Chapter Twenty-Two

“Ma’am?”

I must look like an eighty-year-old because “ma’am” sounded ancient. All I could manage was a blink.

“Ma’am.”

At some point, the paramedics drove me to the hospital. When I raised my head a fraction, I discovered I wore a hospital gown with teal squiggles instead of my clothing. I lifted my left arm and winced, relieved to find the tulle binding gone. I stared at my right arm, stuck with an I.V. Machines beeped away. Gauze and tape covered the scrapes on my shoulder.

“Hello, Hattie.” A young lady with her dark hair twisted and clipped on her head and wearing blue scrubs patted my fingers. “I’m Nurse Courtney. Nice rest?”

I pulled at the oxygen tube.

She batted my hands. “Not yet.” She adjusted the tubing going into my nose. “You need oxygen. You inhaled a lot of smoke—”

“Sir. Sir. You can’t go in,” an authoritative voice coming from the hallway said.

“The hell I can’t.”

Allan? He cursed? I frowned. He’s here. I stared toward the doorway sensing relief soar through my body. Tears came to my eyes. Surviving a life-or-death situation turned me into the proverbial basket case. The door to my room squeaked when he eased it open. I wiped my fingers over my cheeks. Dollars to ducks I looked atrocious.

“Hi.” Allan moved to sit by my side and smoothed my hair from my forehead. He pressed a tissue in my hand.

I clasped it tighter than humanly possible.

“You’re okay, sweetheart.”

“Don't c-call”—cough, cough—“me sweetheart.” My answer might have been automatic, but in truth, I wanted to be his sweetheart.

Allan handed me a glass of water with a straw.

I took strong, long draws, then coughed into the tissue and balled it in my fist. I removed the oxygen tubing from my nose. “Sorry.”

I looked at Allan, then past his shoulder when a shimmery item caught my eye. A familiar brown paper sack with “Hattie” scribed on it sat at the foot of the bed. He had tied the neck of the bag with a Mylar balloon shaped like a pot of flowers. A Get Well banner swept across the pot. The man stocked an endless supply of balloons and bags. I knew for I’d found his stash on the top shelf of his closet. For once, “Get Well” actually meant something.

Unexpectedly, an unfamiliar and acrid waft pestered my nose. I poked Allan’s arm. “Leave. Now.”

“Why?” His brow creased. He squeezed my hand again. “Why? I want to help.”

“I smmeeellll,” I blurted a whiney wail.

Smiling, he snorted a tiny bit and let his hand rest against the side of my face. His thumb stroked along my jaw. “It’s okay. You're just a little pungent. You can have a bath soon.”

Pungent? I didn't like the sound of the word. Frowning, the last thing I wanted—anyone wanted—was to smell pungent.

Allan’s eyes shaped into thin slits. He ran his index finger over the top of my hand. “I heard you.”

I studied his face, swathed with concern. My love for him melted and fired like liquid gold in my heart. I could smell and look like shit, and he still cared for me.

The beginnings of love are like this.

I launched myself into his arms and held on tight. I shoved my face into his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around me. The heat from his body penetrated and blended with mine. Oh, how he filled my entire being and scared me at the same time. Moving a little away, I sniffed and picked at his sleeve. “Y-you did?”

“Loud and clear. Like you sent a message only I could hear. Eerie.” He propped pillows behind my back and guided me to a recline. He patted the blankets. “Can you answer some questions?”

With a nod, I sipped water. “Okay.” I motioned for a tissue. When I nearly hacked up a lung, he passed the whole box.

“Sir, you have to leave.”

The Authoritative Nurse sounded mighty persistent, and she looked big, like the Abominable Snowman big. With her finger, she settled her red glasses into place, then rammed her hands on her hips.

I wouldn't mess with her.

The Great Detective, however, would always be a different story.

Allan glared at her and flashed his badge.

Doing so must have been convincing because she made a “humpf,” then backed out the door. It closed firmly behind her.

I covered my smile with my hand.

Hearing my barely suppressed laugh, he swiveled his attention back and grinned.

My heart bloomed. Everything. Every little thing about him I adored. I smiled.

