Love's Own Reward

  Love’s Own Reward

  It was the bravest damn thing he’d ever seen.

  SHE WAS ONLY a little bit of a thing, so delicate she might have been confused with a girl. He could remember every finely-cut line of her face as she’d dashed in front of his stopped car. So small and yet possessed of a courage that put the rest of them to shame. While others watched, himself included, she’d scrambled into that compact, heedless of the danger, to bring out the little boy. And if that wasn’t enough, she’d gone back toward certain death in an effort to save the kid’s parents. She couldn’t, of course. Jess had known that the moment he saw the fuel ignite. But it hadn’t stopped her from trying. God, she’d fought him like a madwoman when he’d pulled her away, barely seconds before she would have been engulfed in the same fiery ball that consumed the car. Such amazing strength in such a tiny package. He’d been awed by her. Until this event had played out before his disbelieving eyes, he’d shunned stories of heroism. He’d felt the frantic beat of her big, big heart against his chest. He’d felt the helpless trembling of her despair as he held her in his arms. And never had anything touched him so strongly, so powerfully, so tenderly as that moment. As that woman.

  Why had she taken the money?

  Love’s Own Reward

  by

  Dana Ransom

  Bell Bridge Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Bell Bridge Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-489-1

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-509-6

  Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 1992 by Nancy Gideon

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  A mass market edition of this book was published by Zebra books in 1992

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  Cover design: Debra Dixon

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo/Art credits:

  Couple (manipulated) © Vladimir Nikulin | Dreamstime.com

  :Eolr:01:

  Dedication

  For Debbie Macomber, my friend and mentor. Your advice made all the difference in the world!

  A special acknowledgment to my technical advisors: Orysia, for showing me how to shop the Mile and survive parking.

  My brother-in-law, George, for translating science into English.

  One

  MY GOD, HE’S going to hit that car!

  Just as the thought shot through Charlene Carter’s mind, the eighteen-wheeler shifted lanes. Crowded from the pavement by the diesel-snorting semi, the driver of the compact ahead of her had no choice but to take to the shoulder with a hard wrench of the steering wheel. The truck sped on, with a rumble of massive power and a rattling vibration. The big rig driver never witnessed the devastation left in his wake.

  Charley had seen it hundreds of times in her early-morning commute to work. A reckless driver cutting lanes, tired, in a hurry, not checking his mirrors as carefully as he should. Usually the result was an angry blare of the horn or a sudden swerve and vigorously mouthed curses. This morning it was worse. Much worse.

  The small car struck the shoulder going close to seventy. Loose gravel flew as tires fought for traction. The rear end spun and Charley could see the driver hauling frantically to correct it. But not in time. In that second she could see the female passenger scream as Charley’s car passed. It seemed the woman was staring right at her through the side window, her eyes huge, terrified, begging for assistance. Then the image was gone as Charley stomped on the brake, struggling to bring her own vehicle to a safe stop.

  She saw the impact in the rearview mirror. Somehow that made it more horrifying, that narrow glimpse of harsh reality. The careening car slammed broadside into an overpass abutment. Even with her windows tightly closed she could hear the raw rend of metal, the shattering of glass. The passenger side crumpled like an aluminum can. The horn sounded, but the eerie wail was cut brutally short as the car skidded and flipped, once, twice, then rolled to rest on its side in the gully of the median.

  Seconds passed. Charley’s fingers were frozen about the steering wheel. A fierce tremor started in those cramped hands and spread rapidly up her arms until her very teeth chattered with shock. My God! Just like a scene from a made-for-TV movie! Only the dark smoke billowing from the grassy valley was real. Terribly real. That was what shook her from her stupor.

  There were people in that car!

  Charley never remembered shoving her vehicle into park. The engine was still running when she leaped out and dashed onto the highway. Traffic had come to a complete halt by then, but she wasn’t aware of the confusion. She never even looked before sprinting across the rubber-burned blacktop. All she could think of was that woman’s petrified face.

  Charley rushed forward and could see the wheels were still spinning. The passenger side of the car, from bumper to front door, was a mass of twisted steel. Steam and an awful gassy smell came from the wreck. The rear door. Charley’s thoughts were working on some primitive level. They were clear now, completely panic-free, even though her chest hurt from the hammering of her heart. Maybe she could reach the people from the back seat. Losing her shoes, ripping her pantyhose, she crawled up, using the buckled trunk lid for footing. She managed to wrestle the heavy door up and open. It would only go halfway before catching on the bent frame. But it was far enough.

  It never once occurred to her to worry about her own safety. There just wasn’t time. By lying on her stomach, Charley could lean inside the crushed car. The stench of fuel was even stronger inside.

  “Hello? Are you all right? I’m going to get you out.”

  There was no response from the front seat. But from the shadows of the back came a whimpering moan. A child.

