Crazy about Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3(58)

“That’s good. Sleep’s the best thing for her.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

The doctor made a notation on his clipboard. “You can take her home tomorrow as long as she’s awake and lucid. But make sure she rests. No activity. No exertion.”

“No problem,” said Cameron, stroking her hand gently, grateful that her fingers were still curled around his hand, even in sleep.

“Who is she to you?” The doctor raised his eyebrows. “You’re not wearing a ring.”

“She’s my girlfriend.” . . . and so much more. She’s my everything.

“Well, I think she’s going to be just fine. Blood pressure’s good. Pulse is normal. We’ll keep her tonight for observation, but you can come back tomorrow morning and pick her up.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Cameron.

“Well, visiting hours—”

“Don’t apply to me,” he growled.

The doctor fixed him with a steady look, then nodded. “I understand. I’ll see if one of the nurses can find you a blanket.”

“I don’t need anything,” said Cameron, turning back to Margaret. Except to find who did this to her and tear him limb from f*cking limb.

The doctor patted his shoulder gently. “She will be okay, son.”

“Thanks, doc,” said Cameron, listening to the doctor’s sneakers as they headed back out into the hallway.

With his free hand, Cameron took his phone out of his back pocket and dialed.

“Cam?”

“Alex.”

“What’s up, man?”

“Weston still working in the DA’s office?’ asked Cameron, referring to Alex English’s younger brother.

“Yeah. Hey, you okay?”

“Fine. I need a favor.”

“Sure. Tell me.”

“I need Wes to run a search. Aqua Ford pickup. Old and beat-up. Maybe 1970s. Partial Pennsylvania license plate including an A and a Q.”

“Okay. I’ll ask him. But Cam, what’s going on? Why do you need this?”

Someone in that truck hurt someone I love.

“I just do.”

“Okay, fine. I won’t ask.”

“Thanks, Alex.”

Cameron hung up and dialed the phone again. It was about four o’clock. He felt like someone in her family should know what had happened, but hopefully Mr. Story would still be at the office.

“Good afternoon. Forrester.”

“Priscilla, please.”

“Who’s calling?”

“Cameron Winslow.”

“Hold, please.”

Cameron sighed, watching Margaret sleep peacefully as he waited for her sister to come to the phone.

“This is Priscilla.”

“Pris, it’s Cameron Winslow.”

“Hey, Cam!”

“Hey,” he said, “it’s been a long time.”

“It has!” She paused for a second. “Um, not to be rude, but I was just heading out, so . . .”

“Yeah, listen. Your sister had a little accident today.”

“Margaret?” she gasped. “What happened?”

“We were out at her vineyard, and she was struck in the head. Had to get a few stitches. I’m here with her at the St. Mary Medical Center out in Langhorne.”

“I’m coming.”

“No, Pris. It’s okay. She’s okay. She’s sleeping now. She’ll be home tomorrow.”

“Home where?”

“The cottage at her vineyard.”

“I feel like I should come.”

“No, really. It’s fine. I just wanted you to know, and I didn’t know if your dad . . .”

Priscilla was silent as Cameron’s voice trailed off.

“Right,” she said softly. “Thank you for taking care of her.”

“I love her.”

“You do?” asked Priscilla, her voice filled with warmth and something more, like wistfulness. “I’m glad.”

“I’ll have her call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. Thanks for calling, Cam. If she needs anything, call me.”

“I will.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

His calls made, Cameron moved his chair a little closer to Margaret’s bed and lay his head in the small space next to her shoulder, vowing that he would keep her safe until they could get to the bottom of everything.





Chapter 13


For the rest of the week, while Margaret rested on the couch or in her bed, Cameron had a security expert visit The Five Sisters, and by Saturday there was a padlocked gate across the entrance, tiny cameras installed on trees and in the corners of buildings, and elaborate alarm systems on the doors and windows of Margaret’s cottage as well as both sheds. And while part of her bristled about having to add this level of security to her peaceful, happy haven, another part of her was still horrified by what had happened, and exceedingly grateful for Cameron’s take-charge care of her and her vineyard.

That said, he was a man obsessed.

The police still hadn’t found a lead, and Weston English’s search had been fruitless, turning up a long list of aqua Ford pickups that had been quickly accounted for by a private investigator.