"You haven't seen anything—" Then it hit her. The first wave of pain was followed so swiftly by a second she barely managed a choked gasp.
"What? What is it? Did I hurt you?"
"No, it's nothing." He was trying to straighten her up as she doubled over. "It's just a twinge. It's—" But the burning was spreading like wildfire, and the fear burst through with it as she felt her skin break out in a cold, clammy sweat. "Just give me a minute." Blindly she reached out for something to balance her and would have fallen if he hadn't scooped her up.
"The hell with this." The words exploded between gritted teeth. "The hell with it. I'm taking you to the hospital."
"No. Stop it." Desperate for relief, she hooked an arm under her breasts and pressed. "Just take me home."
"In a pig's eye." Like a warrior hoisting his conquest, he carried her out of the house. "Save your breath and yell at me later. Right now you're doing what you're told."
"I said take me home." She didn't bother to fight him when he strapped her into the car. All of her energy had to focus on dealing with the pain.
He backed out of the drive, saying nothing as she tore Tums out of the roll habitually in her pocket. Instead, he snatched up the car phone and punched in a number. "Mom." He drove fast, whipping the car around curves, and interrupted his mother's apology for not returning his call. "It's okay. Listen, I've got a friend, a woman, five sevenish, maybe a hundred and five pounds, mid-twenties." He swore lightly, cradling the phone on his shoulder as he shifted gears. "It's not that," he said at the inevitable chuckle. "I'm taking her to the hospital right now. She's got abdominal pain. It seems to be habitual."
"It's just stress," Kate managed between shallow breaths. "And your lousy cooking."
"Yes, that's her. She can talk, and she's lucid. I don't know." He glanced briefly at Kate. "Any abdominal surgery, Kate?"
"No. Don't talk to me."
"Yeah, I'd say she lives with a lot of stress, brings most of it on herself. We'd eaten about forty-five, fifty minutes before," he said in response to his mother's brisk questions. "No, no alcohol, no caffeine. But she lives on goddamn coffee and eats Tums like chocolate drops. Yeah? Is there a burning sensation?" he demanded of Kate.
"It's just indigestion," she muttered. The pain was backing off. Wasn't it? Please, wasn't it?
"Yes." He listened again, nodded. He was grimly aware of where his mother's questions were heading. "How often do you get that gnawing ache, under the breastbone?''
"None of your business."
"You don't want to piss me off right now, Kate. You really don't. How often?"
"A lot. So what? You're not taking me to any hospital."
"And the grinding in the stomach?"
Because he was describing her symptoms with pinpoint accuracy, she closed her eyes and ignored him.
He spoke to his mother another moment, punched up the gas. "Thanks, that's what I figured. I'm going to take care of it. Yeah, I'll let you know. I will. 'Bye." He hung up, kept his eyes firmly on the road. "Congratulations, you idiot. You've got yourself a nice little ulcer."
Chapter Eight
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No way did she have an ulcer. Kate comforted herself with that thought, and the image of how foolish Byron was going to look for rushing her to the hospital with a case of nervous heartburn.
Ulcers were for repressed wimps who didn't know how to express their emotions, who were afraid to face what was inside them. Kate figured she expressed her emotions just fine, and at every opportunity.
She was simply dealing with more stress than usual. Who wouldn't have a jittery stomach after the two months she'd just had? But she was handling it, she told herself, shutting her eyes tight against the incessant burning pressure. She was handling it her way.
The minute Byron stopped the car, she would explain yet again, calmly, that Kate Powell took care of Kate Powell.
She would have, too. If she could have caught her breath. But he jerked to a halt in front of the emergency room, slammed out of the car, and plucked her out of her seat before she could so much as squeak.
Then it was worse, because she was inside, with all the sounds and scents of a hospital. Emergency rooms were all the same, everywhere. The air inside was thick with despair and fear and fresh blood. Antiseptics, alcohol, sweat. The slap of crepe-soled shoes and the whisper of wheels on linoleum. It paralyzed her. It was all she could do to keep herself from curling into a ball in the hard plastic chair where he'd dumped her.
"Stay," he ordered curtly before marching over to the admitting nurse.
She didn't even hear him.