Trauma Plan (19 page)

“From a fall at work? How could that happen?”

Riley swallowed.
Oh, please . . .

“I don’t get it. Wet floor? Stumbled over equipment?” Jack stared at her, waiting.

Riley took a breath. “It happened in the parking garage. On the stairs. It was dark, and—”

“You’re shaking. Hey . . .” Jack reached out, lifted her chin, made her look at him. “Riley?”

“I was . . . attacked,” she said, her voice cracking. “A random assault. Strangled and shoved down a flight of cement steps. They found me on the floor. With a skull fracture, broken ribs . . . and my neck. They still don’t know who it was, or—” A sob wrenched free and the brimming tears spilled over, streaming down her face.

Before she could take another breath, Jack’s arms were around her.

15

“Shhh . . . shhh. I’ve got you.” Jack held Riley against his chest, cradling the back of her head in his hand. He whispered, lips against her hair, “It’s okay.”

Assaulted, strangled.
Jack’s stomach roiled at the memory of Jane Doe . . . of Abby. His attempt at comfort was a lie. There was no way to make this kind of nightmare okay.

“I’m sorry,” Riley whispered, her voice thick with emotion. She pulled back, brushing at her eyes. “I’m . . . fine now.”

He released her reluctantly, and she peered up at him, a festive speck of pink still clinging to her left cheek. Her chin trembled. “Th-thank you, Jack.”

“No problem.” He led Riley back toward the table, saw their waiter discreetly close the French doors and switch off the hallway lights. Jack made a mental note to leave the man a generous tip.

“Here you go.” Jack shook confetti from a napkin and handed it to her. She blotted her eyes, and his throat squeezed at how vulnerable she looked. And broken. Despite her injury, he’d never thought of Riley that way. Not for a minute.

“I’m sorry I pressed you,” he said, moving his chair close.

“I don’t talk about it much.” Riley tried to smile. “Not since I walked away from the fleet of therapists my parents were paying to listen. Enough is enough. It’s been almost a year.”

A year is nothing, Chaplain. Especially if you were . . .
Jack opened his mouth to ask the question. Couldn’t.

“I wasn’t . . . He didn’t do anything more,” she said, reading his eyes. “There’s that to be grateful for.” She flexed the fingers on her right hand. “And I have more use of my arm than the surgeons expected. Not as much as I want—but enough to make my parents crazy with worry. They want me to give up my nursing career,” she explained. “Come back to Houston. They were opposed to my being a nurse from the beginning, think it’s too dangerous for me.”

Jack suppressed a groan, seeing Vanessa Hale’s visit to the clinic in a new light. And then the attempted purse snatching later the same day . . . no wonder Riley had been so frightened.

She sighed. “It’s been that way all my life. I had a sister who was kidnapped. She died.”

Jack’s stomach lurched. “When?”

“Long before I was born. My parents never expected to have another child. So when I came, they went into protective overdrive. You can imagine. And it didn’t help that there was an incident with my cousin a few years back. On a church mission trip across the border—an attempt to kidnap her and another volunteer. It turned out all right. But . . .”

“It made your parents even more determined to keep you safe.”
So you wouldn’t end up like Abby.
Jack wrestled with the nightmarish memory.

“Exactly. So I took a nursing position just a few miles from home. And still ended up with those hands around my throat. It’s ironic, I suppose.” Her fingers moved inside his, and Jack realized that at some point he’d taken hold of her hand. She left it there.

Riley was quiet for a moment, the sounds of distant music and laughter filling the vacuum. When she spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. “People say that I’m brave. That my recovery was a miracle. I don’t feel that way. I want more, and I know that’s wrong. I should be nothing but grateful because I could be like Jane Doe is now. Or I could have died on that garage floor.”

Jack stood abruptly and took a few steps away, squeezing his eyes shut against the memory of the police officer’s voice.

“She’s dead, Mr. Travis. Abby’s been murdered.”

