Anything but Mine (19 page)

Her words jolted through him and he spread her thighs wider. She pulled him closer and he plunged inside with one swift, even stroke. She gasped, the tiny noise loud in the small room.

“Shh.” He chuckled against her mouth and pushed into her, reveling in the snug grasp of her body. He supported her with one hand, pulling her into his thrusts, and cupped her face with the other, kissing her.

The plastic basket holding toiletries tumbled to the floor. Caitlin leaned back and wound her legs about his hips. Her nails bit into his scalp, and the slight pain joined the unbearable pleasure swirling in his body, pushing him closer to the edge.

“Harder.” She urged him closer. Sweat trickled down the side of his neck, his hair tumbling onto his forehead. She pressed into him, her eyes sliding closed, breath coming in small pants. “All of you.”

“Open your eyes. Look at me.”

She obeyed, the green irises black with wanting, and he felt the first of the tiny contractions within her. Her lids lowered and she bit her lip. “Tick, I—”

“Look at me.” He rasped the command, fighting back his own climax.

Her lashes lifted and he pushed higher, harder, staring into her eyes. Her body pulsed around him, back arching. “Tick—”

He caught her harsh cry with his mouth, plundering hers in rough strokes. His stomach contracted, lungs threatening to burst, ribs on fire. The tension exploded and he thrust deeper, spilling within her.

Gasping, he rested his forehead against hers and waited for his heart to slow down. She kissed his jaw, running her fingers over his back in slow, easy caresses. “I don’t want to stop touching you. The whole time, all I could think of was how I didn’t want it to end with this morning between us—”

“I know.” He brushed his mouth over hers. “I know.”

She scored her nails lightly down his spine. “We’ve got to get back out there.”

“Yeah.” He closed his eyes, inhaling their mingled scents. Reality could wait one more moment for them, though. He’d waited a lifetime today for her.

A hard, swift knock at the door stiffened his body and he jerked, gaze flying to the doorknob to make sure it was locked.

“Tick?” Cookie’s voice held genuine concern. “You all right? You’ve been in there a while.”

Caitlin buried her face against his throat, her silent, strangled laughter vibrating through him. Tick swatted her butt and cleared his throat. “Yeah. Cait brought me some clothes. I’m getting dressed.”

“Oh. Wondered where she’d disappeared to.” Even the door didn’t diffuse Cookie’s wicked glee. “So she’s with you?”

“She is.” Tick sighed. “We’ll be right out.”

Cookie laughed. “Take your time.”

His footsteps faded down the hall, the trailer vibrating slightly as he slammed the exterior door.

Tick glanced in the mirror over Caitlin’s shoulder and grimaced. His hair stuck out in fifteen different angles. A slight film of sweat had dried on his skin, leaving him sticky. “Damn, I need another shower.”

Caitlin’s husky laugh wrapped around him. She kissed his collarbone. “I thought you might. That’s why I brought my clothes along, too.”

He chuckled, the rumble in his chest a warm relief after the day’s fear. “Oh hell, Cait, I love you.”

Under the funeral-home tent making up the makeshift command center, Stanton slumped in a folding chair and tried to pay attention to Botine’s rundown of where they were. The constant noise of the rescue and his own exhaustion made his ears buzz, and his lids felt weighted, slipping down over his gritty eyes whenever he relaxed his guard.

“The current number is forty-three confirmed dead. Seventeen injured. Luckily, only half of those injuries have been critical.” Botine cleared his throat. “We’re estimating over a hundred still missing. I don’t have to tell you how imperative it is that we find any survivors as soon as possible.”

Then hush and let them get back to searching. Stanton leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose. Autry remained among the missing.
Why
hadn’t he told her he loved her? Why had it been so hard to say? Damn it, if he could only find her…he’d make sure she had the words. He’d shout them for everyone to hear and never flinch. Nothing else mattered.

He’d had everything—Autry, their baby—and he’d allowed his fear to get in the way of showing her that.

No more. If—
when
—he found her, he’d make sure she knew just how damn important she was in his life.

“Stanton?” Botine clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. “It’s time you got some rest.”

Stanton shook his head. “I’m fine—”

“That wasn’t a suggestion, Sheriff. It was an order. Take a break, get some food and some sleep. Two hours minimum before—”

“Agent Botine!” A young city police officer skidded to a stop under the tent. “We’ve found a major pocket in the east wing. Numerous bodies, but looks like several survivors too.”

