A Bridge Unbroken (A Miller's Creek Novel) (5 page)

The implication of her words socked him in the gut. First of all, it was obvious she was on the run from someone. Why else did someone change their name? But the second part delivered the blow. She didn’t trust him. No wonder she kept herself hidden away behind all those walls and layers. That's why she’d asked him to leave when he showed up at her doorstep this morning. “I understand.”

Amy studied him a minute longer, as though searching for meaning behind his words. “In fact, I meant to say something to J.C. as well. I'd appreciate it if you would both call me Dakota from now on. Dakota Kelly.”

Chance contemplated her request. Changed hair. Changed name. Changed person. What—or who—was she running from? He couldn’t help her unless he knew the answer, and she’d never tell him as long as she didn’t trust him. And she’d never trust him until she could forgive him for whatever sent her running away in the first place. He placed his chicken bones with the stack he’d acquired during their conversation, rested his elbows on his knees, and looked her directly in the eye. “I'd like to help you, Dakota.” The name sounded so foreign on his tongue, but it somehow perfectly fit this familiar-but-unfamiliar woman who sat in front of him. “But I can’t unless I know what’s going on.”

She said nothing.

“I know you don’t trust me, probably for the same reason you won’t forgive me.”

Deep sorrow filled her eyes, so deep it threatened to suck him in. Surely she realized that what had happened between them was just as much, if not more, her fault, as it was his. If she hadn’t been so quick to run away, they eventually could’ve fixed things. “I want to do whatever I can to re-establish that trus—”

“Stop! Just stop!” Now her Irish eyes flashed with anger. “What I said this morning still stands. What happened in the past stays in the past, and there won’t be a do-over. If you’re hoping we can pick up where we left off, you are sadly mistaken!” She scrambled to her feet and headed for the door.

At just that moment, Grampa hurriedly shuffled into the room, his face awash with concern. “What’s going on?” Dakota whirled around, her face livid. Grampa directed his gaze to Chance. “What'd you say to upset her like this?”

“Me? I didn’t say anyth—” He didn’t get a chance to finish his defense.

Grampa’s face turned gray. Then he crumpled to the floor.

Chapter Four

D
akota froze in horror, unsure of what to do, her fingers plastered to her face.

Chance jumped from the sofa and knelt beside J.C.’s still form. He glared at her, his face contorted, his blue-gray eyes swimming with tears. “Don’t just stand there. Come help me!”

She hurried over to them. “What can I do?”

Chance checked his grandfather's pulse, then bent his head close to the older man's chest. “Call for an ambulance. You have your cell phone?”

Cell phone. No, it was out in her truck in its regular place in her always-packed backpack. She shook her head, her heart rising in her throat.

He reached to his waist, unsnapped the holder, and tossed her his cell phone. “Use mine.”

All she could do was stare at the fancy phone, while Chase unbuttoned his grandfather’s shirt. Her cell phones had always been the cheapest thing she could find at Wal-Mart, the ones where she could pay as she needed, the ones that were supposedly harder to trace and not so connected. This one had all the bells and whistles, and she had absolutely no idea how to use it. “Um, I don’t know how this phone works.” The excuse sounded puny even to her.

“You know CPR?”

She twisted her head from side to side.

Chance snatched the phone from her hand. “Guess I'll have to do both.” He laid the phone on the wood floors, rapidly punched three times, and then put the phone on speaker, one hand monitoring his grandfather’s pulse.

“911. Is this an emergency?”

“Yes, this is Chance Johnson. I’m an RN, and in Miller’s Creek at 215 Pecan Street. Need an ambulance for my grandfather, aged 79.” In spite of the tears in his eyes, his voice remained calm and cool. At least with the 911 operator.

“And what's his condition?”

"Collapsed a few minutes ago, now unresponsive. Pale, and pulse is weak and erratic.”

“Is he breathing?”

