The monitor emitted a single high-pitched tone. “Shit. Not again,” Bartholomew breathed as he dove into chest compressions. His hands trembled as he shoved down into Sloan’s sternum. What the hell happened? They had no warning. Robert never called. There was no indicator of a threat from anyone they knew of. Those around had said it was a lone gunman who had run off.
“What’s our ETA?” he shouted.
“We’re seven minutes out,” the driver reported.
“Can you speed it up?”
“Not safely. Do you know this guy or something?”
Bartholomew breathed a sigh of relief at the blip on the screen. “He’s my best friend.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Bartholomew felt the ambulance lurch faster as it sped through the streets. He slumped back in his seat. His thoughts went to Maggie. This was the only member of her family still alive. And Abbey? She would be lost without Sloan, especially with a baby on the way.
He leaned toward Sloan’s head. “You need to fight, Sloan,” he whispered. “You can’t give up now. Fight this, brother. She needs you. Now more than ever, she needs you. Fight for Abbey.”
The ambulance skidded to a halt. Bartholomew threw open the doors to meet the medical team waiting for him. He looked at Laura. “Where’s Maggie?”
“Coming. Is this the gunshot victim?”
“Yes. Keep her away.”
“I’m right here.” Maggie all but hissed at him. “I don’t know what your problem is…”
“Evans, report,” Laura demanded.
Bartholomew’s eyes locked with Maggie’s as he yanked the gurney from the ambulance. “Thirty-eight-year-old male. Gunshot wound to the chest. Massive blood loss. Lost pulse twice en route to the hospital. CPR was administered. Currently, his pulse is thready at best. Who’s the physician available?”
“Jackson.”
“Fantastic. Where the hell is he? Page him.” Bartholomew joined the rest of the medical team as they shoved Sloan through the doors toward a room. He heard a sob as he passed. I can’t help you right now, sweetheart. I have to save your brother.
“We already did.”
Nearly a dozen doctors and nurses flocked to the trauma room as soon as the wheels of the gurney hit the ceramic tile floor. Bartholomew searched the faces frantically.
"Where’s Jackson?" he demanded.
"I don’t know," Ruth shouted over the chaos, irritation evident in her voice.
“Eric, take over.”
“Do you remember the last time I took over one of his cases?” Eric protested.
“Screw this.” Bartholomew ripped Sloan's T-shirt open. He glared at the nurse nearest to him. "Hook up the monitors. Restart an IV. Now."
“Evans, you’re a paramedic. You have no authorization…”
“Let him be, Eric,” Laura interrupted. “He probably has more medical experience than you do. If something happens, it’s on me.”
The nurse peeled off the backing and pressed them to Sloan's bare chest, hooking a wire to each as she went. Once she was finished, Bartholomew flipped the machine on. A weak blip traveled across the screen.
He glanced to another nurse, a petite blonde standing beside him. "Call Cardio. Tell them to get down here now."
The blonde nodded with a smile and then rushed off for the telephone. He grabbed a handful of bandages and pressed them against the gaping wound. He couldn't look at it. Where the hell was Gordon? Where the hell was I? I was here, tending to ungrateful brats, when I should have been doing my real job protecting Sloan, taking this bullet embedded in his chest…
Another high pitch tone of a flat line woke Bartholomew from his thoughts.
“What the hell is going on here?” Jackson demanded as he entered the room. A buxom brunette physician’s assistant with a flushed face hurried in behind him, straightening her top as she went.
"Get me the paddles!" Bartholomew demanded. He turned to find the defibrillator at his hip, the blonde nurse grinning happily at her own personal game of fetch. He smiled back at her briefly and then flipped the switch.
Picking up a paddle in each hand, he hollered, "Clear!"
He pushed the paddles against Sloan's chest. Sloan's still body leaped in response to the voltage running through it. The pulse on the screen did not change.
“Evans, get away from my patient!” Jackson ordered.
Bartholomew turned the current higher. "Come on, Sloan," he muttered. "You have to fight. You can't let go yet. We need you. Abbey needs you. You can't leave Abbey and your child behind. Come on, brother. Fight. Fight for your Abbey."
