cell phone pinged, alerting him to an incoming phone call.
“What’s up, cousin?”
He hadn’t heard from Zach in weeks. No surprise there. Nate and Sophie had told him that Summer was keeping the father-to-be busy. Sam grinned, picturing the big former marine painting pink-and-white stripes on the nursery walls or grappling with the elaborate car seat/stroller/infant carrier Sam had sent as a shower gift.
He propped his feet on the railing. “Calling to announce the addition of another Marshall to the family?”
“Aw, man. What a buzzkill.”
Sam laughed. “Didn’t mean to steal your thunder. Go ahead. I’ll shut up while you give me all the statistics...except how many hours Summer was in lab—”
“So her water breaks, right, but she sleeps right through it. I don’t, though. ‘Hey, sweetie,’ I say...and I’m shakin’ her real gently, like, ‘Hey, darlin’, you wanna call your doctor while I throw your suitcase in the truck?’”
Sam pictured the scene and smiled. In his opinion, Zach had earned every bit of joy life had to offer. He’d never fully understood his cousin’s decision to enlist, but supported his cousin’s choice despite worry-inducing news reports that painted a very different picture of the Middle East than those drawn in Zach’s upbeat letters. He’d come back to them in reasonably good shape...weeks before his sister Libby was attacked. Not long afterward, he’d met Summer, still battling ghosts that were eerily similar to Libby’s. Now Zach was happy, finally, so yeah, it was good, real good, to hear proof of it in his voice.
“So she’s still half asleep, see,” he continued, “but she rolls over and goes, ‘Zach, did you forget to put the cap on your bottled water again?’ And I’m starting to panic, ’cause I read more of those ‘when you’re expecting’ books than she did, and know exactly what’s going on. Anyway, I jump into my pants and pull on my boots and clomp around to her side of the bed. Pick her up. Get her on her feet. And she opens those big beautiful eyes and smiles. ‘Uh-oh,’ she says, ‘guess I’d better call the doctor while you throw my suitcase in the truck, huh?’”
Sam couldn’t be sure if the sound he heard was Zach chuckling or Zach choking back a joyous sob.
“I drove like a speed demon the whole way to the hospital, flashers blinking, horn honking, gripping the steering wheel so tight I thought I’d bend it. And then?”
Sam was happy for Zach. And a little envious, too.
“And then just like that,” Zach said, “I’m a husband and a dad.” He exhaled a shaky sigh. “Didn’t think I’d ever feel better than when Summer said, ‘I do’...”
His voice trailed off. Had they been disconnected, or was Zach too overcome with emotion to speak?
“I was wrong,” he said at last. “Dead wrong. They put that itty-bitty bundle in my arms, and...and you’ve heard that saying ‘my legs buckled?’”
“Yeah...”
“Well, that. I sat in the nearest chair and started bawlin’ even harder than she was.”
“Summer, you mean?”
“No—I can’t believe I’m about to say this—my little girl.”
Envy smacked him yet again, and Sam decided he’d been away from the ranch too long. With no one but himself to worry about, he was in danger of turning into a self-centered jerk.
“Summer’s okay, then?”
“Not just okay. Incredible. Beautiful. Magnificent. Perfect. I tell ya, Sam, life’s good. Real, real good.”
“You earned it. So did Summer. And I can’t wait to meet little... What’s the baby’s name?”
“Cassidy Rose. Soon as we hang up, I’ll send you a picture.”
“Can’t wait.”
“You’re gonna love her. So when are you visiting? Thanksgiving?”
Finn had almost said yes to his invitation to spend the holidays at the ranch, but then Friday and the “so far” comment had happened.
“I guess that’ll depend on Nate and Eden.” Not the whole truth, but not a lie, either. “Have they set a date yet?”
“Aw, who knows with those two. Every time I ask, all I get is ‘soon.’ Don’t know which one is the holdout.”
“Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise?”
“No, nothing like that.”
Good, Sam thought. Just because you’re destined to grow old alone, doesn’t mean they should.
“They’re trying to get their ducks in a row so they can legally adopt the boys after things are official. But you know what they say about red tape.”
“Yeah, official paperwork can be a pain, all right. I hope they get it straightened out soon. Because Eden is good for Nate, and he’s good for her.”
“Weird, isn’t it, that Nate will become a dad to a crowd of boys, days after he puts that ring on her finger?�
��
That “wish it were me” sensation kicked in again. “Those are some lucky kids.”
“And they know it, too. Every one of them has cleaned up his act. So much that you probably won’t recognize them.”
Sam didn’t know what to make of the emotions swirling in his head—and thumping in his heart. He’d been born into a huge, loving family, a family that was growing by the minute. Why couldn’t he be satisfied with that? Why did he want what Zach had—and what Nate was about to get—so badly that he could taste it?
“So how’re things in Music City?”
Should he tell Zach about the scheduled meeting with the department’s high muck-a-mucks? Nah. He’d wait until afterward, when he had more concrete information.
“Downright harmonious,” he said. “Get it? Music City...” And then he noticed someone pacing behind his pickup. Standing, Sam peered over the railing. What in the world?
Connor looked up, as if summoned by Sam’s thoughts.
“Apartment eight, right?” he shouted, one hand shading his eyes.
Nodding, Sam waved him up. “I’ll have to get back to you, Zach. I just got some unexpected company. Give my love to Summer, and kiss that baby for me.”
“No way. You’re gonna have to come home and do that yourself.”
“Okay,” he said, chuckling, “it’s a deal.”
Pocketing the phone, he wondered how Finn’s dad had found out where he lived. To his knowledge, she didn’t even know his address.
“Hey,” he said, opening the door wide.
Connor stepped past him and, hands pocketed, said, “You’re not an easy man to find.”
“Really.” Sam led him into the living room. “What’s up?”
“I, ah, I want to talk about Finn.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” he admitted. “I thought maybe something happened to Ciara.”
“Kee? Nah. She’s good. Fine.” Connor worked the kinks out of his neck. “Doc prescribed some new meds. Seems to be helping.” Nodding, he cleared his throat. “Don’t think she’s had a headache or a dizzy spell in days.”
