by Ginna Gray
"Let me guess," Max inserted. "Gambling, right?"
"Right." He nodded toward the gunman. "He's the enforcer for the man to whom I owe the money."
"Oh, Quinton," his sister moaned. "Put the gun down and let's talk this over. We'll come up with a way to get the money."
"Don't you get it, Camille? It's too late for that. And I can't go to jail. I can't."
"Maybe it won't come to that." Camille turned to Elizabeth with a pleading expression. "Please, Elizabeth. Don't press charges. He's sick. Don't you see that? He has to be sick to have done such a thing. Pembrook Manor in upstate New York is a lovely sanitarium, I'm told. He could go there and get some help, and get his head straight."
She turned back to her brother. "There won't be any stigma attached. Several of our friends have checked themselves in to Pembrook for treatment for stress. Why, it's almost the thing to do these days."
"Camille, child, I admire your love for your brother, but you don't always get to take the easy way out," Aunt Talitha said with uncharacteristic gentleness. "Don't you understand? This is out of Elizabeth's hands now. Even though Quinton's plan didn't succeed, he committed a serious crime by merely hiring this man to kill her."
"But, Auntie—"
"I'm sorry, child. For you and your brother. I truly am. However, in life there comes a time when you have to step up and take the consequences of your actions. That's something you and your brother have never had to do before.
"I blame most of this on my sister and your father. If Mariah hadn't spoiled him and the two of you, you wouldn't have grown up with this ridiculous sense of entitlement. Mariah always covered up for your father and you and Quinton whenever you got into mischief as teenagers. But this is a lot more serious than shooting up a few road signs or spraying graffiti on an overpass, or that time that Quinton got picked up for being drunk and disorderly. This time he's gone too far. Now he has to pay the piper.
"We will see to it that Quinton gets a good lawyer, but that's as far as family loyalty will stretch."
"No. No, that won't do." Quinton began to back away, shaking his head, the Glock held with the barrel pressed to his temple. His eyes were wild. "I can't take the chance of going to prison. I can't! I wouldn't survive a day in a place like that. I'd rather be dead."
"Quinton, no!" Camille took a step toward him, but he held his hand up, palm out to stop her, and transferred the barrel of the gun to his mouth.
While Quinton's gaze was focused on his aunt and sister, Max took the gun from Elizabeth and shifted her around behind him.
Her cousin kept backing up, his gaze swinging back and forth.
Truman appeared in the doorway behind him, his forefinger against his lips, signaling the others for silence. The old ranch foreman was several inches shorter than Quinton and probably fifty pounds lighter, but he was wiry and tough as a pine knot. Elizabeth had no doubt that he could overpower her cousin. Peeking around Max, she caught her breath as Truman stepped forward. In a blur of motion he knocked the gun out of Quinton's hand and wrapped his arms around him from behind.
For a few minutes all hell broke loose as the men tried to subdue Quinton. Martha rushed to the door to let in the deputies and paramedics, while the women all talked at once.
"Ma-Max…"
Elizabeth tugged on the back of her husband's sooty shirt and he turned just as her knees buckled.
"Elizabeth!" He scooped her up before she hit the floor. "Elizabeth! What's wrong? Did one of those shots hit you?" he demanded, his gaze fixing on the widening red stain on her sweater. "Ah, dammit! She's torn open her shoulder wound."
"There are a couple of ambulances outside," one of the paramedics told him. "I'll ride with you and do what I can to stop the bleeding."
"I've got a better idea. I'm flying her to Houston by helicopter. You're coming with us."
The paramedic glanced at Max's tough face. "Oh. Well, sir, I'd like to, but I'm with the Brenham Hospital. I'm afraid I'm not licensed to work in Harris County, and your wife needs quick attention."
"I don't give a damn about your license. You're coming with us. Now move! The rest of you sort everything out here with these officers," he bellowed on the way out. "When you're done, meet us at Methodist Hospital. Troy, you take care of things. Call and get me air clearance and permission to land at the medical center. Tell them I'm landing, no matter what. And look after these women."
