“Peterson can take care of herself and she won’t appreciate you trying to coddle her.” Logan kept pace beside him.
“Wrong.” Dash shoved his hands in his pockets to keep his fists from showing. “She wouldn’t appreciate you coddling her.”
“But you’re different?”
“Damn right.” He had to believe that. “Now stop needling me.”
“I wasn’t,” Logan said in that ultracalm tone that for some reason had Dash on a ragged edge tonight. “What can I do to help? Want me to go grab you a few things? Your shirt is a mess.”
With Margo’s blood. Jesus. What the hell was taking so long? “A shirt, socks, maybe a razor—I’d appreciate it.”
“No problem. My house is closer to the hospital than yours. I should be able to get back before you and Peterson leave here.”
Dash was taller, so he couldn’t share Logan’s jeans, but he said, “Throw in a pair of sweatpants or something, will you? I’ll do some laundry in the morning.”
“If Peterson lets you hang around that long.”
When Dash glared at him, Logan bit back a smile and raised his hands in surrender.
“I’m sure she’ll welcome you with open arms.”
Standing in the doorway to the waiting room, Reese asked, “Who? Peterson? Is that a joke?”
Dash shouldered past him, almost making Reese spill the coffee he’d just refilled. Normally he could take their jokes about Margo having ice for blood and balls to rival any guy.
But not tonight.
A minute later, Reese came in and sat across from him. “Logan headed off to get some stuff. Said he’d be right back.”
Had they found something more wrong with her? Was that the holdup? Was she even now headed in to surgery? Would someone let them know if that was the case?
Reese’s phone rang and for the next few minutes, Dash had to listen to his muted conversation with his wife. Until recently, Dash hadn’t envied his brother or Reese for their marital status.
But now... He got up to pace again but got only as far as the door when Reese spoke.
“Alice said if there’s anything she can do to help, let her know.”
Dash nodded. “Thanks.” He propped himself against the wall. “How’s the kid?”
“Doing good.” Reese sat back in his seat and sprawled out his long legs, then started rubbing his left thigh where an old bullet wound still pained him during times of fatigue. “Finally over the flu, poor little guy.”
So that’s why Reese looked so beat. “Few sleepless nights?”
“Alice is a wonderful mother hen. And Marcus... Well, it still breaks my heart to look at him.”
Meaning both Alice and Reese had stayed attentive to Marcus’s needs.
Dash said only, “Yeah,” because there were no other words adequate enough to cover it all. At only nine, Marcus had seen a world of hurt. His dad was now behind bars, where he belonged, and his junkie mother had died from an overdose.
But if anyone could make Marcus whole again, it was Reese and Alice.
Silence filled the waiting room for a few minutes, and then they both heard the squeak-squeak-squeak of rubber-soled shoes approaching. Dash met the guy halfway—but that didn’t stop the doctor. Still walking, he asked, “You’re with Margaret Peterson?”
“Yes.” Dash trailed him back into the waiting room, where Reese had sat forward in anticipation.
“I’m Dr. Westberry.” He held out a hand, so Dash took it.
“Dash Riske. I’m a...friend.”
The doctor looked at him over his glasses, sized him up, then turned to Reese.
“Detective Bareden. Peterson is my lieutenant.”
“I see. There’s no family present?”
Dash shook his head. “No.”
“Okay, then.” The doctor opened a clipboard to peruse notes. “The good news is that she’ll be fine. No nerve or bone damage. No surgery needed. But we had to reduce—that is, put back in place—her elbow.”
“I’ve heard that hurts like hell,” Reese said.
“Very painful, yes.” The doctor scowled. “She refused a sedative, but we gave her something for the pain both before and after. She’s still going to be in very real discomfort for a few days at the least.”
“Why did it take so long?” Dash asked. “Her head was bleeding, too, and she might have other injuries—”
Looking back at that damn clipboard, the doctor said, “On top of the tests to check for injury to the arteries and nerves in the arm, and the possibility of broken bones, we also evaluated her head injury.”
“And?” Reese asked.
“We didn’t find any other damage. We stitched her head, and a nurse cleaned up some of the blood.” He looked at each of them. “She has a concussion. It would be best if someone could stay with her tonight.”
Dash took a step forward. “Me.”
One brow lifted, Reese looked at him.
Gaining steam, Dash said, “I’ll be staying with her. Just tell me what I need to do.”
“Yes, well, if she agrees for you to be there, you’ll need to monitor things. Every two hours while she’s awake, every three hours while sleeping, do a neuro-check—ask for her name, the date, make sure she knows where she is. Make sure her pupils are equal.”
