First-Class Father

by Charlotte Douglas

  Chapter Ten

  “Drop the knife!” Gun drawn, Dylan lunged around the Jeep’s hood.

  Heather, struggling with the masked attacker, blocked Dylan’s line of fire. The abrupt termination of her scream as the knife found its mark struck Dylan like a blow to the gut. She crumpled to the ground. Her assailant, using her as a shield, dragged her toward a hedge, then disappeared in the shadows.

  Dylan rushed to her and cradled her in his arms. The sticky wetness soaking his shirt and the coppery smell of blood confirmed his fear.

  “I’m okay,” she said weakly. “Go after him.”

  Ignoring her protests, he lifted her into the Jeep, fastened her seat belt and slammed the door. As he scurried to the driver’s seat, anger choked him—anger at the cold-blooded assassin who had struck down an innocent, unarmed woman. And anger at himself for being caught off guard.

  He rammed the Jeep into reverse, lurched out of the drive and peeled down the street in a stench of burning rubber. Erotic fantasies of spending the night with Heather had distracted him, blunted his instincts, lowered his alertness. He should have been vigilant, on guard for trouble even before he stopped the Jeep.

  With tires squealing, he rounded the corner, one hand on the wheel, the other on his phone. Thankful he’d programmed the PD with a one-digit code, he placed an instant call to the station.

  Sandi, the dispatcher, answered.

  “Send Tom Mackey to my house,” Dylan said, “and request a K-9 unit Someone attacked Heather with a knife, then took off on foot through the backyard.”

  “Stand by.”

  Sandi’s steady voice, dispatching Mackey and backup to Dylan’s address, carried through the open line. Mackey must have been close by, because the sound of sirens erupted only a few blocks away.

  “Do you need an ambulance?” Sandi asked when she returned to the phone.

  “Negative. I’m driving Heather to the emergency room now.”

  “I’ll send an officer for a statement as soon as one’s free.”

  Dylan tossed the phone onto the dashboard and reached for Heather. Her forehead was cold and clammy beneath his hand, and trembling racked her body. Praying she wasn’t going into shock, he pressed harder on the accelerator.

  “It’s just a scratch.” He could barely hear her weak murmur above the whine of the racing engine. “Maybe you’d better slow down.”

  The tightness in her voice and her hiss of indrawn breath contradicted her words. A scratch didn’t cause that kind of pain or that much bleeding. He grabbed her hand to reassure her and had to squelch his panic at the slick dampness sliding down her arm.

  “We’re almost there.” He dug a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to her. “Apply pressure to the wound. You have to stop the bleeding.”

  “I’ll try.”

  If her hands were as weak as her voice, she couldn’t do much good. Intent on getting her medical care as soon as possible, he hadn’t taken time to evaluate her injury. If the attacker had struck an artery or vital organ…

  He leaned toward her, driving with his left hand while his right compressed the handkerchief she’d placed over her left forearm.

  “Is that your only wound?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Her voice had faded further. “Sorry I’m being such a baby. It’s just a little cut.”

  When the man attacked, she had raised her arm to protect herself, and it had taken the full force of his knife. Imagining the pain and picturing the damage, the blood she’d lost, Dylan winced.

  Suddenly, her words from yesterday rang in his mind: Loving is always a risk, because, sooner or later, we’re all terminal

  Warm wetness oozed between his fingers, which squeezed the handkerchief against her arm, stanching the blood and preventing her life from draining out of her.

  Not yet, he prayed, silently and furiously. You can’t have her yet. Chip needs her. I need her.

  His admission shocked him. He’d spent the past two years convincing himself how well he could manage without her. What a damned fool he’d been. Heather was so much a part of him, he might as well try not breathing as not loving her. He didn’t want to muddle through life without her. He wanted her with him—forever.

  Arrival at the emergency entrance interrupted his self-condemnation. He slid his arms beneath her and lifted her from the car. Although he could see her teeth gritted in pain, she forced a feeble smile. The stark white of her skin contrasted with the glittering green of her eyes for only seconds before her eyelids fluttered and closed.

