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Vi lay inches from his feet.
When he kneeled, moisture seeped into his pants. Goosebumps rose on his arms. How long had she been down here?
“Vi, can you hear me?” He shone the phone light next to her face. When she didn’t respond, he nudged her collarbone with his fingers. Angling his body closer, he lifted a limp hand—clammy to the touch. A chill curled around his spine.
“Wake up, Vi. Talk to me, babe.” He’d wanted to say those words for a long time, as if they were good friends who chatted often. The truth existed as something quite different. Even within the intimacy of their tight-knit group, she’d always evaded him. He took a deep breath, savagely cutting off the musings. Just as well. They could never be more than friends.
Rory forced his emotions into a detached state. He noted facial swelling and rash-like symptoms. The shadows hindered any closer inspection. He pressed two fingers against her carotid artery, bending lower as if to hear her pulse. When weak bumps vibrated beneath his fingers, his breath swooshed out.
She stirred the tiniest bit and wheezed. Not getting enough air. She needs help now. He scooted into a better position, uncapped the blue lid of the EpiPen, and wrapped his fist around the cylinder. Beset with a desire to preserve her modesty, he smoothed her skirt and injected the EpiPen through the fabric into her outer thigh. She could fuss at him later. He gripped it until it clicked and gave thanks when it released properly. “You’re on the mend, Vi.” His lips moved silently as he commanded her body to cooperate with the injection.
The state of her hair tugged at his heart. When he pulled it away from her face, a bleeding lump on her forehead appeared. He inhaled sharply at the deep cut. Small wonder she’d fallen unconscious.
Rory’s shoulders slumped in relief when sirens sounded in the distance. Then Jesse’s head appeared at the top of the cistern, diminishing the light. He turned and yelled for a flashlight, then peered back into the hole. “How is she?”
“Non-responsive. Full-blown anaphylaxis. Probably a concussion. Plenty of scrapes and bruises. She’ll hurt all over and have a doozy of a headache. Accumulated layers of leaves and debris here at the bottom may have cushioned her fall.”
“You remembered how to use it?” Jesse perched on the ladder, directing the light at the discarded EpiPen.
“Some things get buried so deep you can’t forget.” Rory pressed two fingers against her neck again. Her pulse imitated a faulty light bulb. Not the response he wanted. He took hold of her icy hand.
Topside, Vi’s dog bayed a long mournful note. Rory looked up at Jesse’s lined face. “She’s in bad shape—what’s taking nine-one-one so long?”
“Paige and Brenna went to flag them down. It’s a maze if you don’t know the way.”
Rory continued to monitor Vi until more faces appeared, blocking the gray sheet of sky behind them. A brighter flashlight shone around him. An official-sounding voice called down, “Sir, we need you to climb out so we can assess the situation.”
Rory rubbed his beard. His emotions were swinging trapeze-style. They had the equipment and the know-how to get Vi out of this blasted hole, yet he didn’t want to leave her.
For her sake, he would.
He rose carefully and glanced down. His breath caught at her still form. Her hair, normally bright enough to kindle a fire, had darkened in the flickering light. The vibrant color had disappeared from her lips. He placed his good foot on the bottom rung and murmured, “Hang in there, Vi. I’ll catch up with you later.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Hospital rooms had no character. Rory had resided in enough of them to know. He glanced around the private room. Insipid beige walls, squeaky clean linoleum, a mottled mix of gray and grayer. The antiseptic stench made him want to hike to the hill country and breathe fresh air. He wouldn’t be here at all, if not for the woman lying in a bed twice her size.
The blanket covering Vi moved. Rory approached the bed with light steps. He and Paige had traded shifts. So far, every doctor and nurse who came through the door had reminded him she needed to rest. As if his presence threatened their goal.
Brenna and Jesse came for a while. After twenty minutes of awkwardness, Rory gently nudged them back out the door. Their whispers and dreamy gazes at Brenna’s brand-new engagement ring were more than he could handle at the moment. Through the window, the last embers of sunset ebbed, leaving a dusky twilight in its wake.
“C’mon, Vi. Show me those baby blues.” Rory stroked her arm gently around the bandages and IV tape. Her supple skin enticed him closer.
With reluctance, he took a step back, sliding his hands into his pockets. Touching Vi only made him want to touch her more.
He inspected her injuries. Her elbows and forearms bore scrapes and bruises, but her hands seemed fine. One side of his mouth rose. As a massage therapist, she would consider it a gift.
Yeah, well. Those healing hands could bring relief to anybody but him. Several years ago, a brief infatuation with his physical therapist during rehab had cured him. He’d thought he’d fallen in love and assumed she loved him too, only to overhear her say she wanted a whole man. In retrospect, God had protected him, even if his butchered self-esteem begged to argue. Never again would he start a relationship with a woman in a health-related profession.
In awe of Vi’s heart-shaped face and delicate brows, he watched her sleep. One hand escaped from his pocket, despite his intentions. His thumb trailed down one creamy cheek, then the other. The rash had receded quickly with the proper meds.
The swelling had diminished where her forehead hit the cistern ledge, though the cut had required a few stitches. Would she fret over a scar? His ex-girlfriend would sue and demand cosmetic surgery, but Stella lived for drama. No comparison with what he knew of Vi.
However, much as he enjoyed the opposite sex, he’d keep it light. No more serious relationships for him—he’d been burned enough. The wistful notes banging around in his heart begged to differ.
With a sigh, he stepped away to the window and peered at the parking lot. Headlights gleamed as cars left for the evening.
A foam cup sat on the sink counter. He picked it up, swirling the murky contents. Cold, bitter coffee. Pouring the remaining liquid down the drain, he crumpled the container and tossed it in the wastebasket. He whiffed a musty scent and followed the source. The hem of his pants remained damp. He’d only found a fresh shirt in his car. No clean slacks. It didn’t matter. He had to see this through—Vi’s well-being remained the priority.
