Page 68 of Colton's Secret Weapon
The words seemed to placate him. She felt his body relax against her arms, and helped ease him back to the bed.
Sorry to have to let him go, she sat on the edge of the bed beside him, needing to ask him what seemed like a million questions, but completely stupefied and a bit frightened of theuncharacteristic anger he’d spewed at her, she was afraid to say much or do anything until the doctor arrived.
“She’s been called,” she said then, wiping her tears, but feeling the residual of the storm inside her in the trembling of her lips. “The doctor. She’ll be here momentarily, I promise.”
With a wary look in her direction, he nodded. Then slid his fingers in between hers on the hand closest to him and held on.
Her daddy, again.
His grip strong enough to feel healthy, but not at all hurtful. And…shaky. His eyes seemed lucid, though he appeared a bit lost. And the vitals she’d been reading for two days on the machine beside his bed were the best they’d been. His pulse ran fast on and off, and she’d been told that was to be expected with the detoxing.
She wasn’t a doctor. But she clung tightly to the hope in front of her.
Along with a possible boatload of anger, anxiety or resentment. She hadn’t needed the doctor to tell her that part. Just as serotonin was a basis of happiness, the liver was a base for the more negative emotions.
A first-year intern had put a call into Peter Welding as soon as Whaler awoke, and he arrived right alongside the doctor before Dove had a chance for any further conversation with her father. The younger employee shooed her out while the doctor examined him and supervised Welding’s questioning.
“It’s a good sign that he was angry,” Mitchell said the second she stood beside him in the hallway. “He’s fighting.”
Nodding, she watched the closed door. The anger had bothered her. But not nearly as much as the accusation had done. But she’d read up on detoxification. Hallucinations were sometimes a part of the process. Most particularly when the person was a heavy drinker.
Her father qualified as that. She couldn’t take his first reaction to seeing her in a personal way. He was conscious. He wasn’t himself.
One step at a time. She knew this stuff. Things were coming to a close. With Fletcher’s arrest in the works, and her father awake, life could turn the corner toward the future. One where St. James Boats was fluid again.
Her father healthy.
Her studio thriving.
And her no longer feeling like Mitchell was her lifeblood to strength and endurance. No longer needing him. Or anyone but herself.
Standing against the wall, she hardly took her gaze off the door. And jumped when it opened five minutes later. As if by choreographed dance or staging, Welding went straight to Mitchell as the doctor came to her.
“He doesn’t remember anything from the time he saw you in his office on Saturday until now,” the doctor said softly, her gaze compassionate.
Dove didn’t need compassion. Couldn’t allow herself the weakness of leaning on yet another human being. “His memories of his time with you are fuzzy, but I understand he was pretty intoxicated then?”
She nodded. Hating hearing her father’s situation being discussed so…realistically. Yeah, he’d been pretty drunk. More like totally wasted.
She just hadn’t wanted to accept that she was losing him one sip, one bottle at a time.
“His pupil response is good,” the doctor continued, talking about running another scan, some more lab work, before she could give Dove any idea as to when Whaler would be able to go home.
Warning that he was already asking for his bottle. Threatening to leave if someone didn’t bring it to him. And then telling her that he’d already fallen back to sleep and could be expected to remain that way for a good part of the day. If he was up and alert by nighttime, they could start him on some solid foods. And maybe, depending on test results and his ability to tolerate food, get him off the IV in another twenty-four hours or so.
Dove nodded. Reminded herself that Fletcher was exposed, with or without her father’s testimony. And that in spite of the lack of any sign that he was glad to have rejoined the living, her dad had the best chance ahead of him than he’d had since her mother died.
If he’d cooperate. Or even try to.
If he wanted to stick around to share life with her for a few years, a few decades, longer.
If they got through the next few days, she amended the earlier thought a couple of hours later when Mitchell, who’d been in and out, bringing her snacks and conversation in between his appointments, arrived in Whaler’s room with a grim look on his face.
“Fletcher was taken into custody,” his gaze, his tone, didn’t reflect the good news at all, and she braced herself. “He admits to vandalizing the boat, hoping, since you’ve been completely ignoring him, to get your attention and convince you to agree to sell the place with your dad out of commission. He also admitted to the shady but not illegal way he’d convinced Hal to leave St. James Boats. But he adamantly swears he had nothing to do with your father’s disappearance. Or any harm that’s come to you. He has solid alibis to back up his claims—he was out deep sea fishing this morning—and his phone and financial records show no evidence at all that he’s been hiring anyone else to create havoc in Shelby.”
Her stomach a knot of lead, standing at the end of her father’s bed in conversation with Mitchell, she stared up at his suit jacket and tie, looking all official and distant from her. “You’re telling me no charges are being filed?”
He shook his head. “He’ll face property damage charges. Has already agreed to haveWicked Winningsfixed, immediately, at his expense.” He paused, and then said, “And based on signed statements, and no law allowing them to hold him in custody, his lawyer forced the department to let him go.”
