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Chapter One
“Motherfuckers.”
“You tell ’em, Hunt,” his partner Beau drawled from the passenger seat of the ambulance before resuming communications with the dispatcher at the other end of the radio.
Hunter continued to curse the slow-to-react drivers in the bumper-to-bumper traffic along Atlanta’s I-75 and steered the ambulance through the stingy lane afforded by their half-assed compliance with the move-over law. He advanced a few yards, only to hit the brake again when the driver of a late model BMW waited for a chance to change lanes instead of pulling to the shoulder. Hunter rolled up on his bumper and honked. The guy stuck his arm out the window and turned his palm up in a moronic, What-do-you-want-me-to-do? gesture.
“Pull over, dickhead. Do you not see the lights? Hear that siren? Thanks. Thanks a lot,” he muttered as the Beemer finally made his lane change. “I hope some douchebag drags his ass when you’re the one waiting for help.”
“Point seven miles ahead, right shoulder,” Beau instructed. They’d worked together long enough that neither the stream of profanity nor the criminal idiocy of allegedly licensed drivers got a rise out of him.
A glance over the traffic offered visual confirmation. Hunter spotted the emergency lights of a state patrol cruiser. “Got it. I don’t suppose dispatch divulged any more details?” All they’d received so far was vague information about a female driver in distress following a rear-end collision, which meant Atlanta Fire Rescue wasn’t faring any better with the traffic. They were getting their information—such as it was—from the Georgia State Patrol.
“Nothing more, except the troopers on the scene say—and I quote—‘Hurry.’”
“Well, shit, guess I’ll get off the scenic route.” He flicked the blinker and made his way to the shoulder. The first responders had placed flares around a shiny new white minivan and beat-up maroon Outback with a crunched back bumper. He pulled in behind the cruiser rather than burn time trying to get past the vehicles and park in front of the Outback. He’d barely hit the brake when Beau stepped out, grabbed the primary response kit, and headed toward the trooper standing beside the minivan. The uniform continued talking to a middle-aged man who was presumably the driver, but waved Beau to the other car.
Hunter fell into step as they approached the Outback. A female trooper crouched by the back passenger-side door, leaning into the compartment, but she retreated a bit when a cry came from inside the vehicle. The kind of cry that started as a low moan and ended in a scream. He quickened his pace. “What have we got?”
The trooper scrambled out of the car as if a live grenade sat inside. “The miracle of birth. Thank God you’re here. I was trying to time the contractions, but they’re coming fast—”
“Where are you going? Don’t leave!” An alarmed voice called from the back seat.
Technically, it was Beau’s turn to take the lead, but given his partner’s personal situation, Hunter figured he’d be game to trade. He glanced over and raised a brow. “You’re attending,” Beau said. Hun
ter stepped up.
“Name?”
The trooper shook her head. “We haven’t gotten that far.”
Awesome. No name, no details. He pasted on his trust-me-I’m-a-paramedic smile and looked into the car. A woman reclined across the seat, her back propped awkwardly against the opposite door. His trained eyes absorbed initial impressions in seconds—late teens or early twenties, advanced third trimester, scared to the bone. “Hey there, Ms—”
“Where’s the woman? Lady, come back!” Her panicked, blue-gray gaze zoomed past him and scanned the area outside the car. “Please come back!”
He hunkered down and balanced his weight on his heels. Not the most comfortable position, but coming down to her level and maintaining eye contact facilitated a purposeful connection, and that, in turn, helped establish him in her mind as the primary decision maker. “She’s a state trooper. I’m a paramedic.” He waited until those wild eyes refocused on him. “Right now, you want me.”
“I want a woman! Call another paramedic. Please. I’ll wait…I’ll”—her breath hitched and she braced against a new wave of pain—“Jeeeesuuuus. It huuuurts.”
He reached in and clasped her slender hand, noting the lack of wedding ring, and maintained the non-threatening physical link as the spasm ran its course. Eventually she relaxed her grip and sucked in air.
“If you let me take a look, I might be able to do something about the pain.” From the corner of his eye he saw Beau head back to the rig for the panic pack.
“Take a look?” she repeated and then shook her head as the ramifications sank in. “Uh-uh. No way. I’m not stripping off my panties by the side of the I-75 for the whole world to see.”
Another contraction or two and her modesty would crumble, but he’d rather not wait for that moment. Any patient concern that interfered with good care deserved to be addressed. “Nobody except me is going to see anything. They’d have to get through me first, and I’m going to protect you.” He paused to let her see he meant what he said, and then added, “You, and your baby.”
Mention of the baby had her biting her lip and blinking rapidly. Anxiety and indecision squeezed into the back seat like extra passengers, joining thick freeway smells of diesel fuel and exhaust, layered with the adrenaline-slicked scent of fear. He took her hand again. Christ, she was a tiny thing. Adolescent slim, save for pregnancy-swollen breasts and a basketball-shaped belly bobbing beneath an ocean of denim maternity dress. “Come on, sweetheart. Let me help you. Both of you.”
