Something dinged. Startled, Jolie dropped the ID and grabbed her cell phone. Its face remained dark. The strains of something country and western played from deep in the bin. She found Cord’s phone in the hip pocket of his jeans. The caller ID read Cash.
Knowing she should answer, Jolie let it roll to voice mail. Cash didn’t like her. Truth be told, none of Cord’s brothers liked her. Well, except maybe for Chance. While he might not like her, he didn’t hate her like the rest of the family. Chance and Cooper. They’d been the only ones to ever give her the time of day when she’d dated Cord.
Cord’s phone was password protected. Of course it was, because nothing could be easy tonight. She stared off into the distance, thinking. She tried his birth date. Nope. On a whim, she tried her own. That had been his default password for everything when they dated in college. When the screen opened, she almost dropped the phone. Jolie scrolled through his contact list, making note of pertinent numbers for the hospital’s records. She had to stop dithering and make at least one call. Chance’s number was at the top of the list. She dialed it on her desk phone but remembered Chance was on his honeymoon, so she hung up.
Jolie remembered the big dust up from early in the summer as she had been moving home. Seemed as if Cyrus Barron was still screwing up his sons’ lives—Chance’s this time. The woman he’d fallen for had led an old-fashioned cattle drive from her ranch to the stockyards to get her steers to market so she could pay off the mortgage lien Cyrus held on the place. She knew how Mr. Barron reacted to his sons thinking for themselves. He wouldn’t like it one little bit, especially if Chance went against his father’s dictates, siding with a woman Cyrus had declared an enemy. Jolie had heard all about that day because her dad had been waiting on Cassie Morgan to arrive so he could buy the herd. Yeah, her dad liked screwing with the Barron family.
Worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, Jolie stared at the phone numbers on her list. Chance and Cord were close, with Cooper their third musketeer. As soon as Chance heard the news, he’d be on the next plane home anyway—honeymoon or not. Decision made, Jolie used Cord’s phone to call.
After six rings, she was afraid her call would roll over to voice mail. Chance picked up on the eighth ring.
“Dude, this better be important.” His voice held a teasing growl.
Using her most professional voice, Jolie said, “This is University Hospital Trauma One calling. Mr. Chance Barron?”
“What the— How? What the hell’s going on?”
“I’m sorry to inform you, sir, but your brother Cord was critically injured. An accident on an oil rig.”
“Is he... How bad?”
“He’s—” Her voice cracked and she had to swallow around the constriction in her throat. “He’s in surgery, Cha—Mr. Barron.”
She almost blew it, calling him by his first name. After giving him all the information she had, she heard Chance’s barely polite goodbye before he hung up on her. Jolie huddled her shoulders, shaking again. What if Cord died?
* * *
The 11:00 p.m. shift change arrived. Jolie was dead on her feet and emotionally drained. She’d finished her double shift in automatic mode. Standing in the humid air outside the ER, she stared in the direction of the parking garage. She should go home, take a long bubble bath and put everything behind her. But she couldn’t.
Cord Barron had almost died today. Her stomach cramped so hard she had to bend over from the waist. Jolie choked back a whimper. She wanted to hate him. Had tried to hate him. She’d been the one wanting to kill him—with air quotes around that sentiment. Kill ’im dead. Every day since he’d walked out without a word. No goodbye. No explanation. Nothing. Until she had seen him sitting at the bar in Hannigan’s that long ago St. Paddy’s Day. She’d recognized the hungry look in his eyes and the bulge in his jeans. And something had snapped. She’d wanted to hurt him as badly as he’d hurt her.
Oh, yeah. She’d really taught him a lesson that night—spending the night and then slipping out of the penthouse hotel room at dawn. Only she was the one with the constant reminder. Every time she looked into her son’s eyes and he smiled, Cord was right there all over again.
Rubbing her temples, she breathed deeply to hold back nausea. Jolie didn’t head to the parking garage. She pivoted on her heel and headed back inside the hospital. Marching to the elevator, she berated herself for her weakness with each step until it became a mantra.
This is a bad idea. A really bad idea.
Cord was out of surgery, but she had to see for herself. She needed to make sure his injuries weren’t as life threatening as they’d looked when he’d stopped breathing in the ER.
Pushing through the double doors of the ICU ward, Jolie passed her hand under the automatic dispenser for hand sanitizer from force of habit. The hushed whoosh and thump of respiratory machines were a soft counterpoint to the electronic beeps of heart monitors. Bright lights kept shadows confined to corners. Life and death battled here, with medical personnel on the front lines.
She glanced at the board to locate Cord’s room number. Determined to just stick her head in to assess his condition and leave, Jolie parted the curtains of his cubicle. He looked drawn and pale amid the snaking mass of wires and tubes. She glanced at the monitor, judged his heart rate, respirations and blood pressure.
A touch on her shoulder caused Jolie to clap her hand over her mouth to contain a startled scream. The charge nurse offered a crooked smile.
“What brings you up here, Jolie?”
Jolie nodded toward the bed. “He’s a...” A what? Friend? Lover? Ex? More? Definitely less at this point in time. “I know him.” That was a generic-enough response. “I was in the ER when he was brought in. I just wanted to check on him before I head home.”
The nurse studied her for a long silent minute, and then her expression softened with something akin to understanding. “Sure, hon. Take your time.”
When the nurse stepped away and ducked into another room, Jolie logged into the computer station outside Cord’s room and checked his chart. Things were serious but he was no longer at death’s door.
She should go home, but the thought of the empty house waiting for her didn’t appeal. CJ was staying with his grandfather and Mrs. Corcoran, the nanny, was off visiting her sister. Without giving her motives too much thought, she pulled up an uncomfortable-looking chair and sank gratefully into it. She’d never get this opportunity again—the chance to study Cord, to hold his hand, to pretend what might have been. Jolie curled her fingers around his and simply devoured him with her gaze.
Dark hair hung over the bandage circling his head. He still wore it shaggy, though one side had been shaved for the stitches needed to close the gash on his head. More bandages covered his abdomen, and a wound vac clicked with each draining suck. Though his eyes were closed, she knew they were the color of burned honey. His face was sculpted into stark planes. A dark shadow covered his cheeks and chin. Though bristly now, the stubble would be soft by morning. The fingers of her free hand curled and flexed with the effort not to stroke him.
Cord’s bare chest—what she could see of it—and his shoulders had the raw look of a man who worked for a living. He’d always been buff. In high school, it was sports and summers working on the Crown B Ranch. In college, he worked the oil patch, getting a hands-on education supplemented by his classroom studies.
A wide yawn cracked her jaw. She glanced at the wall clock, surprised it was almost 2:00 a.m. She started to pull her hand away, but Cord’s fingers tightened on hers and his eyelids fluttered. Thrilled, her heart and lungs performed