  Hugging her against his chest, he raced inside, yelling for a doctor.

  As part of his job, he had spent more time in the emergency room than he cared to remember, and that familiarity served him well now. Orderlies and nurses, recognizing the Dolphin Bay police officer, hurried to Heather’s assistance.

  Gentle hands pried her from him, shifted her to a gurney and rolled her down the tiled passageway. Other hands pressed him into a seat in the hall and supplied him with a cup of steaming coffee.

  In a daze, he completed Heather’s admission form, then slumped in his chair and leaned his head against the wall. The odor of antiseptic bit his nostrils, triggering a flood of vivid memories.

  He had sat in this same corridor the night Clyde Heller had been shot, and he’d never forget Annie’s face when she rushed through the double glass doors, looking as if her whole world had collapsed on top of her. At the time, he’d believed he understood how she felt, but he hadn’t.

  He understood now.

  Fear for Heather, fear of losing her forever, gnawed at him, and the possibility of a future without her opened before him like a cold, black abyss.

  He set aside his empty coffee cup, ran his fingers through his hair and struggled against the helplessness that gripped him. Heather had been right about loving and risking. He had always loved her but had refused to gamble on commitment, fearful that the stresses and uncertainties of his job would drive a severing wedge between them.

  Now he’d give anything for a chance at marriage. If Heather recovered—when she recovered—he wanted to be a husband to her and a father to Chip.

  Irony stung him. He’d come too late to his decision. She had decided two years ago she didn’t love him, didn’t want his help raising their child, and, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure how or why her love for him had died.

  Stirring hope nudged his irony aside. When he’d kissed her yesterday, he had felt her need, as great as his own. Maybe, if she pulled through, he could douse the anger he’d glimpsed scudding over her face like a fast-moving cloud and rekindle the love that had once shone there.

  Closing his eyes, he prayed, trying not to think of the last time he’d pleaded with God. His prayers for Clyde Heller had gone unanswered.

  An eternity and five cups of bad coffee later, Dr. Jarrett, the emergency room physician who had treated several crime and accident victims Dylan had escorted to the hospital, advanced up the hall from where Heather had been taken.

  Fear seized Dylan’s lungs like a vise, cutting off his air. In bloodstained scrubs, the ER doctor, slackjawed, with dull eyes and somber countenance, looked like the bearer of bad news. Only when Jarrett’s weary face broke into a smile was Dylan able to breathe again. “How is she?”

  “She’s in the recovery room now. We’ve had her in surgery to repair the ulnar artery so she won’t lose the use of her hand. I don’t think there’s any permanent damage.”

  “When can I take her home?”

  “I’d like to keep her overnight for observation. Although the damage could have been fatal if unrepaired, the surgical procedure was relatively minor. She can probably be discharged tomorrow.”

  “Can I see her?”

  Jarrett shook his head. “She’s still—”

  “Please.”

  Jarrett’s eyes narrowed. “She can’t be questioned now.”

  “I’m not here as a police officer. I’m…” Dylan searched for words to explain thei
r ambiguous relationship and silently cursed his ineptitude. “She’s…”

  “She must be special,” Jarrett said with an understanding smile. “We’ll take her up to a room on the surgery floor soon. Once she’s settled, a few minutes’ visit won’t hurt, but don’t wake her if she’s sleeping.”

  Dylan paced the hall for another eternity until a gray-haired nurse approached. “You can go up now, Officer Wade. Ms. Taylor is in Room 434.”

  He sprinted to the elevator, cursed its lack of speed and exited onto the fourth floor. He raced down the hall and forced himself to slow at the door to her room before stepping inside.

  As white as her pillowcase, Heather lay unconscious, her sun-bleached chestnut hair a stark contrast to her pallor. Her slender body, a slight mound beneath the hospital blanket and a visible reminder of how fragile she was, barely moved with her breathing.

  He circled the bed to avoid the apparatus transfusing fluids into her right arm and took care not to jostle her bandaged left forearm. Brushing a curl from her forehead, he placed a gentle kiss on her cool brow, then touched his lips to hers. Eyes closed, she stirred briefly, and her lips lifted in a ghost of a smile.

