Blue-Eyed Devil (Travis Family #2)(92)

"Haven," he said through thready breaths, "did he hurt you? Did he — "

"No. I'm fine." I wiped at the blood and found the wound, a surprisingly small, neat hole. But I couldn't see an exit wound, which mean the bullet had gone in and possibly ricocheted, doing damage to the spleen, liver, or kidney . . . I wanted to burst into tears, but I forced them back and placed the pad of dishtowels over the wound. "Hold still. I'm going to put pressure on your side to slow the bleeding.

He let out a groan as I pushed downward. His lips were turning gray. "Your ear — "

"It's nothing. Nick hit me with the gun, but it wasn't — "

"I'll kill him — " He was trying to rise from the sofa.

I shoved Hardy back down. "Stay still, you idiot! You've been shot. Do not move." I put his hand over the folded dishtowels to maintain the pressure while I dashed to get the phone.

I called 911, David, and Jack, while keeping the dishtowels clamped tightly on the wound.

Jack was the first to reach my apartment. "Holy shit." He took in the scene before him, my ex-husband stirring on the floor, Hardy and me on the sofa. "Haven, are you — "

"I'm fine. Make sure Nick doesn't do anything else."

Jack stood over my ex-husband with an expression I'd never seen him wear before. "As soon as I get the chance," he told Nick in a deadly quiet voice, "I'm going to drop you in your tracks and gut you like a feral hog."

The paramedics arrived, followed soon by the police, while the building security guards kept anxious neighbors from coming in. I wasn't aware of the exact moment Nick was taken out of the apartment by the police, I was too absorbed in Hardy. He drifted in and out of consciousness, his skin clammy, his breathing weak and fast. He seemed confused, asking me at least three times what had happened, and if I was okay.

"Everything's fine," I murmured, stroking his tumbled hair, gripping his free hand firmly while a paramedic inserted a large bore needle for an IV. "Be quiet."

"Haven . . . had to tell you . . . "

"Tell me later."

"Mistake . . . "

"I know. It's okay. Hush and be still."

I could tell he wanted to say something else, but the other paramedic put him on high-flow oxygen and applied patches for a cardiac monitor, and fitted him with a stabilizing board for transport. They were fast and efficient. What EMS professionals call the "golden hour" had started: the time between when a victim was shot and the time he arrived at a trauma center for treatment. If more than sixty minutes passed before he got treated, his chances of survival started to drop.

I rode with Hardy in the ambulance while Jack drove to the hospital. It was only for Hardy's sake that I managed to stay outwardly calm. Inside, I felt an anguish that seemed too great for a human heart to withstand.

We arrived at the ambulance entrance, and the paramedics lifted Hardy on a gurney up to the building floor, which was slightly higher than the floor of the ambulance.

Liberty and Gage were already at the trauma unit, having been alerted by Jack. I guessed the rest of my family wouldn't be far behind. I hadn't given a thought to how I must have looked, all wild-eyed and bloodstained, but I gathered from their expressions that my appearance was a cause for concern. Liberty put her jacket over my shirt and cleaned my face with some baby wipes from her purse.

When she discovered the lump behind my ear, she and Gage insisted that I get it looked at, despite my howls of protest.

"I'm not going anywhere, I'm going to stay right here until I find out what's going on with Hardy — "

"Haven." Gage was in front of me, his steady gaze boring into mine. "It's going to be a long time before they've got any news. They're checking his blood type, doing CT scans and X-rays . . . believe me, you're not going to miss a thing. Now let someone look at that hard head of yours. Please."

I was cleaned and bandaged, and sent back to the trauma unit waiting room. As Gage had predicted, there was no news. Hardy was in surgery, although no one would tell us what it was for, or how long it would last. I sat and stared blindly at the television in the corner of the room, wondering if I should call Hardy's mother. I decided to wait until I found out something about his condition — hopefully something reassuring — that I could relay along with the news that he'd been hurt.

As I waited, guilt sucked me down like quicksand. I had never imagined Hardy would suffer for my past mistakes. If only I had never gotten involved with Nick . . . if only I had never started a relationship with Hardy . . .

"Don't think that." I heard Liberty's gentle voice beside me.

"Don't think what?" I asked dully, drawing up my knees to sit cross-legged on the hard plastic chair.

"Whatever it is that's put that look on your face." Her arm slid around my shoulders. "You're not to blame for any of this. You're the best thing that's ever happened to Hardy."

"Oh, obviously," I muttered, casting a glance at the doors leading to surgery.

She squeezed me a little. "When I saw the two of you at the rigs-to-reefs party the other night, I couldn't believe the difference in Hardy. I've never seen him look so relaxed and happy. Comfortable in his skin. I didn't think anyone could ever do that for him."