The east wing. The courtroom.

Stanton shook off Botine’s hand and sprinted for the destroyed building. Excitement and fear warred within him, sending his pulse skyrocketing. He scrambled down the miniature mountain of rubble. Voices carried to him.

“God, what a mess. I’ve never seen anything like it.” A firefighter rubbed a hand across his forehead. “They’re all jumbled together.”

Stanton shuddered. It was true—in the pit newly uncovered, both complete and partial remains lay tangled. They were going to find survivors in this?

They had to.

He had to.

Tugging his gloves from his back pocket, he pulled them on. He’d forgotten his filter mask, but he plunged into the fray regardless. Across the depression, he spotted Tick, moving with the slow caution of someone with sore muscles but also with his customary dedication. Falconetti worked near him.

Over the next half hour, Stanton helped extricate four bodies. A nearby team lifted one of the Ingler boys, critically wounded, from the rubble, and he was rushed to the LifeFlight helicopter to be airlifted to a regional hospital.

“Hey, Reed.” Botine picked his way over the chunks of marble and concrete. He extended a plastic evidence bag. “Found it under one of the bodies we just bagged.”

Stanton ran his wrist over sweaty forehead and took the bag. A Haynes County Jail identification card bore Schaefer’s name and photo. He lifted his gaze to Botine’s. “He’s dead?”

Botine grimaced. “Had three bodies twisted together, all of them beyond recognition, but sure looks that way. We’ll be doing DNA tests and looking at dental records to be sure.”

Stanton returned the bag to Botine’s hand. He couldn’t be sorry Schaefer was dead—the man had brought too much grief to too many people—but all he felt was a gaping emptiness. They’d found Schaefer, Cookie…all had been near Autry. Where was she?

“Stan!” Tick’s hoarse shout sent a chill racing down his spine. “Get over here!”

His stomach knotting, he fumbled his way across yards of debris. Tick lay on his stomach, peering into a break in the concrete. Stanton dropped to his knees beside him, his shins aching with the pressure. “What?”

Tick trained his flashlight into the small hole. “I think it’s Autry.”

The quiet resignation in Tick’s voice scared the shit out of him. He reached for the flashlight. “What do you mean, you
think
?”

Tick held on to his end of the light. “She…her face is partially turned away. And there’s a lot of blood.”

Blood. Stanton closed his eyes and swore. Flattening, he wriggled closer to the opening and shone the beam inside. The first thing he saw was a hand, palm up, slender fingers curled inward. A silver bracelet glinted at the wrist.

His heart stuttered. He’d watched Autry fuss with the clasp on that bracelet in his truck this morning. They’d found her. He focused the light up her arm, to her chest, seeking signs of life. Her torso moved with shallow breaths and he lowered his head for a moment, tears burning his eyes, his hands shaking. She was alive. Thank God.

He lifted his head. “Autry? Baby, can you hear me?”

She didn’t respond. Twisting, he met Tick’s sympathetic gaze. “Get a medic, now.”

Tick pushed to his feet, hollering for an EMT, and Falconetti climbed to the top of the rubble. “I’m going to get help.”

Stanton used the light to peer farther into the gloom, fear squeezing his chest. Wood lay across her abdomen, what looked like one of the attorney tables. A chill invaded his body. The baby. Oh Lord, what about her?

He moved the light upward and the sight of blood covering her face punched him in the gut. He shifted closer, trying to reach through to her. The opening wouldn’t allow more than his forearm to enter; her fingers lay just out of reach.

“Autry, sweetheart, it’s Stanton. Honey, I’m right here. Everything’s going to be okay…” He cleared his throat and brushed at his wet cheeks with the back of his hand. “You’re going to be fine.”

Within seconds, volunteers appeared from all over and began shifting debris under a firefighter’s direction. A medical team joined them, emergency kits ready. As the layers of concrete and marble were removed and her face and upper body came into view, Stanton sagged. The blood trickled from a gash at her hairline, and although it was several inches long, it appeared superficial. The medics moved into place, one checking her vitals while the other began a quick physical exam as the volunteers shifted the wooden table away.