A muscle pulsed in Chance's jaw right below a particularly jagged scar. “Yes, but it’s shallow. My best guess is myocardial infarction. I’ll administer CPR until the ambulance arrives.”

“I’m dispatching an ambulance, and then I’ll stay on the line with you until they arrive.”

Chance placed both hands on J.C.’s frail chest and pushed repeatedly. He glanced up at her. “It would be helpful if you’d go outside to direct the ambulance to the right place.”

“Oh. Okay.” In a split second she was out the door, her breath coming in short gasps as she peered up and down the street for any sign of an ambulance. In the distance a siren sounded.
Lord Jesus, please help J.C. make it. Give Chance and the other medical professionals wisdom and skill. Help me know what to do and how I can help.
Feelings of unworthiness and guilt poured over her. Why couldn’t she be smart enough to figure things out, especially something like a stupid cell phone?

The ambulance rounded the corner down the street, siren blowing full force. The vehicle driver screeched to a stop and jumped from the vehicle.

“They’re inside. Please hurry.”

Two guys hurried inside, black bags in hand, while the driver, a guy about her age, approached. “Hi, ma’am. Can you tell me what happened?”

Dakota repeated what she’d heard Chance relay to the 911 operator. The man listened intently and interjected questions from time to time, which she answered as best as she could.

“Are you related to Mr. Watson?”

“No. I’m just a friend.”

He smiled kindly and patted her shoulder. “Don't worry. Your friend's in good hands. I know Chance from the ER. He’s a good guy and knows his stuff.”

All she could do was nod, but tears brimmed unexpectedly. Good guy? Really?

“I’m sure Chance will want to ride in the ambulance with us. Normally we don’t allow it, but since he’s a medical professional, we will. Can you drive a vehicle to the hospital for him to take home later?”

“Yes.” Dakota followed the man into the house. J.C. was already on a gurney, and they prepared to wheel him out the door. Chance seemed more in control of his emotions now, though his face was pale and drawn and bathed in concern. Dakota peered over to the coffee table where she’d seen him lay his truck keys. Good. They were still there.

Without a word to her, he followed the gurney out the door, climbed into the back of the ambulance, and sped away.

What now? Dakota prayed for wisdom while she locked the house and followed after the ambulance in Chance’s dust-covered pick-up. She arrived right behind the ambulance, parked in emergency parking, and scurried to the Emergency Room doors.

The back of the ambulance burst open, with people shouting directions and rushing the gurney toward the Emergency Room. The only words she heard were “Code Blue.” Chance's face held sheer terror.

He chased after the gurney, but whirled about right in front of the swinging stainless steel doors and pointed directly at her, his voice rising above the hubbub. “This is all your fault.” With the words ringing in her ears, he stiff-armed the doors and disappeared behind them.

The waiting area grew immediately quiet, with all eyes trained on her, and the faces of the nurses and doctors behind the desk held cold contempt.

Dakota lowered her head and moved to a dark corner of the waiting area where she could hide away, pray, and lick her wounds.
Heavenly Father, please be with J.C. I know he's ready to go home, but please give Chance more time with him, according to Your will.
Prayer always brought such comfort. God was always in control.

She ran her fingers through her curls to brush out at least some of the tangles, her brain rehashing the tension of the past half hour. Chance’s tone and attitude had sliced through her more times today than she cared to remember. Yes, it was because he was scared and worried—kind of a ‘kick the dog’ mentality—but that didn’t make his actions and words any less painful.

She closed her eyes and laid her head back against the wall, willing herself to breathe deep. It was a coping mechanism she’d learned years ago and practiced innumerable times since, and it would help her push the hurt into the darkness so she didn’t have to deal with it.

A half hour later, Chance exited the double doors with a smile on his face. He didn’t look her direction, didn’t even check to see if she was anywhere around. Instead he sauntered behind the nurse’s station, where pretty young nurses lined up to hug him. Then he once more disappeared behind the doors.