“Evans, I said now!”
“Be here when you’re paged next time, you asshole!” Bartholomew fired back.
He pressed the paddles against Sloan's chest one more time. Once again, Sloan's body leaped from the electrical current. This time the weak blip reappeared on the screen.
A small, bald man stormed into the trauma room. He glanced around at the chaos. "Is this the gunshot victim?"
"Yes," Bartholomew reported.
"Do you have a heart rhythm?"
"Yes."
"Then get him up to Cardio while I still have a chance to save him." The cardiologist turned to Jackson. "Why is an EMT working on this patient? What are you doing?"
"I was…tied up with something else,” Jackson confessed.
"More important than your patients? Had you called me when this man arrived, I’d have a better chance of saving him. But since you didn't call me when he arrived, he’ll most likely be dead when I get him up to surgery. This is shoddy treatment, Jackson. I will be meeting with your supervisor about this." The man jogged after the nursing staff that had already wheeled the unconscious Sloan down the hall toward the elevators.
Bartholomew inhaled deeply as he peeled his gloves off. He tossed them in the trash and then shuffled into the hallway. He jostled to a stop as he collided with a body in his way.
"Evans, when I give you an order, I expect you to follow it. Do you understand me?" Jackson ordered as he poked Bartholomew violently in the chest.
"Was I supposed to just let him sit there until you got around to saving him?" Bartholomew defended.
“In case you haven’t checked, you’re a paramedic. You couldn’t cut it to be a doctor.”
“That is the biggest bunch of bullshit—”
“And we can’t patch up every redneck gunfight that comes in here. The hospital would go broke. Not that you care. You aren’t qualified to work here.”
“Redneck? Don’t you know who that was?”
“No, and I don’t care.”
“The man on that gurney is Maggie’s brother, the only living member of her family she has left.”
“So? What difference does that make?”
“You don’t care that you almost killed Maggie’s brother? I thought you loved her.”
“Love? Maggie is just another piece of ass. She’s great until the next one comes along. What the hell do you think I was doing with the new physician’s assistance?””
Bartholomew’s fist flew in a white-hot rage, impacting across Jackson’s jaw. Jackson stumbled back, stunned, as he grasped his chin. Then he lunged at Bartholomew, wrapping his arm around Bartholomew’s neck and dropping him to the ground. Bartholomew didn’t think. He just swung, striking whatever part of Jackson he could reach.
Bartholomew couldn’t focus on the scene around him until several strong hands pulled him free from Jackson and stood him on his feet. He glanced around the crowd that had gathered for the brawl. His eyes finally focused on a pair of ice blue eyes, ones framed with ebony curls.
Maggie’s eyes were swollen red with tears. Her gaze told him she had seen everything that had happened since the ambulance arrived at the hospital. She probably heard every word.
He dabbed at the trail of blood trickling from his nose as he stormed through the emergency room toward the door. He stopped briefly as a second trauma patient was brought in from the ambulance bay.
“Twenty-seven-year-old female. Thirty-two weeks into pregnancy. There is significant bleeding. Someone needs to contact obstetrics. Contractions are a minute apart. She was involved with that shooting in Mount Vernon.”
Bartholomew breathed a silent prayer for Abbey and the baby. There was nothing else he could do.
»»•««
Maggie wandered the hospital corridors without plan or purpose. Her red, swollen eyes were clouded. Objects were only foggy shapes. She was amazed she didn’t walk herself into a wall.
She exhaled long and hard. She thought Jackson loved her. She thought he acted like he loved her. But as she looked at her past with him, she saw each and every one of his acts of love as a way to get her into bed. And like a fool, I fell for it. Lord, what an idiot I am! If I had only listened to Bartholomew, I could have saved myself all this heartache.
She thought hard about her tall hero. Bartholomew had always protected her, always defended her. He had tried talking sense into her. He had dried her tears. She had dismissed it as him doing her brother's bidding. It was so very clear that he wasn't. Did he ever tell Sloan all the things I did? I doubt it. He was never going to tattle on me to my brother.
