tense again. Time crawled by painfully slowly. A doctor was paged. A phone rang at the nurses’ station. An orderly wheeled a patient to the elevator.
The door to Emma’s room swung open, and J. T. Logan left, followed by a tall, slender woman with short brown hair. Colin pushed himself away from the wall, preparing to go into the room.
“Reverend, I hope you can help her.” J.T.’s deep, gruff voice halted Colin’s progress.
“You told her about her brother?”
J.T. gave a curt nod. He gestured toward the woman at his side. “This is Madison Spencer. She’s a detective with the state police. She’ll be assisting me with the investigation. This is Reverend Fitzpatrick.”
“The man who hit her?” Madison angled her head toward the sheriff. “Are you so sure him visiting is a good idea?”
Colin flinched at the bald truth. How was he going to help Emma St. James when his SUV had struck her and he was riddled with guilt?
“If anyone can help her, it’ll be Colin.”
The sheriff’s words fueled Colin’s self-confidence until he saw the woman’s pinched frown and her assessing expression. “Could she give you any information?”
“No. She doesn’t remember much and—” J.T. glanced toward the closed door “—she can’t—” his dark gaze fixed on Colin “—see.”
“She’s blind?”
“Yes.”
“Because of the accident?” Colin’s heartbeat accelerated, his throat dry.
“I haven’t had a chance to talk with the doctor yet.” J.T. started down the hallway. “If she remembers anything, let me know.”
Colin stared at the door, a dull gray color. What had he done? Lord, give me the strength to help this woman.
“You can go in now, Reverend.” Kirk’s voice cut into Colin’s prayer.
He pushed open the door and entered the room. Bright sunlight streamed through the window and a large bouquet of yellow roses, an elaborate arrangement of lilies and a potted ivy plant already graced the window ledge. Colin looked at the small woman in the bed, her eyes closed, the white sheet and a blanket pulled up over her chest as though she was cold. Her arm with the IV in it lay on top of the blue cover across her midsection.
Slowly she opened her eyes. “Who’s there?” she whispered, a raw edge to her voice as though she wasn’t used to talking.
Did I do this to her? The question kept playing over and over in Colin’s mind as he stood frozen a few feet from the bed. She looked so vulnerable with her face bruised and scratched, a bandaged shoulder peeking out from the top of the covers.
“Who’s there?” Panic laced her words. She fumbled for the call button.
Colin stiffened, aware he had caused her undue tension. “I’m Reverend Colin Fitzpatrick.”
Her hand relaxing her search, she turned her head toward him, her brow creasing. “I didn’t ask for a clergyman to visit.”
The defensiveness in her statement firmed his resolve. He would be here for her even if she didn’t think she needed his help. That was the least he could do. “I know.” He moved closer. “I thought you might like to talk to someone about your brother.”
She shrank away from him, her hand clutching the blanket. Her eyes slid closed for a few seconds. “How do I know you’re a reverend? For all I know, you could be a member of the press. I’m sure they’re having a field day over this.”
“If you want, I can get the nurse on duty to vouch for me.”
“Don’t bother. I don’t have anything to talk about.”
But her expression told Colin otherwise. The sheen to her brown eyes and the trembling of her hand as she ran it over the blanket indicated her distress more than her words. She bit her teeth into her lower lip and looked away.
Colin pulled a straight-backed chair close to the bed and sat, wanting to tell her how he came to be in her room.
“You’re wasting your time, Reverend. I’m beyond saving.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Don’t you know who I am?”
“Emma St. James.”
“The daughter of Marlena Howard. For as long as I can remember my mother has been the screen goddess of America. I can’t say that my life has been church bazaars and Sunday school classes.”
“So I shouldn’t waste my time talking to you?”
“I don’t think God even knows I exist.” Her hands knotted the blanket.
“Why do you say that?”
“That man who left told me my—” she swallowed hard “—my brother was murdered. He thinks I know something about it. I don’t remember anything after pulling up to the cabin. I can’t even help—” She squeezed her eyes closed. A tear leaked out the corner and rolled down her cheek. Then another.
The sight of the wet trail robbed him of words. He pushed down his own rising emotions and tried to think of something appropriate to say, some way to offer comfort. But what played across his mind was this woman, paralyzed in the middle of the highway, watching his car coming at her.
“Please leave,” she whispered, swiping at her tears.
“Sometimes it’s good to talk to someone when you’re troubled.”
Her lower lip quivered. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
The vulnerability in her voice tore at his heart. “How about the beginning?”
Another tear coursed down her face. “Too long a story. Not enough time.”
“I’m a good listener. And I have the time.”
She shook her head slightly, then winced as though the movement had caused pain. “I want to be left alone.” She settled back on the pillow and closed her eyes.
He rose, hovering over her, a part of him hoping she would change her mind and use him as a sounding board. But the other part needed to leave. The space in the room seemed to shrink to the size of a coffin. His breathing became shallow gasps. The last time he had been responsible for someone being hurt was during the Gulf War. After piecing his life back together, he’d promised himself he would never harm another human being. And he hadn’t. Until now. He pivoted toward the door.
He pulled himself together enough to present a calm facade to the people in the hallway, but guilt plagued him all the way to the chapel. Inside the small, dimly lit room, a peace washed over him as he sat in the pew before the altar, clasped his hands together and prayed.
She stumbled, her knees hitting the hard-packed earth first. Pain blasted through her as though a gun had gone off inside her. Hands braced in front of her, she scrambled to her feet and kept moving forward. Every part of her hurt, from the frantic beating of her heart to the soles of her bare feet. But she couldn’t stop. The sounds of her pursuers grew closer and closer until she felt talons grip her and swing her around. Two hideous faces loomed in front of her.
Emma bolted up in bed, the sudden motion causing pain. Black. An inky curtain taunted her as she scanned her surroundings. Where am I? Why do I hurt so much?
Why can’t I see?
Then the memories flooded her. The accident. Her brother. The police visiting. The continuous blackness.
She sagged back against the firm mattress, the darkness still there even though her eyes were wide-open. From all the sounds outside her door, it had to be daytime.
Every inch of her hurt. The pounding in her head overshadowed the