Renegade: A Taggart Brothers Novel (3 page)

God had a horrible sense of irony.

“What happened?”

She wasn’t aware that she’d spoken the words aloud until they broke through the muffled drumbeat of the rain and the faint country-western song playing on the radio.

Jace glanced at her, the light from the dashboard painting the angles of his face in blue. He had sharp features—a prominent brow, deep-set eyes, a narrow nose, and a square jaw with a slight cleft. The striking angles reminded Bronte of the rough-hewn, half-finished statues by Michelangelo that she’d once seen in Italy. As if the artist had walked away in mid-sculpt before he could soften the edges.

“Annie fell down the stairs of her house. She broke three ribs, her leg, and her wrist.” He frowned, turning onto a larger highway before continuing. “Unfortunately, it was nearly twenty-four hours before she was found. The wrist and leg needed surgery to repair and she had a reaction to the anesthesia, so she’s in ICU.”

Good heavens
. Her grandmother had undergone surgery and no one in the family had known?

“Will she be all right?”

Jace glanced at her again, obviously not wanting to paint a rosy picture when there was still cause for concern. So he answered instead, “Annie is tough. If she has her way, she’ll pull through.”

Yes, despite her grandmother’s affectionate nature, she’d always had a will of iron. She wouldn’t let a fall keep her down for long.

That thought resurfaced when they arrived at the hospital and dodged out of the rain into the lobby. The facility was one she’d never been to before, and when they stepped inside to the smell of new carpet and paint, she realized it must be a recent addition to the older section.

Shepherding her children ahead of her, she followed Jace to the bank of elevators at the end of the lobby.

Lily’s hand stole into hers. “Mommy?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“When are we going back to Gramma Great’s?”

She squeezed her fingers. “I don’t know. Not for a while, I guess. We need to make sure that Gramma Great is okay.”

As they stepped into the waiting elevator, Lily seemed about to say something more, but as soon as the doors closed, she cast a nervous glance at Jace, and shrank into the corner.

Her daughter had always been shy around strangers, especially men, and Jace Taggart was no exception. He cut an imposing figure in his cowboy hat, bulky Carhartt jacket, and faded jeans. A tall woman herself, he towered over her by several inches—enough so that if he drew her toward him, she would fit under the jut of his chin. Phillip, on the other hand, was a scant inch shorter than Bronte.

Inwardly, she slammed on the brakes. Where had that thought come from? She had enough problems without mooning over the first local male who crossed her path.

Thankfully, the doors slid open before she had time to examine her own thought processes. They hurried down the hall, Lily lagging behind Bronte, so she had to tug on her daughter’s hand to help her keep up.

Once at the nurses’ station, Bronte released her, leaning forward. “Is it possible to see Annie Ellis?” she asked the nurse who stood behind the counter making a note in a three-ring binder. “I’m her granddaughter.”

“Mommy?” Lily tugged at her shirttails.

She touched the top of Lily’s head, smoothing the hair that had escaped from her braids. “One minute, sweetheart.”

The nurse checked a bank of monitors, then smiled. “She’s in ICU, which means only one visitor at a time, fifteen minutes every hour.”

“Mommy?”

She touched Lily’s shoulder in reassurance. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.” She pointed to the corner where the hospital had planned for such situations. “Why don’t you go wait over there? They’ve got books, toys, and a television set. I bet you could find some cartoons.” She smiled, then gestured to Kari.

For once, Kari didn’t argue—thank God. Maybe it was the promise of a television set or the
FREE WI-FI ZONE
placard on the wall. In any event, she took Lily’s hand, pulling her toward a plastic table and chairs in colors that seemed too garish for the subdued waiting room.

At the last minute, Bronte remembered Jace. Her brain scrambled to remember if she had enough money in her wallet to hire a car or a taxi so he wouldn’t be inconvenienced any more. But he’d already folded his lanky frame into one of the chairs and picked up a copy of
People
. She had a brief flash of the absurdity of this thoroughly western male holding up a periodical with a picture of Lady Gaga on its cover before the nurse held her badge up to a security lock, then waved her into the ICU.

*   *   *

JACE
waited until the door bounced shut, then tossed the magazine back on the table. Under the brim of his hat, he watched Bronte’s daughters. The older girl was all gangly limbs and braces, a combination of child and adolescent. He could see some of Bronte’s features reflected in her, but where her mother was calm and collected, Kari was quicker to anger and emotional outbursts—which he supposed was typical of most teenagers her age.

Lily, on the other hand, was small and quiet with dark
Little House on the Prairie
braids. Even now, she huddled
next to the window, one finger idly tracing raindrops that streaked down the glass. She seemed intent on disappearing into the corner unnoticed.

Jace wasn’t sure why, but the sight tugged at his heart.

Pushing himself to his feet, he spoke to the older girl. “I’m going to make a few calls, then I’ll be back.”

