The Heart's Choice. Joyce Livingston

The SUV was in the truck’s clutches, going wherever the eighteen-wheeler wanted to take it.

      “Oh, Lord, if they go over the side, they won’t have a chance! Don’t let it happen! Please! Don’t let it happen!”

      A shower of sparks shot into the air as high as Beck’s windshield as the SUV smashed sideways into the guardrail, still being scooted along at breakneck speed by the cab’s massive bumper.

      Beck gasped in horror as the passenger in the back seat was hurled through a window into the air, tossed along the edge of the guardrail like a rag doll being discarded by an uninterested child.

      He felt bile rise in his throat and thought he was going to vomit. “No! No! This can’t be happening!” If only he could do something!

      Watching in what felt like slow motion, what he’d feared the most happened.

      The guardrail gave way.

      With nothing to stop it, the battered and beaten SUV straddled the rocky ledge for only a few feet, then plummeted into the deep canyon below.

      Though nearly out of his mind with grief and guilt, and taking time for only a quick glance over the canyon’s rim, Beck continued to fight the truck as it rapidly cascaded down the descending road toward the turnout.

      Then, as if it had taken on a mind of its own, the truck made a sudden swerve to the left, crossed the road and headed for the rocky embankment. That was the last thing Beck remembered.

      Tavia couldn’t breathe. Something was filling her mouth and nostrils. She felt herself drifting in a swirling pit of darkness. Where am I? Why can’t I breathe? My head is pounding. Black. Everything black. Am I dead? Am I in hell?

      Slowly, she tried to open her eyes, but the intense pain made it impossible, so she lay motionless instead, trying to put things together, staring at the blackness and the wisps of light that seemed to come and go in fleeting, erratic shafts.

      “I think she’s coming around,” a female voice said. “I’m almost certain she blinked.”

      “I hope so. They’ve been so worried about her,” another answered.

      She felt a hand on her arm, shaking her gently. Hurt. I hurt.

      “Can you hear me? If you can hear me, try to open your eyes.”

      Can’t open them. They hurt. My head hurts. My chest hurts. Arm.

      “She’s got to be all right,” a man’s voice interjected. “I’m not sure that woman would make it if they lost her, too.”

      I hear you, I hear you. Tavia wanted to shout out the words, but they wouldn’t come. Only darkness and those weird streaks of light. I hear you, she said within herself as she drifted off into the shadowy abyss of her mind and everything slowly faded away.

      Beck checked the clock on the Boulder Community Hospital wall for the fifth time in the past five minutes. 8:30 p.m. He stared at his breakfast. He’d asked the nurse to leave his tray. He knew he ought to eat. His body would heal better with proper nutrition, but he wasn’t hungry. His every thought was centered on the woman on the third floor. When he’d asked the nurse to check on her, she had told him she was in a coma. What a tragedy. If only he could have avoided the accident. He’d never be able to forget her face. He’d even dreamt about it. Dreamt about those big, round blue eyes staring up at him through the rear window of that oversize SUV. Would he have that same dream every night for the rest of his life?

      He’d lain awake for hours after that dream, reliving every second, wondering if he could have done anything differently to avoid that accident. But he’d been trained for situations like that. He’d done everything by the book. No one could have done more than he had. But if that were true, why was he carrying so much guilt?

      He had to go to her room, to see for himself if she had awakened from the coma. After persuading one of the nurses to get him a wheelchair, Beck headed for the third floor.

      He rolled his chair up beside her bed and sat staring at the small portion of the woman’s face that wasn’t covered by a bandage. Just seeing her arm secured by a removable cast, a tube going down her throat, and listening to the incessant beep, beep, beeping of the machines, made his heart fill with agony. Lord, spare this woman’s life. Don’t take her from these people who love her. They’ve already lost their son. Don’t take his fiancée, too! And, please, God, I need Your touch. Not for my broken leg or the cut on my head. Those will heal in time. I need You to take away this terrible feeling of guilt. I know Dr. and Mrs. Flint don’t hold me responsible for the death of their son—I did all I could—but, because of me and the failure of the brakes on my truck, their son is dead and this young woman is lying here in a coma!

      “You’d better get back to your room,” the nurse on duty told him a half hour later as she entered the room and adjusted the drip on the IV. “You’ve been here longer than you should have, considering your own condition.”

      He inched his chair closer to the bed, his eyes still riveted on its still occupant. “Just a few more minutes? Please?”

      The nurse placed her hand on her hip, her voice showing concern. “You’ve been through a traumatic ordeal yourself, and you’ve still got quite a knot on that head. How is the leg doing?”

      “I’m okay.” He gestured toward the bed. “It’s her I’m worried about.”

      She gave him a frown. “We’re all worried about her.”

      The woman lying in the bed suddenly let out a stifled cough, then seemed to gag. Beck lunged forward, not sure what he could do to help. Was she coming out of the coma?

      The nurse put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right. Folks do that sometimes when they’re in a coma. It’s nothing to worry about.”

      He leaned back in the chair and rubbed at his forehead, for a moment nearly forgetting about the swelling and the stitches. “It’s a miracle she’s alive. If you’d seen that—”

      She waggled a finger at him. “You have to try to put that out of your mind, Mr. Brewster. It’s not good for you to dwell on it. You need to concentrate on getting well.”

      “Please, let me stay a little longer.” He shifted in the chair, his leg muscles reminding him of the excessive amount of stress and strain he’d put on them, pressing the pedal and trying to get the brakes to take hold.

      She tilted her head with a scowl. “I shouldn’t let you stay.”

      “I know, but she might wake up, so I want to be here.”

      After a glance at her watch, she shrugged. “Oh, all right. Fifteen minutes more, but that’s it. Her family is down in the cafeteria. They’ll be back any time now. The doctor said only two visitors in the room at a time. No more.”

      “I’ll leave when they get here.” Beck gave her a nod and a smile of thanks before turning his interest back to the still form of the injured woman. Gazing at what little of her face was showing, he wondered what she really looked like. It was hard to tell with all the bandages and that tube. He could barely see the color of her hair. Was she young? Old? Short? Tall? He’d caught only a brief glimpse of her as she’d stared up at him out that back window. All he could remember about her was the terror he’d seen in her eyes.

      “Wake up. Please, wake up,” he pleaded as he reached out and carefully touched her arm. “If I could, I’d gladly trade places with you.”

      Except for the constant beeping of the machines, the room remained silent.

      He gently stroked her swollen hand. “I’m—I’m so sorry. If it weren’t for me—”

      “You can’t blame yourself, Beck.”

      Startled, he pulled his hand away and turned toward the voice. “Hello, Dr. Flint. H—how’s your wife doing?”

      The man raised a hand to his brow, his forehead creasing