The Girl Who Wouldn't Stay Dead

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Rather than going on the defensive and trying to justify his lying, he sidestepped. “Aunt Glenda is right. My relationship with Emily is irrelevant. However, her advance directive documents give me durable power of attorney and appoint me as the decision maker for her medical care. I’ll be happy to show you the paperwork.”

“Which brings me back to my initial question,” Wellborn said. “Why not talk to Connor before transporting an unconscious woman to your ranch?”

Glenda looked down her beak. “How would I know he was responsible?”

“Thorson knew,” Connor said. That fact was indisputable.

“But I didn’t.” Glenda sniffed as though she’d caught a whiff of rotten eggs. Apparently, she had no problem throwing the blond doctor under the bus, blaming the whole incident on him.

Patricia leaped to his defense. “My fiancé saved Emily’s life. He’s—”

“You’re engaged to Dr. Thorson,” Wellborn said.

“Yes, I am.” Proudly, she stuck out her left hand so they could admire her flashy Tiffany-cut diamond. “We’ll be married next year.”

“Or sooner,” Aunt Glenda said. “Patricia mustn’t wait too long, doesn’t want to add any more wrinkles before the wedding. She’s fourteen years older than the doctor, you know.”

“Please, Aunt Glenda.” Patricia pinched her thin lips together. “The FBI doesn’t need to know about my personal affairs.”

“Agent Wellborn might want to watch out,” Aunt Glenda continued. “He’s a very attractive man, and he’s wearing a Burberry scarf.”

“You’ll have to excuse my aunt,” Patricia said.

“It’s no secret that you prefer younger men. You’re a cougar, my dear, and a successful one. You should be pleased with yourself.”

“How dare you!”

“Cougar.”

Their infighting made him sick. Connor hated that Emily had wasted some of the best years of her life in the company of these harpies, and he vowed to never again complain about his huge Irish family in Queens. Sure, the Gallaghers did a lot of yelling. But there were also hugs, apologies and tears. Under all their blarney and bluster, there was love.

“Ladies,” Wellborn said, “I’d like to get back to the central issue. Did you move Emily on the advice of Dr. Thorson?”

“We wanted to take her to the ranch,” Patricia said before her aunt could throw another barb at her fiancé. “You must have forgotten, Aunt Glenda, but we spoke to Eric about our plan, and he told us there might be a problem with the paperwork.”

“I didn’t forget,” Glenda snapped. “My mind is as sharp as it ever was.”

“Of course it is.” Patricia’s voice dripped with condescension, and she rolled her eyes. Not a good look for a bona fide cougar. “We were so concerned about Emily that we didn’t pay enough attention to Eric’s advice. It was for the best, we decided, to avoid a confrontation with Connor. Emily needs to be home and surrounded by family before she passes on.”

“She’s not dying,” Connor said.

Patricia schooled her expression to appear sympathetic. “I understand the denial. But, Connor, you must be aware that Emily flatlined on the operating table. It happened twice. She was technically dead. Her heart stopped.”

He hadn’t heard this before. Though he wouldn’t put it past Dr. Thorson to make up a story like this if it suited his purposes, there had been other doctors present. No one had told him that Emily was so near death. “You’re lying.”

“Think what you want,” Aunt Glenda said. “That girl is hanging on by a thread.”

It wouldn’t do any good for him to explode. Connor threw up a mental wall, blocking their innuendo and deceit. Glenda and Patricia wanted Emily under their control; they’d admitted as much. But why?

“If Emily died,” he said, hating the words as soon as they passed his lips, “what would happen to the house she inherited?”

“You seem to be acting as her attorney,” Patricia said. “You tell us.”

It was an interesting question—one he needed to research. As far as he knew, Emily had no living relations. She’d been an only child. Her parents were older when they had had Emily, and they’d died from natural causes when she was a teenager. He doubted she had a current will reflecting her divorce. There were documents he’d drawn up when she and Jamison were first married, but that was a long time ago.

A further complication when it came to ownership of the house she’d inherited was the actual transfer of property. Emily didn’t have a deed. The probate court would surely step in. He handled transactions like this on a regular basis, and the paperwork was intense.

While Patricia launched into another diatribe about how her brother had been taking care of the property and deserved compensation, Wellborn leveled an assessing gaze in her direction. Connor had the sense that the good-looking black agent was accustomed to dealing with self-obsessed rich people who wouldn’t stop talking. He maintained an attitude of calm. The only sign of his annoyance was the way he tapped his Cross pen as though flicking ashes from a Cuban cigar.