Allan tossed a paper grocery bag on the bed. “The firefighters found your handbag stored in the credenza behind your fancy desk. It’s slightly singed but won’t be the same. Sorry.” He lifted out my scorched handbag—a particular favorite from my Rebecca Maine collection, one scored at a resale shop for pennies because a few faux jewels were missing.

I fingered one corner. Disappointment twisted my mouth. I wasn’t happy about my treasure, but then, it was only a handbag. Not my life. I should remember being alive was more important. The stench brought back the nightmare. My shoulders shook. Never again.

I stuck the handbag inside the paper bag and put it on the bedside table. “Th-thanks.”

Allan tilted his head. A twist of concern flitted through his eyes.

“Tell me about it.”

His line, the one he used when he “chatted” with persons of interest. I shouldn’t have been too surprised. First and foremost, Allan Wellborn is a detective.

I did the best I could in retelling my version. I attempted to weave all the mish-mashed pieces together. I stumbled and bumbled and coughed over my abbreviated story of Miss A., the multiple hammers, and Jonson Leggett the Third’s death. “She left me trussed like a roped steer on the floor. And worst of all, she stole my Jeep. My car. My baby.”

Allan raised his brow. “Uh oh. Which explains why we didn’t find your car in the lot.”

“I’ll never forgive her. I told her how I scrimped and saved forever to buy it, and she still stole my…MY…car.” Hoping to disguise any forming tears, I stared at the view outside the window and recited the tag number.

“Got it.” Allan wrote furiously in his notebook. “We’ll find her and your Jeep baby.”

“She took mine because her Mercedes is in the shop—so she said. We drove the Jeep to the wedding convention in Smithville.”

“Wedding convention?” He shook his head. “Spare me the details.”

I studied my hands in my lap. “Can I leave the hospital in time for Tracey’s wedding?”

“I think way before then. Want me to find out from the Dragon Lady Nurse who wants to get rid of me?”

The unmistakable gleam in his eyes looked adorable.

I ducked my chin and shook my head. “I’ll ask…later.”

He slanted his head. “Fortunately, you aren’t too bad. The doctor's primary concern is making sure your lungs are clear. I’m sure he explained everything.”

I inhaled and exhaled. “I feel like I’m breathing easier.”

“Good.” He grasped my hands.

I let the emotions exchanging between us consume me.

Finally, he pulled back. “You were very brave, Hattie. You didn’t surrender. I don't know how you did all the rolling with fire about to incinerate the whole joint. You’re amazing. And your hair will grow.”

My hair? I shot my hands to finger my hair and examined the ends for damage. If Allan thought I looked incredibly bad, he would have told me. I dearly wanted to go to the restroom and make sure I didn’t resemble a lunatic. Good thing I scheduled a trim before Tracey's big day.

Collapsing against the pillows, I settled the oxygen tube into my nose and tucked the flannel-like blanket under my armpits. Resting my hands on top of my belly, I let my gaze meet Allan’s.

Nothing was said.

Everything implied.

My heart thumped so loudly, I could hear it. By the grace of God, I lived through a nightmare and wasn’t charred toast. Water welled in my eyes with the remembering. I didn't want him to see me look so terrible. Embarrassed, I slid my hands over my face.

“It’s okay. It’s over, sweetheart.” Allan tugged my hands down and dipped his head to stare into my eyes. “I called your mom and dad and Jenny. They’ll be here shortly. I have to go.”

“Please…don’t—”

“I have to, sweetheart. I must get the bad lady. She hurt my girl.” Releasing my hands, he stooped over.

He kissed my forehead softly, sweetly, gently, and despite the eau de stink-ola drifting from me.

I gripped his wrists, never wanting the moment to stop.

Eventually, all good “hold yous” came to an end.

Pulling away, Allan walked to the door. His hand lingered against the frame. Over his shoulder, he glanced at me. “I’ll be back.”

A rushing consumed my entire being. I more than desperately wanted him to return. “P-Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

His sweet grin comforted me.

“Love you,” he said.

“Love you.”

But Allan departed before he could hear me say so.

I stared at the television mounted near the ceiling, where a home improvement show blared and slowly smiled. The man I loved wasn’t a cartoon superhero. He was my man, my crusader. And he would be back because he loved me.