She barely glanced at him, her thumbs moving wildly over the tiny keyboard of her iPod. “Sure. Whatever.”

Jace had a feeling that as soon as he left the room, the teenager would forget he’d ever spoken to her, so he’d better be quick.

As soon as he’d punched the button for the elevator, he dialed his phone. Bodey, who was three years his junior, was slower to answer than Elam, his voice husky. “Yo.”

“Where are you?” Jace asked bluntly.

“I’m . . . occupied.”

Jace fought the urge to roll his eyes. Knowing Bodey, he was probably with a lady. Bodey went through women like a soap star through Kleenex. The hell of the matter was that he usually came out of the brief flings as the woman’s best friend.

“How close to the ranch are you?”

“ ’Bout ten minutes. Why?”

“I need you to head to Annie’s,” Jace said as he stepped into the empty car and punched the button for the lobby. “Turn up the heat, then get your tools and repair the front stoop. You’ve got about an hour, maybe an hour and a half.”

Jace heard a female murmur something in the background. Bodey must have covered the phone because his response was muffled. Then, “Why the hell am I going to Annie’s? I thought she was going to be in the hospital for at least a week?”

“Annie’s granddaughter and her kids have shown up in town. They’re at the hospital now, but they’ll be staying in Bliss. Near as I can tell, they came cross-country without knowing she’d been injured.”

“Shit. That’s got to be a shock.”

“Looks like they’re dead on their feet, especially the granddaughter. I’d hate to have them sleep in a chilly house or trip on those loose boards.”

“I’ve got about an hour before I have to meet with one of my cow-cutting sponsors, so I’ll do what I can. We’d be better off tearing the whole stoop down and building her a new one before she gets back. But I’ll see it holds together for a day or two.”

“Thanks, Bode.”

As soon as he’d terminated the call, Jace punched in the number of one of his hired hands. The door to the elevator opened and he stepped into the hall just as the boy answered.

“Jace! What’s up?”

“Hey, Tyson. I know you worked with a mechanic for a couple of years. Do you have any experience with minivans? It’s a Buick or a Chrysler, I think.”

“A bit.”

“Before you hit the fields tomorrow, drop by Annie’s and have a look at the van parked out front. Annie has visitors and their vehicle died at the door.”

“I’m in the area. I’ll take a look at it right now and call you back.”

“I appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

Now that the most important details had been seen to, Jace strode in the direction of the cafeteria. He wasn’t sure when Bronte and her kids had last eaten, but he could grab them something to drink and a snack. Sodas and coffee. No, tea. Bronte Cupacek looked like the sort who would drink tea. An herbal tea. Especially this late at night. Maybe after a visit with her grandmother and a sip or two of something warm and soothing, some of the tension would ease from her frame.

Jace didn’t bother to examine why it was so important to him to provide that tiny gesture of comfort—or why he found himself so affected by the shadows in her eyes.

He was being neighborly, that was all.

B
RONTE
had never liked hospitals—probably due to an emergency appendectomy when she was six. The scents of antiseptic and misery seemed to hang over her like the thunderclouds outside, but she pushed the sensation away. This wasn’t about her. It was about Grandma Annie being hurt and alone without any of her family even knowing what had occurred.

Why hadn’t Annie arranged to call one of them after her fall?

But then, Bronte realized Annie had probably been frightened and in pain, unable to notify anyone. Even if she’d been coherent enough, that wasn’t Grandma Annie’s style. She was fiercely independent; any show of weakness was a cardinal sin. Only once had Bronte’s father suggested to Annie that she should move to a retirement home. Drawing herself up to full height, she’d demanded that James Ellis stay out of her affairs. She could take care of the farm herself, and if she couldn’t . . . well, she could always “hire a boy to do it.”

Bronte couldn’t help smiling as Grandma’s familiar
motto rang in her ear. But the smile faded when Bronte realized that Annie had found a “boy” to help her. Jace Taggart. And there was nothing “boyish” about him.

The nurse stopped in front of a striped curtain. Perhaps the designer had believed the muted shades of orange, gray, and beige would be soothing. To Bronte, they were simply a reflection of the storm outside and her own muddy fears.

“Remember, fifteen minutes at the most. She’s being kept sedated, so she might not even realize that you’re here.”

Bronte nodded. Gripping her shoulder bag more tightly, she ducked through the curtain.

Once on the other side, she stutter-stepped to a halt, her eyes clinging to the tiny figure that barely managed to fill out the blankets.

Her grandmother was thin, so thin. It had been a good five years since Bronte had seen her last, and in that time, Annie seemed to have shrunk to a miniature version of the robust woman she’d once been. Her hair had turned white and wispy, so baby fine that the pink of her scalp showed through. An arm wrapped heavily in bandages was propped up on a pillow. The other lay across her chest, and fingers twisted with arthritis gripped the blankets with bird-like digits draped in wrinkled skin. An IV ran from that hand to the stand beside her bed, and Bronte winced at the pain it must have caused for a needle to be plunged into such fragile flesh.

