Impulsion (Station 32 #1)(40)
Only this time, she felt warmth; this time, she felt his breath on her skin, felt the force behind his lips. Impulsion.
She couldn’t figure out why he was holding her in place, why he would not let her move her neck, move at all.
It wasn’t until he broke away, until she heard him say, “You’re safe,” once again that the idea came to her that this wasn’t a dream.
Wyatt backed out of sight, and a girl appeared asking her what her name was, what day of the week it was—a million stupid questions, questions that she couldn’t answer because she was still trying to figure out how much was real, what had even happened.
“Backboard!” the girl yelled.
She vanished from sight, then Wyatt appeared again. She did her best to focus on him, on his uniform, as she felt herself cut loose from the seat belt, being gently pulled from the cab with a board strapped to her back, a brace around her neck.
Wyatt stayed at her side, holding her hand.
“Danny Boy,” she rasped.
“We’re helping him, too,” Wyatt said, squeezing her hand. She saw Easton’s face flash by, Truman’s, even Memphis’. She was sure she had drifted into some kind of insanity. Some alternate reality.
The paramedic did something, and whatever it was made Harley drift. Her mind was insane, caught somewhere between the past and the present. She kept seeing herself trying to explain what she wanted to Wyatt, to her father, but no words could come. Through all of that, all she could hear was the screech of tires, the horrified neigh Danny Boy had made.
Her eyes flew open, and she pulled herself up, ready to run.
“Shh,” she heard someone say. She felt their calloused, warm hands on her arm as they reached past her and pushed a button on her bed.
It was Camille Doran. Before Harley could say a word, two nurses and a doctor came in.
They had their little flashlights and pointless questions that Harley answered without thought. She was trying to read the look on Camille’s face. For an instant when she woke, she thought she had dreamed of seeing Wyatt, seeing all the boys. Seeing Camille told her there was a good chance it wasn’t a dream, sent a shock of hope through her—but it also terrified her.
Camille never showed emotion, but Harley could see pain in her eyes. She was sure she had lost Danny Boy, that something irrevocable had happened.
“We think you may have a slight concussion,” the doctor said to her. “Nothing beyond that. You’re a lucky girl.”
Harley only swallowed in response.
“We are going to keep you here for the rest of the night. I’m not going to admit you, but I want to monitor you, measure any pain you have. You’re sure to be sore.”
Once the nurses and doctors cleared away, Harley looked nervously to Camille. “Where is he?”
Camille let no expression come to her face as she crossed her arms. “My son, or Danny Boy?”
Harley’s eyes welled, but she refused to cry, refused to apologize for loving Wyatt when she was just a girl, but she had no qualms with apologizing for hurting Camille.
Camille was more of a mother to Harley than her own. She never doted on Harley or was sweet, but she was honest. She encouraged Harley, pushed her to be a better rider, a better person. Told her it was okay to live, to smile.
“I never meant to hurt you. To lie to you.”
Camille let her stare move over Harley. She looked so weak and fragile in that bed. More fragile than the first time she had seen her, a young girl who was accustomed to being alone, accustomed to hiding what she really wanted in life.
Through all of it, through all the times Beckett had to go out and get Wyatt when he drank too much, all the times she had to go to the school and convince them to give Wyatt one more shot, through the moment Beckett told her he was sending Wyatt on the road, she blamed herself.
Camille had always seen herself in Harley, and it wasn’t just because her mount was the spitting image of the first horse she had loved. It was because of her background. Camille came from southern money. High standards. When she was just a girl, she fell in love with a blacksmith-slash-bareback rider that came to her farm every week. They had a torrid love affair, wild and free. She knew her parents would never let her marry him, so she ran and they eloped.
She and her husband worked their asses off, proved everyone wrong day by day. The day Wyatt was born, her father found a way to accept Beckett. Two families became one, and a legacy was built.
Camille should have known her son was just like his father, that he would not give a damn about any restrictions in front of him, that if anything, that would only push him to fight harder. In Camille’s mind, not only should she have seen this love affair, but she should have found a way to help Harley through it, gave her the courage, told her that if she really loved him, nothing mattered but that. But she was too stubborn to say any of this aloud. Her son didn’t even know this story; only Beckett understood where Camille was coming from, how she felt.
“Is that a fact?” Camille stepped forward. “Then why did you return to my barn and leave without saying a word to me?”
Harley thought she was going to be sick. She could still see that satisfied look on Dorcas’ face.
Her mouth gapped before she spoke. “Life had moved on,” she managed to say, still wondering if she really had seen Wyatt at that accident or if somehow her mind had put that together with the voices around her. She knew if he really did see her, he’d held her back, he’d stopped them. He was doing his job, nothing more, and that, in some way, mortified her.