Daddy By Accident. Paula Riggs Detmer
her forehead was oozing blood into the bandage applied by the paramedics, and her skin was purpling around the wound.
Small boned and too thin, she reminded him of a priceless porcelain doll his grandmother had kept on her dresser. Her skin had the same translucent quality as the fragile china, and her lashes were long and thick. Lost in the oblivion of sleep, she seemed very young and vulnerable—and terribly alone. It hurt to look at her, and yet he couldn’t make himself walk away.
“Call Dr. Hoy,” Prudy told the clerk briskly. “And get a lab tech up here stat. We’ll need blood work done.” The clerk flicked Boyd a curious glance before she turned to leave. He could almost predict the questions she would ask Prudy later.
“What about the driver?” Prudy asked as she held back the curtain to number four.
Boyd hesitated, the image of death still vivid in his mind. “The poor guy went through the windshield. Looked like a broken neck.”
Prudy sighed. “Her husband?”
“Ex, I think she said.”
“Is he the baby’s father?”
Boyd raked back the still-damp hair that had flopped onto his forehead. “She was pretty woozy and a little sparse on the details, but yeah, that seems a good bet.”
Prudy frowned. “Ex or not, it’s still going to be rough on her when she wakes up, especially if she loses the baby, too.”
Yeah, it’s always hardest on the one who’s “lucky” enough to survive, Boyd thought as he watched Prudy and the two paramedics transfer Stacy to the narrow bed. There was a slash of yellow paint on one high cheekbone and yellow splatters on the bright pink basketball sneaker peeking out from the gray ambulance blanket tucked around her small form.
“Oops, sorry.” Jenkins, the senior medic shot Boyd an apologetic glance, and Boyd realized that he was in the way. He’d forgotten for the moment that he was a carpenter now, a blue-collar guy with callused hands more suited to holding a hammer than a scalpel. Though his profession had changed, his knowledge of medicine hadn’t, however. He waited until the paramedics left, then cleared his throat. “Who’s the OB on call?”
“Jarrod.” Prudy looked up from the blood pressure cuff she was affixing to the patient’s too-thin arm and smiled. “We’ll take good care of her, Boyd. The best. She’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, sure she will.” A sudden lump pressed his throat and he had to swallow twice before he could make it dissolve. He’d heard that before. He’d even believed it. He knew better now. “Guess I’ll head on back then.”
Taking another step backward toward the curtain had him nearly colliding with an entering tech who sidestepped gingerly. “Sorry,” Boyd muttered, and earned himself a pained look.
“Sir, you’ll have to wait outside until after the doctor examines your wife,” the tech instructed impatiently.
“She’s not...” He stopped, realizing that the tech wasn’t listening. Frowning, he turned to go, only to be halted by the sound of Mrs. Patterson’s soft voice.
“No, wait. I don’t...want him to go.” Across the cubicle, Mrs. Patterson was now awake and watching him with bruised eyes. When he locked his gaze on hers, she tried to smile. “I haven’t thanked you.”
He cleared his throat. “No need. Mostly I just kept you company until the bus showed up.”
Stacy wet her lips and struggled to focus her mind on her rescuer’s words instead of the all-encompassing pain in her head. “Bus?”
“Sorry, I mean the ambulance.” His mouth quirked. It wasn’t quite a smile but held a certain promise she found endearing.
“I don’t...but of course, there would have to be...an ambulance. How silly of me...not to remember.”
The effort to speak set her head to spinning, and she hauled in air in an effort to clear her brain. Concentrate on his eyes, she told herself as his face wavered in and out of focus. Gray eyes in a deeply tanned face. Quicksilver eyes, framed by thick, blunt lashes the color of bronze. There was something haunting about those eyes. Something sad. Memories he didn’t want, perhaps, or lingering shadows of a terrible suffering. For an instant, she thought she was looking into the eyes of her tormented husband.
“Boyd?” she murmured, and heard his deep voice answering. The words were indistinct, yet she felt a sense of comfort.
Another face swam into her field of vision. A face with feminine features and a kind smile. A face topped by a halo of shining copper. A nurse, she finally decided.
“Is there anyone you want us to call for you, Mrs. Patterson ? Family? Friends?”
Stacy concentrated for a moment. “Some...someone should call my ex-in-laws in Seattle. Leonard Patterson, Sr., on Stanton Street.” Old and frail now, the Pattersons had never forgiven her for signing the papers to commit their only son.
Someone repeated the information, then asked if there was anyone else. A member of her own family perhaps? The baby’s father?
“Len...”
“Len was the baby’s father?” the voice repeated with a soothing calm.
“Yes.” Len had longed to become a father, but that was before a hopped-up kid bent on robbery had split his skull with a baseball bat. After that, he’d become a mean, angry man given to bouts of violence that had finally worn out her love and her loyalty.
“Anyone else? A neighbor, maybe? Or a co-worker?”
Stacy cleared her throat again of a sudden thickness and searched for the name that hovered just beyond her consciousness. A face wavered, round and patrician, with a frizz of curly white hair swooping over the apple cheeks. “Adeline... Marsh.”
“Is she a friend?”
“Principal at Lewis and Clark Elementary. I’ve been substituting. Morning kindergarten.” Stacy licked her lips, aware suddenly that somehow, her hand was in Boyd’s again. Had she reached for him? Or had he reached for her? Either way, she was grateful for the human contact and curled her fingers tighter around his.
“I’m...sorry about taking you away from your work,” she murmured, her voice oddly thin.
“It’ll still be there when I get back.” He bent lower, and his bare shoulders blocked out the overhead light.
“Will your boss be angry?”
“No boss. I work alone.”
She heard a low drone of whispered conversation and turned her head toward the sound. The resulting pain in her temple caused her to inhale sharply.
“Easy, honey.” he soothed, his voice low and scratchy.
Slowly she adjusted the angle of her head until she could see his eyes, now dark and intense and probing. Deep lines fanned the outer corners, suggesting a man who knew how to laugh, yet the strongly molded face had the look of a man more accustomed to discipline and control and restraint.
“Miz Patterson?” a third voice inquired softly. “I need to draw blood for the lab now.”
It wasn’t really a question, saving Stacy the trouble of replying. Boyd stepped back to allow room for a roly-poly woman in a blue smock. Stacy watched anxiously as the woman readied a syringe and hoped she wouldn’t disgrace herself by fainting. Just in case, she looked away before the needle entered her arm. She felt a prick, then pressure. The overhead light was beginning to sear her eyes, and her head was spinning again. She felt her lashes drooping and quickly forced her eyes wider. It was important to stay awake and alert. In control.
“Boyd?” Mindless of her aching head, she looked around anxiously.
“Right here, Stacy.” He took her hand again, and the cold that had begun to seep into her again abated. The self-confidence she’d built up over the past year