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Tara was trying to wake up, but the dream dragged her under. Again.
She was in a plane, and Jake was calling her.
She burst into the cockpit. Empty. Sprinted though the deserted passenger area to the cargo hold, tore into containers, scrambled over debris, and shouted for him to wait, but couldn’t find him. Or anyone.
Alone in the darkness, struggling for breath, arms flailing, she screamed but no sound came. When the enveloping blackness lifted she thought she was in her own living room but all the furniture was different, and she could hear Jake insisting she come to him, but didn’t know where he was.
She rushed to the front door, but the driveway was empty. Turning back inside, she thought his voice was coming from her bedroom, so she hurried there only to find another vast emptiness, but his demand siphoned through the open sliding door.
She shot outside, ran to the boathouse where there was nothing to find but Stan beckoning from the path by the lake, so she took off again, running and running, but she couldn’t catch up. Fell to her knees, unable to breathe, sobbing until everything faded away.
Again and again voices pulled her into the dreams and she searched endlessly. But never could she find anyone—and exhaustion took her under.
#
Weak spring sunshine on the hospital window warmed Jake’s back as he rubbed at the itch of the white clerical collar. Should be used to it after five days. Five long days of watching Tara’s chest rise and fall. At least she was able to breathe on her own.
He shuddered at memories of other rooms, other times—the insidious, repetitious sound of a respirator still haunted his dreams—but here, the soft beeps and hums of machines keeping track of Tara’s vitals were oddly comforting.
She’d been close to the surface so many times—moments when he’d been sure she’d come out of the coma—but then tears would roll down her cheeks and she’d slip away.
Jake spent almost every waking hour at her side, certain he’d eventually convince her to wake up. He’d begged her to come back from the depths of her darkness.
And early one morning her eyes finally cracked open. He was at her side in two strides, taking her hand.
“Tara?”
She stared at him with no sign of recognition, and then seemed to search for something beyond where he stood.
He pressed the button to summon a staff member. The doctors had warned them that with all brain injuries, prognosis was guarded and unknown until she regained consciousness and could be assessed.
Her mouth moved but no sound came out until she swallowed, winced, and then groaned.
A nurse came in closely followed by Stan, Tara’s stepfather.
“She’s in pain,” said Jake. “She tried to talk but couldn’t.” He backed out of the way as the nurse went to one side of the bed and Stan to the other.
“Your throat, it will be very sore from the tubes and going so long unused,” said the nurse as she held a bottle of water to Tara’s lips. “Open. I will give only a drop to slide down.”
Swallowing and wincing, Tara struggled to move her arm, and a sound, not unlike a growl, came from her throat. The nurse chuckled and quickly unfasten the restraints. “You have been difficult. Pulling tubes, the lines.”
Once freed, Tara lifted both hands to her throat and whispered, “More.”
“I will get you ice to suck on. It will sooth your throat and you will swallow a very tiny amount at a time. It is best.”
The doctor arrived and the room filled with voices speaking rapidly in French. Tara had little time to wonder why, before the doctor turned his attention to her. “Bonjour. Welcome.”
The bright light he flashed in her eyes ricocheted inside her brain, leaving a slow throb and floating white dots in its wake. When a small groan slipped out, he made a comment about not wanting to increase her meds.
Her dad insisted that she should have what she needed.
Tara felt both stoned and hung-over as it was. Took her back to a couple of bad moments in her teen years. “No more drugs,” she managed to whisper.
Stan took her hand. “But you’re hurting.”
“No more drugs.” Weak, so damn weak. “Need to sit up.”
The nurse used a mechanism to slowly raise the bed, and lightning flashed through Tara’s head. Her back, chest, and shoulders screamed in agony, and pins and needles attacked her legs. With gritted teeth she blinked hard to fight the faintness trying to sweep her under. She grabbed hold of the blankets and slowly drew the breath she needed to stay conscious.
Pain is your friend. How many times had she said that to an accident victim? A body’s silent scream meant you’d not only survived, but you probably didn’t have a spinal cord injury.
And this pain was nothing like what she’d sought years ago when she’d been desperate to feel. She shook off the uncomfortable memories, tried to focus on the doctor’s conversation with her stepfather, but couldn’t keep up. She soon lost interest, simply zoning out, until Stan touched her arm and spoke to her in English.
“The doctor wants me to ask you some questions now.” When she focused on him, he continued. “Do you remember what happened?”
She tried to shake her head, but it hurt more than her throat, so she croaked out her answer instead. “No.”
The nurse passed her a small container of slivered ice and she gratefully took a tiny piece, savoring the cold as it trickled down her throat.
“What month is this?” The doctor asked.
“May.”
“What year?”
“Twenty-fifteen.”
“Do you know why you’re in France?”
So that’s why they were speaking French. She hadn’t been sure. She’d assumed she must be in Montreal, but it was coming back to her now. “A horse going to the States.”
“What’s your last memory before waking up today?”
She closed her eyes and thought hard. “Last minute flight change. Two hour delay.” The shards of ice were helping her throat and her voice was starting to work better. “Had to wait at the airport. Detour to Heathrow for a Derby horse.”