"I'm on it, boss." Troy touched Elizabeth's arm and leaned in close. "You're one helluva woman, Elizabeth Stanton Riordan." His eyes met Max's. "Good luck."
Truman had run ahead to the helipad and was manning the gas pump when they arrived. "Thought you might want this thing topped off."
He replaced the gas cap and helped Max and the paramedic load Elizabeth into the chopper. "Thanks, Truman."
"Uh, Mr. Riordan? Two things before you go. Me'n' the hands put the fire out. And I just thought you oughta know, I saw Mr. Quinton start that fire. It weren't no accident. I was coming inside to tell you that when I saw him holding a gun on y' all."
Max paused just an instant, his expression murderous. "Thanks, Truman. Thanks a lot."
He climbed into the cockpit, ran through a quick safety check and fired up the chopper. "You and the patient buckled in back there?" he shouted over the noise.
"Yessir."
"Then shut the damned door and put on these headsets so you can keep me informed."
"Oh. Yessir. Sorry." The man looked a little pale, but he twisted around and slammed the door. "Ready."
Max reached around behind him between the seats and touched his wife's foot. "Hang on, sweetheart. You hang on. You hear me?"
Elizabeth's foot wiggled, and Max took that as a yes. "Okay. Here we go!" he yelled, and with a steady whomp, whomp, whomp, whomp, whomp the gold-and-blue helicopter lifted into the blazing sunset, made an arching U-turn east and headed into the purple twilight over Houston.
* * *
Epilogue
« ^
Max stood outside the door of the VIP hospital suite, watching Elizabeth through the glass window in the door. Happiness permeated every cell in his body. He'd never known that anyone could be this happy. That it was possible to love a woman the way he loved Elizabeth.
It had been almost eight months since he'd flown her to this very hospital, not knowing if he'd lose her, not knowing if he could go on without her. Eight months of happiness and contentment, of watching her grow and blossom with their child. He hadn't thought that he could love or admire her any more.
Then all day yesterday and through half the night he'd held her hand as she endured the pain and exhausting work of labor and childbirth, and his heart had filled with so much love he'd thought it would surely burst.
He shook his head slightly at his own arrogance. "You're one lucky bastard, Maxwell Riordan," he murmured to himself. He'd married himself a trophy wife as an entry into society and their deep coffers, but the real prize had turned out to be the woman herself.
"What are you doing out here in the hallway?" Aunt Talitha demanded.
Max turned his head and smiled at the entourage headed toward him. Besides Elizabeth's aunt, his mother, Mimi, Martha, Truman, Gladys, Dooley and Troy came tromping down the hallway, loaded down with huge stuffed animals, balloons, flowers, candy and magazines. They had all left here around two in the morning, exhausted and walking on air. Now that they were rested, they were all itching to get their hands on the newest heir to the throne.
"Shh." Max placed his forefinger over his pursed lips. "Before we go inside I want you all to see something."
He urged them to squeeze tight around the window and look inside. "Isn't that the most beautiful sight you've ever seen?"
Elizabeth sat up in the adjustable hospital bed, her baby cradled in the crook of one arm, her gaze fixed on the sleeping infant's face. To Max, she was the essence of woman, loving, nurturing, strong and soft and so beautiful she took his breath away. He knew that if he lived to be a hundred
he'd never forget this moment.
"Oh, my. Oh, she's so beautiful." Misty-eyed, Talitha turned to Max and cupped his cheek with her hand. "Thank you for sharing this with us. They look like the Madonna and Child."
She and the other women dabbed at their eyes. Dooley and Truman surreptitiously wiped at theirs as well.
"I know. I've already contacted a portrait painter. I want them painted that way before the baby gets too big."
"You're a smart man." Talitha gave his arm a pat. "And a good one. If I haven't told you so before now, we're all happy to have you in our family."
"Thanks. That means a lot." He looked around and grinned. "Now, who wants to hold Molly Elizabeth Stanton-Riordan? The most beautiful baby girl ever born."
* * * * *
