Christine

Everything was going to be okay. I tried hard not to dwell on Travis’s phone call and his cryptic request to find us a secluded table where we could have a conversation without too much distraction. Either he was ready to talk about his secrets, or he was coming to break things off. The way things kept swinging back and forth between us, I only wished I could be confident it was option number one.

In the meantime, I tried to concentrate on the story Justin had shared. How could I have lived in Pine Haven for six years and known none of that history? I closed my eyes as the answer worked into my awareness. Because I’d had my head and my heart wrapped up in a man who had died the year before I’d found the small town. During a lull in serving, I cornered Sissy. “Do you know anything about Bull having a brother?”

The younger woman edged sideways to peer around me. Was she seeking an escape route or trying to make sure no one overheard them? The trapped look in Sissy’s eyes suggested she’d rather do anything than answer the question.

“Sissy? What is it? Where is Bull’s brother now?”

“Um, there’s lots of rumors,” Sissy began slowly. “But, well, ahh… he’s—”

Frantic shouts from the doorway interrupted the conversation. Sissy’s relief was palpable. As every bar patron rushed outside, one word repeated in the crowd’s collective murmur: fight. No use hoping Travis and Bull weren’t the ones going at it.

“Damn it!” As I pushed through the mass of humanity clogging the entrance, I shouted for Sissy to call the sheriff’s office.

* * *

The fight was over before I got outside, but the aftermath provided a clear picture of exactly how violent it had been.

I spared a glance, but absolutely no sympathy for Bull, who was cursing in falsetto as he writhed on the ground in a pool of blood and vomit, both hands clutching at his crotch. Blood streamed from his nose and he spewed more from his mouth with every vile oath he squeaked.

The crowd parted. Travis sprawled half on the ground and half in Grant’s arms. Only the deep purple already blooming on his swollen face kept him from appearing pale as ash in the bluish light.

“Oh, no, no, no!” I sank to my knees next to the man I loved more than life. A metallic tang assaulted my nostrils, and I gagged back my dinner. “God, it looks like his face was shoved into a wood chipper.” Blood gushed freely from his nose and bubbled from the corner of his mouth. More crimson liquid oozed from a flap laceration at the top of his cheekbone. It was probably a blessing for him he was unconscious.

But his breathing was too shallow and from the gurgling in his throat, he was choking.

“We have to protect his airway. But I don’t know if his neck is injured. Help me. I have to get him off his back without turning his head.” I met Grant’s gaze and held it until I was certain he understood.

He gave a sharp nod but said nothing.

I showed him how to keep his brother’s head in line with his body while I rolled Travis toward my, onto his right side. Like the miracle he needed, I managed it in one smooth motion. Grant pushed his knee beneath Travis’s head like a pillow. A gasp tore through the air, and then he sucked in a burbling breath. The trickle of red at the corner of his mouth became a gush, but he stopped choking and his ragged breaths seemed to come a little easier.

“This is a lot of blood.” Grant’s voice shook.

“It’s probably all from his mouth and nose.” I hope. I laid my hand against his neck, releasing a sigh of relief at the pulse beneath my fingertips —staggering but fairly strong. A cramp speared my calf. As I shifted to a less awkward position, my hand brushed his arm and came away wet.

“Oh, dear God.” The dark cotton fabric had hidden the bleeding, but his shirt sleeve was saturated. “He must have pulled the stitches out. I have to make sure he’s not hemorrhaging.”

“Cut it,” said a deep voice over my shoulder as a hunting knife was pushed into my hand.

“I had this in my car.” Beth Wright dangled a dark damask throw pillow in front of Grant, who took it and slipped it a centimeter at a time beneath Travis’s head as he eased his knee away.

Confident Travis was as secured in place as possible, I sank my teeth into my lower lip and began to work on his arm. I cursed violently in my head as I lifted the shirtsleeve and punched a hole with the knife tip just below his shoulder then slid the blade around until the sleeve was mostly off. Then I sliced downward until the cloth laid open butterfly style. Dark blood flowed from the wound I’d repaired earlier, a steady burgundy stream, but it wasn’t pulsing. I tore the rest of his shirtsleeve free, folded it, and pressed it to the heaviest bleeding.

