Willing Sacrifice

Page 3

“Go with her,” Max said, reading her mind as the medical team got Savannah out of the limo. “I’ll park and come find you. I’ll take care of everything. Go.”
She nodded, following the gurney and Dr. Rosen. His sudden absence felt like an amputation, as if what had happened in the limo had fused them together. Savannah was whisked away, the staff headed for the surgical wing. It left Janet swaying in front of the ER admitting desk. The stout, silver-haired nurse she faced looked like she regularly handled the worst that NOLA could deliver. Now she gave Janet a once-over. “Let’s get the basics, then we’ll get you some scrubs and a sink.”
Janet glanced down. Things had gone far beyond that initial smear to her blouse. She was soaked in Savannah’s blood. On her clothes, her hands and arms. It was probably even smeared on her face. Oh God, if Matt…
“Janet.”
She closed her eyes. Damn the man’s timing. Giving the nurse a look she hoped conveyed the possible need for a second gurney, she turned to face Matt as he came through the emergency doors. Had he conjured a winged horse to get here right on Max’s heels? It wouldn’t surprise her if he had. Matt Kensington’s abilities exceeded that of a mortal man’s. Most of the time.
His piercing gaze took in her appearance. In the next moment, Matt Kensington turned pale as a ghost, his face gripped with an anguish and fear that tore her heart from its framework.
Once, a long time ago, Matt Kensington had stood between Janet and the loss of her soul. She’d do everything she could to return the favor now. Fight like a tiger, honey. Fight for him, because he needs you so much more than you realize. And we all need him.
Or maybe Savannah did realize it. The way she’d looked at Janet, her gaze practically boring into her. I’m glad Matt has you.
Closing the distance between them, she put her hands on Matt’s forearms, despite the blood she transferred to his white shirt. He’d shed his jacket and tie in the car. In that uncertain moment before she spoke, when he didn’t yet know what had happened, she thought she might be holding him up.
“They took her to surgery. The uterus wall detached, Matt. They have to operate now to save her and the baby.”
* * * * *
In certain situations, time really had no meaning. It was simply one task after another, lined up to keep the cold knot of fear at bay, the knowledge that everything might be brought to a screeching halt by a doctor’s somber face, the resigned gaze. By the time she and Matt were in the surgery waiting room, Max had joined them. With barely a glance, Max understood what she needed. He sat down with Matt, beginning to relay additional details in that direct way that helped her usually unflappable boss. Information. Men always thought it could help solve things, change them.
Max had pressed her cell phone into her hand, along with her hands-free earpiece. When he did, he’d tightened his fingers on her briefly. She kept him and Matt in her sight but out of hearing range as she started her list of calls. Matt hadn’t given her any guidance, but then he rarely had to do so for any situation. She wouldn’t be seeking any for this one. Now that the initial shock was wearing off, he was practically vibrating with suppressed fury and frustration. Savannah and his child were behind a closed door somewhere, going through an indescribable trauma, yet he couldn’t help them, couldn’t be at their side.
Her first call was the most important, yet the one she hoped would be least necessary. “Yes, may I speak to Reverend Dana? Thanks… Dana, this is Janet. Savannah’s in surgery. Something went wrong.” When her voice quavered, she stopped herself, forced it to calm before continuing. “You need to come right away. Matt may need you. I’ll have Randall send a car. Call Jon and have him come straight to the hospital as well.”
Dana would call all of them, all four of Matt’s executive team and their wives, not just Jon. However, if the worst happened, Dana and Jon were the ones Matt would need most. The worst simply couldn’t happen, however. Janet refused to accept that. She thought of Savannah’s jaw firming, the determination in the pain-racked features. She would fight. No matter her pain, no matter her exhaustion, angels would have to drag Savannah Kensington’s soul screaming from that room to take her away from the child and husband she loved so much.
“Ma’am?” She turned to see an orderly, a gentle black giant with the brown eyes of a deer, standing by her. He held a set of scrubs and a pair of disposable booties. It was the first time she realized she was walking around in her stockings.
“You look like a size small to me,” he said kindly, indicating the scrubs, “but I brought a medium as well, just in case.”
He directed her to the bathroom, fortunately placed right across from the waiting room. Max acknowledged her gesture, letting him know where she’d be, then she disappeared behind the wooden door.
She knew it was a mistake, but after she closed the door, she turned and looked at herself in the mirror. With the next breath, she was somewhere else entirely.
