“In the desk.” She stood unsteadily and moved to open a drawer. “Right here.”
He tossed her the folded sheet he’d found. “Cut the edge and tear this into strips. I’ll check the wound.”
As Sky bent close, Prescott’s eyes fluttered open. “What the hell are you doin’ here, Fletcher?” he muttered.
“Trying to save your life—and the less you talk, the better.” Sky lifted away the blood-soaked towels, being careful not to touch the bullet hole with his hands. The bullet didn’t appear to have struck a critical spot, but Prescott was in danger of bleeding to death.
After laying clean towels over the wound, Sky applied pressure with his weight over his flat hands. Prescott groaned and swore. “Feels more like you’re tryin’ to kill me,” he rasped. “An’ then you’ll take my girl . . . take it all . . .”
“Keep still.” Sky took the strips of sheeting Lauren had torn and began wrapping them around Prescott’s chest to hold the towels in place. Lauren knelt at her father’s head, lifting his shoulders so Sky could circle his back. There was no sign of an exit wound. Maybe the bullet had lodged against his shoulder blade.
Prescott clenched his jaw, glaring up at Sky with hatred in his eyes. Sky couldn’t help wondering what had happened before he got here, but that story would have to wait.
He knotted the last strip of sheet, holding the towels in place. Prescott’s face was the color of alkali dust. Clearly he’d lost a lot of blood. Somebody should have called for Life Flight, the press be damned, Sky thought. But this last shred of dignity was all the man had left.
“Can you make it to the truck?” Sky asked him.
Prescott nodded, clenching his jaw against the pain. With Lauren bracing his wounded side, Sky pulled him to his feet. His breath reeked of bourbon. Only now did Sky realize how drunk Lauren’s father must be. Cursing and reeling, Prescott allowed himself to be supported through the kitchen and out the back door to Sky’s truck, where they loaded him into the backseat with his head cradled in Lauren’s lap.
Sky passed her a water bottle. “Try to keep him hydrated. What’s the best way past the press?”
“Up toward the main barn, then cut back to the highway. You’ll see the road when you get there.”
Minutes later they were on the main highway, headed for the hospital in Lubbock. Would the congressman thank him for this rescue? Sky wondered as the aging truck’s speedometer climbed toward eighty. But why ask a stupid question? Prescott despised him for who he was and because of Lauren. Nothing about that was going to change.
At the hospital, the emergency team took over, shifting the congressman to a gurney and rushing him back through the double doors to prep him for surgery. While Lauren gave his information to the desk, Sky moved his truck to the parking lot and walked back to the emergency entrance. Glancing inside, he saw that she was still busy. That gave him a moment to leave a phone message for Will, telling him where he’d gone. The details could wait till he knew more.
When she joined him in the empty waiting room a few minutes later, he was still on his feet. Red-eyed, disheveled, and bloodstained, she walked into his arms. For a long, silent moment they held each other. She was quivering like a frightened animal, her heart pounding as he cradled her close. The tenderness that surged through Sky was so powerful that it shook him to the core. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect this woman.
“I’m here, Lauren,” he whispered, his lips brushing her hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Thank you.” Her arms circled his rib cage, holding tight. She buried her face against his shirt. “I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t come.”
“You’d have managed. You’re tougher than you give yourself credit for, Miss Lauren Prescott. But right now you’re
as shaky as a newborn colt. Let’s sit down.”
He guided her to one of the couches. While they sat with their feet up and her head cradled against his shoulder, she told him what had happened at the house.
When he heard how she’d dived across the desk to grab her father’s gun hand, then bitten his wrist in the struggle to deflect his aim, Sky was horrified. “Good Lord, he could have shot you by accident. He could have killed you.”
“I know that now. But at the time, all I could think of was saving him.”
“I don’t know what you think you owe the man, Lauren, but you don’t owe him your life.”
“Maybe not. But whatever else Garn Prescott is, he’s the only father I’ve got. I couldn’t just stand there and watch him kill himself.” A shiver passed through her body. “And then when he was losing all that blood, and he wouldn’t let me phone for the paramedics because of the press outside—that’s when I knew I had to call you.” She glanced up at him. “Do you think he’ll be all right?”
“He made it all the way here, still conscious and cussing. Once the doctors get some blood in him and patch up that hole, I’m betting he’ll be on his way to recovery.” Sky could speak with confidence. Earlier that spring, after being shot by Hoyt Axelrod, he’d been in far worse shape than Prescott. But the same team of doctors had pulled him through. “I take it he doesn’t want anybody to know he’s here.”
“I made sure they understood that at the desk,” Lauren said. “He’ll have enough to deal with when he gets home.”
Sky’s arm tightened around her shoulders. “It could be a while before we hear from the doctor. Why don’t you try to get some rest?”
“I don’t know if I can,” she said.
“Try it. You’ve been through hell this afternoon. You look done in.”
With a sigh of acquiescence, she nestled against him. Sky shifted his arms and body to support her, bending his head to feather a gentle kiss on her lips. “Close your eyes,” he said. “I’ll wake you as soon as there’s news.”