Maggie's thoughts returned to the one piercing point at hand. Her brother. Sloan. Fighting for his life. A sob choked out from her throat. He was the only piece of her family left, one she just gotten back after eighteen years. Sure, he was overbearing. But she'd give anything to keep his overbearing butt around longer. The thought that I could be alone….
Even thousands of miles away, Sloan had been her rock. Even all that distance apart, she could lean on her brother for anything. When she had a problem, he was there, whether it was money or advice or encouragement. Although he was never near, she believed with all her heart that she had the best brother in the world. He spoiled me, he was there when I needed him, and he wasn’t around to drive me crazy. I’m not ready to let him go. Please, Sloan. Please don’t die.
"Can I help you, miss?"
Maggie looked up slowly at the gentle, elderly receptionist. Then she craned her neck to read the sign to see where she had wandered. Cardiology. She let loose another sob.
The receptionist sprung to her feet and scampered around the desk. She flung her arms around Maggie. "Miss, are you all right?" the woman asked.
"My brother…surgery…is he okay?" Maggie begged.
"Your brother's name?"
She swallowed hard. "Sloan O'Riley."
The receptionist's lips pressed into a hard, thin line. "They’re still in surgery. I’m sorry, miss. It could be awhile."
Maggie gazed at her and then forced out a smile and nod of thanks. She shuffled away from the desk, staring at the ground as she made her way toward the hallway.
She looked up again at the thundering sound of approaching feet. Her eyes met with those of Mary and Gordon, their faces both filled with alarm. She could feel Mary's heart breaking as the older woman wrapped her in a warm hug.
"Maggie," Mary breathed. She smoothed Maggie's black curls as Maggie buried her face in Mary’s shoulder and cried. Maggie snuggled closer as she felt Gordon's large, strong arms envelope them both.
"Maggie, how's Sloan?" he implored.
"He's in surgery. They say it could be awhile. His heart stopped three times. I don't know if he'll make it," Maggie whimpered. Her eyes opened wide. "Abbey? Where's Abbey?"
Mary paused before she spoke. "Maggie, you're an aunt. You have a niece. The placenta began to tear away when Abbey was shoved around. Both she and the baby started to lose blood. They had no choice but to deliver."
"But Abbey wasn't due for another eight weeks."
Mary shrugged. "The baby's name is Amelia."
Maggie shuddered a sigh. Her mind filled with agonizing thoughts. Her brother fighting for his life. Her niece fighting for hers. Her sister-in-law losing blood. The possibility of little Amelia growing up without her daddy. Abbey possibly losing the love of her life. Or her daughter. Or both.
Maggie couldn’t stop the images going through her head. She started to whimper again.
Gordon wrapped an arm around her. "Let's go sit and wait until they come out with word on Sloan." He gently led them back to the waiting area. Maggie slumped into the first row of chairs she came to. She barely noticed Gordon and Mary sit on either side of her. Gordon gently cradled her head in his hand as he shepherded it toward his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her as she cried.
»»•««
Bartholomew sat hunched over, his elbows poked into his knees, his hands buried in his blond hair. He turned on the basketball game looking for a distraction. It didn't help.
The fact that he was probably now unemployed didn't matter to him. His last medical case consisted of sending a strong electrical current into the chest of his true employer, a man who literally saved him and gave him opportunities he could only dream of. His last act as a paramedic was fighting to keep that man alive. And knocking Doctor Jackson Davis flat.
Is Sloan my true employer? Bartholomew laughed despondently. Sloan was more than that. He was Bartholomew's friend. No, Sloan was his brother, closer to Bartholomew than those of flesh and blood. His brothers had accused him of abandoning his parents and the ranch when he chose to serve his country. They had never thanked him when he had produced the money to keep the ranch out of foreclosure.
If the blessed day ever arrived that Bartholomew was married, Sloan would stand by his side long before his brothers would. That is, if Sloan survived the night.
He was roused from his thoughts by a knock at the door. Stiffly, he stood and then shuffled across the living room. Unlatching the deadbolt, he pulled the door open.
