The Last Letter(39)

“It’s been eleven hours!” she shouted, pausing with her hands on her head. She’d long ago pulled so many strands of her hair loose that it floated around her, as disheveled as she was.

“It has.”

“It was supposed to take ten!” Her eyes were wide and panicked, and I couldn’t blame her. Hell, she was only giving voice to the same thoughts in my head.

“Is everything okay? Mr. and Mrs. MacKenzie?” A nurse popped her head in. “Anything I can do for you?”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you can find out exactly what’s going on with my daughter. She was supposed to be out of surgery over an hour ago, and there’s been no word. None. Is she okay?”

The woman’s face softened in sympathy. Ella wasn’t the first mom to panic in the waiting room, and she wasn’t going to be the last. “How about I go check for you? I’ll come right back with an update.”

“Please. Thank you.” Some of the wild left Ella’s eyes.

“Of course.” She gave Ella a reassuring smile and left in search of information.

“God, I’m going insane.” Ella’s voice was barely a whisper.

She shook her head as she fought off a lower-lip tremble. I pushed away from the sill and was to her in four long strides, not halting to think about who I was or who she knew me to be. I simply wrapped my arms around her and pulled her to my chest like I’d wanted to since the first moment I saw her.

“You wouldn’t be the mom you are if you weren’t going a little out of your mind,” I reassured her as she relaxed against me.

“I think I’ve blown right by little and straight to asylum-ville,” she mumbled into my chest before turning her head and resting it just under my collarbone.

Damn, she fit against me exactly like I knew she would—perfectly. In another life, this is how we would have faced every challenge together. But in that life, Maisie was healthy and Mac was alive. In this world…well, she wasn’t exactly hugging me back. Right. Because I had her arms pinned between us. Was she pushing me away? Was I that oblivious?

That realization hit me like a fire hose, and I loosened my arms immediately. What the hell had I been thinking? Just because she wanted me to stay with her didn’t mean she wanted me to touch her. I was her default, and lucky to be that, but I sure as hell wasn’t her choice or preference.

“Don’t let go,” she whispered. Her hands were still between us, but she wasn’t pushing me away, they were simply resting on my pecs. If anything, she leaned in. “I’d forgotten what this felt like.”

“Being hugged?” My voice was sandpaper-rough.

“Being held together.”

Never before had a single phrase brought me to my emotional knees.

“I’ve got you.” I tightened my hold, splaying one hand wide just beneath her shoulder blades and cupping the back of her head with the other. Using my body the best I could, I surrounded her, imagining I was some kind of wall—that I could keep away whatever heartache was coming for her. My chin rested on the top of her head, and second by second, I felt her melt and give.

Although I couldn’t tell her, I loved this woman. I would take on armies for her, kill for her, or die for her. There was no truth greater than that, and no other truth that I could give her. Because where she was honest and strong and kind, I was a liar who had already hurt her in the worst way possible. I had no right to hold her like this, but even worse—I wasn’t going to move a muscle.

“Mrs. MacKenzie?” The nurse came back in, accompanied by Maisie’s surgeon. “I just caught them as they were coming out of surgery.”

“Yes?” Ella turned in my arms, and I let her free, but she took my hand, squeezing so hard I had a momentary concern for the blood flow to my fingers.

The surgeon smiled, and I felt a rush of relief more powerful than any time I’d escaped battle unscathed.

“We got it all. It was touch and go there for a while with her left kidney, but we managed to save it. You’ve got quite a stubborn little girl on your hands. She’s in recovery right now, resting. As soon as she wakes up, we’ll bring you back to see her, but don’t expect her to stay awake for long, okay?”

“Thank you.” Ella’s voice broke, but those two words carried the kind of meaning that usually took hours to convey.

“You’re welcome.” The surgeon smiled again, exhaustion written on every line of her face, before leaving us alone in the waiting room.

“She’s okay.” Ella’s eyes closed.

“She’s okay.”

“She’s…she’s really okay,” she repeated. Then, as if someone peeled back whatever had been keeping her upright, she collapsed, her knees giving out under her. I caught her before she hit the ground and hauled her up against my side. “She’s okay. She’s okay.” Ella said the phrase over and over again until the words came on heaving cries, the sobs rough and raw.

I hooked one arm under her knees and one behind her back, picking her up as she buried her face in my neck, hot tears streaking down my skin to soak my shirt. Then I settled onto the couch, holding her across my lap as her gut-wrenching cries shook her small frame.

She cried in a way that reminded me of the valve being released on a pressure cooker—the result of too much confined for way too long. And even though the relief was still sweet from the successful surgery, I knew there was so much more ahead for her—for them. This was simply a pause in the fight that allowed her a precious second to catch her breath.