Damn Wright (The Wrights 2)

“Emma?” Marty asked.

Dylan’s attention focused on the older man. “How do you know about Emma?”

“Gypsy pointed her out at the bar once. Pretty little thing.”

“Yeah,” Dylan said on an exhale. Just the thought of all he’d lost, all the trouble he’d caused, made him feel fifty pounds heavier. “She sure is.”

“You’ll be fine,” Marty told him with the kind of confidence he shouldn’t have when Dylan had just met the man. “You’ve interviewed more influential people than most folks would ever talk to in a lifetime. Seen more devastation than many men in combat. It changes you. Seasons you. Gives you the ability to talk to anyone, anywhere, at any time. When the time comes, you’ll find the right words for Emma.”

The acknowledgment softened some of Dylan’s self-recrimination. “Thanks. I’m glad someone has confidence in me.”

Marty pushed to his feet. “You know where I am if you need anything. Welcome home, son.”

Marty was across the property by the time Cooper’s cry changed pitch. Dylan laid the baby back in one arm, offering the bottle with the other. Cooper took it easily and contentedly sucked down his dinner. At least this was familiar. He’d helped with all three of Amir’s babies, and Cooper brought back bittersweet memories for Dylan.

He stroked the perfect soft skin of Cooper’s cheek. “Don’t worry, buddy. This is one thing I won’t screw up.”

2

Emma should probably give herself a dose of Ativan before she signed out of the emergency room.

Nick Drummond, one of Emma’s fellow emergency medicine residents, was taking over for her after three twelve-hour shifts, back-to-back. They stood together in front of the monitor where a floorplan of the emergency department was color coded according to treating doctor. The same age as Emma, Nick had creamy mocha skin, light eyes, and the best sense of humor in the entire department.

“In psych room one,” she told Nick, “we’ve got a twenty-three-year-old bipolar male, brought in by police for psych eval. He was found in a stranger’s house taking a bath and making threats.”

Nick burst out laughing. “What?”

“He’s combative and definitely a flight risk. Nurses have gone hands-on with him three times in the last two hours. We ended up giving him a B-52.” Emma rubbed her temple. “I’m wishing I could get one of those cocktails right about now.”

Ativan alone, she realized, wouldn’t calm the chaos reigning inside her right now. But the added spritz of Haldol and pinch of Benadryl in a B-52 might just do the tric

k.

“And even with the room stripped down and the cabinets zip-tied shut,” she told him, “he managed to pull several hooks out of the walls, screws and all. Luckily, he only wanted to go deep-sea diving with them, not stab the jugular of the nurse’s assistant.”

“Damn,” Nick said. “You just can’t make this shit up.”

“Oh, it gets better.” Emma pointed to the monitor. “Room six is a fifty-two-year-old male who came in drunk off his ass, covered in blood. He was in an altercation at a bar, and the other guy bit off the end of our patient’s nose. But, not to worry, he brought us his nose in a Ziplock bag. He’s scheduled for surgery in about half an hour.”

Nick shook his head. “I fuckin’ love this place.”

Emma held up her index finger. “Not done yet. In room nine, we have an eighty-year-old female who had a ground-level fall and hit her head on—I kid you not—a pooper scooper.”

Nick barked a laugh, then covered his mouth.

“She’s got an eight-inch laceration from front to back. The woman seriously scalped herself. After her CT, I put in one hundred-thirty-six stitches and seven staples. She is currently getting all the dried blood combed from her hair and should be ready to leave soon. Her granddaughter is here to take her home.”

Emma sighed and pointed to another room. “And the last of the wild ones, but definitely not least, we have a seventy-two-year-old male who stuck a coat hanger up his urethra.”

Nick grimaced and reflexively covered his crotch. “Day-um.”

“Part of it broke off, and he’s also waiting for surgery. Whatever you do, do not give the guy your pen. Evidently, he’s got creative uses for those too.”

She slid out of her white lab jacket. “On the lighter side, I’ve got a seventy-seven-year-old female with confirmed gallstones and a blocked bile duct. She’s in room twelve. Surgery will come for her when the other two are done. Her husband is with her.”

She patted Nick’s shoulder on her way out from behind the nurse’s station. “It’s all yours. Good luck.”

After checking in with her higher-maintenance patients, Emma slipped into Mrs. Baxter’s room. She and her husband were asleep—Mrs. on the bed and Mr. on the chair beside her, his hand curled around hers. They were in their early seventies, been married forty years, and so damn sweet together.