Maggie stood in the hallway, her arms hugged tightly around herself. Her ice blue eyes were puffy from hours of tears. He could see her struggling to keep her small body from falling to pieces. He suspected her heart already had.
"Maggie," he breathed.
She looked into his eyes and then took a step toward him. Slowly, she unwound her arms from herself and pressed them against his broad chest. He shuddered as she trailed her fingers across his shoulders. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she drew his face to hers and pressed her soft lips against his. He opened his mouth as she deepened the kiss, gently tangling his tongue with hers.
Bartholomew lost himself in the embrace as he grasped her closer, wrapping his strong arms around her. He jumped, startled, as he heard the apartment door slam shut, completely unaware of when they had stumbled back inside.
Maggie pulled free from Bartholomew. He watched her eyes darken dangerously. Her fingers grasped the hem of her T-shirt, pulling it over her head and dropping it to the floor. She bit her lower lip as she brazenly stood before him, the intricate lace of her black bra a sharp contrast against her pale skin.
His heart thundered in response as he felt a long-neglected tension grow. He forced deep, steady breaths from his lungs to calm himself and then reached to the floor to retrieve her T-shirt.
"No, Maggie," he warned. A new rush of tears flooded her eyes. He continued, "We can't do this. This isn't what you really want. I know you feel humiliated by what Jackson said. That and what happened to Sloan…" His voice trailed off as she turned away.
"I thought you wanted me," she whimpered. "I guess I was wrong."
"No, you weren't. But I want all of you, Maggie. Not just your body."
Bartholomew met her look of amazement with a gentle smile. How could a guy not want all of her? Maggie took her T-shirt from Bartholomew and slowly, mechanically, pulled it back over her head and smoothed it down her body. She took the hand he held out to her and followed as he led her across the room to the sofa.
He settled down on the couch and then tugged her to him, sighing as she snuggled deep against his warm, hard body and feeling true comfort for the first time that day. He gently held her in his arms as he caressed her curls.
“Bartholomew,” Maggie whispered.
“Yes, Maggie?”
“Why were you discharged from the army?”
“Maggie,” he protested.
“No,” Maggie stopped him. “I want the truth. I want to know what happened. If you care about me, if you trust me, you will tell me.”
Bartholomew sat silent for a long moment. “When I graduated from high school, I enlisted in the army. My brothers accused me of abandoning my parents’ ranch. My parents were so proud of me. I completed my basic training then began my training as an Operating Room Specialist. I always had an interest in medicine. When I was finished, I was sent to Ibn Sina Hospital in Baghdad.
“Despite being in the front line, life was great. I loved what I did. The doctors showed me a few things. A couple volunteered to recommend me to medical school when my time with the army was finished. I was given access to treat cases coming right off the battlefield.
“One day, a young Iraqi boy was brought in with a severe wound. We operated. A commander of a National Guard unit was brought in at the same time, injured in the same blast as the young boy. He lost four or five men in the blast. He accused the boy of being the insurgent who caused it. Between the grieving mother and the simple fact that the kid was not dead, we realized it couldn’t be possible. The commander was nuts. The war was slowly eating him alive.
“I was checking on the kid one night when the commander snuck into the room where the boy was. He planted a gun under the kid’s covers then drew his gun. The kid was sleeping. I warned him to go back to bed, to leave the boy alone. He didn’t back off. He told me that he was going to tell everyone that the boy pulled a gun on him and he defended himself. He aimed the gun and cocked it, so I did the only thing I could do. I shot him.”
Maggie sat up slowly and looked at him. He could see the dark mixture of shock and horror radiating in her eyes.
He continued, “I shot him in the shoulder and the leg so he couldn’t shoot. However, the powers that be didn’t look too kindly on me shooting a superior officer, even if it was to protect an innocent child. And the kid was my only witness. I was sent home with a dishonorable discharge. I suppose it should have been worse, but I think even the superiors above him knew that he had tried something. At least the boy was discharged from the hospital and sent home safe before I left.”