  Overpowering love and a tender protectiveness welled inside him. He had so much he wanted to say to her, but he struggled to find the words. A discreet cough behind him interrupted his effort.

  Reluctantly, he straightened. Tom Mackey’s uniformed bulk filled the doorway. After a quick glance at the slumbering Heather, Dylan retreated from the room to join the officer in the hall.

  “Any luck?” Dylan asked.

  Mackey frowned. “We brought in the K-9, but the dog lost the scent on the next block. The perp must have parked his car there for a quick getaway. I put out an APB for a white Mercedes—”

  “Add a black sport utility vehicle.”

  “Did you see it?”

  Dylan shook his head. “Whoever’s been stalking Heather has been seen driving one or the other of those vehicles. The attacker could be in either tonight.”

  Mackey pulled a notebook from his shirt pocket and jotted a few words. “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “Average height—for a man. An inch or two taller than Heather. Black shirt and pants, black watch cap over the face with cutouts for the eyes.”

  “Build?”

  Dylan thought hard, pulling up the image from memory. “Not bulked up like a weight lifter. Possibly slender. The loose clothing made it hard to tell.”

  Mackey paused, pencil poised. “It was a man?”

  “Or a tall woman in men’s clothing.”

  Mackey scratched his head and frowned. “You just doubled the number of possible suspects.”

  “I wish I could be more specific. Whoever it was is fast on his feet.”

  “Did you see the weapon?”

  “A standard butcher knife, the kind you’d find in any kitchen in town.”

  Mackey scribbled some more. “The crime scene unit is scouring the area. Maybe the guy dropped it.”

  “Finding it probably won’t help much. The attacker wore gloves. This one’s too clever to leave prints.”

  “Did you fire at him?”

  Dylan scowled. “Heather was between us, so I couldn’t get a clear shot Why?”

  Mackey shuffled his feet and avoided Dylan’s eyes. “There was lots of blood at the scene, I thought maybe…How’s Heather?”

  A lump formed in Dylan’s throat at the concern in Mackey’s voice. Tom, along with everyone else in the department, had attended cookouts at Dylan’s in the days when Heather had been there. The guys had teased her about Dylan, had liked and accepted her.

  They also had deliberately avoided mentioning her name when she’d disappeared from his life. Tonight every last one of them would be busting his butt, tracking the man—or woman—who had tried to kill her. The men on the force were a tightly knit bunch, like family. If someone messed with one of them or their loved ones, he’d messed with them all and should be prepared for the consequences.

  Dylan cleared the emotion from his throat. “Dr. Jarrett says she’ll be okay, but he’s keeping her overnight. I’ll stand guard.”

  Mackey contemplated him with a measuring eye. “You look whipped. You should go home and sleep.”

  “I can’t. That creep’s still out there—”

  “I’ll find one of the guys to relieve you.” Mackey flashed a consoling grin and clapped him on the shoulder. “This is one helluva vacation you’re taking, bud.”

  Mackey strode toward the elevator, and Dylan tiptoed into Heather’s room to assure himself she still slept soundly. Returning to the corridor, he used his cell phone to leave a message on Cramer’s beeper.

  Minutes later, he settled into the chair beside Heather’s bed and waited. When Cramer called, Dylan would give him a full report. To keep Heather safe, he would need all the help he could get.

  MURMURING VOICES and muted footsteps pierced Heather’s consciousness, light filtered through her closed lids, and her mouth, dry as cobwebs, craved water. Pain sizzled down her left arm as if someone had branded it with a hot poker.

  She opened her eyes to a white ceiling and unfamiliar sea-foam-green walls. Through a wide window to her left, the calm waters of Dolphin Bay glimmered like mother-of-pearl beneath the rising sun.

  She remembered climbing out of the Jeep and the flash of a knife in the dark. Everything afterward was either a blur or a blank.

  Dropping her gaze to the bandages on her forearm, she focused on the pain. Someone had attacked her.

  Where was Dylan?