“She’s pregnant.” He directed the statement at the first EMT. Stanton knelt by her head, staying out of their way, but needing to be near her, to touch her. He stroked his thumb over her wrist, her skin cool to the touch.

The EMTs exchanged a glance. The second EMT ran a hand over her abdomen, testing, probing. The woman glanced up at Stanton. “Do you know how many weeks?”

Stanton nodded, lacing his fingers with hers. “Twenty. Almost twenty-one.”

The EMT looked at her partner and reached for a pair of scissors, and as she talked, began cutting away Autry’s skirt and stockings. “Start oxygen and get an IV line in. Possible pelvic fracture, appears the membranes have ruptured and contractions have started. We want to move her to the local ER as soon as…oh my God.”

Stanton’s stomach dropped. “What? Damn it, what’s wrong?”

The EMT ignored him, her attention on her partner. “Get a stretcher. Now.”

The male paramedic ran and Stanton leaned forward as the remaining medic scrambled into action, getting the IV started, removing materials from her kit. “What’s going on?”

The woman lifted her gaze to his and he flinched from the sympathy there. “Her injuries have obviously triggered preterm labor—”

“They can stop that, right?” Stanton shook his head. She couldn’t deliver now. It was way too soon. Even he knew that. “Right?”

“No, I’m sorry. Not this time.”

“How do you know?” He refused to give up. Not when he’d finally found her.

“Because when I examined her, I could see the baby’s head.”

They weren’t coming.

He closed his eyes. Autry, Tick, Cookie…they’d been among the lucky ones. Most of the people pulled from the wreckage hadn’t been. The death toll had risen to almost sixty—a massive number of families affected in the small community. He’d have rather seen every one of those gurneys filled, rather than the endless supply of body bags waiting at the courthouse square.

Autry was alive, somewhere in the maze of the emergency room’s cubicles, and he should be relieved, joyful. Instead, fear overwhelmed him, choking every breath. Yes, she’d been one of the lucky ones, but he’d glimpsed the rubber band the EMTs placed on her wrist. Not the green Cookie and Tick had gotten, indicating they were among the walking wounded. They’d snapped a red band on Autry’s wrist. Red. Immediate, life-threatening injuries. The fear wrapped tentacles around him again. Both she and the baby could die.

Tick’s words pounded in his head.

I can live without being a father. I can’t live without her.

Losing the baby would devastate him.

But losing Autry?

If he lost Autry, he’d have nothing.

“Are you Reed?” The female voice held an odd familiarity, something about the rise and fall of the words, although it possessed more of a clipped coastal accent than the slow Southern drawl he’d grown accustomed to.

“That’s me.” Straightening, he turned. Surprise skittered through him, and he stared. Looking at her was like looking at Autry—the same fall of chestnut hair, the stubborn pointed chin. God, he was hallucinating. He shook off the sensation of drowning in déjà vu. At second glance, the differences were plain—her mouth was a thin, tight line, her hair a shade or so darker, and her hazel eyes were dead, void of emotion.

She looked him over. “I’m Madeline Holton.”

“Autry’s sister.” The sister he’d heard Autry mention once, in some offhand manner, and then she’d refused to speak of her again. He swallowed. “I’m sorry about your father.”

“We all are.” She folded her arms over her chest and regarded him, her expression cold.

Stanton ran a hand over his nape. “How’s your mother?”

“How do you think? She’s devastated. She had to be sedated.” She lifted her eyebrows. “What happened here, anyway? Wasn’t your department in charge of security for the courthouse?”

He blinked at the thinly veiled accusation. For the last fourteen hours or so, he’d been asking the same thing, castigating himself. “I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss the particulars with you, Ms. Holton. All information has to go through the GBI—”

“That is such bullshit, and you know it. My father is
dead
, Reed. My sister could be dying and you’re handing me the chain-of-command line? Nate said you used to be a Fed and damn if the training doesn’t still show.”

He smothered a rush of anger. For all he knew, she was attacking him out of grief, out of fear for Autry. Hell, he could empathize. The agony of waiting had him wanting to jump down somebody’s throat too. “I’m not heading up the investigation. You should direct your questions to Agent Botine with the GBI.”

She narrowed her eyes to dull hazel slits. “Why are you here?”

“Because Autry is.”

“And she’s so important to you, is that right?” She stepped closer. “Is that why you dumped her when she came up pregnant?”