“Oh, Bartholomew,” Maggie murmured. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all in the past. It was difficult to tell my parents, even though they understood. It was especially tough since their ranch was going into foreclosure.” He could see her eyes once again on the verge of tears. He smiled. “It worked out in the end. I decided to try to get rid of some tension in a boxing gym in Manhattan. It was deserted except for these three guys. They weren’t boxing. They were engaged in hand-to-hand combat, defending then returning each other’s assaults. I apologized for interrupting them and turned to leave. They invited me to join them. I landed on my butt most of the time, but I dropped them a few times too. Before I could leave, one handed me his business card and offered me a job. I told him I’d have to think about it. I barely got back to my hotel before I called. I was intrigued.”
“My brother,” Maggie confirmed.
“Your brother. Before I knew it, I was a bodyguard to one of the wealthiest artists in New York City, and I was wiring money to my folks to pay off their ranch.” He shook his head and then nudged Maggie off his lap. “Get up.”
“What?” she asked with a confused expression.
He stood before offering his hand to her. “I can’t sit here and wait.”
She rose to her feet hesitantly as she held his hand tightly in hers. “Where are we going?”
“To the hospital. To see what is going on with our family.”
»»•««
It wasn’t a dream or a vision. He had been to this place before, remembered this scene. He had been wheeled outside to enjoy the beautiful summer day, listen to the birds chirp in the trees, and enjoy the colorful blooming flowers. It was hard to feel the warm rays of the sun through thick bandages.
He scrutinized the cold, white stones of the exterior hospital walls. They rose up several stories in the air. He couldn’t see the top floors. To see them required him to crane his neck, an action he wouldn’t do if he didn’t have to. The windows were covered with white curtains, leading to rooms full of sick children. Some stayed in the hospital for only a day or two. The longest he ever knew of someone staying was two weeks. None of them lived here like he did.
The sounds of children playing in the park outside the hospital filled his ears. He didn’t bother to follow the sounds of giggles and screams of delight. It wasn’t uncommon for the nurses to bring the nearly well children outside. He despised the children who ran and jumped around his wheelchair. They didn’t lose everything in one horrible moment. They didn’t know what it felt like to feel real pain, both in their body and in their heart. At ten years old he did.
Everyone in the hospital had called him the miracle boy. He never should have survived the bullets that pierced his chest. Weeks of intensive care, countless surgeries—yet he survived it all. His body survived. His soul slowly died.
It would have been better if he had died.
Watching his brother Ethan, his best friend, his cohort in the crime of catching frogs and making mud castles, left in a pool of his own blood. Knowing his father, the good saintly man, who had laughed and encouraged him to use the wax pencils to draw pictures on the butcher shop walls, would never tuck him into bed again.
He had been fully aware that the shootout was no accident. His father and brother had been caught in the crossfire of a war they weren’t a part of. A war he planned on joining to avenge them.
Hatred had filled what was left of his young heart. There had been no hope. The only love he had held was for his mother and baby sister, Maggie. There had been no room for anyone else, and there would never be. He would do anything to avenge his father’s and brother’s death or die trying.
He felt something soft and gentle brush his fingers, pulling him out of his horrific thoughts. He had never felt anything like it before. He sucked in his breath and prepared to turn his head. It still throbbed relentlessly from when he struck it on the pavement. He hated to move any part of his body. The pain was unbearable. The doctors wanted him to move more. But he didn’t want to hurt anymore.
He grimaced as he slowly twisted his neck to the side. Down his arm on the back of his hand rested a monarch butterfly. The creature must have mistaken his hand for a rock or a park bench. He watched the butterfly’s wings, mesmerized, as they flapped slowly in the breeze.
For a moment, the darkness that enshrouded him disappeared. He stared at the butterfly in awe. He felt the sudden urge to jump up and play. He wanted to be a child again with no cares, no worries, and no grief. For one brief moment, it was like none of it had ever happened.
After a minute or two, the butterfly lifted off and drifted across the garden, weaving its way among the brightly-colored blossoms in the garden before it disappeared from sight. And he felt the rage settle into his blood once again.
His head jerked up. He braced himself for the sharp snap of pain. There was none. Examining his fingers, his small brow scrunched concerned. He could still feel the soft, gentle brush against his skin. But the butterfly was long gone.
