“You got a flight for me?”

Dash blew out a gust of breath. “Rye, why don’t you cut yourself some slack? You had a close call last night.”

“All the more reason to get back up.”

“I’m trying to do you a favor here.”

“Do me a favor. Put me in the air.”

Dash rumbled something that Rye didn’t catch, then said, “Okay. First thing that comes up is yours. But it’s Thanksgiving, and you’re stuck in that burg. How will you get out?”

“I’ll finagle a ride.”

“To where? My first choice would be to have you in Atlanta.”

“Mine, too.”

“Let me know when you manage it. In the meantime, get some sleep.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it.”

“I said okay. From Atlanta, you can send me anywhere. Doesn’t matter where.”

“As you’ve told me a thousand times.”

“And thanks for being so decent about the plane.”

“That’s me, decent.” Having said that, he clicked off.

Rye slid his phone into the pocket of his jacket. He adjusted his focus and looked at his reflection mirrored in the window glass. He made quite a sight. Warmed-over shit came to mind. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. His scruff was two days too long, and his hair looked like it had been groomed by a leaf blower. No wonder the lady at the admissions desk had regarded him with apprehension.

No wonder Brynn O’Neal had.

Last he’d seen of her, she’d been talking to her colleague on the phone. Rawlins had led Rye back to his office and installed him there. Typical of military and police procedures, gears ground slowly. Getting the damn statement written up and signed had taken more than an hour. Once Rawlins cleared him, he had gotten out while the getting was good. Brynn had been nowhere in sight.

On the ground floor, he’d spotted Myra manning a desk in an otherwise vacant room. He’d stopped to ask her for directions to the hospital, and she’d provided them.

“How far is it?”

“Mile, mile and a half. I can drive you over.”

“Thanks anyway. I’ll hoof it.”

He’d left by way of the employee door through which he’d been escorted in, officially ending his eventful but brief interaction with Dr. Brynn O’Neal.

I can’t wait to start never seeing you again.

By now she would be on her way back to Atlanta, back to her Dr. Lambert, her terminally ill patient, her medical practice, her life, which he’d wanted to know nothing about. He’d seen the last of her. Connection severed. No further involvement. Not even a goodbye.

Just as well.

He told himself.

“Sir?”

The attendant was back, and she was smiling. He started toward her, but she pointed him toward the elevator. “Second floor. Marlene’s watching for you.”

At that point, he wanted to turn and run. He’d wanted to get matter-of-fact information passed along by a stranger. He hadn’t bargained on having a one-on-one with Brady’s wife, for godsake. But even he couldn’t be heel enough to leave now.

He rode up and stepped off the elevator, immediately recognizing the woman from the vacation photo on Brady White’s desk. She had a soft, matronly figure and a beautiful smile.

She reached for his right hand and clasped it between hers. “I know who you are, but, forgive me, I don’t know your name.”

“Rye Mallett.”

“Mr. Mallett—”

“Rye.”

“I’m Marlene. It means so much to me that you came to check on Brady. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. If it wasn’t for me, he wouldn’t have been at the airfield last night. How’s he doing?”

“They’re calling his condition ‘guarded.’ No skull fracture or depression. No bleeding has shown up on the brain scans. He’s got a concussion, but I’ll take that.” She beamed a smile at him. “Your timing is perfect. They’ve given us only two minutes with him.” She let go of his hand and started walking quickly down the hall.

Rye’s long stride caught him up with her. “He’s come to?”

“Only a few minutes ago.”

“He’s okay, then?”

“Groggy, disoriented, but he’ll want to see you.”

Rye panicked at the thought of a personal encounter. “You should be the one using the two minutes.”

She smiled at him as they approached one of only three ICU beds. “He would never forgive me. But he doesn’t know about the crash yet. I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention it.”

“No. Of course not. Has he said who attacked him?”

“He doesn’t even remember it. The last thing he remembers is talking to you on the radio and hearing your engine. The doctor said it looked like he was struck from behind. Deputy Thatcher agreed.”

Through the glass wall, Rye could see the man on the bed. He was hooked up to a variety of monitors that looked more complicated than a cockpit panel.

Brynn would know what they were for.

He hesitated on the threshold. Marlene went in ahead of him, then bent over her husband and said something to him. Rye saw his legs stir beneath the sheet. Marlene turned and motioned him in.