Savas's Wildcat. Anne McAllister
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for the entire day and left her baby with an eighty-five-year-old. She’d probably never even considered that Maggie might fall and break her hip.
Well, he supposed, to be fair, if you knew Maggie, her falling and breaking her hip wouldn’t be the first thing you’d think of. For an eighty-five-year-old she was well-nigh indestructible. But still—
He hurried after the gurney as the orderly pushed it down the hall. “Don’t worry about it,” he said firmly, catching up, Harry bouncing along on his shoulders, hanging on to fistfuls of his hair.
“I know it’s an imposition.”
“For you, darlin’, I’ll manage.” He gave her a grin and a wink, determined that she shouldn’t fret about him dealing with Harry. “Really. It’ll be fine. But,” he added, “you’d better give me her cell phone number just in case.”
The least he would do was call and tell her about Maggie’s surgery. And if he casually chewed darling Misty up one side and down the other for taking advantage of her step-grandmother’s generosity, well, he figured it wouldn’t hurt Misty a bit.
Of course he didn’t say so. Maggie would not like him telling off Misty, not because of Misty’s failings, but because she wouldn’t want anyone to think she wasn’t as capable as she’d ever been.
“She put her number in the rooster bowl on the kitchen shelf at home,” Maggie said as they stopped at the elevator.
The orderly pressed the button. “This is as far as you go,” he told Yiannis as the door opened. The orderly pushed Maggie inside.
“Don’t worry,” Yiannis said to Maggie. He reached out and gave her hand a quick squeeze. “We’ll hold the fort, won’t we, Harry?” He tugged on the little boy’s foot. Harry giggled. “What time will she be back?”
“The fifteenth.”
He hadn’t heard her right. “Seven-fifteen?”
Maggie shook her head. “The fifteenth,” she repeated.
Yiannis stared. “What?”
Maggie sighed. “Of March.”
The elevator doors started to close.
Yiannis stuck his foot in between them. “That’s two weeks!”
Maggie nodded. “She’s hoping by the time she comes home, they’ll have things worked out and when he gets back they’ll get married. Actually I think she hopes they’ll get married over there.” Maggie managed to look bright at the possibility.
“Over where?”
“Germany.”
This time when Harry hit him in the ear it was nothing compared to what he’d just heard. “Germany?”
“Please, sir. Keep your voice down,” the orderly said sharply.
Yiannis did his best, demanding through his teeth, “Tell me Misty didn’t go to Germany.”
Maggie gave a helpless shrug. “I can’t. She went. Well, she went to London first. But then Germany, yes. Devin has two week’s R&R.”
“And he didn’t want to see his kid?”
“Er, I don’t believe he knows about Harry.”
“For God’s sake!” Yiannis exploded.
“Sir!” The orderly looked censorious.
“I’m so sorry, dear,” Maggie apologized.
Yiannis sucked in a breath. “It’s all right,” he lied because after all, it wasn’t Maggie’s fault. “I’ll call her. Get her to come back.”
“Not necessary,” Maggie said. “I’ve taken care of it.”
Thank God. He smiled his relief.
“You won’t be alone,” she added. Her smile brightened. “Cat is on her way.”
Cat? Here?
Just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse.
Yiannis opened his mouth to protest as the elevator doors began to slide shut.
“She’ll be delighted to see you,” Maggie promised as they closed to leave him staring at them.
Delighted to see him? Not hardly.
Catriona MacLean was the sexiest woman he’d ever met. She was Maggie’s own granddaughter, as opposed to her step-granddaughter, the flaky Misty. Cat was the sensible granddaughter.
The one who hated his guts.
Taking a plane would have been quicker. The hour flight from San Francisco to Orange County, even with all that standing around airports beforehand, would have got her to her grandmother’s bedside in far less time.
But Cat would need her car when she got to Balboa. Southern California wasn’t meant for those who depended on public transportation. And Gran had said her surgery wasn’t until tomorrow morning. So even though she hadn’t been able to leave until after work, Cat knew she’d be there in plenty of time.
Besides, it wasn’t a matter of life and death.
Yet.
The single renegade word snuck into her brain before she could stop it.
Don’t think like that, Cat admonished herself, sucking in air and trying to remain calm as she focused on the freeway. Gran wasn’t dying. She had fallen. She had broken her hip.
Lots of people got broken hips and recovered. They bounced back as good as new.
But most of them weren’t eighty-five years old.
Which was another nasty thought that got in under her radar.
“Gran’s a young eighty-five,” Cat said out loud, as if doing so would make it truer. Exactly what a “young eighty-five” meant, she didn’t know. But it sounded right.
And she knew she couldn’t bear the thought of losing her grandmother.
Normally she never even thought about that sort of thing. Ordinarily Gran seemed just the same as she had always been—no different—or older—than when Cat had come to live with her twenty-one years ago. Margaret Newell had always been a strong, resilient healthy woman. She’d had to be to take on an angry, miserable orphaned seven-year-old.
She still was resiliant. Cat reminded herself. She just had a broken hip.
“She’ll be fine,” she said, speaking aloud again. “Absolutely fine.”
But even though she said it firmly, she feared things might be changing. Time was not on her grandmother’s side. And someday, like it or not, ready or not, time would run out.
But usually she didn’t have to think about it. She didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want Gran’s mortality thrust front and center in her life right now.
Or ever.
She was momentarily distracted by a pinging sound in the engine of her fifteen-year-old Chevy that she didn’t think should be there. She didn’t ordinarily depend on her car as her first choice of transportation. Foolish, perhaps, but in San Francisco, she didn’t need to. The bus or Adam, her fiancé, took her wherever she needed to go.
Of course she had intended to get new tires before she came down to see Gran at Easter. But Easter was still a month away. So she hadn’t got them yet. Besides, she was hoping Adam would come down with her. Then she might be able to put off getting them even longer.
But, in reality, Cat knew she should have got them last week. She should have been prepared. When your only living relative reached eighty-five years, you should always be prepared for anything. But “anything” seemed to imply “dying.” And there she was back at the grimmest of possibilities