When Hearts Collide - By James, Kendra Page 0,10

pale arms clung to her neck and her head had tucked its way into the valley between her breasts. Her whimpers had finally settled, and only the occasional torso-heaving sob escaped her. Molly kept her hand on the child’s back, rubbing in a circular pattern any time the child threatened to rouse. She glanced down at the child in her arms and the sudden rush of maternal feelings shocked her. Is this what every mother feels?

It was all well and good enjoying this rare maternal moment, but she needed to contact the child’s real family. Yet multitasking with a child proved not to be her forte. Looking up Taylors in the phone book, dialing the numbers, and keeping Gracie asleep at the same time proved more difficult than she would have imagined. She’d roused three angry P. Taylors before she heard Pearce’s baritone on an answering machine. It was set to ring four times before going to the machine. She ran out of quarters trying to rouse someone at that number. What now?

Thanks to the ambulance drivers telling everyone she was his wife before she arrived at the hospital, she hadn’t had to say anything. She went along with it, digging herself into a bigger hole. As soon as Pearce Taylor was out of surgery, she had to find Gracie’s next of kin. She would go to his house and wake up whoever was there. Molly looked at the clock. Almost three hours had passed. Molly leaned back in the seat and let her eyes close.

The whoosh of the automatic doors wrenched her awake. Gracie, still in the safety of her arms, shifted, let out a loud sob, then settled again. A doctor, his operating room greens wrinkled and blood-stained, strode toward her. Molly tried to stand, but he motioned her to stay put. He sat beside her, his smile gentle. She found it hard to breathe. Was it good news or...?

“I’m Doctor Summerville. He’s out of the woods, for now. I hear mostly due to your quick action at the scene. He’s very lucky. He had a laceration to his intestine, but we were able to repair it. His tibia and fibula were broken.” He shook his head. “Bad break. It’s been pinned in place. He had a small subdural hematoma. We drained that. He needs to be monitored. He’ll be in the intensive care unit for a couple of days.” He paused. “The next twenty-four hours will be the most crucial. If he makes it past that...”

“Yes, that first twenty-four.” Her throat tightened. “What is his prognosis?”

The doctor was startled at her question. “What medical background do you have?”

“I’m an intensive care nurse.”

He smiled. “Hence the quick first aid at the scene. Lucky for him.” The hands that had lain quietly in his lap now waved as if balancing on a teeter-totter. “He should recover completely, with time. He’s going to be sedated and on a respirator overnight.” He smiled gently. “You look beat. I think you should have a quick peak in on him, and then get this little one home.”

Molly protested, but he’d already walked away. He called over his shoulder, “A nurse will be out once they have him settled.”

Pins and needles shot up Molly’s left arm. She wiggled her fingers, trying to urge them awake. She should get up and stretch, but she couldn’t move. Gracie, after an hour of inconsolable demanding to see her father, was finally in a deep sleep. Her howls had diminished to sobs, then to sniffling, then to hiccups racking her small frame. Now only an occasional gasp and moan escaped her. Molly didn’t dare move and wake her until the nurses came for them.

Gently, Molly brushed strands of blond hair off the angelic face. Thank God, the child had emerged with no injuries. Gracie’s long, tear-coated lashes lifted briefly, exposing luminous blue eyes, then curled closed again. Molly studied the translucent eyelids, her hand instinctively circling the small of the child’s back. Gracie sighed back to sleep.

“Mrs. Taylor?” A clerk held a clipboard and attached pen.

Gracie stirred, her eyes drifted open, and she let out a cry. Molly rocked gently. “It’s okay, Gracie. Go back to sleep. It’s okay.”

“I need you to sign these insurance forms,” the clerk said. “They have to be signed,”—her voice began to rise—“now.”

“But...”

“The child has been treated and discharged. He,” she said, gesturing toward the operating room, “will be here for a while. We have the information. Just sign the forms.” She