Page 130 of Big Bad Wolfe

The woman inhaled sharply. “Zane?”

He stared at the blood. So red. So much. Pooled in the tub. Soaking his brother’s clothes. Trailing down the white tiles of the shower in obscene scarlet rivers. “Trev,” he whispered brokenly. “Tried to hurry. Tried to help you.”

“Oh, Zane! Listen to me.” The woman grasped Zane’s shoulders. “This isnotTrevor.”

So far away. The words didn’t make sense. “Didn’t get here in time. My brother is dead.” His voice broke, and he heard a strangled cry … barely realizing it had torn from his throat. “My fault.” He wrapped his arms across his churning stomach and rocked back and forth as gut-wrenching pain devoured him. Seeking solace that wouldn’t come. “Oh,God,”he whispered. “Trev, I’m sorry.”

“Zane,” the woman said. “It wasnotyour fault. This isnotyour brother. It’s yourson. Zane! Come back to me.” She slapped his cheek. “This is not Trevor, it’sCasey.Do you understand?”

The sharp sting yanked him out of the dark pit of sorrow and fear. He blinked several times, forcing the images away, beating back the pain, the reeling emotions.

Slowly the face in front of him swam into focus, morphing from seventeen-year-old Trevor to the five-year-old child on the ground.

It was Casey, hurt and bleeding.

Not his brother.

His son.

Shaking and sick, he sucked in air.

Dean appeared once more, carrying several washcloths and a blue gel cold pack. “Here.” Dean handed them to Jillian.

It was Jillian beside him.

Through the haze of shock, Zane concentrated on breathing.

Focus.

Jillian dabbed gently at the blood leaking from the sobbing child’s nose. His face and the front of his shirt were stained crimson. “I don’t think it’s serious, but we’d better take him in, just in case. Pop, call Casey’s pediatrician. His office is in the hospital complex, he should be able to meet us in emergency.”

“Will do. I’ll get someone else to take Loucinda home and follow you there in my car.” Dean hurried off.

Jillian handed Zane the washcloth and ice pack. She gently scooped up the whimpering child and stood.

Man up, Wolfe. Your kid needs you.

Numbly, he stood up beside her, opened his arms. “You should drive. I’ll take him to the car.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll grab my purse and be right there.” She passed Casey to him.

Zane accepted the precious bundle. He looked down at the little boy’s scared, tear-streaked, bloody features and his heart splintered.

You forced him to play third base when he clearly wasn’t ready.

“Hey, pal.” He carried Casey toward the parking lot. “How’re you doing?”

Casey clutched Zane’s shirt. “My nose hurts,” he wailed.

Holding the child easily with one arm, he showed Casey the gel pack. “This will help.”

“Don’t put that on me!” Casey shrieked. “That will hurt worse!”

Aching with sympathetic pain, he held the ice pack out. “How about if you do it? You can decide when to put it on and how much pressure to use.” He carefully eased into the front seat of Jillian’s convertible and settled Casey on his lap. “I used a lot of ice when I blew out my shoulder. It helps.”

The child gulped, snuffled. He abruptly stopped crying to eye Zane with avid interest. “You blowed up your shoulder?” He warily accepted the ice pack. “Was there a big hole and lotsa blood and big hunks of stuff? Do ya got a scar? Can I see?”

Jillian appeared and slid into the driver’s seat. After a quick glance at Casey, then Zane, she started the Cooper and pulled out of the parking lot. “How are my guys holding up?”

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