“It’s not arterial but he’s losing a lot.” I leaned over and murmured in his ear. “Don’t you go anywhere on me, you hear? You stay with me, Travis.”

Someone laid a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see Deputy Camryn Gordon standing behind me. “Life Flight’s en route. ETA about ten minutes.”

Ten minutes. Did he have ten minutes? I pressed harder on his bleeding arm. Not again, not again, not again.

Across the parking lot, Bull was on his feet but hunched over. Bruises decorated his face and his nose looked broken. His hands were cuffed behind him and a couple of men flanked him. He wasn’t going anywhere.

In civilian clothing, I almost didn’t recognize DC as he crossed the parking lot toward them. “Christine,” he growled. “What the hell happened here?”

“I don’t know.” I flicked a glance between Travis and Bull. “I got here too late to see anything. But isn’t it obvious Bull—?”

“Bull is over there saying Trav started this. He’s claiming self-defense.”

A terrible icy rage washed over me as I leveled my gaze on the sheriff. “He was mad enough to start something, but I don’t think he did.” I shrugged. “I know he’s been gone awhile and you don’t know him anymore, but if he was going to do something, he wouldn’t have gone after Bull here. Not in my parking lot.”

“No witnesses. And two men with bad blood between them kicking the shit out of each other.”

“And a sheriff who’s giving the wrong one of those men the benefit of the doubt. Go ahead, ask Bull about the mess he made of my truck. Or about the fire out at the ranch.” I scanned the crowd, knowing pretty much the whole town was there. “Allan Cross!” I shouted, grabbing Grant’s hand and pressing it to the makeshift bandage on Travis’s arm.

“Christine,” murmured Grant. But then he looked around and his lips thinned. Instead of the warning I’d expected, he only gave me a curt nod.

The mechanic cast a nervous glance at the gathering crowd, as if in disbelief that I’d called his name.

“Yeah, Allan. Why don’t you explain what happened to all your damn tires, how you were so willing to think Travis was involved, how you accused him of starting the fire in the lumberyard, even though I told you he was having lunch with me!” I swept my hand in a gesture indicating Travis. “Well, look at him. Do you think he got what he deserved? A man comes home after a long time gone and instead of a welcome, he gets blamed for everything. Like all that shit wasn’t going down before he even got here? Please, we all know it was. And we all know who’s been doing it. Do you think he caused it from wherever he was before he came back?”

“Christine,” DC said, shaking his head. “You need to calm down.”

“No, I don’t.” I cried, pushing my hair off my face. “You say you’re his friend. But you make him prove himself every time.

Every.

Damn.

Time.”

DC stepped closer, his face a mask. Probably going to arrest me, but I didn’t care. Maybe if I was in jail with Bull, I could kill the bastard.

“Travis didn’t do nothing wrong.” A voice rose from the edge of the crowd.

The group of onlookers shifted in one fluid motion, like a giant single-celled organism. The lights overhead flashed on red hair, as Wyatt walked forward until he stood looking down at Travis. He trembled, then faced his father.

“Bull was waiting for him.” Wyatt’s voice was tinged with a mix of misery and defiance. “He was mad at me for helping with the fire today. Mad because the McGees let me help. He brought me here to show me what he did to people who cross him. When Travis got out of his car, Bull jumped him. Travis tried talking to him but Bull was yelling. He wouldn’t listen.”

From ten feet away, Bull lunged against the arms holding him back. “You shut your mouth, boy, you hear me? You shut your damned mouth or you know it’ll get shut for you.”

“You wanted a witness.” Wyatt squared his thin shoulders. “I’m your witness.”

“Damn it, boy, shut the f—” One of the men guarding Bull slugged him in the belly and he doubled over.

DC motioned to his deputy. “Get him out of here, Sherwood. Book him on assault. Call Doc Trent to have a look at him. I don’t want him bleeding all over my jail.”

“Easy, son.” DC placed an easy hand on Wyatt’s shoulder. “I’ll see you get home.” Wyatt shook his head, regarding Bull with hatred blazing in his eyes. “No, I’ll get myself home. Just keep Bull away from me. He’s not my father.” With the backs of his hands, he scrubbed tears from his eyes.

