Part 20 (2/2)
”Is that Mrs. Cross?”
Hunter's father stepped into the living room, the faded blue-and-cream area rug m.u.f.fling the thump of his work-bruised boots as he crossed the floor to pick up the frame with both hands. ”It is, although she's probably havin' a heavenly fit at the formality,” he said over a wink. ”She always insisted on Rosemary. 'Miss' if folks got insistent.”
”Miss Rosemary,” Emerson repeated, her heart giving up a hard tug behind her breastbone. ”She's beautiful.”
”I think so, too.”
Emerson knew very little about Hunter's mother, other than the fact that she'd died of breast cancer when he'd been only six, and while she didn't want to pry, she also didn't want to disrespect the woman's memory by shying away from the subject. ”You must all miss her very much.”
”Every day,” he confirmed, his eyes still on the photograph. ”The boys were awful young when she pa.s.sed, except for Owen. Truth be told, I don't know how much they remember her.”
The odd memory of sitting in her father's office popped back into her brain unbidden, so strongly that she could smell the leather-bound medical textbook he'd pulled from his bookshelf to help her learn the skeletal anatomy. ”Your family is so warm and open, I'm sure they have wonderful memories of her. And you.”
Mr. Cross smiled, although the gesture didn't touch his tired eyes. ”Kind of you to say.”
Whether it was the sadness on his face or the unspoken way she felt so easy around the man, Emerson couldn't be sure, but she heard herself reply, ”I'm a bit envious, actually. I'm not on such great terms with my mom. And definitely not with my father,” she added.
”That's a bit of a shame,” Mr. Cross said, giving her just enough room to keep talking.
To her surprise, she answered with the unvarnished truth. ”Sometimes I think so, and I wish we were closer. But my family isn't like yours. Even when the four of you have your differences, you still know each other. There aren't any pretenses, and you accept each other at face value. I've never really had that with my parents.”
”Oh, darlin'. It's true that the boys and I are closer than most.” Mr. Cross lowered the photo in his hands, but he didn't put the frame back in its resting place on the lace doily centered just so on the side table. ”But I promise you, each of us has got things he's hidin' behind, and even though we've got family bonds holdin' us together, ain't none of the four of us perfect.”
Pain flickered over the old man's face, there and then gone. The shadows that had made themselves comfortable beneath his eyes this week stood out in stark contrast to his suddenly pale skin, and something unspoken and not-quite-right pinched in Emerson's gut.
”Mr. Cross? Are you feeling alright?”
”Right as rain,” he grated, his voice far too hoa.r.s.e, but before she could launch a full protest, her phone buzzed to life in her pocket, sending her d.a.m.n near out of her skin.
”Oh jeez!” She retrieved the thing with a sweep of one hand. ”I apologize, but I need to check this, just in case Doc Sanders needs me at the PT center.”
She took a lightning-fast glance at the display. But the text message glaring over the screen wasn't from the doc.
Emerson, Your mother has left several voice messages for you, as well as trying unsuccessfully to speak with you at your apartment. We clearly have unfinished business, which your mother and I would like to address. Please call at your earliest convenience.
Emerson's stomach took a straight trip to her suddenly throbbing knees. G.o.d, her parents were relentless. But the acorn didn't fall far from the oak as far as that particular trait was concerned, and dammit, she was going to put an end to this once and for all.
”Please excuse me, Mr. Cross. I've got to make an important-”
The rest of her words crashed to a halt in her windpipe as she lifted her head to look at Hunter's father. Now sheet white, he swayed unsteadily in his boots, a heavy sheen of sweat beading over his temples and dampening the underarms of his T-s.h.i.+rt.
Adrenaline spurted in Emerson's veins. ”Mr. Cross?”
His chin lifted in her direction, but his gaze barely connected. ”I'm . . . feelin' a little . . . tired all of a sudden,” he said, and s.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+t.
She forced her legs to close the s.p.a.ce between them in two quick strides. ”Okay. Let's sit down for a minute.”
Moving to Mr. Cross's side, Emerson wrapped her arm around his side, her throat going desert dry as she realized he was shaking like the last leaf in a winter windstorm. She needed to get him in a stable position so she could get a better look, not to mention some freaking help. But before she could ask him if he could make it to the nearby couch, he wobbled in place, his balance teetering.
”I don't . . . my arm . . .”
Her hold tightened around him just as his knees buckled completely. Emerson's heart ricocheted against her ribs and her joints screamed in protest at having to suddenly support his body weight, but she barely registered either as she managed to get Mr. Cross clumsily to the carpet.
”Mr. Cross,” she said, wrenching her voice into calmness she didn't come close to feeling. ”Can you hear me?”
He slumped like dead weight in her arms, completely unmoving, and panic sliced through her with scalpel-sharp teeth.
No. This wasn't happening. Not on her watch.
Emerson guided him all the way back over the carpet, the move sending his sweat-soaked Stetson rolling over the floor and his body limp beneath her hands. ”Mr. Cross,” she barked with all the authority she could muster, and just as she slid her fingers into the crook of his neck to check for a pulse, his eyelids fluttered.
Breathing. Thank G.o.d. ”Mr. Cross, can you hear me?”
Although his eyes didn't open, he grunted in response. ”Unh. Uh-huh.”
”Good. I want you to lie still, okay?”
”My arm . . . hurts somethin' fierce . . .”
He made a weak grab for his left side, and dammit, she needed paramedics. Now. ”I'm going to help you out with that. But you've got to stay with me, nice and easy.”
”I'm just . . . gonna get under the covers . . . right here in bed . . .”
Fear crawled up Emerson's spine, but she mashed down on it with all her power. ”Not quite yet, okay? I need you to stay awake just a few minutes longer.”
Fumbling for her phone, she jabbed her finger over the emergency icon, shoving the device between her ear and shoulder as the call connected.
”Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?”
A hard shot of relief filled her lungs at the fact that the call went through. ”I need an ambulance at the main house at Cross Creek Farm. It's”-she scrambled to pluck the street address from her Tilt-a-Whirl of a brain-”ah! Fourteen fifty-six Spring Street, Millhaven. I've got an adult male in distress.”
”Is the injured party breathing, ma'am?” came the operator's voice, and Emerson dropped her own so as not to make Mr. Cross panic.
”Yes. He's breathing, but he lost consciousness briefly and now he's disoriented and complaining of dizziness and left arm pain.” She dropped her hand to capture his wrist for a pulse check, hating the corkscrew in her gut as she added, ”Pulse is tachy at one-oh-six.”
”Ma'am, are you a medical professional?”
”I'm a physical therapist.” She had basic emergency training, but for cripes' sake, she'd never had to use it.
”Okay,” the operator said, her voice crackling over a sea of static. ”Do you know CPR?”
No! No, no, no, she wasn't going to need CPR. ”Yes,” Emerson croaked.
”Good.” More static, and dammit, she was going to lose the connection. ”Do your best to keep the injured party calm and alert, ma'am. Paramedics have been dispatched and will be there very shortly.”
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