Colton Christmas Protector (The Coltons of Texas #12)(67)
Her thoughts were scattered snippets, jumping one direction then another. Her captors’ faces. Escape. Nicholas’s crying. Regrets. Planning. Panic.
As the reality of her situation sharpened and shock loosened its grip on her brain, a rock of truth settled in the pit of her stomach. She was to blame for these men finding her and Nicholas. She’d turned on her phone, made calls, used her GPS. Reid had been right about her cell signal being monitored. The minute she’d put the battery back in her phone, these men had begun tracing her location, pinpointing where to intercept her.
She pressed her lips to Nicholas’s hot forehead, a pulse of tension throbbing under her skull. She’d had to do something for her son. He still needed a doctor. That these terrible men had interfered with getting Nicholas medical help only fueled her fury and frustration.
“My son is sick,” she said to the man beside her, her tone pleading. “He needs a doctor. Please let me take him to—”
With a glare, the man growled, “Shut it.”
The guy on the phone listened for a moment, then said, “We could use them as bait. Right. Yeah, he’ll want proof of life, but then we can pop ’em.”
A chill shimmied through her, and her tears poured faster. Not for her own life, but for Nicholas’s. Her ears buzzed with adrenaline, but she sucked in a stuttering breath and tried to clear her head. She needed to listen to the one-sided conversation for any clue as to who these men were, where they were going. And she needed to send a signal to Reid, warning him of the danger he was in. She might die today because of her actions, but she’d do whatever she could to protect her son. And to save Reid’s life.
*
Eldridge glared at Reid and flapped a dismissive hand toward the waitress. “No. No ambulance. I’m not all right, but I don’t need an ambulance. Just a new lawyer, so I can sue that two-faced Hugh Barrington for all he’s worth!” The old man flattened both hands on the table and drew a wheezing breath. “When I’m done with that rat bastard...”
Reid returned to his seat but kept a close eye on his father. Eldridge’s color began to improve, though his jaw remained clenched tight, and his eyes flickered with animosity.
Remembering the earlier comment about Eldridge’s health, Reid pressed, “Why did you say you’re dying? Are you ill?” He had to admit his father didn’t look so good, even before they’d broached the topic of his will or Hugh’s deception.
Eldridge gave a low, gruff cough. “Hell, boy. We’re all dying. Some of us will just get there sooner than others. I’m seventy-five, have a former smoker’s lungs and the liver of a man who enjoyed quite a few whiskey sours back in the day.”
Reid shook his head. “So then...”
“I have cancer.”
Heart jolting, he studied his father’s face looking for some sign the old man was pulling his leg. But Eldridge wouldn’t look at him, a sure indication he was serious. Slowly, reluctantly he asked, “What...kind? What’s your prognosis?”
Eldridge was quiet for a long time, ignoring his food and squeezing the handle of his spoon until his knuckles blanched. Finally he mumbled, “Prostate.” He aimed a finger at Reid and warned him sharply. “Don’t you dare say anything about this to Whitney. She doesn’t need to know.”
“She’s your wife! Of course she should kn—”
“I said no. I don’t want her worrying about something she can’t do anything about. When I go home—if I go home—I’ll tell her myself, if and when I decide to.”
Now Reid leaned forward and pointed a finger at his father. “When you go home. Not if. You’ve hidden out and left us worrying and questioning each other long enough, old man.”
“Soon. I want to finish this round of radiation treatments first. That’s where I was this morning. Every Wednesday morning for the last three months. If I get a good report next week, I plan to come home by Christmas. I want a chance to say goodbye.”
Reid grunted. “Don’t be defeatist. Prostate cancer is beatable. It has a high recovery rate if detected early enough.”
Eldridge averted his gaze toward the window again. “Yeah, that’s the hearts and roses my doctors keep prattling on about. They keep telling me I’ll be fine, but...it’s cancer, damn it. I’ve known too many people who died from the big C to believe the doctors are doing anything but blowing sunshine up my ass, so I’ll pay for expensive treatments and more office visits.”
“Listen here, old man,” Reid drilled a finger to the sticky tabletop and nailed his father with a no-nonsense glare. “You will do what the doctors tell you, and you will recover. You will adopt a better attitude and quit being a miserable old cuss about your diagnosis, because there are millions—no, billions—of people who are sicker, poorer, have harder lives than you and don’t bellyache half as much as you. And you will bring your sorry ass home ASAP. Got it?”
Eldridge sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, giving Reid a stubborn frown. “Says who? You don’t get to tell me what I will and won’t do.”
“Oh, really? After all the hell you’ve put your family through these past months, disappearing with no word and leading us to believe you were kidnapped or killed, I have every right.” He aimed a finger at Eldridge. “You owe us this much. You owe Whitney better than grieving for a man who’s not dead.” He paused a beat, gritting his teeth before adding, “And you owe your conniving lawyer a come-to-Jesus confrontation for the years of lies and theft and manipulation.”