Rounding the bed, Bronte reached for Annie’s free hand, mindful of the tubes and lead wires that ran from her body. Stroking her grandmother’s knuckles with her thumb, Bronte leaned forward, kissing Annie’s forehead as if her grandmother were a child.

In that instant, emotions thick and strong rolled over her, and she was nearly overcome with the need to protect her grandmother, to lessen her pain, to let her know that she loved her and she’d been so wrong to wall herself off from Annie’s obvious need.

“Grandma Annie? I’m here. You’re not alone anymore.”

If Annie heard, she gave no sign. Her breathing continued in soft puffs around the cannula, the rhythm irregular and
shallow, as if the pain gripped her even through the medication. She’d turned her cheek slightly into the pillow, and the position had caused her ear to fold over on itself—and for some reason, that sight, more than the leads and the bandages and the garish bruises clutched at Bronte’s heart.

Gently, Bronte smoothed Annie’s ear back into place. As she did so, she was struck by the delicate softness of Annie’s skin—like a newborn’s, but stretched, lined, and spotted, as if each blemish bore testament to the fears, joys, and sorrows she’d endured.

Bronte thought Annie’s eyes flickered. In that second she felt the same fierce surge of emotion that she’d experienced when her children were placed in her arms for the first time. This woman, who had done nothing but love Bronte unconditionally, needed her care in return. For the first time in weeks, months . . .
years,
Bronte felt as if she were being thrown an anchor in the midst of a stormy sea.

This was what she had instinctively longed to find when she’d fled Boston. This sense of rightness, of homecoming, of safety. Not that anything had been solved by coming to Bliss. But this sense of being
needed—
not simply to run errands, cook, and clean, or wrap her arms around her swiftly imploding marriage—eased the heartache that sat in her chest like a lump of lead.

“I love you, Grandma,” she said, leaning close to brush her lips against her cheek. “We’ll get through this somehow.”

The rustle of the curtain was her cue to leave. Bronte waited until the nurse and she were well away from the other cubicles to whisper, “How is she?”

“As I said, she’s stable right now. The doctor will give you more details when he makes his rounds in the morning, but her vitals are strong. She’s a fighter.” The nurse tipped her head, eyeing her with concern. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Bronte shook her head. “No, I live in—”

She stumbled. How could she finish the sentence? Like a petulant child, she’d run away from home, and she really
couldn’t envision going back anytime soon. She didn’t belong anywhere.

No. That wasn’t right. She belonged here. In Bliss.

Since the nurse still waited for an answer, she said, “I just arrived. From Boston.”

The woman nodded. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you look exhausted.”

Which Bronte supposed was a nice way of telling her that she looked like hell. For the life of her, she didn’t know the best way to respond to the nurse’s comment. Her hand twitched with the need to shield the bruise from her gaze, even as her brain warned her that doing so would only call more attention to it.

But this woman didn’t wait for her to defend her appearance. Instead, she offered her a small smile, her gaze flicking from her eyes to the bruise, then back again. “The meds are going to keep Annie out of things for a while. I know you want be here, but it might be better if you got some rest tonight. Then you could come back in the morning when you’re feeling more like yourself.”

More like herself?
How could that be possible if she didn’t know what that meant anymore?

Bronte wanted to argue, to insist that Annie had already been alone too long and that Bronte was more than willing to stay. But deep down, she knew this woman—
Steff
! according to her name tag—was right. She had more than herself to think of tonight. Kari and Lily had been pushed to their limits as well. They needed food and beds and freedom—more than a hotel room could offer. Tomorrow, they could sort out the rest: settling in, fixing her car, seeing to Annie. Maybe she was taking for granted the fact that Annie would open her home to them, but she didn’t think so. Grandma Annie had always welcomed them with open arms, and Bronte doubted her modus operandi had changed. Besides, Annie would need someone to take care of her once she returned home.

Bronte didn’t even allow herself to consider the prospect
that Annie might not return at all. Bronte refused to acknowledge the fragility of the figure she’d left in that bed in the ICU. Instead, she focused on her grandmother’s iron will. Annie would be coming home. Soon.

*   *   *

BRONTE
stepped back into the waiting area and stopped short, her mother’s instinct warning her even before she’d completely crossed the threshold that something was wrong. In an instant, she noted that Jace was gone. Lily sat hunched in the corner, her face averted, her shoulders shaking in silent sobs. Kari, her hormone-laden, oblivious, teenage daughter, was plugged into her iPod, completely unaware of her sister’s distress.

“What happened?” she asked, then swore beneath her breath and snatched one of the headphones out of her ear. “Kari, what happened to your sister?”