  Charley stretched down toward the little figure belted in behind the driver’s seat. Her fingers fumbled with the fastener. The hot scent had made the air almost unbreathable by then. She started to cough. So did the boy. There was a click and the belt dropped away from his middle.

  “Can you grab onto my arms?” Charley cried. Her balance was precarious. She wasn’t sure she could lift the child out by herself. She caught a thin arm and pulled upward at an awkward angle. The boy began to cry in great, catching sobs. He was heavy.

  “Help me! You have to help me!” Charley ordered frantically as she lost her grip on his forearm and was left with only his jacket twisted in her hand. “Help me! Give me your arms. Reach up to me. Come on now.”

  “Mommy!” the child wailed in pain and terror.

  “First you, then I’ll get her. I promise. I promise.” Charley began to slip. She felt the cut of sharp metal. “Give me your hands!”

  Then he reached up to her, wrapping his little arms around her neck, twining desperately, chokingly. Wriggling backward, she dropped from the car to the grass, stumbling with the boy in her arms until she caught her balance. And she
ran. The smell of fuel was overwhelming. The punctured engine hissed and seethed. When she’d gotten him far enough away, she found other hands reaching for him, relieving her of the burden of his weight. But not from the burden of his terror-stricken cries.

  “Mommy! Mommy!”

  It was madness. The first thing Charley saw when she turned back toward the car was fire. Flames snapped out from under the hood and spread hungrily down to the gas-puddled grass. But she couldn’t see the flames as clearly as she could see that woman’s face.

  “Mommy!”

  Charley was running. Several people grabbed at her coat, but she jerked away, continuing her race toward the flaming car. It was burning fiercely by the time she reached it. When she grabbed at the doorframe, she was vaguely conscious of heat searing her palms. Adrenaline surged. She could hear her own heart thundering in her ears, rivaling the frantic rasp of her breathing and the snap of the fire enveloping the front of the compact.

  Inside, the car was thick and dark with smoke. She could barely see, so she felt her way along the hot vinyl. The woman was dangling from her shoulder harness, her torso bent over the buckle. Charley couldn’t reach it.

  “No!”

  The boy’s mother was wedged between the bucket seats. Charley used her shoulder for leverage, trying to lift the woman’s still form and release the seat buckle. She slipped. Momentum began to pull Charley inside the car, when something snagged the band of her skirt. Strong hands began hauling her back and out. Away from the woman and her husband.

  “No,” Charley could hear herself screaming. “Let me go! I can save them! I have to save them!”

  But fresh air was suddenly cold upon her face, and through tear-blurred eyes she could see the car become a ball of fire as she was carried away. She fought wildly.

  Then she was overcome by coughing. Her lungs burned until she felt as if they would explode from the tearing pressure. She couldn’t struggle anymore. There was no strength for it. Her knees gave, and if not for the arms encircling her, she would have collapsed onto the grassy median.

  The car burst like a detonated bomb. Bits and pieces of twisted steel and engine parts showered down, fiery comets that sizzled as they struck the ground. Stunned, Charley watched the tragedy—helpless and heartbroken. A terrible despair rose within her, swelling her smoke-clogged throat and trapping the wail of anguish inside. Shock and grief shuddered through her, and she sagged into surrounding male arms. It was a warm, protective embrace, isolating her from the horror. Stinging tears distorted the sight until it was completely obscured by a leather-clad shoulder.

  “Shhh,” came a low, husky whisper close to her ear. “You did everything you could. No one could have saved them. No one could have saved them.”

  That soothing caress of sound was the last thing she remembered.

  “HOW IS HE?”

  The nurse paused in her pumping of the blood-pressure cuff and smiled at the pale young woman. “They flew him to Ann Arbor this morning.”

  Charley moaned. “He’s worse?”

  “Oh no, no. Nothing like that,” the nurse soothed quickly. “It’s just that the grandparents thought he’d get better care at a bigger hospital. All his signs were stable. Thanks to you.”

  Charley sighed in relief. Then a small swell of disappointment rose. She had hoped she’d be able to see him. Chris Osgood. She hadn’t known his name until three days ago, when she’d woken up in this bed with her hands mummified in bandages. She’d seen his picture in the paper. A sweet-faced six-year-old. Right under the massive headlines that changed her life. Right beneath the photos of his parents. The people she hadn’t been able to rescue. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes. “Are they still out there?”

  “Who? Oh, you mean the vultures? Thick as thieves. It’s not every day they have a real live hero in their midst.”

  Charley’s lips curled in a wry disclaimer. “I’m no hero.”

  The nurse tugged the Velcro to release the pressure cuff. Her voice was warm with admiration. “Could have fooled me.”

