Читать книгу The Coltons: Fisher, Ryder & Quinn - Justine Davis, Caridad Piñeiro - Страница 19

Macy held T.J.’s hand as the paramedic placed a temporary bandage on the cut along his temple. When he was done, he strapped T.J.’s head in place to keep it from moving during the drive.

Apparently comfortable that T.J. didn’t have any major injuries, the paramedic slipped into the seat beside the driver and left them alone in the back of the ambulance.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“A little sore, but I’ll be okay,” he said and squeezed her hand.

Macy thought back to the moment when she had heard the squeal of the tires and the car hurtled forward toward T.J. The fear of that moment fled, replaced by questions.

“I didn’t recognize the car, did you?” Esperanza was a small town and almost everyone knew what kind of car everyone else drove.

“I didn’t,” her son replied, but something in his voice didn’t ring true.

“Do you recollect anything about the car? The make or model? Did you see the face of the driver?”

“No, Ma. I was too busy trying not to get run over,” he answered, the tone of his voice part annoyed but a greater part evasive.

“Are you sure—”

“I’m sure I was trying to get out of the way,” he shot back and withdrew his hand from hers, bringing it to rest on his flat belly.

She focused on that hand, skinned along the knuckles. Drops of blood had congealed at various spots and there were more abrasions on his other hand. As she swept her gaze up and down his body, she noticed the angry road rash along one arm, from his elbow down to mid-forearm.

In her brain came the recollection of the low thud as the car caught him along one hip and he went flying, smacking into another car before falling to roll along the ground from the impact of the blow. A chill took hold in her center and she tried picturing the sedan again. Closed her eyes and attempted to remember what she could about the car, but it had all happened too fast.

The image of the vehicle was just a black blur as it sped toward T.J.

She was sure of that. The car had intended to hit her son. She had no uncertainty about that which made her wonder why T.J. might be lying to protect someone who had tried to hurt him.

The ride to the nearby hospital was blessedly short and the emergency room relatively empty. It didn’t take long for them to examine T.J. and determine that there were no broken bones or a concussion. Although he would be bruised in a number of spots, especially along the one leg where the car had clipped him, there was no reason for the doctors to admit him.

Macy sighed with relief as the doctor made that pronouncement and finished sealing the cut on T.J.’s head with some butterfly bandages before taping a gauze pad over the wound. Another large bandage covered the road rash that they had cleaned while yet more gauze was wrapped around the knuckles on both hands.

As T.J. noticed her examining his various injuries, he barked out a short laugh and said, “You should see the other guy.”

She chuckled and embraced him as he sat on the edge of the bed. “I was so scared.”

“I’m okay, Mom. Really.”

When she stepped away, he eased from the bed to stand upright, wincing as he put pressure on the leg which had taken the brunt of the hit from the car. It took him a moment to fully straighten and his first step was a little gimpy until he seemed to stretch out a kink.

With her arm around his shoulders, they walked out into the emergency room waiting area.

Fisher sat there, bouncing his black hat in his hand. He shot up out of the chair when he saw them and approached. Grimacing as he noted the bandages on T.J., he forced a smile and said, “I hope the other guy looks worse.”

To her surprise, T.J. grinned and nodded. “He does.”

Fisher motioned to the exit. “I brought your car from town. I’ll go get it and drive you home.”

The accident had rattled her nerves and having Fisher drive them would be a welcome respite. Concern remained about why someone would try to hurt T.J. and why he would cover up the fact that he might know who was responsible. As she and T.J. followed Fisher out of the hospital, she realized that she needed to tell someone about what was up with T.J. Needed to confide in someone who could help her deal with the problem.

As she watched Fisher pull up to the curb and saw how carefully he handled getting a sore T.J. into the car, she realized that Fisher might just be the someone she needed.

At seventeen, T.J. wouldn’t have normally needed her to get him settled in bed, but he was aching enough now to require her assistance. She helped him take off his jeans. Managed to control her reaction at the sight of the large bruise which had already formed along his hip and thigh in addition to the smaller purpling marks along his other leg and ribs.

“Get some rest,” she urged as she tucked him beneath the covers.

He nodded and closed his eyes, obviously drained by the events of the day.

She walked into the hall and left his door open, wanting to be able to hear him if he needed anything. She began to walk down the stairs, but paused a few steps down, peering through the open doorway of his room just to check on him again.

He seemed to be asleep already.

She breathed a sigh of relief that his injuries had been so minimal and finished her walk down the stairs. At the landing, she proceeded a few more steps and then turned into the kitchen.

Fisher stood at the counter by the coffee machine, pouring water into it. He slipped in a filter and then the coffee. Hit the button to get it going.

His actions were so domestic that it seemed incongruous until she remembered how often she had seen Jericho do the same thing both in her home and his. They had grown up in a household full of men and such routine activities would likely be almost second nature to them.

She allowed herself the pleasure of watching him finish up the task, his movements sure and totally comfortable. Totally masculine. When he finished, he turned and realized she was standing there.

Fisher leaned back against the counter while he examined Macy. She appeared in control and he admired her strength in the midst of yet another crisis. Her strength being one of the things that had always attracted him.

“How’s he doing?”

“Tired and sore. He’s already fast asleep,” she said and went to the small island in the middle of the kitchen, bent and retrieved two mugs and a sugar bowl which she placed on top of the island counter.

“And you?” he asked, raising one brow to emphasize the question.

She braced her hands on the edge of the counter, suddenly uneasy it seemed to him. She took a deep breath, held it before releasing it in a rush. Then she met his gaze directly and said, “I need your help.”

“Just what kind of help?” he asked and from the corner of his eye he noticed that the pot of coffee was almost done. He took it from the machine, walked over and poured them both a cup of coffee.

She picked up the mug, her hands slightly shaky. She blew on the coffee and took a sip before placing the mug down. Bracing her hands on the counter once again, she looked away and said, “I think T.J. knows who was driving the car that hit him, but he’s not admitting it. Normally I would have asked Jericho—”

“I’m not standing in for my brother, Macy. I’m not Jericho.”

Her head whipped up and she nailed him with her gaze. “You’re right that you’re nothing like your brother. But you can’t refuse to help.”

He snorted and shifted his brow ever higher. “Really? Please tell me why I can’t refuse.”

No sign of emotion or distress marked her face as she said, “Because T.J. is your son.”