Solitaire. Lindsay McKenna

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      She wasn’t able to comprehend all that Slade said as he leaned over her. The warmth of his breath coupled with his husky voice flowed like balm across her, filling her with new strength. A small smile tugged at Cat’s mouth. She felt Slade’s long fingers close gently across her shoulder, and she knew he understood.

      An incredible aura of care surrounded Cat during those twenty minutes when the three men worked on her. She was conscious for minutes at a time, lapsing in and out of the arms of darkness. Rafe’s voice or his familiar touch on her hair would draw her back to consciousness. She began to anticipate Slade’s knowing, professional touch as he and the paramedic turned her over, placing her on the body board. She had grown used to the pain in her right side, but the callused pressure of Slade’s fingers as he fitted the brace around her neck brought tears to her eyes.

      The jab of a needle brought her to greater awareness, but once they had her strapped securely to the thin oak board Cat lost consciousness again.

      * * *

      Slade handed Sam Kincaid another cup of coffee as they stood in the waiting room of the surgical floor of the hospital. He wasn’t sure who looked worse: he or Rafe. They were muddy, their hair plastered down from untold hours of sweat. Every muscle in Slade’s body screamed for rest and the luxury of a hot shower. He wrinkled his nose; the brackish odor of the mine and his sour sweat smell surrounded him. He glanced at his watch. An hour ago Cat had been taken to the emergency room, attended by a number of physicians and nurses. None of the family had been allowed to go with her. Why didn’t someone come out and tell them how she was?

      Slade hadn’t tried to hide his own emotions as he’d sat alongside Rafe in the ambulance. Cat had been chalk white; even her freckles had looked washed out. Her once-beautiful sable-brown hair was a stringy mat of mud and blood. There’d been a three-inch gash across her scalp, and she had bled heavily, but he was more worried about the skull beneath her scalp. Just how bad was her concussion? Judging from Cat’s pallor and her prolonged bouts of unconsciousness, it was serious.

      A doctor came through the double swinging doors, his face unreadable. He headed for the elder Kincaid. The entire family, with Millie and Slade, surrounded the doctor before he drew to a stop.

      “Mr. Kincaid?”

      Sam Kincaid nodded. “Doctor? How’s my girl?”

      “I’m Dr. Scott,” he said, extending his hand. “Cathy is in serious condition, Mr. Kincaid. She’s suffered two broken ribs. She’s extremely dehydrated and we’ve got her on two I.V.s to restabilize her.”

      Slade closed his fist. His voice was strained. “And her head injury, Dr. Scott?”

      Scott’s narrow face became impassive. “Severe concussion. She keeps lapsing in and out of consciousness.” His brow furrowed. “Is your name Slade?”

      “Yes. Slade Donovan.”

      “Cathy is asking for you. We need to try and keep her awake. I want to keep her from going into a coma.”

      Inez Kincaid’s thin face grew still. “A coma, doctor?”

      “Yes. If I can keep Slade with her, she might rally enough to fight back and stay awake. We’ve got that portion of her head packed in dry ice to reduce the swelling.” He looked up at Slade. “Let’s get you cleaned up a little, son, and then, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to remain with Cathy for a while.”

      Slade nodded. He followed Dr. Scott down the immaculate hall to a lounge. A nurse gave him a green surgical shirt and a pair of trousers to replace his filthy clothes. Slade took a quick hot shower and fought the deep drowsiness that tried to claim him. It wasn’t yet time to sleep off the past forty-eight hours he’d been awake.

      The nurse, a petite blonde with blue eyes, smiled once he emerged from the lounge. “Now you look like a doctor, Mr. Donovan. Follow me, please.” She took him to the intensive-care unit, where each patient’s room was enclosed on three sides with glass panels. Cathy looked dead. She matched the color of her sheets. Her hair had been washed clean and an ice pack placed carefully against her skull. The sigh of oxygen and the beeps of the cardiac unit made Slade grow wary. So many machines to monitor her fragile hold on life, he thought.

      The nurse drew up a chair alongside Cat’s bed. “You can sit here, Mr. Donovan.”

      Slade thanked her, but moved to the bed. He reached out and slipped his hand across Cat’s limp, cool fingers. They had washed her free of all the filth.

      “You look a little on the thin side, Mr. Donovan. They said you and the Kincaids worked but didn’t eat. I’ll have someone run down to the cafeteria and bring you dinner.”

      Slade smiled, grateful for the nurse’s thoughtfulness. “Thanks,” he replied. Then he shifted his attention to Cat. Funny, Slade told Cat silently as he cupped her fingers between his to warm them, you were a stranger to me three days ago. A lump rose in his throat. What is it about you that touches me so?

      Perhaps it was the vulnerability of her features. Or the lips that reminded him of a lush, exotic jungle orchid he’d seen in Brazil–cherry red, even now in her present condition. Or perhaps it was her heart-shaped face, or the wide cheekbones that gave her eyes an almost tilted look. A smile eased the taut planes of Slade’s face as he followed the coverlet of freckles from one cheek across her broken nose to the other cheek.

      Slade reached over, lightly tracing the bump on her nose. How did she break such a pretty nose? And when had she broken it? He had so many questions to ask her, so much he didn’t know about her that he wanted to know. “Cat?” he said softly. “Can you hear me? It’s Slade. I’ve come for you. I want you to fight back.” His fingers tightened against hers as he reluctantly straightened up. He blinked. Was he imagining things, or had her lashes fluttered in response to his hushed request?

      * * *

      When Cat awoke, she was clear at once as to where she was. The murmuring of the equipment caught her attention first. Then she forced open her weighted lids. She became aware of the broken snore of a man nearby. And then she felt the warm, callused fingers that enclosed her hand. Despite the pain, Cat turned her head to the right. Her eyes widened. Slade Donovan lay slumped in a chair, snoring, his chin sagging toward his chest and his hand gripping hers. A flood of warmth coursed through her and Cat closed her eyes. She was alive. Slade had dragged her back from the depths of the mine.

      Her voice cracked when she tried to call his name. Cat used what little strength she had in her hand and squeezed Slade’s fingers. She watched him awaken from the heavy sleep. Her heart wrenched as she saw the darkness shadowing his red-rimmed eyes. His face was gaunt and she saw the stress plainly carved on the stubbled, angular planes of his face.

      Slade blinked, his hand tightening on her fingers. “Cat?” He whispered her name unbelievingly. Standing, he leaned over the bed, one hand cupping her cheek as he gazed disbelievingly into her barely opened eyes. “I’ll be damned, you’re awake.”

      She gave him a weak smile. “I-is this a dream?”

      Slade laughed unsurely, his blue eyes burning fiercely with happiness. “If it is, sweetheart, then we’re dreaming together.” He reached over and pressed a buzzer to alert the nurse’s desk. “Hold on, there’s a whole passel of doctors who are anxious to see you awake.”

      Cat was thirsty, her mouth gummy. “What about my family?”

      “They’re СКАЧАТЬ