“Last night,” Wellborn said, “was the reading of the will for Jamison Riggs. Start at the beginning and tell me everything that happened.”

Patricia settled back in her chair and sipped her coffee. “I should probably start with the list of individuals who had been invited. My assistant has a copy, as does our family attorney.”

Inwardly, Connor groaned. This conversation or interrogation—whatever Wellborn called it—could take hours. He couldn’t spare the time. Emily needed to be moved to Denver, where he could make sure she was safe.

When Adam, the paramedic, texted him to let him know that they were ready to transfer Emily to the helicopter, he was relieved to get away from the Riggs women.

With a wave to Wellborn, he opened the door to the office. “I’ll stay in touch.”

* * *

IMPRESSED WITH THE efficiency of Adam and the other medical emergency personnel, Connor watched as they carried Emily on a gurney into the orange-and-yellow Flight For Life helicopter. They moved slowly and with extreme care but couldn’t help jostling her.

Though she showed no sign of being disturbed, every bump made Connor think he might be making a mistake. Transporting her to Denver, where she could get the best care, seemed rational and prudent. He’d spoken to Dr. Charles Troutman, a neurologist with a stellar reputation who had taken a look at Emily’s brain data and had agreed to take her case. Connor’s instincts told him he was doing the right thing, getting her away from the place where she’d been threatened. But what if moving her caused her condition to worsen?

With the big cast on her left arm and the plastic boot on her left leg, she was hard to handle. But Adam and his associates managed to transfer her onto the bed where they readjusted the IVs and monitoring equipment. Connor stared at the wavy lines and the digital numbers on the screens. The emergency medical transport was equipped with all the equipment in the hospital and more. The crew included a pilot, an EMT copilot, a nurse and Adam, who vouched for the others.

Connor couldn’t take his eyes off Emily. Even when she was being moved, the monitors showed very little change. Though that was what the doctors wanted—a smooth transition—he longed to see a reaction from her or to hear her speak—just a word. He wanted some kind of sign that she was all right.

When she was safely secured, belted himself into a jump seat and watched her as the chopper swooped into the clear blue skies. Through the window, he glimpsed snowcapped mountains. Soon, it would be winter. The golden leaves of autumn would be gone, and snow would blanket the tall pines and other conifers.

“You’ll be better by then,” he said to Emily.

“What?” Adam looked up from the equipment he’d been monitoring.

“I was talking to her,” Connor said without shame. Even if she couldn’t hear him, he felt the need to reach out to her and reassure her. He unbuckled his seat belt and moved closer to her. With the back of his hand, he caressed her cheek. Taking full responsibility for her, making life-and-death decisions, was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

Adam bumped his arm as he reached across her bed to slide a pillow under the plastic boot on her ankle. “Sorry, Adam, I need to step away. I’ve got a couple more things to check.

“We’ve got everything under control.”

Not only did Connor appreciate the skill and competence of this young man but he trusted Adam. “You’re doing a great job. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, name it.”

“Well, let me think.” He grinned. “I’m already hooked up with a season ski pass, my rent isn’t too bad and I’ve got a kick-ass girlfriend. All in all, my life is good.”

“I’ll get out of your way.”

Back in his jump seat, he flipped open his laptop. He envied Adam’s simple but fulfilling lifestyle. Connor had never been a laid-back guy. He had needed to fight to win a partial scholarship to Harvard, and when he was there he took on the role of a super achiever. The struggle hadn’t ended with graduation. He’d worked his way through several law firms until he’d found the perfect match at Shanahan, Miller and Koch, where he was well on his way to partnership.

Lately, his fire had dimmed. During these hours he’d spent rescuing Emily, he’d felt more alive than he had in years.

Using his computer, he contacted his assistant at the law firm. Last night, he’d hired a security firm, recommended by the investigator who had done work for him in New York. The bodyguard—a former marine—was scheduled to meet them at the airport before they continued on to the hospital.

If all went smoothly, Dr. Troutman would be waiting for them at the hospital. He was associated with one of the top neurosurgeons in the country, a woman who had developed techniques to treat stroke victims. Troutman hoped Emily’s condition wouldn’t require an operation, but they should prepare for the possibility.

During the flight, Connor texted back and forth with his assistant—a fresh-from-law-school junior partner who was capable of handling most of Connor’s caseload with minimal direction from him. Projecting that he wouldn’t be back to work for at least two weeks, maybe longer, Connor suggested which cases could be postponed and which should be reassigned to other attorneys in the firm. A few years ago, when his ambitions had been burning brightly, he never would have passed on these projects. But he didn’t hesitate now. He’d proven himself to be a hard worker, so that wouldn’t be in question. Plus, Emily’s well-being was more important.