Stan frowned. “Was the horse in the crate for an extra-long time then?”
“No. The driver wanted him to stay in the horsebox where there was more room. ” He’d said he didn’t have anything else on his schedule, so the horse could stay where he was already comfortable.
“Did he load well when the transfer was made?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Do you have any other recollections after that?”
She searched her mind, but came up empty. “No. What happened?”
“You somehow became trapped in the crate. Under the horse.”
Tara sucked in a breath. No wonder she ached from split ends to toenails. “How?”
The doctor motioned toward one of the tiny LED screens near the bed, one with a blinking 130 in red, and the nurse said, “Is enough for this time. Heart rate is very high. You need rest now and food. I will bring you broth.”
Tara hated broth, but the woman had been right about the ice.
After the doctor and nurse left, she was startled by movement and noticed the priest who’d been there when she’d woken up. He was still standing in the corner. It kind of gave her the creeps. “I’m not dying.”
“Of course not,” said Stan, and he patted her hand.
“Then why is he here?”
Stan smiled. “I met Father Jacobsen at the Canadian consulate and he offered to help me keep you company, to sit with you when I couldn’t be here.”
“How long?”
The priest eased closer. “Twelve days,” he said, and her heart took off at a gallop.
He sounded like Jake, but had blonde hair, wore a baggy black suit and that telling white collar. Definitely not Jake. Just her heart wishing, distorting reality. Time to get a grip. Have some manners. “Thanks for helping my dad.”
He only nodded while Stan said, “He read to you, talked to you. Called us when you woke up today.”
“Thank you very much for your time.”
“You’re very welcome, Tara.”
He did sound like Jake. Tears welled. “Do you have any connection to California?”
He came closer. “I was born and raised there.”
“I’ll be back in about ten,” said Stan.
She heard the door close but couldn’t take her eyes off the other man. “You’re related to Jake. His brother, maybe? Did he send you?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Oh, that voice. Could it be?
She squinted. With light pouring in through the window, backlighting him, it was hard to see his face, but she got the impression of a goatee.
Then he sat on the edge of the bed, took one of her hands between his, and in spite of the brown eyes, she knew. “Jake?”
“In the flesh.” He enfolded her in his arms, holding her carefully, and gently rubbing her back.
Ohmygod. His scent wrapped around her. “The dreams, or whatever they were. Calling me. Telling me to come back.” She tipped her head so she could see his face, and suppressed a wince when the pounding increased. “I couldn’t find you. I tried so hard but I couldn’t find you.”
“You’re awake now and I’m right here.” He eased her back onto the pillows then brushed his lips across her forehead, her mouth. “You scared the hell out of me. And Stan.”
“You know my dad?”
“I had some explaining to do when I got here.” He grinned. “He’s very protective of you, but after talking to the head of my company, he gave in and allowed me to be here in disguise.”
There was a knock at the door, and Jake backed away from the bed before an aide wearing pink scrubs and a wide smile came in bearing a tray. She set it on the table, wheeled it over in front of Tara and then carefully enunciated, “You would like some soup?”
“Merci,” Tara said.
“You are welcome. I hope you enjoy the soup,” came the careful reply, then the girl spun and scooted out.
“I’ve been teaching English while waiting for you to wake up,” said Jake.
Tara lifted the lid to a pleasant aroma coming from a ceramic mug. Good, she wouldn’t have to manage a spoon. Wasn’t sure she could right now—although getting the full mug to her mouth might be a challenge. But hell, she’d only get stronger by eating, and by waking up muscles that had been on an extended vacation.
“You should eat some of that,” said Jake.
“Giving my stomach a minute to adjust to the idea.” And decide if she wanted to ask him for help.
Thankfully, the smiling server returned with a straw and offered it to Tara. “I am Maria. I will help you.” She lifted the soup, holding it close.
The first tiny sips proved it wasn’t too hot and didn’t have much flavor. Tara managed nearly half the cup before exhaustion had her sinking into the pillows. “Thank you. That’s enough.”
When Maria left, Jake laid a hand on Tara’s shoulder. “You okay?”
“Tired.” So tired.
“You can’t go to sleep yet. You have to listen first.”
She blinked, fighting to focus.
“I’m undercover, Tara. To keep you safe. I’m not Jake. I’m Father Jacobsen, and I’m only here to keep you company while you recover. Do you understand?”
She did, but...
He took her hand and rubbed the back of it, hard. Wouldn’t let go when she tried to pull away.
“Tara this is vitally important. Jake was not here. Was never here. My name is Father Jacobsen. Tell me you understand.”
“Are you leaving?”
“Father Jacobsen will be by your side until you go back to Canada.”
She stared at the hand holding hers. “We’ll become friends?”
“Exactly.”
“I understand.” She looked into eyes so unlike the ones she remembered from last winter at the cottage. “Have you found out? The case?”
“We’re closing in. The Meyers team is working on it while I stay with you and do what I can from here.”
She closed her eyes. “I have to sleep now.” And not think about what he was going to find out.