Sweet

“Ohthankgod. Boyce? Can you hear me?”

“Ambulance on its way,” the deputy said, taking pics before bagging the gun and casing.

“I take it this one is your ex,” the sheriff said, gesturing to Mitchell. I nodded. “Call for a second ambulance for that fucker,” he told the deputy. “Let’s get the homeowner seen to first.”

The EMTs rushed inside seconds later, praised Randy for stemming the blood flow, and replaced the blood-soaked T-shirt with proper bandages while checking and recording vitals. Boyce didn’t come to, not even when they lifted him onto a stretcher, but he jolted awake outside during the minute or so it took them to get the ambulance ready to receive him.

“Pearl?” he said, his voice gruff, pained.

I leaned above him to shade his face from the sun overhead, holding his cold hand between both of mine. “I’m here. Mitchell’s in custody. I’m so sorry—”

He squeezed my hand weakly, his voice so soft I had to lean close to hear him. “S’okay, baby.” He squinted one eye open, beautiful and bright green. “Guardian angel. Remember?”

A soft sob escaped me and I swallowed it back. “Yes. My guardian angel. Man I adore. Please don’t leave me, Boyce.”

“Sweetheart, if and when I leave you, it won’t be by my choice. I’ll love you straight on through eternity.” He blinked groggily but, true to form, kept talking. “Would this be a good time to tell you I wanna marry you someday? I wanna give you babies and a home and lay you down and love you every night. If I live and that bullet didn’t pierce anything essential to doing those things, that is.”

I choked a laugh. “Boyce, you idiot. Your man parts are fine.”

He closed his eyes and sighed tiredly, his grip on my hand weakening. “Thank Christ.”

At the hospital, Randy identified me as Boyce’s fiancée, his mouth turning up on one side when my brows shot up. “Next of kin,” he mumbled. Ah.

I cleared my throat and smiled. “Yes, I’m Mr. Wynn’s fiancée.”

Hospital personnel gave me Boyce’s wallet and boots—his clothes were evidence in the impending criminal charges against Mitchell. I filled out paperwork while waiting for news from the ER doctor, who emerged just as Thomas and Mama tore into the waiting room and attached themselves to opposite sides of me.

“He was hemodynamically stable on arrival,” the admitting doctor told us, and I felt Thomas relax next to me. “The wounds were tangential—bullet went straight through—so we opted against laparotomy. We’ll keep him here on watch for at least twenty-four hours, but assuming he holds steady and surgery remains unnecessary, he could be discharged tomorrow. He’ll need assistance at home for a bit, of course, but his prognosis is excellent.” He squeezed my shoulder, smiling. “Never hurts when they’re young and healthy to start with.”

“When can I see him?” I asked.

“Few minutes. The nurse will take you back.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Thomas said. His smile faded when he turned to me. “You scared us to death, Pearl! What were you thinking, driving over there ahead of the sheriff—what if you’d been shot?” His voice broke and he pulled me into his arms. “Dammit, little girl…”

He pulled Mama in too, and we stood in an emotional little huddle in the middle of the waiting room.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled into his chest.

He sighed. “No, you’re not.”

We laughed and he held me tighter. He knew me too well.

• • • • • • • • • •

Texas and Tennessee grappled with who would charge Mitchell with attempted murder first—first-degree in Texas and second-degree in Tennessee, where he’d nearly strangled a fellow student to death in a fit of rage the evening before he showed up at my door. The details were still emerging, but news reports said they’d gone out once or twice and he became enraged when she told him she wasn’t interested in seeing him anymore. He’d gone to her apartment with a gun. They argued and he choked her until she lost consciousness. Her roommate—also a med-school student—hid in a closet until he ran out the door. She called 911 and did CPR until help arrived, saving her friend’s life.

He’d come straight to Texas. Straight for me. I didn’t even know he owned a gun. I didn’t know if he’d had it on him when he came into the house—when Mama confronted him. I felt ill thinking how much uglier that situation could have been.

I sat next to Boyce, his hospital bed angled halfway between lying and sitting, as he told the sheriff what had transpired from the moment Mitchell stepped foot on the property to the last thing he remembered. He pulled at the thin hospital gown, and judging from the way it stretched across his chest and hid nothing of his defined arms, I assumed it resembled a long, split-down-the-back shirt.

“I knew the only chance I had was right after we went into the trailer. When it’s sunny out, you’re half-blind for a minute or two after going inside. Soon as he shut the door, I turned and tackled him. I heard the shot but honest to God, I didn’t feel a thing. I grabbed his wrist and elbow and busted his forearm over my knee—”

“Boy howdy, you sure did—you snapped his damn ulna!” Sheriff Walker snorted a laugh.

“Huh. Well, then I just beat the shit out of him until I started feeling woozy, which was when I felt the bite of those bullet holes and saw the blood. I hit him one more time, and then I guess I passed out.”