Had he forgotten she was even here? Apparently J.C. was okay, or Chance's disposition would've been very different. But what should she do now? Dakota gathered her courage, rose to her feet, and approached the desk.

A young woman looked up at her with cold eyes. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. I’m a friend of J.C. Watson, who was brought in a few minutes ago. Can you tell me his condition?”

"Are you a family member?"

"No, just a friend."

The other woman shook her head. "Then I'm not allowed to give you any information because of medical privacy laws." Her gaze didn't waver.

“Okay, thanks.” She pulled Chance's keys from her coat pocket and slid them across the laminate countertop. “Would you please give these to Chance Johnson?”

The woman nodded. “Sure.”

"Thanks." Dakota hurried outside. No use sticking around. Chance obviously had no need for her. As she traversed the black asphalt of the hospital parking lot, she shivered and pulled her jacket close. The day had started off fairly warm, but judging by the hovering dark clouds and increased winds, a cold front would soon be pushing through, most likely bringing thunderstorms along with it.

She’d barely made it across the highway on her trek to J.C.’s house to get her truck, when rain and small pieces of hail pelted from the sky. She half-walked, half-ran through the ongoing icy rain. By the time she reached her rusty old rattletrap, she was soaked to the bone. Not even in Miller's Creek a whole day yet, and already she'd pulled a shot gun on Chance, gashed her leg open, caused an old man's heart attack, and managed to get drenched in the process. So much for the simple country life she'd longed for.

* * *

Weary beyond words, Chance stared down at the patient paperwork trying to make the words come in focus. The new hospital administrator--or Ivan the Terrible, as he liked to refer to him--had insisted he make up the time by adding hours to his already long twelve-hour-days. Here it was Friday afternoon, and he still hadn’t found the time to get out to the farm to see Dakota.

He scribbled a note on the paperwork and clicked the ballpoint to closed position. Thankfully, Grampa was better, though he was a long way from being out of the woods or the hospital, with his heart only pumping at thirty percent capacity. Not good.

His gaze traveled to the clock. Only a few more minutes and then he’d be free to go check on his grandfather. Once Grampa was tucked in for the night, he'd take the time to go see Dakota.

Guilt stabbed holes in his conscience as he thought about the way he’d treated her. In his concern for his grandfather, his unleashed tongue had made her responsible for something that was no one’s fault. Even after the way he’d accused her, she made sure he had a vehicle to get home in, responding with grace and forgiveness.

Chelsea, one of his fellow nurses and a single woman about his age, hurried into the nurse’s station. “You’re still here?”

“For just a few more minutes, thanks to Ivan the Terrible.”

“Sorry he has it in for you.” She laid a hand on his upper arm.

“So I’m not the only one who’s noticed.”

“Don’t take it personally. I hear he treats all the male nurses that way.”

Well, that tidbit was news to his ears. “Really?”

“Yep. From what I’ve been able to gather, he’s pretty old school that way.” Chelsea opened a file cabinet and shoved in a file, then slammed the drawer. “He thinks only women make good nurses.”

“That’s the most prejudicial thing I’ve ever heard.” His tongue came unglued again. “Well, I have a piece of advice for Ivan. He needs to join the twenty-first century.”

Chelsea’s face paled and her brown eyes latched on someone over his left shoulder before she turned a chagrined expression his way.

Chance’s stomach fell to his toes. “He’s behind me, isn’t he?”

She nodded, then scooted out of the nurse’s station.

“Yes, and I heard every word, Mr. Johnson. If you think I'm Ivan the Terrible now, wait until you hear my next piece of good news.”

He faced Jeremy Gains. “Look, I was out of line. Please accept my apology.”

“Apology accepted.” His lips were so tight, creases shot out in every direction. “But that doesn’t change the news. One of the other nurses asked for emergency leave next week to visit her ailing mother. I’m dividing her shifts among you and two other nurses.”