Hot metal connected with the heel of her hand. The impact shimmered through her arm and sent her hurtling to the asphalt. She landed on her side, the little one snug in her arm and protected by her body. She rolled into a ball, closed her eyes, and clutched the child tight in the hopes that…what? Her puny skeleton could protect the little kid from being flattened by a ten-ton bulk of rolling metal?
When she was still breathing five seconds later, she slowly turned to find herself under the shelter of a bumper, with two huge tires mere inches from her. She had time to let out a shuddering exhale before many hands pulled her out and up. A panicked woman wrested the kid from her arms, crying, “Oh my God. Thank you. Thank you,” over and over. Somehow, she got her feet planted on the pavement, but her legs refused to move. A middle-aged man she recognized from the hardware store put an arm around her waist and guided her to the sidewalk. Then Ginny—small, fierce Ginny who was a fraction of her size—wrapped her arm around her from the other side.
“Eden, honey. Can you walk?”
“I’m walking.” Her reply sounded far away. Her body felt numb. The air had thickened to fog. “I can walk. Are those…my shoes?” Ginny held a pair of sandals in her free hand. “I can take them.” At least she thought she could, if her hands would stop shaking.
“I’ll hold on to them.” Ginny looked past her to the man holding her other side. “Ed, we’re gonna walk her straight to Ellie’s office.”
“Yes’m.”
Someone—the screaming woman—approached, clinging tight to the toddler, and tried to talk through tears. Ginny cut her off. “Belinda, honey, I know. Truly, I do. But now’s not the time. Take your girls home and hug the stuffing out of them. Gratitude can wait. We need to let Ellie look at Ms. Eden.”
Hot little prickles of sensation began burning through the numbness. Her knee, her hip, and oh—she sucked in a breath—her wrist. Her wrist was on fire. Despite all that heat, shivers ran up her spine and rattled her back teeth together. “The baby…” She turned to Ginny. “Is the baby okay?”
“She’s fine, honey. Not a scratch. Possibly a diaper change, but that’s about it.”
Me, too, Eden thought, then let herself float up the granite steps of one of downtown Bluelick’s historic brownstones and into the blissfully cool lobby of the medical offices of Dr. Elenora Swann-Longfoot.
Ginny greeted a tall, stunning blonde bearing a striking resemblance to the crying mother with a simple, “Hey, Mel.”
The woman took over Ed’s side of things. “Belinda just called. We’ll take her to exam room one. Ellie’s already there.”
“I’m okay.” Her voice sounded better. Closer. Encouraged, she tried again. “I’m okay. I can walk on my own.”
“No need,” the blonde said and steered her into a small, tidy exam room. “We’re here.”
They deposited her on a paper-covered table, and a pretty, petite, dark-haired woman with huge brown eyes stepped into her view.
“Eden, meet Ellie Longfoot, one of my oldest friends. Ellie, meet Eden Braxton, one of my newest friends.”
“Nice to meet you, Eden,” Ellie said, clearly evaluating her pupil reaction, breathing, and overall responsiveness. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“I…uh…I got hit by a beer truck.”
Chapter Seventeen
Hit by a truck. Hit by a truck. Hit by a truck. Buchanan’s words echoed in Swain’s mind as he brought the Bronco to a screeching halt in front of the brownstone bearing the address the police chief had given him. He took the steps two at a time, plowed through the outer door, slammed through the office door, and stalled in the waiting room long enough for the Grace Kelly ringer behind the window to point to the opposite door and say, “Exam room one, first door on your right.” Seconds later, he skidded into the room.
She sat on the table, upright, conscious—just as Buchanan had promised—surrounded by a dark-haired woman in a white coat and Mayor Buchanan. Eden’s hair tumbled around her face in wayward curls, the remnants of some fancy twist at the back of her head hanging by a couple stubborn hairpins. The white halter top she wore bore dirty black streaks along one side, and a nasty scrape covered her shoulder. As he watched, the pretty little doc placed a bandage over it—starkly white against her skin. A similar bandage already covered another point of impact high on her outer thigh, visible because she’d stripped down to black panties to allow the doc to treat the injury.
“Hey, Swain,” Eden said, sounding tired but reassuringly normal.
His revving pulse slowed enough for him to reply “Hey, choux,” with similar calm. Needing to touch her—to ease the bone-deep fear gripping him since Buchanan had called to tell him she’d been in an accident—he stepped closer. The doc stepped away, and he saw Eden held her right arm to her middle. A black Velcro splint encased her wrist from palm to mid-forearm with a cutout for her thumb. He reached over and, very gently, ran his fingertips along her knuckles. She looked up at him, eyes big and brimming with apology.
“You should see the other guy.”
“I heard the other guy was a truck. What’s the damage?”
“Grade-two wrist sp
rain. It looks worse than it is.”
He carefully threaded their fingers together. “Looks like it hurts.”
“Ibuprofen or acetaminophen will help with the pain,” the doe-eyed doctor said. “Whichever is your go-to. Keep your wrist immobile while it heals, and you should be good as new. That means wear the brace for five days, then pop in and let me take a look. Call or come in sooner if you experience significant swelling or bruising or your pain level spikes, okay?”
“Okay,” Eden agreed.