Renegade: A Taggart Brothers Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

didn’t know what that meant anymore?
    Bronte wanted to argue, to insist that Annie had already been alone too long and that Bronte was more than willing to stay. But deep down, she knew this woman—
Steff
! according to her name tag—was right. She had more than herself to think of tonight. Kari and Lily had been pushed to their limits as well. They needed food and beds and freedom—more than a hotel room could offer. Tomorrow, they could sort out the rest: settling in, fixing her car, seeing to Annie. Maybe she was taking for granted the fact that Annie would open her home to them, but she didn’t think so. Grandma Annie had always welcomed them with open arms, and Bronte doubted her modus operandi had changed. Besides, Annie would need someone to take care of her once she returned home.
    Bronte didn’t even allow herself to consider the prospectthat Annie might not return at all. Bronte refused to acknowledge the fragility of the figure she’d left in that bed in the ICU. Instead, she focused on her grandmother’s iron will. Annie would be coming home. Soon.
    *   *   *
    BRONTE stepped back into the waiting area and stopped short, her mother’s instinct warning her even before she’d completely crossed the threshold that something was wrong. In an instant, she noted that Jace was gone. Lily sat hunched in the corner, her face averted, her shoulders shaking in silent sobs. Kari, her hormone-laden, oblivious, teenage daughter, was plugged into her iPod, completely unaware of her sister’s distress.
    “What happened?” she asked, then swore beneath her breath and snatched one of the headphones out of her ear. “Kari, what happened to your sister?”
    “How should I know?” Kari demanded, rife with the self-righteous indignation of puberty.
    “I told you to keep an eye on her.”
    “No. You didn’t,” Kari said with the dreaded eye roll. Dear God in Heaven, every time she did that, Bronte’s fingers twitched—and she’d been one of those anti-spanking proponents.
    “Where’s Jace?”
    She shrugged. “He told me he was headed somewhere, but I forget.”
    Great. So Bronte had no idea if he was planning to take them home or if she should make her own arrangements.
    But even as the thought flashed through Bronte’s mind, a snuffling sob from the corner pushed her toward her younger daughter. She was a good yard away when the ammonia-like sting of urine assaulted her nostrils.
    Oh, hell.
Forget Mother of the Year. Bronte would be lucky if her children survived through adolescence.
    “Come on, sweetie,” she said, crouching down next to Lily. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
    When Lily lifted her chin, her eyes were big and wet,like cornflowers dappled with rain. But rather than the recrimination Bronte had expected to find, there was only misery and humiliation. “I tried to . . . to tell you . . .”
    “I know, honey,” Bronte said with a sigh, sweeping strands of wet hair from Lily’s cheeks. “It’s my fault. All my fault.”
    Taking Lily’s hand, Bronte managed a whispered explanation to
Steff!
who directed them to a large handicapped restroom in the hall. Once there, Bronte helped her daughter strip off her wet clothes. Within seconds, there was a tap on the door, and
Steff!
handed Bronte a small bar of soap, a clean towel and washcloth, a bag for Lily’s soiled clothes, and a child-sized hospital gown.
    As Bronte soaped and rinsed her daughter’s lithe form, memories of Lily as a toddler came crashing back—bubble baths and afternoons at the pool, bedtime and potty training. How many times had she run a washcloth over her daughter’s body, wiping her clean of the day’s adventures so that she could climb into bed smelling of soap and baby shampoo?
    While Lily shivered in the cold hospital bathroom, mortified and miserable, Bronte felt a fleeting instant of peace in the familiar routine. For an instant, she remembered that what was truly important was the well-being of her