He definitely heard Nate Holton’s slant in her words. His stomach muscles quivered with anger, but damned if he’d get into this here with Autry’s sister. Or anywhere for that matter.

“Nothing to say?” An ugly mocking tone made her voice coarse. “You don’t deserve to be here. All of this is your fault. If you’d done your job, my father would be alive and my sister wouldn’t be here, would she?”

Damn, she was right. He knew it, had known it from the moment he figured out that explosion had nothing to do with a gas main. He didn’t deserve to be here. He should be the one in
there
, fighting for his life. Not Autry. Not the baby.

“Stanton?”

At Jay Mackey’s harried voice, he spun. Clad in scrubs, the physician hurried across the waiting room. Stanton flinched from his grim expression.

Oh, God.

Madeline stepped up beside him. “How is she?”

Jay slid a glance in her direction, before his gaze met Stanton’s. “She’s stabilized for now and on her way up to the surgical unit—”

“Surgery?” Madeline’s voice emerged an ugly squeak and Stanton repressed an urge to shake her, tell her to shut up and let Jay speak.

“There’s some internal bleeding we need to stop.” Jay’s face tightened further. “She was close to bleeding out from that. If y’all had found her an hour later, might have been too late.”

Stanton didn’t need to hear that, didn’t need to know how close he’d come to losing her forever. “But she’ll be okay? What about her head? She was bleeding.”

“A fairly superficial cut, but head wounds bleed a lot. We stitched it up and her CAT scans came back clear. That’s reassuring. She has some major bruising to her pelvic area, but thank God, her pelvis is intact. Pelvic fractures can be nasty things.”

Stanton cleared his throat. Jay wasn’t mentioning the baby. Stanton opened his mouth, closed it, sucked in a deep breath.

Jay fiddled with the ring on his right hand. “About the pregnancy…”

The pregnancy. Not the baby. The pregnancy. The air whooshed from Stanton’s lungs, like he’d taken a kick to the solar plexus.

“The amniotic membranes ruptured and Autry was in preterm labor when she was found.”

“The EMT said she could see the baby’s head.”

Jay nodded. “She was crowning already. There was nothing we could do to stop the premature birth at that point. We had to deliver. There wasn’t even time to get up to the obstetrics floor.”

Stanton’s eyes burned. Too early. He didn’t need to be told how too damn early it was. But he needed something. “And?”

Jay’s jaw clenched, his sharp blue eyes sympathetic. “The neonatal team took her upstairs. She’s on a ventilator, but her lungs are underdeveloped, and even at its lowest setting, there’s the risk of blowing out one or both of them.”

“So the prognosis is what exactly?” Madeline’s brittle voice cut through him like shards of glass and dislike bristled in him. They were talking about his daughter and she was throwing around words like
prognosis
.

Jay glanced at the floor. “The reality is we’re saving smaller and smaller babies every day, but she’s a preemie below the threshold of viability.” He looked up, meeting Stanton’s gaze. “I’m sorry, Stan, but even with the ventilator, it’s just a matter of time. The neonatologist is going to tell you the same and he’s going to need you to make some decisions—”

“I’m Autry’s next of kin,” Madeline said and once more Stanton resisted the urge to tell her to shut the fuck up and get away from him. “He has no legal right to make those decisions.”

“Actually, he does.” Jay shifted his gaze to her and Stanton got the idea he was enjoying this single part of the conversation. The doctor slanted a slight smile at Stanton. “Autry has a medical power of attorney, for her and the baby, on file at Dr. Hampton’s office. She changed it last week, giving it to you.”

Ignoring Madeline’s irritated huff of breath, Stanton closed his eyes and thanked God for once that Autry was such a lawyer about things. He opened his eyes and met Jay’s gaze.

“I need to see my daughter.”

He’d never seen a baby so small.

Staring down into the incubator, Stanton held his breath. Eyes closed, she lay sprawled froglike. He’d expected her to be curled into the fetal position, like his boys had slept as young infants, but other than her elbows and knees being bent, she lay straight and still. Her chest, ribs visible under her skin, rose and fell with the pulse of a machine. Tiny wires and tubes invaded her body and his stomach turned over.

How much of that could she feel? He didn’t want her to hurt. Instead he wanted to touch her, hold her close, protect her.

Love her.

His throat closed.

