Second Chance Romance. Jill Weatherholt
Epilogue
“Miss, can you hear me?” Jackson’s chest tightened. “C-can you open the door?”
The rain hitting his face felt like acupuncture needles. “I’m Jackson Daughtry, a paramedic. Can you hear me?”
The woman inside the silver Volvo didn’t respond. Her body slumped over the steering wheel, but he could tell she was breathing. Her flowing chestnut curls were covered in blood. He gripped the driver’s side door. It didn’t budge. He beat on the window. His knuckles burned.
“Hold on, miss.” It was Thursday, his first day off in ten days. Thankfully he was always prepared. Inside his trunk, he kept a fully stocked first-aid kit with compress dressings and bandages, all of the proper supplies for an emergency. “I’ll have you out before you open your eyes. You’ll be fine.”
Mud tried to tug his boots from his feet while he sprinted to his truck. Inside his Bronco, he wiped the pellets of rain off his face and grabbed his phone to call the station.
“Tom, it’s Jackson. I’m on Smith Farm Road, in front of the old Smith farm. I need an ambulance.”
“I thought today was your day off.”
“I was on my way to pick up Rebecca from the Whitesides’ house. She spent the night with her friend Mary.” He paused to catch his breath. “A deer darted across the road, and the car in front of me swerved straight into a chestnut oak. The driver is bleeding from her head, and she’s unconscious. Can you send the ambulance and contact the sheriff? I’ll make the report at the hospital.”
“Sorry, bud—I’ll call the sheriff, but the ambulance is at the Swanson place. They think Betsy had a heart attack. Poor Walter, he was beside himself when he called. Betsy collapsed while taking the roast out of the oven. It’ll be a while.”
Jackson’s stomach churned. The only downside of living in the small mountain valley of Sweet Gum, Virginia, was that there was only one sheriff’s car and one ambulance. “Call over to Waynesboro. They’ll send one.”
“No can do, my friend. I heard over the radio there’s a bad accident on Route 340.”
Jackson straightened his shoulders. “Never mind. I’ll take her to Sweet Gum Memorial myself.” He clenched his teeth, causing a pain to shoot through his jaw.
“Who is she, Jackson? Should I call her family?”
“She’s unconscious, man, and the car’s locked.” He massaged his temples. His head pounded. “The license plate says Washington, DC.” He remembered Rebecca, his precious daughter. “Do you mind calling over to the Whitesides’ house? Tell them I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Consider it done.”
Jackson pressed End. He grabbed the slim jim from his trunk, but it slipped from his hands and sank into the mud. He yanked it loose and sprinted to the Volvo. He jammed it down into the crack between the door and the window. Nothing happened. The car was a newer model. The slim jim wasn’t going to get him inside. He raced back to his trunk and grabbed a tire iron. He had no choice.
Standing next to the passenger window, he took a swing, and the glass exploded. With ease, he reached inside, popped the lock and flung open the door.
“You’ll be fine.” Please, Lord, let her be okay. “I’m going to unbuckle your seat belt and lift you out,” he told her, though she was still out cold.
The seat belt was stubborn. His knuckles throbbed from pounding on the window. “Hold on. I can’t get my hands on the release. One second and I’ll have you out.” Finally free, Jackson closed his eyes for an instant and tore off his bomber jacket.
“This will keep you warm and toasty.” He covered her with his leather jacket. Despite her slender frame, maneuvering her from behind the steering wheel wasn’t an easy task. His boots slid in the mud, and his knee rammed against the side of the Volvo. Rain pelted his face, stinging like sleet. He shivered when he glanced at the sky. It was dark as ink. Please, Lord, help me get her free. With precise movements he’d learned at the training academy and an answered prayer, finally she was in his arms.
She was featherlight. He carried her to the truck and laid her in the backseat as though she were made of antique china. “Let’s make sure you’re nice and comfortable,” he said, with hopes that his voice would somehow gradually bring her out of her unconscious state.
He scanned her face and pushed away a strand of blood-soaked hair. There were serious cuts on her cheek and forehead.
He dashed to the car to get her purse. Then he jerked open the passenger side door and spied a piece of paper on the floor. Drops of rain trickled down his hands when he picked it up. The ink had smeared, but it was still legible, and he could see it was directions to Phoebe Austin’s farm. He snatched the purse and bolted to his truck. He’d call Phoebe once he arrived at the hospital.
Inside the truck, he jerked the seat belt over his shoulder, turned and slid his phone from his shirt pocket. “Hold on. I’m going to get you to the hospital as fast as I can, but first I have to call to tell them we’re on our way.” Never one for high-tech gadgets, he opened his old flip phone. With the hospital on speed dial, he punched number nine. He tapped his foot while he waited for an answer.
After three rings, he heard a familiar voice. “Sweet Gum Memorial. This is Sara.”
He gulped in a deep breath. “Sara...hi. I’m glad you’re working. It’s Jackson.” He often had to dodge her advances, but she was a good nurse. He trusted her skills.
After giving her details of the accident, and their estimated time of arrival, he hit End and tossed his phone on the passenger seat. He gripped the steering wheel and closed his eyes. Lord, please watch over this woman. Guide us as we travel in these dangerous conditions.
Jackson started up the car, then jammed his foot on the accelerator and turned on the windshield wipers. The windows fogged. He rubbed his hand in large circles along the front windshield. He’d meant to get the defroster checked. There was never enough time.
“Are you okay back there?” He knew she wouldn’t answer, but maybe she could hear his words. “So, you were on your way to Phoebe’s house? She’s quite a character, isn’t she? We own a business together, The Coffee Bean. She runs the place. I’m just a backup, if she needs help. Did she tell you?” He blew out a breath. Lord, please, let her answer me.
The ride seemed endless. The pounding rain knocked the red maple leaves from the trees, splattering onto his windshield and littering the winding two-lane road. Deer grazed in a field, oblivious to the deluge. He eased his foot off the accelerator when his truck hydroplaned for a second time. “No sense in having another accident.” Up ahead a tree toppled over, thankfully not onto the road. He bit his lip. If only she would answer.
At last, through the foggy window, he spied the red glow of the emergency-room entrance. Thank You, Lord, for getting us here safe. Within seconds, Steve, a tall and lanky orderly, rushed toward his truck, pushing a gurney.
Jackson’s chest expanded. He unbuckled his seat belt and shot from the truck. “Hey, Steve. How’s it going?”
“Busy. This storm is creating lots of problems,” Steve said while he and Jackson removed the victim out of the truck and onto the gurney. “Has she been unconscious since you found her?”
Jackson wiped his hands down the front of his jeans. The rain tapered to a light drizzle. “Yes, she was out cold when I got inside her car.”