“How should I know?” Kari demanded, rife with the self-righteous indignation of puberty.

“I told you to keep an eye on her.”

“No. You didn’t,” Kari said with the dreaded eye roll. Dear God in Heaven, every time she did that, Bronte’s fingers twitched—and she’d been one of those anti-spanking proponents.

“Where’s Jace?”

She shrugged. “He told me he was headed somewhere, but I forget.”

Great. So Bronte had no idea if he was planning to take them home or if she should make her own arrangements.

But even as the thought flashed through Bronte’s mind, a snuffling sob from the corner pushed her toward her younger daughter. She was a good yard away when the ammonia-like sting of urine assaulted her nostrils.

Oh, hell.
Forget Mother of the Year. Bronte would be lucky if her children survived through adolescence.

“Come on, sweetie,” she said, crouching down next to Lily. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

When Lily lifted her chin, her eyes were big and wet,
like cornflowers dappled with rain. But rather than the recrimination Bronte had expected to find, there was only misery and humiliation. “I tried to . . . to tell you . . .”

“I know, honey,” Bronte said with a sigh, sweeping strands of wet hair from Lily’s cheeks. “It’s my fault. All my fault.”

Taking Lily’s hand, Bronte managed a whispered explanation to
Steff!
who directed them to a large handicapped restroom in the hall. Once there, Bronte helped her daughter strip off her wet clothes. Within seconds, there was a tap on the door, and
Steff!
handed Bronte a small bar of soap, a clean towel and washcloth, a bag for Lily’s soiled clothes, and a child-sized hospital gown.

As Bronte soaped and rinsed her daughter’s lithe form, memories of Lily as a toddler came crashing back—bubble baths and afternoons at the pool, bedtime and potty training. How many times had she run a washcloth over her daughter’s body, wiping her clean of the day’s adventures so that she could climb into bed smelling of soap and baby shampoo?

While Lily shivered in the cold hospital bathroom, mortified and miserable, Bronte felt a fleeting instant of peace in the familiar routine. For an instant, she remembered that what was truly important was the well-being of her children. As long as they were safe and warm and fed, she could withstand almost anything.

Bronte helped Lily slip into the hospital gown, wrapping it as tightly as she could around her. Then she drew her daughter close, hugging her, hoping that her trembling would ease as she absorbed the warmth of her body.

“No harm done,” she whispered.

“But—”

“Shh.” She stroked her hair, rocking her ever so slightly. “It was my fault. All my fault.”

She should have remembered that Lily had said she needed to use the bathroom. She should have listened when Lily had tried to talk to her. Lily’s shyness had grown almost paralyzing over the past year—to the point where she would rather die than talk to a stranger. And Kari . . .

Well, she couldn’t blame Kari for inattentiveness when Bronte had cavalierly displayed it herself.

“Don’t you worry about a thing, pumpkin. As soon as we get back home, we’ll climb into bed. Come morning, everything will be better. It always is.”

But the words sounded empty, even to Bronte.

“Is Gramma Great’s our home now?” Lily asked, her voice barely a whisper—and Bronte instinctively knew that there were layers of meaning beneath Lily’s question. As much as Bronte might have tried to shield her children and obscure the true motives for their flight beneath the guise of fun, her dear, sweet, darling Lily had sensed the undercurrents of tension like a dowser finding water. With Kari, she might have prevaricated. But she sensed that Lily wanted—
needed
—the gift of truth.

“I don’t know, sweetie. I think, at least for now, we’ll stay here. Gramma Great will need our help once she gets out of the hospital—and I think you’ll like it here.”

She couldn’t be sure, but she thought that the tense line of Lily’s shoulders eased.

“Would that be okay?” Again, Bronte offered her daughter a choice, knowing that, like Bronte, Lily needed at least the illusion of control.

She was rewarded with an eager nod and a quick, gamin smile, and Bronte’s heart flip-flopped in her chest like a grounded fish. If her children only knew how completely they held her heart in their palms, merely by being happy.

She gathered Lily’s things, stuffing clothes and shoes into the bag. She was taking Lily’s hand when there was another soft tap on the door.

“Is everything okay?”

Steff!
was beginning to grow on Bronte. Especially when Bronte opened the door to find the nurse bearing a soft fleecy blanket. “Look what one of my friends found for you in pediatrics,” the woman said, patting the furry fabric. “The minute she saw it, she knew it was meant to go to you.”

“Why?” Lily asked in a barely audible whisper.

“Well, she heard your name was Lily. Is that right?”

Lily nodded.

“Then this is definitely yours.”
Steff!
shook it open.

It was a simple blanket, probably one of hundreds made by a ladies’ civics group or a local 4-H club. A single layer of fleece had been fringed at the edges and tied into decorative knots. But the bright blue fabric was covered with dozens of fat cartoon frogs basking on flowering lily pads.