Wasn’t it?
A voice echoed in his ears. It wasn’t a voice from his childhood or a voice from this hospital. But it was a voice he cared about. A voice he would fight for. It was the voice of a brother.
“You need to fight, Sloan. You can’t give up now. Fight this, brother. She needs you. Now more than ever, she needs you. Fight for Abbey.”
»»•««
Abbey sat in the hospital recliner, her legs tucked underneath her. Her arm, embedded with an IV, stretched across the hospital bed. Her fingers gently caressed those of an unconscious Sloan. She propped her head up on her hand as she watched him.
Guilt turned her stomach inside out. Her newborn daughter was in the neo-natal intensive care unit. She should be sitting by the baby’s bassinet. Instead, her mom and Gordon were keeping vigil beside the infant. Abbey had grabbed her IV stand and found her way to intensive care. She couldn’t pull herself away from Sloan’s bedside. The surgeon said it would be touch and go. With having to be resuscitated three times and the loss of oxygen…
She squeezed his hand tightly as she wiped away tears. She wasn’t ready to tell him goodbye.
She studied him. Despite the beeping machines around him, the breathing tube that made her shudder, and the tubes and wires running in and out of him, he was still a massive amount of man. The skin of his chiseled, angular face was pale. His wavy, ebony hair was a sharp contrast to his flesh and the pillow.
Abbey glanced up as a nurse stepped in with a couple of warm blankets. She offered one of them to Abbey with a gentle smile and then tucked the other around Sloan. The nurses of the ICU had been wonderful to Abbey.
Her obstetrician was furious with her for not staying in her own bed in the maternity ward. He was so disgusted that he refused to discharge her. Abbey knew that if she just followed the doctor’s orders, she could get rid of the IV.
She shrugged. My husband is here. My daughter is here. What’s the point of going home?
Abbey straightened in her recliner, concern flooding her face. She had felt something brush the hand wrapped tightly around Sloan’s fingers. She examined the bed around them. It was one of the few places without tubes and wires.
Not finding anything, she tiredly stretched her cramped fingers against his. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched Sloan’s brush hers. He recaptured her hand in his, wrapping his fingers tightly around hers. She twisted her face to the head of the mattress. His ice blue eyes gazed at her through hazy slits.
She scrambled to find the call button embedded to the bed rail closest to her chair. A voice crackled across the speaker.
“My husband is awake! Come quick!” Abbey cried.
She hovered over him, gazing at his weak eyes watching her. She pressed her lips against his forehead. “Sloan, I thought I lost you. I love you so much.”
She looked down as she felt his fingers brush against her considerably flatter stomach. A look of concern resonated in his face.
“She’s fine, Sloan,” Abbey assured. “She’s in the neonatal intensive care unit. Mom and Gordon are with her. I named her Amelia after your mother.”
His eyes softened. He wrapped his hand around hers for several long moments. Abbey could see the surge of emotion in his exhausted features. He gazed at her as he squeezed her hand tightly. I didn’t realize how much naming the baby after his mom would mean to him. Then, he let go of her hand, brushed his fingers against her abdomen again, and then weakly pushed her away.
“You want me to leave?” she asked.
Sloan reached to touch her belly again and then nudged her away. She looked at him confused. Suddenly, her face lit up with acknowledgement when he did it a third time.
“You want me to go be with Amelia,” she breathed. He nodded slowly. She smiled as she continued, “I won’t leave for long. And if it’s possible, I won’t come back alone,” she warned playfully. “If they will let me, I’ll be back to introduce you to your daughter.”
Despite the breathing tube, a smile crept across Sloan’s face. Abbey bent over his bed and pressed a warm, sweet kiss against his cheek. She pressed her forehead against his as she hugged him carefully.
“Thank you for coming back to me,” she whispered.
She grasped the pole that held her IV tube and waved goodbye as doctors and nurses rushed into the room to examine him. She watched them protectively from the doorway for several minutes before she stepped into the hallway and made her way back to the maternity ward.