“Jack?” Riley asked, joining him at the balcony. “Are you all right?”

“Sure. Fine,” he said without looking at her, hating his selfishness in that—and in wishing he were anywhere else but here right now. Skydiving, rock climbing, or even . . . He stared down at the crowded tables along the river, imagining he was there, knocking back a few beers, laughing at bad jokes and flirting with some half-pretty but completely willing waitress. An anonymous, numbing free fall from pain, past and present. They were things he hadn’t done in years, had lost the stomach for.

“I should get you home,” he said in a monotone, eyes still on the river. “You probably have church or something tomorrow.”

Riley touched his arm. “I’m sorry,” she said with confusion and hurt in her voice. “I shouldn’t have dumped all that on you. It wasn’t fair to expect you to understand—”

“I
do
,” Jack blurted, wishing his voice hadn’t sounded angry—and ignoring every instinct to stop right there. “I do understand what that’s like,” he continued, softening his voice. “I can relate to what you went through. Because . . .”

He braced his hands on the rail, dipped his head, and took a slow breath. Riley’s hand returned to his arm.

She waited, her patient silence encouraging him far more than he could have imagined. He hadn’t said what he was about to say in years.

Jack finally turned his head to meet her gaze, feeling the same way he had the first time he’d jumped from a plane. “I had this friend, a long time ago. She was murdered.”

* * *

Riley breathed through her nose, willed herself not to flinch, though her knees had begun to tremble. She kept her hand on Jack’s arm and held his gaze, sensing he wasn’t finished.
Lord, help me to listen.

“I was twenty,” he said. “Reckless, no goals, suspended driver’s license. Waiting tables part-time at a brewery grill in Fredericksburg.” His lips pressed together. “And using my father’s cancer as an excuse to be mad at the world, I guess. Abby had been accepted at TCU—on a full scholarship. She was smart and had such a strong faith. She wanted to work with kids, make the world a better place. Needless to say, her parents weren’t exactly thrilled when she dragged me home. She’d have started college in another week, if . . .” His wince was discernible even in lantern light. “It’s a cold case, no leads. The detectives assumed that after the carjacking, she was raped. Then shoved into the trunk of her car.” Jack’s expression showed marrow-deep pain. “They weren’t sure if she was still alive when it was set on fire.”

Riley gasped. “Jack . . .” She flung her arms around him, tears brimming. He hesitated, then hugged her back. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured against his chest.

“No, don’t,” he said, pushing her away enough that he could look into her face. His gaze was intense. Eyes shiny. “You don’t need to try to make it better for me. I’m trying to tell
you
that I understand. It makes me sick that you’ve gone through all this, Riley. You have every right to want what that lowlife stole from you; it should never have happened. To you or Abby or that poor kid who was dumped on my clinic porch.” He frowned. “I’m sparing you my doubts about how God figures into that mess, but I’ll tell you that I’m sick to death of people who stand by and do nothing to help. It’s the same as condoning it.” A muscle bunched along Jack’s jaw. “And if I’d had a few more minutes with that punk who tried to steal your purse—”

“It’s over,” she interrupted. “I’m fine. And you . . .” Riley reached up and rested her fingers against his face, her heart refusing to cater to lifelong caution. “You’ve been a blessing, Jack. By taking a chance with me at your clinic, and tonight too. Showing me the Alamo, my first Fiesta—” she smiled, watching his beautiful eyes—“and letting me ambush you so badly with those eggs.”

“Hey . . .” The corners of his toffee eyes crinkled with his smile. “Not so badly.”

Riley laughed, drew back. His hands slid to rest on her waist, their warmth seeping through the thin fabric of her shirt.

“I’d say we were pretty evenly matched egg-wise,” Jack said.

And so different on every other level, but . . .
Riley shook the thought aside. “I’ll concede to a tie because of the hair wreath.”

There was a long silence, filled only by the distant strains of mariachi music. And by the merciless thrumming of Riley’s pulse in her ears. “Thank you for today,” she whispered against the sudden, undeniable swirling of her senses.

