Page 55 of Harrison Hyde and the Runaway Bride

“I knew you’d say that,” she replied. He could hear the argument in her voice before she even spoke it.

A nurse came in. “You’re awake! Wonderful. The doctor’s still here.” Then to Maria, “We’ll need to check him out, ’kay?”

“Yeah, got you, of course.” Maria glanced back at Harry. She was smiling, but there was a tear on her cheek. Relieved he was okay? Sad he’d mentioned leaving the ranch? He didn’t even know where to go. Home, maybe.

The thought of being 3,000 miles away from Maria hurt more than the bullet hole. She was almost through the door when he finally blurted, “Don’t go home yet, okay?”

She looked back at him, surprised, and then she pushed the heel of her hand across her cheek and said, “Okay.”

The “Family Waiting Area” was an alcove off one side of the unit, just past the patient rooms, which were arranged on three sides of the nurse’s desk. Maria had a good view from there. The hallway-facing wall was glass. The rest, just a square room with chairs, three vending machines, and a TV. She lingered in thedoorway while a medical team examined Harry. She was barely able to keep her eyes from the hospital room three doors to the left where two Texas Rangers stood outside the door. The man who’d shot Harry was in that room. She wanted to storm in there and give him an ass whooping he wouldn’t soon forget.

Willow came up the hall with a tall, handsome man and a brown-haired girl in her mamma’s pencil skirt and blazer, who introduced herself as “Special Agent Agnes Hofstadler, FBI.” Her glasses were the biggest part of her heart-shaped face.

“Detective Connor Wynn, down from the New York State Police,” the man said. He was as tall as a Texan, and bore a thick head of dark-brown hair, and Irish-green eyes that twinkled when he smiled.

Maria said, “Maria Brand Monroe,” automatically invoking the power of her family name when faced with anyone who intimidated her. But these two showed no sign of recognizing it.

“We were hoping to talk to Mr. Hyde,” Agent Hofstadler said. She was pretty, Maria realized, but hiding it. Probably wise in her line of work.

“He just woke up a few minutes ago,” Maria told them. “But then everyone rushed in to check him over. I imagine you can talk to him after they get done.”

From further up the hall, a voice was raised. “I’m his lawyer, and Iinsistyou let me in!”

They all turned toward the prisoner’s room to see a short man with hair as thick and brown as a televangelist’s and black-framed glasses, yelling at the Rangers.

“I’ve got it,” said Detective Wynn, and headed that way to help them out. He looked at the lawyer’s ID then nodded at the cops to let him in.

The doctor and two nurses exited Harry’s room, and Maria said, “Let me go see if he’s up to this, first, okay?” she said.

“He has no choice but to be up to it,” said Agent Hofstadler.

“Just give me a minute.” Maria went back into Harry’s room, glancing down the hall where the irritated, jockey-sized lawyer emerged from the shooter’s room and stomped, as if furious, toward the elevator.

“That was fast,” Willow muttered to the agent and the detective.

“Hey,” said Harry.

Maria went the rest of the way in, meeting his eyes with an encouraging smile. He was sitting up, his legs dangling over the side of the bed. “I need my phone. Lily and Dad have probably been trying to get hold of me. How long has it been? Can you get my clothes?”

She nodded, didn’t answer the questions, and went to the closet. She knew the room better than he did, having been in it for nearly twenty-four hours.

“There’s an FBI agent and a New York detective here,” she said, handing him the stack. He frowned at the clothes, which were his, but not what he’d been wearing. “I asked Aunt Chelsea to bring them in for you. I hope you don’t mind she went through your stuff. She took back the ones you were wearin’. The shirt will have to be thrown out, but that’s up to you.”

“I don’t mind her going through my stuff. I just want to get out of here.”

She slammed her eyes closed when he said that, so he wouldn’t see the hurt. He saw it anyway, and rose from the bed, setting the clothes aside. He put his hands on her shoulders. “Maria, you could have been shot out there, today,” he said.

Yesterday, she thought, and knew she had to tell him. “They’re not after me, they’re after you.”

“But you were in the line of fire. Again. You were nearly mowed down by a feed truck yesterday.” Day before yesterday, she thought. “The longer I stay near you, the more danger you’re in.” She caught his gaze, wondering if he cared as much as thetone of his voice and the look in his eyes suggested. He looked away. “All of you. Your whole family.”

He set his belongings on the bed, pulled on the clean jockey shorts and jeans underneath the hospital gown. He undid the snaps on the the sleeves to get it off around his IV tubing, but then looked askance at the T-shirt, probably realizing he could not put it on over the IV in his arm. So, he stood there in jeans and socks, shirtless.

He glanced at Maria as if for help, but she didn’t meet his eyes, because she was looking at his chest, and didn’t feel an ounce of shame about it. She moved closer, put her hands on his chest and pushed until he sat on the edge of the bed again. Then she took hold of his hand, turned his arm and looked at the IV.

“I could take this out for you, but I think we should wait for the nurse. And she’ll probably be back before Agent Agnes and Detective Hotty finish questioning you.”

“Detective Hotty?”

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