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Tara Rose sputtered out a surprised laugh at her sarcastic comment, and Granger threw back his head and hooted, slapping gleefully at his good knee. Grady couldn’t understand how they could make jokes. Just because she was up and talking didn’t mean she was okay. There could be a concussion, internal bleeding. . .Amy had been alert right up to the minute she’d died.
B.J. started to rise. Since he still had a hold on her shoulder, he tightened his grip, tempted to push her back down until he was convinced she was fine. But from the determined look in her eye, he knew she’d struggle against him if he held her against her will. To avoid hurting her, he helped her up.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Tara Rose asked, hopping forward to take B.J.’s other arm. He was glad his mother had asked since he’d wanted to. But his vocal chords were still frozen with fear. If anything happened to her—
“I’m good,” B.J. said, giving both Grady and his mother a confused scowl as they each latched onto an arm and didn’t let go. The blasted, independent woman honestly didn’t think she needed help. But she soon learned otherwise when she set her feet under her.
“Ooooo. . .” she said, wincing and latching a hand around her stomach. “Coffee.”
She turned as if to head back toward the bathroom but swayed dizzily in the process. Grady tightened his grip to steady her. But she didn’t seem to like his restraint.
“Gonna puke,” she said, her voice sounding alarmingly frail.
Tara Rose bounded into action, grabbing a nearby trashcan and handing it to him. B.J. caught sight of it, snatched it to her chest and buried her face in the opening. As her stomach revolted, she started to slide to her knees. Grady assisted the descent to keep her from falling face first. Then, since he’d been the one to rip the ponytail holder out, he gathered her brown locks into his hand and held her hair out of her face.
“Get that coffee out of here,” he snapped, glancing at his mother with a scowl.
She leapt to comply. Snagging the cup from her father-in-law’s hand just as he was lifting it to his mouth for a sip, she tossed it onto the silver serving tray and lifted the entire thing in one swoop. Then she was gone, leaving only a trace of the rich decaffeinated brew behind.
“Bluck,” B.J. muttered when she came up for air. “That was nasty.”
“Here’s some water,” a breathless Tara Rose said as she reentered the parlor, baring a huge glass of ice water.
“God bless you,” B.J. gasped and reached for the cup.
Grady stayed crouched next to her as she guzzled. He rested his forearms on his bent knees and looked up at his mother, concern flush on his face. She bit her bottom lip and winced, shaking her head as if to say such behavior from a pregnant woman didn’t seem normal.
And that was when he decided he wanted to talk to a professional, right then. “I’m taking her to the doctor.” He removed the empty glass from B.J.’s hand.
She frowned. “Why? I don’t need to see him for a bump on the head.”
Ignoring her, Grady grasped her elbow, “Up,” he said.
“Ugg. . .here we go again,” she groaned as she started to rise. B.J. spread her arms out as if to steady herself, already bracing for the dizziness. When she didn’t sway once, she straightened with a relieved smile.
“Well,” she said, turning toward Grady. “That wasn’t so bad. See, I’m better already.”
But he wasn’t convinced. Glancing toward his mother, he said, “You’ll let Dad know?”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course. And everyone else in the family as well.”
“Thanks.” He took both of B.J.’s shoulders and steered her toward the door. “Let’s go.”
“But. . .” She resisted his hold and turned back to his mother. “I just made a mess all over—”
“Don’t even worry about it,” Tara Rose assured her, using her foot to push the trashcan way from B.J.’s grasp. “Just go with Grady so he can make sure you’re okay.
”
She gave B.J. a speaking look, and something passed between them, some kind of telepathic woman talk he’d never been able to understand. Then B.J. glanced at him. When she nodded and stopped resisting, he gritted his teeth.
He didn’t want her to agree only to appease his fears, but at this point he didn’t even care. . . He had to know if she was going to be okay. There was no way he could live through killing another woman by making her pregnant, no way he could stand there and watch the life drain out of her after giving birth to his dead baby. He would never do that again.
As he glanced across the cab of her truck at her now, the anxiety was still causing his blood to course though his body in almost dizzying waves.
She groaned and closed her eyes. “I can’t believe I yakked all over your mother’s floor.”
“You yakked in a wastebasket,” he corrected.
