I’m almost back to my truck when a bright red flash of color catches my eye next to the dumpster. Emi’s purse—and her groceries. I should track down those two officers and give them a piece of my mind.
Don’t get involved, Jasper. You’ll find nothing but trouble. Bring Emi her purse, make sure she’s okay, then go home.
We’ve shared a single meal and a few stolen moments. I shouldn’t feel this much this soon. But my heart ain’t about to listen to reason. So I spend a full five minutes retrieving her apples, yogurt, and kale before stowing the grocery bag in the lockbox and tucking her purse under my arm.
I’m going to the hospital and I’m not leaving until Emi tells me exactly what’s going on.
Chapter Eight
Jasper
Austin Memorial is pure chaos. Unsurprising. It’s almost 11:00 p.m., and the drunk drivers are out in force. Mix that with the standard bar fights and random acts of stupidity in a town this size, and I’m just a face in a crowd when I approach the Information Desk.
The frazzled young thing gives me a weak but friendly grin as I lean my hip against the counter. “I need to see a woman who came in by ambulance maybe forty-five minutes ago. Last name Marsh.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says, all warmth gone from her tone. “Unless you’re family, I can’t give you any information about a patient. Or even confirm if they’re here. HIPAA regulations.”
“Who’s the charge nurse tonight?” I ask.
“Um...” Her blue eyes take me in, and the moment she realizes I know my way around hospital politics, she softens a fraction. “Luke Everett.”
“Can you get him for me, please?”
Less than ten minutes later, I’m standing outside one of the curtained triage areas. Emi’s voice carries over the chaos of the ER.
“I’m not staying here overnight. I’m fine.”
“Ms. Marsh,” a woman says, her tone patient—if not a bit patronizing, “if you want to leave against medical advice, there are a few forms we need you to fill out. But you have a mild concussion and it really would be better if you let us monitor you until morning?—”
“I don’t like hospitals. And I need a phone. I can’t find mine. Or my purse. Shit,” Emi says. The panicked edge to her voice worries me, but I don’t know if she’s decent. Barging in probably ain’t smart. Then again, no one’s ever accused me of brilliance.
Careful to pin my gaze no higher than the side of the bed, I step around the curtain, remove my hat, and hold Emi’s purse at arm’s length. “I can help with that last part.”
“Jasper? Oh, my God. You brought my bag. Give it here.” She throws back the blanket covering her legs, then grabs her left shoulder. “Dammit.”
“Easy there.” I set the scuffed bag next to her on the narrow bed. Her hospital gown rides up her thigh, revealing a nasty bruise—along with miles of smooth skin. “You hit the ground pretty hard, sweetheart.”
Emi ain’t paying me no never mind. She’s too busy rummaging through her purse. With each passing second, relief eases more of the tension lines crinkling around her eyes. After she pulls out her tablet and checks the screen, she clutches it to her chest with a sigh. “I can’t believe I left this behind. My entire life is on this thing.”
Her long brown hair is mussed and tangled, half a leaf clinging to the strands. I slip it free, letting it flutter to the ground at my feet. “Well, it was hidden behind a dumpster. And that’s a nasty bruise on your head. I have your groceries too. I reckon most of them survived. Even the kale.”
Emi laughs, then winces as she presses a hand to her side. “Shit. That kind of hurts. But really...parsley? How could you confuse the two?”
“I don’t cook much. You should let them keep you here overnight.” I’m about to tell her she’ll be safe here at the hospital—once I get a couple of Rangers stationed outside whatever room they put her in—when the nurse breezes back into the room.
“This handsome gentleman is right, you know,” she says. “Concussions are serious business, darlin’.”
“No. I…I can’t.” Emi grabs the clipboard from the nurse and scribbles her signature across the bottom of the page. “Hospitals…aren’t for me. I need—I have to get out of here. N-now.”
She’s practically shaking. I reach for her hand, desperate to comfort her, to protect her, but she ignores me and scoots to the edge of the bed.
“Emi—” If someone did try to kill her tonight, home is the last place she should be going. But after giving me a look that could cut glass, she pushes to her feet. “Whoa, sweetheart. Don’t turn around unless you want to give me a show.”
Her side-eye is Oscar-worthy. “Don’t watch unless you want one.”
Holy shit. Emmylou Marsh might be the woman of my dreams. Smart, beautiful, and sassy as fuck. But she’s also in trouble, and I can’t let her leave here alone.
“I’ll…uh…be right outside.”
