It was a little after four when she left the bridal shop, the wedding gown in hand. After laying the dress in the backseat of her car, she walked across the street to 31 Flavors and ordered a hot fudge sundae with extra whipped cream and a cherry. Tonight, she and Rhys had a lot to talk about. When and where to get married. Who, if anyone, to invite to the ceremony. Where they would live. As for what would happen when the difference in their ages became impossible to ignore, she refused to think about it. She loved Rhys, and he loved her, and that was all that mattered.
Megan was smiling when she left 31 Flavors. Humming softly, she started across the street toward her car.
A loud screech of brakes was her only warning. She screamed once. And then everything went black.
Rhys jackknifed into a sitting position, Megan’s scream still ringing in his ears, but when he tried to link his mind to hers, he found only emptiness.
Stone-faced, Evelyn DeLacy stood at her daughter’s bedside, one of Megan’s hands held tightly in her own. George stood on the other side of the bed, tears streaming down his cheeks. Evelyn tried not to look at her husband, tried not to hear his sobs. She had to keep her emotions under control. If she didn’t, she knew she would shatter into a million pieces and, like Humpty Dumpty, they would never be able to put her back together again.
A drunk sixteen-year-old boy driving a stolen car had hit Megan as she crossed the street. Megan had been in surgery for seven hours. The doctors had told Evelyn and George that if Megan survived the next twenty-four hours, there was a chance that she would recover, though it was unlikely she would ever walk or use her left arm again.
Evelyn didn’t care about that or anything else. All she wanted was for Megan to wake up. Tears stung the backs of her eyes as she gazed at her daughter’s battered face, at the casts on her legs and arm, at the bandages that covered numerous wounds, at the tubes and wires that hooked her to beeping machines.
As she brushed a lock of hair from Megan’s brow, Evelyn murmured a silent prayer, asking, begging, for a miracle.
She looked up, startled, as a tall man with dark blond hair and impenetrable dark brown eyes appeared in the doorway. Something about him made her take several steps forward, putting herself between the stranger and her daughter’s bed. “May I help you?” she asked.
Rhys paused in the doorway when he realized Megan wasn’t alone. He had been so intent on getting to her, he hadn’t bothered to scan the room for anyone else. There was no doubt that the stranger was Megan’s mother. She was a pretty woman with reddish-brown hair and blue eyes. The man was tall with brown hair just going gray at the temples. His eyes were the same shade of brown as Megan’s.
Rhys inclined his head slightly in the woman’s direction. A quick search of her mind told him her name was Evelyn. The tearful man standing across from her was Megan’s father, George.
Rhys stepped farther into the room. “I’ve come to see Megan.”
“Are you a friend of hers?” Evelyn asked.
“You could say that.”
George DeLacey wiped his eyes, his narrow gaze assessing as he looked Rhys up and down. “Who are you?”
“Rhys Costain.”
George shook his head. “She never mentioned you.”
Rhys looked past Megan’s parents to where she lay, a slim, pale-faced figure swathed in bandages. He had followed the scent of her blood to this place. Try as he might, he had been unable to link with her mind. The thought that she might never regain consciousness frightened him in ways nothing else ever had.
He took a deep breath. “I just want to see her,” he said quietly. Nothing they said or did would stop him, but he would try to get their permission first.
Evelyn and George exchanged glances, then George nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Alone,” Rhys said.
George shook his head. “No way.”
Swallowing his irritation, Rhys moved toward the bed. “What do the doctors say?”
“Nothing very hopeful,” George replied, his voice thick. “Even if she wakes up, she won’t walk again.”
Rhys took one of Megan’s hands in his. “What happened?”
“She was out shopping for a wedding dress. A drunk driver hit her when she was crossing the street.”
“Where is he?”
“In jail.”
Rhys nodded. If Megan died, all the cops in the world wouldn’t be able to protect the kid who had done this to her.
“How do you know our daughter?” Evelyn asked.
“We met at Shore’s. We’ve been dating for several months.” Rhys swallowed hard. “I asked her to marry me, and she said yes.”
George and Evelyn exchanged glances again. George looked incredulous.
“She never told us,” Evelyn murmured. She looked at her husband. “Why didn’t she tell us?” she asked, and burst into tears.
George put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and guided her, gently, toward a chair. When she was seated, he knelt beside her.
Rhys moved swiftly to Megan’s side. Taking her hand in his, he tried once again to join his mind with hers. It hadn’t worked from a distance; he prayed it would work now. Megan? He squeezed her hand, silently willing her to respond. Megan, can you hear me?
“Dammit, Megan,” he whispered urgently. “You’ve got to hear me!”
But silence was his only answer.
Rhys wandered the dark streets, heedless of where his feet carried him. Nothing mattered now but Megan. Four days had passed since the accident, and she was still lost to him, locked in a coma. He had gone to see her every night. Her parents no longer questioned his right to be there. Not wanting Megan to be left alone, her mother and father were taking turns staying at her bedside. Evelyn stayed during the day, George at night. Rhys arrived at the hospital late at night, after exhaustion and worry had taken their toll and her father finally succumbed to sleep.
And now Rhys again stood at her bedside. Unmindful of her father, asleep in a chair, Rhys held Megan’s hand, speaking softly of his love for her, of the life they would have together if she would only awaken. Even though he wasn’t sure she heard him, he went on, reminiscing about the nights they had spent together, the times they had made love.
“Megan, my sweet.” His fingertips brushed her cheek, traced the curve of her lips. Her face was as pale as the pillowcase beneath her head, her skin as cool as his, her breathing shallow. How much longer would she lie there, unmoving and unaware, before he lost her for good?