“What are our options?” He had to force out the words.

“She’s too premature to survive. Dr. Mackey has told you that?” The neonatologist stepped forward.

Stanton nodded.

“We can keep her on the ventilator, risk bursting her lungs, and she might live a few days at most. Or remove the ventilator and give her pain medication to make her comfortable for the next few hours.”

Stanton closed his eyes. So there were his choices.

Prolong the inevitable. Keep her here and cause her pain.

Or let her go.

Oh Autry, baby, I need you to help me through this. I need you to tell me what I should do.

Opening his eyes, he stared at his baby’s face. He stroked a fingertip across a tiny palm and her fingers flexed. She was so perfectly formed—ten minuscule fingers, ten matching toes. She was skinny, not much longer than his hand and fine hair covered her body. Wrinkled and a little red, she looked like a wizened old lady. On her head were dark swirls the same color as his own hair. This was the baby he’d first felt fluttering within Autry’s womb only a day ago.

His daughter.

She was his baby and daddies were supposed to do the best thing, the right thing. He swallowed against the massive lump in his throat. His only choice was to do the best thing for her.

“Take her off.”

Over the next few minutes, there were forms to sign, matters to tend to, while a nurse removed the ventilator tube and the other wires, leaving only a single IV line in place.

Finally, it was done and he stood over her again, watching the ragged rise and fall of her breathing. He cupped her head, the swirls of hair incredibly soft under his tentative touch.

The nurse approached. “Mr. Reed? There’s a pastor here, if you’d like one. He’s been with some of the victims’ families in the chapel.”

Did he want one? From deep in his memory, his father’s voice rose, murmuring prayers with him at bedtime. Stanton stroked the baby’s head and nodded. “Please.”

The man appeared in moments, his face haggard yet serene. “Sheriff? My name is Ed Thurley and I am truly sorry.”

Stanton nodded again, unable to speak. He recognized the man—Tick’s pastor.

Thurley clasped Stanton’s shoulder. “Does she have a name, son?”

Memories flashed in Stanton’s head—Autry poring over the baby name book he’d purchased, throwing out wild suggestions and laughing. Finally, they’d tentatively decided without the book, choosing one of each of their grandmother’s names.

He trailed a finger down a tiny cheek. “Claire. Jane Claire.”

“A beautiful name for a precious little girl.” Thurley bowed his head and Stanton followed suit, letting the soft prayer wash over him. His heart hurt. His whole body ached with this loss.

Thurley prayed and read briefly from the Bible. Stanton thanked him before he left and was once more alone with Claire, watching her struggle for breath.

He glanced up at the nurse, across the room tending to another small infant. “Can I hold her?”

Her face softened. “Of course.”

She wrapped a blanket about Claire’s small body and settled them into a Kennedy rocker, draping the IV line out of the way, before leaving them alone again.

Stanton cradled Claire in his arm, stroking her cheek. Her tiny body jerked, fingers flailing before curling into small fists.

“Shh, Claire,” he whispered, brushing his lips over her forehead. “Daddy’s got you. Daddy’s right here.”

He watched her, memorizing her features, the unique baby scent mingling with the harsh scent of Betadine. With one foot, he set the chair rocking and rubbed her back with feather-light touches. He would miss out on so much by not being allowed to be her father, to watch her grow up—guiding first steps, teaching her to ride a bike, letting her cry on his shoulder over her first heartbreak, walking her down the aisle at her wedding.

A tear dripped from his chin and splashed on her foot, but he didn’t brush at his wet face. She deserved his tears, his grief, the overwhelming love in his heart.

He lifted her higher, kissed her cheek. “Claire,” he murmured close to her ear, “Daddy loves you.”

More than he could ever say. More than she’d ever know.

The scent of hospital disinfectant invaded every pore of Stanton’s body, until he swore he’d never get rid of the smell. Outside the NICU, down the hall from the waiting area, he slumped against the wall, heels of his hands pressed into his eyes.

He hadn’t known it was possible to hurt this much. He should have known, should have realized with the birth of his sons, that this kind of loss hung out there, waiting.

Hell, when it came to being a father, he’d been a loser, a failure. A royal fuck-up. He didn’t deserve the boys, didn’t deserve the tiny little girl who’d drawn her last breath in his arms.

His Claire
.

Oh God, how was he going to tell Autry?