Rumors: The McCaffertys. Lisa JacksonЧитать онлайн книгу.
to the hospital—”
“Make it fast,” Thorne ordered, but Matt was already running toward the barn. He disappeared inside. Thorne jabbed his key into the ignition, the truck roared to life and he glared at the barn, willing his brother to return.
Less than a minute later Matt, head ducked, holding on to the brim of his Stetson, dashed through the rain. Thorne was already throwing the pickup into gear by the time Matt opened the door and slid inside.
“He’s gonna follow us.”
“Good.”
Thorne stepped hard on the accelerator, though he didn’t know why. The urge to get to the hospital, to do something pounded through him. What had gone wrong?
Rain poured from the sky and the twin ruts of the lane glistened in the glow of the headlights as water spun beneath the tires.
“Okay, now what happened?” Matt demanded, his face tense in the dark interior.
“Something went wrong.”
“What?”
“Everything.” Thorne squinted against oncoming headlights, shifted down and turned onto the main road cutting through the pine-forested canyons and rolling acres of farmland surrounding the Flying M. In clipped words, Thorne repeated his conversation with Nicole.
Matt’s jaw clenched. “Why was Nicole the one who called? Why not the pediatrician?”
“He couldn’t get through, but I’ll have more phone lines installed. Tomorrow. And I’d asked Nicole to phone me if there was any change. She said Dr. Arnold would call us, but I’m not going to hang around and wait. I want answers and I want them now.”
The ranch was nearly twenty miles from town. Thorne pushed the speed limit and the truck’s tires sang against the wet pavement.
They arrived at the hospital in record time. Thorne was out of the truck like a shot. Matt kept up with him, stride for stride. They sprinted across the dark parking lot, flew through the automatic doors of the lobby, then took the stairs two at a time to the second floor.
This time, Thorne didn’t allow any nurse to tell him what to do. The poor woman, a slight blonde with a tentative smile tried to ward them off. “Excuse me, you can’t come in here,” she said, pointing to a sign that read Authorized Personnel Only.
“Where’s the McCafferty baby?” Thorne demanded.
“Who are you?”
“I’m the baby’s uncle and so is he,” Matt said, hooking a thumb toward Thorne. “We’re Randi McCafferty’s brothers.”
“The only family the baby has right now,” Thorne explained, “as our sister is in Intensive Care and we haven’t located the child’s father.” That wasn’t a lie. Not really. He just didn’t bother to add that they had no idea who the father was. Slicing Matt a look warning him not to elaborate, Thorne continued. “I want to see my nephew.”
“He’s in his crib,” the nurse said patiently. “And he’s being monitored closely.” Her lips pursed and she motioned toward the glassed-in room where the baby, lying seemingly peacefully under a warm lamp, with a monitor strapped to him, was sleeping. Tubes were inserted into his small body and he breathed with his tiny mouth open. Another nurse hovered near his plastic bed. The blonde nurse continued, “Dr. Arnold has seen him and should be right back—oh, here he is now.” She was obviously relieved to pass the responsibility of dealing with Thorne and Matt to a small man with wire-rimmed glasses, slightly stooped shoulders and a ring of wild white hair.
“Dr. Arnold?” Thorne asked, pinning the shorter man with his gaze.
“Yes.”
“I’m Thorne McCafferty. This is my brother, Matt. The baby’s mother is our sister. What the hell’s going on?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Dr. Arnold said calmly, obviously not offended by Thorne’s sharp words and demanding attitude. “The baby’s suffering from bacterial meningitis, probably contracted at the site of the accident as your sister’s amniotic sac had already ruptured.” Thorne’s chest tightened. He felt a muscle in his jaw work as the doctor explained in finer detail what Nicole had already told him on the phone. Slade, white-faced, jaw set, fists coiled, arrived and was introduced quickly and brought up to speed.
“So how dangerous is this?” Thorne demanded.
“Very.” The doctor was solemn. “We’re a small hospital but luckily, we’ve got a state-of-the-art intensive pediatric unit.”
Matt got straight to the point. “Is the baby going to make it?”
“I wish I could tell you that he’s out of the woods, but I can’t.” The doctor’s eyes, behind his glasses, were solemn. “The mortality rate for this kind of meningitis is high, somewhere between twenty to fifty percent—”
“Oh, God,” Matt whispered.
“However, your nephew’s survival chances are good here because of the staff and equipment. Already the baby’s on antibiotic therapy and a mechanical ventilator along with compulsive fluid management.”
“What?”
“An IV to minimize the effects of cerebral edema. Even if the baby is to survive, there’s a chance that he might be deaf, blind or have some retardation.”
“Damn,” Slade mumbled and ran a hand over his chin and was suddenly pale as death, his scar more visible.
Thorne was thunderstruck. He stared at Randi’s baby and felt, for the first time in his life, impotent. Frustration burned through his bloodstream.
“Isn’t there anything else you can do?” Matt asked, lines of worry sketching his brow.
“There must be,” Thorne added.
“Believe me, we’re doing everything possible.” Dr. Arnold’s voice was steady.
“If there’s anything he needs, anything at all—equipment, specialists, whatever—we’ll pay for it.” Thorne was adamant. “Money isn’t an issue here.”
The doctor’s lips pulled together just a fraction. His spine seemed to stiffen and his voice was clipped. “Money isn’t the problem right now, Mr. McCafferty. As I said we have the best equipment available, but this hospital is always looking for endowments and benefactors. I’ll see that your name is on the list. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to check on my patient.”
He punched a code into a keypad and the doors marked Authorized Personnel Only opened. Dr. Arnold disappeared for an instant before he stepped into the neonatal nursery and was visible through the thick glass of the viewing window. Thorne’s teeth clenched, anger and impotence burned in his brain. There had to be something he could do to help Randi’s boy. There had to be! He stared at the pediatrician hard, but if Dr. Arnold felt Thorne’s eyes upon him, he didn’t so much as flinch or glance up. Instead he focused on the baby, carefully examining the fragile little boy who was Randi’s only child—John Randall McCafferty’s sole grandchild.
“He’s got to pull through,” Matt said, his fists balling in determination. “If he doesn’t and Randi wakes up to find out that he didn’t make it—”
“Don’t say it! Don’t even think it! He’s gonna be fine. He’s got to!” Slade slashed Matt a harsh glance filled with his own private hell. Not too long ago he’d lost a girlfriend and an unborn child. “He’ll make it.”
“Will he?” Matt wasn’t convinced. “Here? I mean, I know this is a good hospital—the best around—but maybe he needs specialists, the kind that you find in bigger cities at teaching hospitals in L.A. or Denver or Seattle.”
“We’ll check it out,” Thorne agreed. “I’ll find out the best in the country.”
“Right now it would