After Hours

“Oh, my God, he’ll be killed!”

“No,” Angie sobbed, her head rolling helplessly against the thin, starchy pillow beneath it. “Rhys. Rhys!”

“She’s still in pain,” a gruffly concerned voice murmured above her. The same voice then proceeded to bark instructions. Knowing the medication he ordered would put her back to sleep, Angie tried to object but wasn’t given the opportunity. She was still moaning Rhys’s name when she went under again.

The next thing she heard was a low groan. It took her a few moments to realize the sound had come from her own raw throat. Forcing her eyes open, she frowned as she tried to orient herself. She was lying in a hospital bed, an IV needle taped to her arm. She wore a hospital gown, her lower half covered with a sheet, and both legs seemed to be elevated and immobilized. Her head hurt. Lifting her free hand cautiously to it, she felt the bandage on her forehead and sensed that a row of stitches lay beneath it. A plain round clock hung on the wall opposite the bed; she blinked to focus on it. Four-thirty. The sunlight streaming through the window on her left told her it was late afternoon. Saturday? she wondered, struggling to concentrate.

An explosion. A crash of wood and glass as her bedroom collapsed around and upon her. Pain. Heat. Rhys’s voice begging her to be all right. More pain as he freed her from the debris and lifted her. A dash through heavy, smothering smoke. Fire.

She closed her eyes and tightened her throat against a sob. Her house. Her grandparents’ things. The porcelain figurines, the doilies and quilts and afghans, the ceramic dog in the foyer. Her drawings and photographs, the yellowed print of the Last Supper, furniture and memories. All gone. She’d lost everything again. Her grief was too deep for tears as she reflected on the unfairness of losing everything twice in one year. She wondered if she’d ever be able to piece her life back together a second time.

But, no. It wasn’t quite the same this time. Her mind clearing, she pulled her lower lip between her teeth and opened her eyes.

This time she had Rhys to help her. This time there was someone to turn to, someone whose arms would be open to comfort her. Someone who—

Rhys! Gasping frantically, she turned her eyes wildly around the empty room, seeking him as she was assaulted by another memory of the chaotic aftermath of the explosion.

“That man’s gone back into the house, Mommy! Do you think he’s gone to get Flower?”

“Oh, my God, he’ll be killed!”

“Rhys?” she whispered apprehensively, her fingers tightening on the thin crisp sheet. Rhys had pulled her out of the house. Had he—surely he hadn’t gone back in for her pet. But it was exactly what he would have done, she realized, her chest tightening with fear. He would have done that for her. Please, she thought desperately. Oh, please be all right.

The house, the furnishings, the mementos no longer mattered to her. She could survive their loss. They were only things. But Rhys—oh, Rhys, please.

A quiet knock on the door brought her head around so quickly that she couldn’t hold back the soft cry of pain, Rhys’s secretary bustled in, her pleasant face creased with a worried frown. “Angie, honey, are you okay? Are you in pain? Should I call someone?”

Riding out the pounding in her temples, Angie held up an unsteady hand to stop the flow of questions. “It’s okay, June. I just moved my head too quickly. Where is Rhys?” she demanded without pause, her heart seeming to stop to await the answer to that all-important question.

“He’s resting in a room down the hall,” June assured her. “The doctors had to threaten to sedate him to get him to leave your side for a while, but he was about to collapse on his feet.”

Angie’s heart resumed its beating with such force that she had to take several deep breaths to steady it. “He’s all right?” she whispered, her eyes locked on June’s face.

June smiled and patted her hand. “He’s fine, dear. He has a few burns and bruises, but nothing serious.”

“He was burned? Where? How badly?”

“He’s fine, Angie,” June repeated firmly. “You’ll see for yourself very soon. I’m sure he’ll be back in here the minute he wakes up.” She shook her head in apparent wonder. “I’ve never seen Mr. Wakefield as distraught as he was when I first saw him this morning. I heard about the explosion on the radio and when I heard your name I rushed straight to the hospital. He was pacing up and down the waiting room while they operated on you. Wouldn’t even let them treat his burns until he was sure you were going to be okay. He—”

“They operated on me?” Angie interrupted with a frown.

“No one’s talked to you about your injuries yet?”

“I just woke up.”

“Oh. Well, they had to put a pin in your left ankle. It was pretty badly broken. Your other leg’s fractured, too, but I understand the damage wasn’t too extensive. You’re a very lucky young woman, Angie. It’s a wonder you weren’t killed. If Rhys hadn’t happened to drive up when the explosion occurred, you probably would have been. I’ve heard of a few miracles in my lifetime, and that was one of them.”

Her legs ached and her head throbbed dully. Angie fought the weakness, wanting to hear everything. “Did Rhys really go back into the house for my cat?”

June looked heavenward. “Yes, dear, he did. That’s when he was burned, actually. But he saved her. Your neighbor was here and said her little boy’s taking care of the cat for you until you’re well.”

Rhys was safe. And he’d saved Flower. Angie closed her eyes and offered a quick prayer of gratitude and an apology for complaining about the loss of a few possessions.

“I’m so pleased about your engagement, Angie,” June told her warmly. “You’ve done wonders for Mr. Wakefield. He obviously loves you very deeply.”

“I love you, Angelique. Don’t let me lose you now.”

Had he really said the words, or had they only been part of her half-delirious fantasies?