  She’d fooled them all. She, Charlene Carter, simple lab assistant, the new John Wayne of the highway. The guardian angel of a small boy who just happened to be the only surviving grandchild of one of the richest industrialists in Michigan. A fearless Samaritan braving death to rescue a stranger. That’s how the press painted her in their bold banner headlines. Some hero. So tortured by nightmares of fire and fear that she couldn’t sleep without medication. So haunted by that woman’s eyes that Charley couldn’t close her own without seeing them. So overpowered by the shadow of her own brush with death that she couldn’t speak of the accident without falling into fitful tremors. She couldn’t read about it in the papers. She couldn’t watch it on television. And if she’d been trapped inside that burning car, would they have likened her to Joan of Arc? Would that have sold even more papers?

  Charley squeezed her eyes more tightly shut and forced the image from her mind. The hospital psychologist had taught her how to suppress the panic, how to control it. But it wouldn’t go away. She’d asked about the man who’d pulled her out of the overturned vehicle, the stranger who had saved her life. But in all the confusion no record had been made of his name. So he would go without thanks while she was weighed down with reward.

  Five hundred thousand dollars’ worth of reward.

  “Are you sure you want to be released this afternoon, Miss Carter? It probably wouldn’t hurt to stay another day. I’m sure there won’t be any problem with the insurance.”

  Charley almost laughed. Paying for her hospital stay was the least of her concerns. The Osgoods had seen to that with their overwhelming gift of thanks.

  “I just want to go home and get back to normal.” But was that going to be possible?

  For three days, ever since she’d been confined to this hospital bed, she’d been swamped with requests from the press. Interviews. Pictures. In-depth features. At her insistence visitors had been barred from her room. But that didn’t keep the media from flocking outside, from pumping the nursing staff and even the janitor for information. Didn’t they understand that Charley just wanted to put it behind her? Couldn’t they see that she’d done nothing noble? Why wouldn’t they let the horror of it die along with Chris Osgood’s parents?

  Because of the money.

  “Leave those bandages on and keep them dry until your follow-up next week. In the meantime, get that prescription filled right away. You’re probably not feeling anything now, but I won’t lie to you. When that shot wears off, the next few days are going to be pretty miserable. Take what you need to control the pain. Healing time varies with burns, so you’ll just have to be patient. You were lucky, Miss Carter. There was little tissue damage, so you should be itching like crazy with new skin in about a week. Don’t scratch.” The nurse looked sternly at her patient to make sure the orders were understood. The young woman nodded vaguely. The medication had her drifting nicely. “Have you signed all the papers? Is someone coming to pick you up?”

  Charley felt a brief tug of hurt as she said, “I’ve called a cab.” She knew why Alan wasn’t coming. She knew all the reasons by heart. But that didn’t lessen the ache of abandonment. Couldn’t he find the time to be there when she needed him? That wasn’t fair of her, but then, she wasn’t feeling particularly unselfish. Her hands throbbed behind the blunt of painkillers. Her courage faltered at the thought of facing those reporters alone. She just wanted to escape to the safety of her own quiet world.

  “Your limo’s here, Miss Carter,” called the young black orderly maneuvering a wheelchair into place for her. “First-class service right to the front door. Got everything?”

  “Just what I have on.” A coworker had brought her the change of clothes and slip-on shoes. The pair she’d worn the day of the accident were beyond repair. The nurse had helped her into the pull-on skirt and b
utton-front blouse. Charley’s hands were fairly useless, but she was learning to adapt by slow, uncomfortable degrees.

  “What about all your flowers and cards?”

  Charley glanced at the elaborate sprays adorning every available surface of her room. Get-well notes had come in by the hundreds. Almost all from strangers. “Could someone box up the cards and send them to me?” The nurse nodded with a smile, “Take the flowers to the children’s unit,” Charley suggested. “They could use the cheering up.” It would take more than flowers from people she didn’t know to raise her own spirits. Someone might as well enjoy them. Besides, it was all she could do to hang on to her purse and place her feet one in front of the other. Her pain medication acted on her with the subtlety of an animal tranquilizer. It would have dropped a rhinoceros. But that powerful drug dulled the edge of her anxiety as well as her discomfort, so she was grateful for it. Otherwise, she never would have found the fortitude to seat herself in the wheelchair. Some hero!

  She dozed during the ride down the elevator. It made a pleasant whirring sound, soothing her senses in tandem with her lethargy-producing pills. The cab should be waiting. All she had to do was remember her address. Then she’d be home. What a divine thought. She’d take the phone off the hook and sleep for a week with no one to disturb her. She was smiling serenely as the doors shushed open. Then her pleasant dream was shattered by explosions of light.

  Charley shrank back into the chair like a startled doe confronted with the brilliance of oncoming headlights.

  “Who let you bastards in here?” the orderly growled at the reporters swarming the elevator bank. He ducked his head against the flare of flashbulbs and muscled the wheelchair through the crowd. They were quick to give him room or be run down, then trailed along like hounds on a scent.

  “Miss Carter, how are you feeling?”

  “Free Press, Miss Carter. Can you comment on what the last few days have been like?”