My Secret Santa Clayton (Silver Ridge Christmas)

34. Clay

THIRTY-FOUR

Clay

The gun hit the floor with a thud.

Time lurched forward.

Police were everywhere, streaming in, cuffing Rob and his henchman. “Grace,” I breathed, rushing to her side. Her body was marked by bruises, marks of…fuck, of torture. I’d seen this before, in Afghanistan, and I’d hoped to never see it again—especially not on the woman I loved. The ropes bit into her skin, and I cursed under my breath. She was alive—alive and waiting for me to act.

“Clay,” she managed, and I saw the fight in her eyes.

“I’ve got you,” I told her, focusing on the task at hand. My fingers worked quickly, undoing the tight knots that held her captive. The ropes had left angry red lines on her wrists, and I felt rage rising in my gut.

The police were handling it, though.

Grace needed to be my priority.

“Almost got it,” I said, feeling the last loop give way. The ropes fell away, and I helped her straighten up. Her breathing was shallow, her body shook, but the resilience that defined Grace Gibson was as present as ever.

“Hey, it's okay,” I told her. “I've got you.” Her gaze met mine, tears still shimmering on her lashes but a flicker of awareness brightening her brown eyes just a bit. She was in shock.

“Clay…” The sound of my name came out faint from her lips, and something in my chest tightened. She seemed so vulnerable, a stark difference from the firecracker journalist I knew so well. It pained me to hear her sound defeated.

“Stay strong,” I said, keeping my voice steady for her sake. “You're safe now.”

Grace’s eyes filled with tears once again—then she crumpled, falling towards me. I caught her, pulling her close. Her body was light in my arms, too light. She had always been solid, a force of nature, but now she felt like a shadow of that strength.

This ordeal had sapped her, left her vulnerable in ways I never wanted to see.

“Clay,” Grace murmured against my chest. Her voice held that familiar edge, despite everything. “You always did have terrible timing.”

“Timing is my specialty,” I replied, trying to coax a hint of a smile from her. She didn't disappoint; the corners of her mouth twitched upwards fleetingly. “We need to get you to the hospital.”

“Mariah...” she mumbled, her voice rough and uneven. “Is she okay?”

“She's fine,” I said, even though I was sure she was far from it. Grace wasn’t the only one who’d had the fight of her life today. “We'll get you to her.”

I hefted Grace up and lifted her into my arms, cradling her against my chest. She shuddered against me, and I tightened my grip. No words passed between us; none were needed. A few cops looked up at me, asking if we needed help, and I just told them I was taking her to the hospital.

No one else was going to touch her.

I couldn’t let them.

Sheriff Callahan stood by the nearest vehicle, his posture rigid. He caught sight of us and walked over, eyes assessing Grace.

“We've got Rob,” he said as we approached. “And his men. They're not going anywhere.”

“Good,” I managed to say.

Callahan looked at one of the cops still standing by his car. “Get these two to the hospital. Fast.”

The cop nodded and rushed to get a car ready. I carried Grace to the back seat. She settled in with a groan, her breaths coming out in short bursts. I slid in next to her, pulling the door closed behind us.

As the car pulled away, the cabin receded into the background. It became just another shadow among the pines. Grace's hand found mine, her grip tight. She leaned into me, her head resting against my shoulder. The road was uneven, and every jolt sent a shudder through her body.

“Keep breathing,” I said. “You're safe now.”

She nodded, but didn't reply. Her eyes stayed fixed on the passing trees, the fading light.

The deputy drove fast, sirens off but the urgency clear in the way he maneuvered around bends and down the mountain roads. I kept my arm around Grace, trying to steady her, to be something solid for her to hold onto.

“Almost there,” I told her as we neared the bottom of the mountain.

“Okay,” she said.

Her voice was small, but it was there.

That was something.

We reached the valley and the ride smoothed out, but Grace's tremors didn't stop. I held her closer, feeling the fight in her body, the struggle to stay present after what she'd been through.

“Clay?” Her voice was barely louder than the hum of the tires on the asphalt.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

I squeezed her hand in response.

Words were too much; they were for later. For now, holding on was all that mattered.

The hospital doors slid open as we helped Grace out of the back seat, nurses rushing out to help us. I took Grace’s arm, supporting her weight as her feet touched the ground. The automatic doors gave way to the sanitized smell and the white light of the emergency room.

“Maternity ward,” Grace said, voice firm.

They looked confused. “But you’re not…”

“Her sister’s in labor and that’s what she cares about right now,” I said. “Her sister is Mariah Cross, if you could just…”

“Follow me,” one nurse said. She led the way at a brisk pace. I kept my hand around Grace's waist, feeling her lean on me with each step she took. The sounds of the hospital enveloped us—the quick steps of medical staff, the distant beeps of monitors, the low hum of conversations we weren't part of. But none of that mattered. I focused on Grace, noticing the slight squint of her eyes as she fought to stay alert.

“Almost there,” I told her quietly. “Then you can see Mariah and get checked out yourself.”

“I don’t care about myself?—”

“ I care ,” I interrupted, my voice rough. “Grace, you’re hurt, too, and Mariah’s going to be pissed if you let yourself die after all this work to save your life. So let us do this.”

She nodded but didn't speak. The pain and the fright were still too fresh, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins.

We crossed another set of doors, then we turned down the corridor, the murmurs of newborn cries reaching our ears. At the end of the hall, the nurse outside Mariah's room looked up as we approached.

“She's been asking for you,” she said.

“Is she okay?” Grace's voice was weak, barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of her concern.

“Your sister is strong. She's doing fine,” the nurse replied with a reassuring smile. “Her husband just arrived as well.”

“Thank God,” Grace said. “Can I see her?”

“Of course,” the nurse said. “Can I help you, get you a wheelchair…?”

I could tell she was about to argue, so I cut her off.

“A wheelchair would be great.”

Once the nurse had brought a wheelchair, I got Grace into it and then I finally pushed her into the room. I didn’t want to intrude—but I knew Grace needed me. Mariah lay in the hospital bed, her cheeks red, sweat dampening her hair. Her husband, Colt—a kid I’d gone to high school with, who looked a hell of a lot different—gave us a relieved smile.

“I got home as fast as I could,” he said. “Jesus…you look like hell, Grace.”

“Thanks,” Grace muttered.

Mariah, who seemed to have been distracted, finally looked at Grace, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Grace…thank God?—”

I pushed Grace closer to the hospital bed, her hand outstretched. “Of course I did,” she replied. Her fingers met Mariah's. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The room was still except for their quiet breathing. I watched Grace and Mariah, the bond of sisterhood evident in the way they held onto each other.

They had weathered storms before, but none like this.

And yet, somehow, we’d come out on the other side.