  Anxiety gripped her. Had he been hurt, too?

  Turning her head on the pillow, she saw him.

  Slumped in a chair beside her bed, head resting on arms folded atop her blanket, he slept. Fine dark hair tumbled over his forehead, long lashes fanned against tanned skin, and he frowned, as if he were dreaming.

  Too groggy to move or speak, she studied his profile, an older version of Chip’s, and savored the latent power of his shoulders and his strong, capable hands.

  Memories of the previous night unsettled her. Blocking out details of the terrifying attack, she concentrated on the aftermath. She was lucky Dylan had been there. Even during the first year they were together, his reputation for coolheadedness under pressure was already legendary.

  At one weekend party after an especially harrowing work week, Larry Shelton had raised his glass in a toast. “To Dylan, the best guy to have around in a crisis.”

  Fifteen men and their wives, many with tears in their eyes, had joined in the tribute. Earlier that week, a woman whose four-year-old had fallen into a swimming pool had flagged down Dylan on his routine patrol. He’d leaped from his cruiser, dived into the deep water for the child and administered CPR until the paramedics arrived. The little girl had lived.

  Displaying that same imperturbable calm, he’d saved her life last night by stanching the flow of her blood and rushing her to the emergency room. Judging from the shadowy stubble on his face and the clothes he’d worn the day before, he hadn’t left the hospital since her admittance.

  She had believed her love already so immense that she couldn’t love him more, but she’d been wrong. The pleasing ache of overpowering affection surged in her veins, overshadowing the pain in her arm. She raised her hand to caress his hair.

  A needle, connected to intravenous tubing, pinched her arm, a reminder of how close she’d come to dying in spite of Dylan’s help. Cold fear, not for herself, but for Chip, washed through her. If she had died, what would have happened to her son?

  Dylan lifted his head. The sweetness of his slowly spreading smile poured through her like a balm, calming her fears.

  He considered her, his dark eyes heavy with sleep. “Good morning.”

  She returned his smile. Waking up to Dylan could be habit-forming.

  When he cupped her cheek with his hand, worry shadowed his eyes. “How are you feeling?”

  She wobbled her hand in a so-so gesture
and tried to speak, but her dry mouth refused to cooperate. She managed only one word. “Chip?”

  “I called Mom and Dad.” Dylan stood and stretched, muscles rippling beneath his shirt. “Chip’s as happy as a pig in mud. Jake Emerson and his wife drove to the river cottage earlier this morning. He and Dad will take turns standing guard, just in case.”

  She nodded and licked her parched lips. Noting her thirst, Dylan sat beside her, put an arm around her to help her sit up, and held the straw from a tumbler of cold water to her lips. In the comforting haven of his embrace, she drank greedily.

  “Not too much. You may be queasy from the anesthetic.”

  The water restored her speech. “I had surgery?”

  “To repair the artery in your arm.” He set aside the glass but continued to hold her.

  She snuggled deeper into the warm circle of his arms. “Did they catch the man who knifed me?”

  His muscles tensed. “The full shift and most of the guys off duty are looking for him now. So far, it’s as if he disappeared into thin air.”

  Heather shivered. The public hospital with its staff, visitors and countless entrances and exits seemed suddenly less secure. The attack last night had caught both her and Dylan by surprise. Here, confined to bed, with no idea what her assailant looked like, not knowing if a male or female stalked her, she presented an easy and accessible target.

  “Don’t worry.” Dylan tightened his arms around her. “I promise I won’t let him near you again. And this time, I have help.”

  He nodded toward the open door. A uniformed officer with his back to her room watched the hallway. Although she couldn’t see his face, his alert stance and the Dolphin Bay Police Department patch on his sleeve eased her immediate fears.

  But she couldn’t shake her nagging anxiety.

  She and Chip couldn’t return home until the stalker was behind bars, and the longer she remained with Dylan, the harder leaving him again would be. Weariness and the ache in her arm sapped her energy, leaving her too exhausted to cope with her dilemma.

  “What am I going to do?” Her groggy murmur sounded as if someone else was speaking.