Dash listened as the doctor gave more details, ready to do whatever needed to be done.
“I gave her a prescription to control the pain, so if you can, make sure she uses it. It’ll help her to rest.”
Dash had no idea how she was supposed to rest if he had to wake her every few hours, but he’d do it all the same.
Tiredly, the doctor sank down to a seat and finally closed the clipboard. “She’s in a splint to keep her elbow bent and to prevent her from moving it. The sling is to help her support her arm, but she can remove that when it’s more comfortable for her. However, she has to wear the splint, she cannot move her elbow and she should keep it elevated as much as possible. Ice every couple of hours during the day for swelling.”
“Got it.”
Somewhat skeptically, the doctor said, “It’s important that she not be too active for the next few days. We don’t want to risk a new injury.” Then half under his breath, he added, “Not sure how you’ll manage that one, but I wish you luck with it.”
Reese grinned. “Did she give you hell?”
“Let’s just say she has a very strong will.”
Dash didn’t see any humor in the situation. “Anything else?”
“She’s been given instructions to follow up with an orthopedist in three days. Overall we prefer to keep immobilization limited otherwise we see too much stiffness in the joint. She’ll be told then when she can remove the splint entirely and start light exercises to regain range of motion.”
“Is she going to be out of commission for long?”
“Most achieve full activity in four to six weeks.”
Reese whistled. “She’s not going to like that.”
Dash knew it was true—and dreaded the frustration she’d feel.
The doctor pushed back to his feet, his clipboard tucked to his side. “Overall, she should be fine.”
Dash again shook his hand. “When can I see her?”
“The nurse will let you know. Shouldn’t be too much longer now.”
After the doctor left, Reese scrutinized him. “You need some rest, too, you know.”
“Says the guy who’s been up with a sick kid.” Now that Dash knew Margo would be okay, the exhaustion sank in. He dropped into the chair beside Reese.
It didn’t make any sense for him to be this invested. Okay, sure, he hated to see anyone hurt, especially a woman. He would always do what he could to help someone in her situation.
But he felt so much more than mere concern for another person. Only family had ever engendered this much caring.
But Margo wasn’t family. She wasn’t even a casual date.
If she got her way, they’d be acquaintances and nothing else.
Dash didn’t plan to let her have her way.
Reese snorted. “I was going to suggest you let your brother take her home so you can catch a few hours sleep before you start playing Florence Nightingale —”
“No.”
“—but given your expression, I think I’ll save my breath.”
“Good plan.” Margo would kick Logan out, and then she’d never let Dash in. Dash had to take advantage of her current vulnerability because once she had a chance to catch her breath, she wouldn’t admit to needing help. “Don’t worry about it, Reese. I’ve got it covered.” He pulled out his cell phone and called his foreman. Owning a company meant he could take days off when needed.
And though Margo might not realize, it also meant he was used to calling the shots. She might run roughshod over most men, and intimidate others, and she probably mistook his good humor for weakness—but very soon, Lieutenant Margaret Peterson would get to know him better.
And she’d learn that appearances seldom told the whole story.
* * *
GETTING HER CLOTHES OFF was the hardest part, especially that damn leather glove. Her fingers had swollen so badly that they had to cut it away. After that, the meds they gave her kicked in and although they didn’t obliterate the pain, they did make it more manageable.
Now if only they could medicate her frustration and worry.
By following her, Dash had become a target, same as her. Never, ever, did she want to involve him like this. He wasn’t a cop, wasn’t equipped for the danger about to come their way.
But every time that worry wormed into her mind, she recalled Dash’s quick thinking and capability in fending off two armed men. She remembered how he’d cared for her without being condescending. She recalled his concern, and how he’d deferred to her.
Such a nice surprise. And sort of...a turn-on. Thinking of Dash was easier than concentrating on her aches and pains.
Through the long process of X-rays, exams, setting her elbow and the numerous tests on her noggin, he’d stayed with her at the hospital.
Why would he do that? She wasn’t an infant in need of help. She could have taken a taxi home. It especially unsettled her when she found out Logan had brought Dash a change of clothes and toiletries because Dash planned to go home with her.
And now her two top detectives knew it.
It was so humiliating, and so...comforting, that she almost couldn’t bear it. She had not come from a family of coddlers. Pep talks, commonsense commands and a good push in the right direction were given at times of need.
Nothing else was needed or expected.
Her family knew she’d been injured, but none of them were willing to run out in the predawn hours to check on her. During a very brief phone call, her dad had asked, “You’ll be okay?”