Another bathroom, very different from this sterile environment. There’d been a gilt-edged mirror, gold fixtures, a marble floor and countertops, but blood didn’t care about such things. She’d had it in her hair but hadn’t remembered when it had gotten there. It had also splattered across her face. She remembered that. That was what happened when you hit an artery. She’d stood in the bathroom, holding the knife and meat cleaver in her hands. For endless moments, she’d simply stared at them. The rage that had kept her going, made her incapable of stopping, was draining from her like blood itself. Her legs ached, an incomprehensible irony…and vindication.
No. Stop it. That’s over and done. No time for that shit right now.
“Janet.”
She came back to the present like she’d been shot, with a jerk and wide, staring eyes. Max was standing right behind her. She hadn’t locked the bathroom door. She’d pulled off the shirt, was standing there in her lace bra and her skirt, her stockings. The blood had soaked through the thin blouse, so she had a stain on one of the bra cups. Fortunately, he’d closed the door behind them so passersby couldn’t see her. Or Matt.
“Matt…”
“Lucas just got here. He’s with him. Apparently the meeting finished earlier than expected. They’re all headed back into New Orleans now.”
She was still gripping the sink, and the blood had created pale pink rivulets on the white tile. “Okay. All right.”
Picking up one of the washcloths the orderly had given her with the scrubs, Max ran it under a stream of warm water. He gave her a look, making sure she was okay with it, then rubbed the cloth over her shoulders, down her sternum, over the tops of her breasts, her upper abdomen. He took away the blood, left warm, clean dampness behind. Balling up the blouse, he jammed it in the biohazard can, no question that she could ever wear it again. She had her hair in a twist on her head, but some pieces had come down. He moved them out of his way to run the cloth over her neck. Then he rinsed out the cloth, picked up a clean one and did it all over again, covering the same terrain.
She stared at his face throughout. No thoughts in her head, though she should be thinking of a hundred details. His face wasn’t expressionless, not exactly. It was like staring at one of those old concrete statues tucked in the corner of a garden. Something that had been there forever, seen everything come and go, and still it stood, just as strong. “You did good,” she managed.
“So did you. You could be a combat nurse.” Those steady gray eyes held hers in a lock as intimate as a physical embrace. “You with me now?”
She nodded. He picked up the scrub top, offered it to her. If she didn’t pull it together, he’d probably help her take off the skirt, dress her in the drawstring pants like a child. She cleared her throat, resisting the urge to let him do just that. “I’m okay. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
“All right.” But before he turned away, he did something remarkable. He put his arms around her. Despite her surprised stiffness, he closed the step between them to hold her close. The contact with his body sent a current through her, waking up frozen nerve endings. As he cupped the back of her head in one large palm, his heat and strength surrounded her. She once again remembered the way he’d navigated through that traffic, never showing panic or lack of control. Neither had she. He was right. They’d both done damn good.
“Sometimes, after something like that, human touch helps ground you, brings back your focus.” He spoke against her hair.
It did. “It does,” she said into his chest. “Thank you, Max.”
* * * * *
As she expected, all four of his team came, with their wives or significant others. She leaned against the wall, watching the way they formed a protective circle around Matt, supporting him. All of them waiting.
Jon Forte sat in a chair at Matt’s back, a deliberate choice, Janet was sure. Though in business Jon was Matt’s engineering genius, with a secondary but no less significant talent for finance, that wasn’t the reason she’d felt it was as imperative for him to be here as Dana. The other men, more traditional Southern males, routinely teased Jon for his philosophical studies of ancient texts and the advanced yoga practice that gave his leanly muscled form a tensile strength, but their respect for his sincere and solid spiritual core was obvious in difficult situations like this.
Rachel, Jon’s wife, had just brought another round of coffee from the cafeteria. After she distributed it, she took a seat next to Jon, her hazel eyes serious. Because Rachel’s blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, Janet clearly saw the strain in her face they were all feeling. There were so many connections in this room…that had to mean something, didn’t it? A sense that things happened for a reason, that truly bad things couldn’t happen when bonds were this strong and fated?
For instance… Rachel was a physical therapist, but it was her second job, that of yoga instructor, that had brought her across Jon’s path. When he learned about the PT, that had connected her to Dana. Dana was an Army veteran who’d needed Rachel’s skills. Peter Winston, Matt’s operations manager and a former National Guard captain who’d served two tours in the Middle East, was her husband. He’d retired to care for Dana when she came back from Iraq so severely injured she lost her sight and most of her hearing. Fortunately, cochlear implant surgery had helped her regain much of the latter.