Merciless

My feet felt encased in cement as I closed the gap to the hospital bed. I ran my latex-covered fingers over his knuckles then up his wrist and thick forearm, stopping when I reached the sleeve of his hospital gown. I leaned forward. “I love you. And if you don’t want the wrath of a crazy woman on your head, you will pull your stubborn ass through this. You will not leave me alone, goddammit. You will not-” My voice caught. Only through sheer will did I manage not to throw myself on him and weep.

I turned away. The doctor had left and a young nurse stood beside Lex.

She looked at me. “I’m sorry. You have to go.”

Lex shook his head. “I can stay and talk to him. And when he wakes up, I’ll be able to run right out and let you guys know.”

That’s when my tears fell.

The nurse squeezed his shoulder. “That’s real sweet of you to offer, but the very best thing you can do right now? Allow your father time to heal.”

“But they say on TV that people in a coma can hear and stuff. I don’t wanna leave him here. I don’t want him to think that no one cares about him.”

I tugged Lex against my side, and he burrowed into me. “He knows we care, Lex. I promise, if I thought the doctors were wrong, we’d be bunking in your dad’s hospital room.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

18

I thought I might have problems staying awake during the drive to the ranch, but I focused on the sunrise. The purple horizon morphed into pink-hues ranging from bubblegum to salmon to cotton candy-finally bleeding into the orange and peach tones of dawn.

First thing we did after stumbling out of the truck was feed the dogs. Strange to beat Jake to that morning chore.

Then I started making calls.

Lex stayed beside me as I gave Deputy Moore the lowdown about Dawson’s condition. She didn’t say much. I realized I probably should’ve called her earlier so she could have filled Mason’s shift. I shut off Dawson’s cell phone and put it in his T-shirt drawer.

Next I called Hope. I pleaded exhaustion and promised to let her know when we woke up.

I called Shay last. I needed his gruff demeanor more than sympathy.

Lex was damn near falling asleep on his feet, so I marched him to his room. He let me tuck him in.

Too damn wired to sleep, I paced. I sorted laundry. Geneva called to inform me that she’d be over later with food.

Word got around fast in Eagle River County, and the home phone began to ring off the hook. I appreciated that the sheriff garnered such genuine concern, but it was emotionally draining to have to repeatedly explain what had happened.

I checked on Lex and finally crawled into bed myself.

I woke a little after three, not refreshed but grateful for dreamless sleep. I’d left the door unlocked and saw food piled on the table. As I contemplated snatching a cookie, a knock sounded. Shay let himself into the kitchen. Looking around, he took off his coat and draped it over the chair.

The words Make yourself comfy dried on my tongue.

I leaned against the doorjamb separating the kitchen and the living room, still in my pajamas.

His eyes met mine. He seemed at a loss for what to do with his hands. Finally, he said, “Jesus, Mercy. I’m so sorry.”

I didn’t move. He came to me. Standoffish Shay hugged me. Surrounded by warmth from his body, I hadn’t realized I’d been so cold until I started to shake.

Once I started, I couldn’t stop. Still, I didn’t cry. Mason would’ve swept me into his arms and held me until the shakes stopped.

But Shay wasn’t Dawson. He held on to me as long as he could stand it. Then he settled me on a chair, poured me a glass of Wild Turkey, and tersely said, “Drink.”

I drank. As soon as the glass was empty he poured another.

At some point I realized Shay had taken my hands while I stared at the second glass of whiskey. One night last year I’d done shots, determined to keep track of how many I could handle before I passed out. Fifteen. It wouldn’t take that many belts right now. Tempting, to test that theory.

“Mercy?” Shay’s voice snapped me out of my imagined alcoholic stupor. “What have you been doing?”

“Pacing. Sleeping. Wondering how I’ll get through the next week.”

“That’s how long…”

“They’re keeping him sedated? Yeah. It sucks.”

“I bet.”

I told him about the limited visiting hours. Five minutes an hour. “It sucks.”

“I’m sorry.”

I told him about the “wait and see” diagnosis. “It sucks.”

“Hanging out with an eleven-year-old boy hasn’t done your vocabulary any favors.”

“You suck.”

He smiled softly, and then it faded. “Talk to me.”

“I will go crazy one minute at a time if I don’t have something to take my mind off this.” I’d already felt myself slipping into that deep pit of despair. Questioning why I ever thought I could be happy for any amount of time because something bad always happened and ruined it.

“What can I do?”

“Put me to work. I can’t stand around for a week and wring my hands.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.” I inhaled. Exhaled slowly. “Did you work on the cases this weekend?”

“Some.”

“Did you get anywhere?”

“Not really.”