The sound of a helicopter landing in the church parking lot across the street interrupted the exchange.

More than seven years had passed since I had given report on a patient. Somehow I managed to untangle my emotions enough to give an objective case presentation to the middle-aged flight nurse in a dark blue jumpsuit. His badge identified him as G. Wilcox, RN.

As I spoke, Nurse Wilcox worked to finish stabilizing Travis. I helped get him onto a backboard, closing my eyes when the endotracheal tube was placed. “Are you a doctor or a nurse?” asked Wilcox.

“EMT, retired.”

“Still certified?”

I nodded.

“We’re riding one short tonight,” Wilcox shouted over the sound of the helicopter. “It’s against protocol, but we sure could use a hand getting up to Jackson.”

“I…” If Wilcox had been aware of my relationship with the patient, he’d never have asked me along. It would keep me in the loop I would surely be left out of, as soon as the connection was discovered. Still, I hesitated, torn between the life I’d tried to forget and the man I loved.

“Go, Christine,” urged Grant. “I’ll let Dad know what happened and meet you up there.”

Accepting the mantle of professional EMT, I nodded and climbed into the helicopter. We were at the trauma center in Jackson in less than twenty minutes, and then I was relegated back to observer status, as Travis was whisked away for evaluation and treatment.

I sank into a blue chair in the waiting room, the generic kind, made of plastic and metal, and so common in emergency rooms. Hot tears streamed from my eyes, soaking my cheeks.

* * *

A gentle hand touched my on the shoulder. I started. I must have fallen asleep. Quickly I looked at the console but the red light remained dark. A throat cleared behind me and I spun around. The man with one hand on my cubicle wall was tall, well over six feet, with hair that reminded me of a pepper shaker. His firehouse dress blues told me he was on official department business. Deep compassion shone in his warm brown eyes.

“No,” I whispered. “Not yet, please.”

“Jocelyn, I’m Chaplain Hindson with LAFD,” he introduced himself formally, no smile, no offer of a handshake. “I understand you’ve been talking to one of our men.”

“He’s been calling in every so often, trying to conserve the battery on his handheld,” I said. “His name is Mickey.”

Chaplain Hindson nodded. “How are you holding up? You’ve worked almost twenty-four hours.”

“Only about twenty-one so far.” The red light on the console popped on. “Hey, Angel, I’m checking in. Are you there?”

“As promised,” I sang out, instilling brightness in my words. I spared a glance over my shoulder at the chaplain. “Mick, there’s someone here who wants to talk to you. Chaplain Hindson.”

The radio squawked, but Mick was silent. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. “Okay, put him on.”

I stood and exchanged places with Chaplain Hindson so he could operate the comm system, but I lingered nearby, shamelessly listening in.

“Son, is there anyone you want us to call?”

Mickey took an even longer time answering. “There’s a letter in my locker for my family. Call them… afterwards, okay, Padre?”

“Son, we might be able to patch you through, let you talk to them.”

“No! This is for them, Padre. They can’t do anything to help, to change things, and they’ll hate that. Best to leave it until it’s over. Lieutenant Ryder has all my particulars in my employment files.”

“Okay, son, it’s your call. Is there anything else we can do?”

“No offense, Chaplain Hindson,” Mickey said between gasps. “But I’d really like to go back to chatting with my girl. I’m not getting out of here, and I’d really like for her voice to be the last one I hear.”

“Of course, son.” The chaplain motioned for me to take my seat again. “I don’t think he has much longer. Thank you for doing this. I’ll be here in the main office if you need me.”

“Hey, Mick, I’m back.” My voice sounded too brassy but I couldn’t seem to temper the forced sparkle. I was losing my tenuous hold on my emotions. Tears blurred my vision and I hastily wiped them away, suppressing a little sniff.

“Hey there, girl. Those better not be tears for me I’m hearing.”

“Now, what makes you think I would cry for you? Maybe I jammed my toe on my desk.”

He chuckled. “Are you a klutz, Angel?”

“You know it.”

“I mean it about no crying.” His voice grew serious. “I’ve lived a good life, gotten into my share of trouble. I have a family I love. And I’m even more ’n halfway in love with you, Angel. I’ve had it good. I just wish I would have got to kiss you.”