When Hearts Collide - By James, Kendra Page 0,5
and pepper sideburns might put him in his late thirties, early forties, but the deep sleep of unconsciousness freed him of life’s stresses and he looked much younger. His black eyelashes looked long and thick.
Molly startled. Was it her imagination, or had his eyes fluttered? The lids flew open and Molly found herself staring into eyes as bright a blue as his daughter’s. They held her like a magnet.
“Mr. Taylor. You’re okay. An ambulance is coming. My name is Molly. I’m a nurse.”
His brow furrowed as if it were an effort to think. “Gracie...?”
His voice was barely audible, and Molly had to lean so close, the warmth of his breath caressed her cheek. “Gracie...”
“Gracie is fine, Mr. Taylor. She’s in my car.”
“She’s okay?”
“Yes, she’s okay.”
His eyes closed and face softened. Seconds later his eyes popped open. His jaw clenched and his pale cheek twitched. “Please, don’t let them take her.”
“Let who take her?”
“Social Services.”
“Now you’re going to be fine. Gracie will be fine.” She said the words in her practiced patient tone, but her heart had sunk like a lead weight when she’d heard the words Social Services, foster care. Memories flooded back. She tried to push them away.
“No.” Pearce was attempting to rise. Pain ravaged his face. “No. She can’t go into care. Promise me.” His hand shot out and his fingers clawed into her arm. “Please, please look after her.”
“What about her mother?”
“Doesn’t have one. Please, look after her.”
“I can’t.”
“Please...just until...”
She felt the nails digging into her arms.
“Mr. Taylor, they wouldn’t let me. There must be someone?”
“No.” His head shook slowly. “She won’t. She can’t...”
“Who won’t?” Molly felt like she was yelling. “Pearce, who can look after her?”
His eyes bore into hers. “No one. She can’t go in care again.”
Was he delusional? Had his child been in foster care? Why? This man had money enough to have an expensive sports car and clothes that hadn’t come off some department store rack.
“Promise me you won’t let that happen?”
“I can’t.”
His nails punctured the soft flesh of her forearm. “Please.”
“How?”
His eyes closed briefly. He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. His grasp on her arm loosened. Molly went to move away, but before she could, he grabbed her again. His eyes burned with an intense fierceness. Heat radiated through her chest, and Molly felt like she’d been shot with a blazing dart. “Pretend to be her mother.” His grip tightened. “Pretend to be my wife.”
“That’s crazy.”
“They’ll take her...”
All the air in her body drained out, and she sagged like a deflated balloon. Yes, she did know what would happen to her, only too well. Memories flooded back—stark dorm-like bedrooms, bleak birthdays and holidays, and worst of all, the dispassionate caregivers. Molly fought the overwhelming sadness that accompanied the memories.
“Please. I’ll never see her again.”
Molly thought of the beautiful, innocent child asleep in her car. A lump formed in her throat and tears pricked her eyes. How could she look after her? No, she couldn’t.
“Take...care...of her...” Then, as if the effort was too much, his body slumped into the blanket and he seemed to have fallen into a coma.
“Mr. Taylor? Mr. Taylor...Pearce.” Molly squeezed his shoulder. She called again, but Pearce Taylor made no further response. After a few minutes, Molly wondered if she’d dreamed the whole eye-opening episode.
She sat beside him, watching and waiting. For now, he was breathing on his own and his heartbeat was regular. He needed fluids and he needed oxygen, but there was no more Molly could do. So she sat beside him, talking softly, holding his hand, and stroking the strands of wavy black hair that draped his pale forehead like a Cocker Spaniel’s. Her hands trembled with post adrenaline rush, and the activity felt good. As her shoulders relaxed and her heartbeat no longer hammered in her head, she felt the tension ease out of her body. At least he was alive.
Molly prayed Pearce would survive until the ambulance arrived. What were his injuries? The gash on the left side of his head would require stitches. She felt the lump. It had increased. The acorn-sized swelling now felt like an overripe kiwi. Her stomach twisted in knots. If it was swelling this much on the outside, how much swelling was on the inside, pressing on his brain?
Molly was sure he’d sustained a significant head injury. His chances were good, but only if he got to a hospital in time to have it drained. The fractured leg might be the least of his problems.