For the first time, Reeve got a good look at the injured woman. Her short, dark hair, still containing shards of glass, was a stark contrast to the color of her pale skin. Her long, thick eyelashes were a lighter shade than her hair. There were bloody scratches on her face and arms in addition to the deep cut that had bled so profusely, and she had a large bump on her forehead. She wore a loose maternity dress that bulged out in front. She seemed a pretty woman, and she looked utterly fragile.
Her pallor was deathlike.
Anguish he’d thought he had forgotten threatened to swamp Reeve, but then he noticed her eyelids flutter. Her lips parted, and she seemed to be trying to talk. He leaned toward her. “What did you say?” he asked gently, though a voice inside screamed for him to lift this woman, hold her, force her baby and her to be immediately healed.
Her eyes opened just a slit. He couldn’t tell what color they were, and he doubted that they were focused on him. Her brow was furrowed as though she was in pain.
He saw her hand rise slightly from where it rested beside her on the gurney, and he clasped it in his. It was cool and damp and seemed as limp as a shroud.
This time, when she spoke in a quiet rasp, he made out the words. “Help me. Please.”
“I’ll do all I can. I promise.” His blood pounded in his ears. What if—
No, that was another mother, another baby. He had no business thinking about them now. He was the only physician with pediatric experience at the hospital at this hour. He had work to do.
CATHERINE’S EYELIDS WERE heavy. She struggled to open them. They fluttered first. With concentrated effort, she managed to raise them just a little.
She saw only a blur of white. “You are awake,” said a deep, soothing voice. A familiar male voice. It made her feel relaxed. Safe.
“I thought so. Can you tell me your name?”
She didn’t want to talk. Too tired. But she had to respond to the calming voice. “Ca—” she started to say. She stopped, trying to remember why she didn’t dare mention that name. “Polly,” she finally said. The word came out as a croak. That was the answer she had to give. She had to think of herself as Polly, not Catherine. But as muzzy as her mind felt, she was not sure why.
“Polly what?”
“Black,” she managed to answer. Why did she hurt so badly? She felt as though she had been run over by a truck.
Truck? No. The car. She had been so tired, and then…and then…
She came fully awake as suddenly as if she had been pinched. “The accident,” she gasped. Why didn’t her head clear? She was in a bed in a strange room. A man wearing a white jacket hovered over her. Did she know him? He wore a name tag. She struggled to focus on it. Dr. R. Snyder, it read. A doctor? Where was she?
She looked around. She lay in a narrow bed with railings on the sides. Her sore left arm was hooked up to a long tube that led to a bottle hanging upside down: an IV. Her right arm was swathed in bandages. The place smelled of something sweet and antiseptic. Obviously, she was in a hospital. White sheets were tucked over her nearly flat belly.
Flat?
Everything came back to her suddenly. “My baby!” she screamed, struggling to sit up despite arrows of pain stabbing through her. “What happened to—?”
“Shh.” The doctor pushed her back gently onto the bed. “It’s all right. You have a beautiful little girl. She’s fine.” His baritone voice was tranquil and familiar, though she didn’t recall ever meeting him. But he sounded as if he cared about her. “Sleep now, and when you’re feeling a little better I’ll make sure someone brings her in to see you.”
“Now.” Her heart pounded unmercifully, magnifying each pain.
Nothing alarmed her as much as the fear that the doctor, despite his kind, calming voice, had lied to her. That something was wrong with her baby.
Or that someone had stolen her away.
She searched the man’s eyes. They were a golden brown beneath thick ginger brows, and like any good doctor’s, they were filled with compassion. But she couldn’t trust him.
She couldn’t trust anyone.
“Please,” she said, making her voice as forceful as she could. “Let me see my baby.”
“I think we can arrange that. She was small, you know. And we were worried about her condition after the accident. That’s why we delivered her right away. She’s doing well, but she’s been under observation since she was born.”
“When was that?” Polly was almost afraid to ask. How long had she been unconscious?
“About—” the doctor pushed the sleeve of his lab coat up from a broad, hair-dusted wrist and looked at his watch “—ten hours ago.”
Ten hours. Her baby had been born that long ago, and she hadn’t been awake to see her. To hold her. Polly felt tears rise to her eyes. “You’re sure she’s all right?”
“I’m certain, though we’re keeping close tabs. I’ll have someone bring her soon.”
She tried to watch him leave the room, but instead her head fell back onto the pillow. She felt miserably dizzy, and there was a fierce ache at her forehead. She lifted her hand to put pressure on the spot and felt a large lump. Oh, my. She must have hit something hard.
If only the seat belt hadn’t been so uncomfortable around her large abdomen—but who knew what condition she and the baby would have been in if she had been strapped to the seat?
Then there was the pain that burned from beneath the bandage on her arm.
She felt awful. And confused. Where was she? In a hospital, of course, but where? She looked around the small, sterile room, but it gave no clue.
She tried to stay awake. She was aware that she dozed off, then awakened again. That was all right, as long as she did not fall into a deep sleep. She had to be sure….
“Here you are,” said a high, cheerful voice, startling Polly fully awake. A uniformed nurse stood beside the bed, smiling. “Doc Snyder examined this little darling again. He’s a careful one. And then he had to check with Dr. Fletcher to make sure it was all right for you to have a little visitor. Dr. Fletcher is your attending physician.” In moments, Polly felt a soft bundle being snuggled against her right side. She heard a small squeaky sound and looked down.
There, swaddled in a white receiving blanket, was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen: a tiny pink face, with just a smattering of light brown hair. The eyes were closed.
“Oh,” Polly said wonderingly, suddenly engulfed in a wave of deep emotion that was a conglomeration of relief, tenderness and fierce protectiveness. Ignoring the fuzziness in her head, she maneuvered with care to pull the baby into her arms, mindful of the IV still attached to her, and the pain when she moved. Nuzzling the little head, Polly smelled the soft sweetness of baby powder.
Uncertainly, she unwrapped the baby. She’d had little experience with infants, but she would learn. Quickly. And right now, she had to be certain that this little one was truly all right.
Exposed to the coolness of the hospital air, the baby made little gasps of protest. Her blue eyes opened, though they didn’t focus on Polly, and her dimpled little hands punched unevenly at the air. She had the right numbers of tiny fingers and toes, and the little dark stump of her umbilical cord was a contrast against her pink skin. A disposable diaper was fastened over her, and rather than removing it, Polly pulled it away from the baby’s tiny tummy and peered inside.
“Perfect,” she sighed as she wrapped the baby back into the blanket. She held the small form protectively against her side. I won’t