Adam called to him, “Connor, you should come over here.”

Immediately, he disconnected his laptop and went to Emily’s bedside. She lay motionless, breathing steadily. The machines that monitored her vital signs hadn’t changed, but the EEG monitor showed flashes of brain activity. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Could it be the altitude?” Tension sent Connor’s heartbeat into high gear. “Maybe it’s the movement.”

“All I know,” Adam said, “is that she’s waking up. The nurse wants you to put in an emergency call to the neurologist in Denver. He’ll tell us what to do.”

While Connor punched in the phone number, he asked, “If she wakes up, what happens?”

“Maybe nothing,” Adam said. “There might be no problem at all.”

“Worst-case scenario?”

“She could have a seizure. There might be an internal bleed or a clot that would cause an aneurysm.”

An aneurysm and internal bleeding could lead to irreparable damage or death. As soon as Connor had the doctor on the phone, he handed it to the nurse, who rattled off a barrage of medical terminology. Sitting as close as possible, Connor held her small delicate hand and watched her face, trying to read what was going on inside her head. She looked the same as she had a few hours ago at the hospital in Aspen, except her eyelids were twitching. Her breathing became more emphatic. He saw variations in the rhythm of her heart and her blood pressure.

Keeping the desperation from his voice, he said, “If you can hear me, Emily, I need you to listen. You need more sleep, more rest. Don’t wake up, not yet.”

He felt the tiniest squeeze on his hand. Had he imagined it? Though he wanted to see her awake, talking and interacting, that wasn’t the best treatment for her. “Stay asleep, Emily.”

Gently, he caressed the line of her chin and her stubborn jaw. She’d never been a woman who blindly followed orders or instructions. Being asleep and unable to react would never be her first choice. He tried to reassure her, telling her that there was nothing to worry about. “I’ve arranged for your medical care and hired a bodyguard because... You know.”

Though she knew that someone had run her off the road, he probably shouldn’t talk about it while she was in a coma. Her brain might pick up the threat and become alarmed, pumping out spurts of adrenaline that would cause her to wake up. He should be talking about better times, evoking positive thoughts. One topic always made her happy: art.

“There’s a special exhibit at that little gallery you always liked in Brooklyn,” he said. “It features posters, and they even have a couple from Toulouse-Lautrec.”

While the nurse unhooked one of the IV bags, Adam said, “We’ve got a solution.”

“What does the doctor think?”

“It’s got to be the sedation. It’s not keeping her in the coma. I changed the IV bag on the ambulance ride to the airport.” And now the nurse changed the bag again. “It’s possible that the one I used didn’t have the correct dosage to keep her asleep.”

Connor doubted the wrong dosage was an accident. Patricia and Dr. Thorson had been near Emily in the ambulance. Either of them could easily have switched the bags. “Don’t throw that bag away. There might be fingerprints.”

“You got it.” Adam stepped aside as the nurse prepared a hypodermic needle. “She’s going to give Emily a shot that should keep her calm until we get to Denver. We’re only about a half hour away.”

The chopper shuddered. “Is it safe to do that while we’re bouncing around?”

“Trust me,” Adam said. “I’m usually in the back of an ambulance racing around hairpin turns at a million miles an hour. This chopper ride is smooth.”

When a needle was jabbed into Emily’s arm, Connor stared at the monitors. It was probably unreasonable to expect immediate results, but he needed some kind of reaction. How long would it take for the sedative to enter her bloodstream? When would he see the change? He needed to know.

Adam was back on the phone, talking to the doctor. He, too, watched the screens. The EEG showing brain activity continued to flare in multicolored bursts—green, red and yellow. Connor held his breath, waiting for a sign. After a few tense moments, her blood pressure and pulse gradually started to drop.

Adam reported the numbers to the neurologist, and then he gave Connor a thumbs-up. “This seems to be working.”

Relief breezed through him. He lifted her hand and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “You scared me, Emily.”

Her lips parted. Faint words tumbled out. “Handsome... Sleeping... Kiss.”

He leaned closer. “What is it?”

Her eyelids separated. Through the narrow slits, she stared at him. And she whispered, “Snow White... Kiss.”

Adam shoved his shoulder. “You heard the lady.”

With a smile, the nurse concurred, “Kiss her.”

Leaning over her, he planted a light kiss on her lips. This brief contact wasn’t meant to be the least bit erotic, but he felt a jolt of awareness. His senses heightened. He’d been in the dark, and now a light bulb had come on.