“You’re most welcome.” He traced a fingertip along her cheek. Then brushed her bangs aside and bent close, touching his lips to her forehead, warmth against a scar that went so much deeper. “You’re beautiful,” Jack whispered, lips against tender skin, “and brave. Don’t doubt that, Riley. For even a second.”

Jack drew back, smiled down at her. Then his head dipped slowly lower, his eyes holding hers. He took a soft breath, waited.

Riley wasn’t sure if she nodded. Or merely closed her eyes.

Jack’s kiss was gentle, initially tentative and completely respectful. Then, when Riley responded, it was far more thorough . . . and breathlessly lingering. Somehow she managed to get an arm around his neck and a hand splayed against his back. One capable, one numb—both hanging on for dear life to keep her knees from buckling. His arms were strong, solid, and being held in them made her feel . . . like she was skydiving.

What am I doing? . . . I don’t care. I just want to finally feel alive.

* * *

“Grab her! Don’t let her get away!”

Vesta’s scream stuck in her throat, confusion and terror making her nearly blind as she raced to escape. Her car was so close. And too far. She stumbled, felt a vicious yank on her hair, vise-tight fingers on her shoulder. She whirled, raised her knee, and kicked, feeling her shoe connect near his groin—near enough. He cursed and hunched over, staggering backward.

“Get her!”

Vesta ran, shoes skidding on loose gravel. Her lungs sucked at thick night air fouled by a suffocating mix of highway asphalt, gasoline, smoke . . . and fear. Her car, lights still on.
Open the door—the keys, the keys . . .
Something exploded in the distance; there was sudden heat on her skin. She scrambled to climb into the driver’s seat, pull the door closed, and then find the ignition.
Where is it? There.
The engine leaped to life. She grabbed for the gearshift, and—

A face at the window. Backlit by the flames, young, wild . . . desperate, murderous eyes. His hands on the door handle, and—

Oh, God, please save me!

Vesta jerked awake in the dim light, confused and shivering; her nightgown was soaked with sweat, her heart pounding. She swept a hand through her hair, dizzy for a moment as reality—blessed relief—came at last. The way it always did after the nightmare that had plagued her for fifteen years. Exactly the same. No. Maybe not anymore. After what she’d seen from the window yesterday evening . . .
Was it possible?

She switched on the bedside lamp, swung her legs to the floor. She glanced at the clock: 3:30.
Sunday.
Her gaze swept over the Bible lying next to the clock. Closed, in need of a dusting . . . in need of reading. Familiar regret, laced with guilt, washed over her. She reached for her glass of water, thinking of Riley Hale. Her kindness, the way she’d listened with such compassion and without judgment. She’d no doubt heard a lot of things—as a nurse and as a chaplain—stories, confidences . . . nightmares? Would she listen?

Vesta took a slow breath, shaking off the idea. Then reached for her robe. Her mouth was dry, despite the water, and the nagging dizziness persisted. She knew the symptoms all too well.

She retrieved the test kit from the bathroom and settled into the wing chair in the living room. She pushed up her sleeve, pricked her skin, and watched the tiny drop of blood well up. After collecting it on the testing strip, she transferred it to the metering device and waited for the blood sugar reading to display.

Vesta wondered idly how long she’d spent waiting like this over the span of her years. Up to sixty seconds, three or more times a day . . . She glanced back at the monitor as the reading displayed 205. Nearly double what it should be after her evening insulin. She’d had no sherry, no extra carbohydrates at dinner, spent thirty minutes on the treadmill, and checked her feet carefully for blisters and redness after her shower. Maybe she was coming down with a cold.
Or maybe it’s stress.

Vesta glanced toward the window, its curtains released from their tiebacks and closed securely. She fought an urge to check all the locks, bring the baseball bat back to her bedroom. What would be the harm in that? She’d let it rest against the colonel’s pillow . . .