FROZEN VOWS

CHAPTER 001 At three in the morning, the ER never really gets quiet. Monitors beep. Wheels squeak on the floor. Somewhere down the hall a baby is crying, and the vending machine hums like it is tired too. I was on hour ten of a twelve-hour shift. My feet hurt. My back hurt. My coffee had gone cold two hours ago, and I was still drinking it. "Sierra," Jake called from the front desk. "Bed six. Head cut. Some guy fell off a dock." "Drunk?" "He smells like it." "Great." "Hey, only four more hours," he said. "Don't remind me." I grabbed a stitch kit and pulled back the curtain. The man in bed six was big, maybe seventy, with a gray beard and a wool cap pressed to the side of his head. The cap was soaked dark red. His jacket was stiff with salt. His hands were shaking, and I couldn't tell if it was from cold or fear. "Hi there," I said. "I'm Sierra. I'll be taking care of you. What's your name?" "Frank," he said. His voice sounded like gravel in a bucket. "Frank Dillard." "Okay, Frank. What happened?" "Slipped on the ice. Hit a cleat." He tried to laugh. "Forty years on boats, and a dock gets me." "Docks are sneaky." I put on gloves and eased the cap away. The cut ran above his ear, about three inches long. It was ugly, but it was clean. "You need stitches," I said. "Maybe nine or ten. The doctor's stuck with a car crash, so I'll do it. I've done a ton of these." "Are you any good?" "At three in the morning? I'm the best you've got." That got a small smile out of him. I cleaned the cut. He didn't flinch. He just looked at me, and it made the back of my neck prickle. "Am I bleeding on you?" he asked. "A little. It's fine." "Sorry." "Don't be. It's my job." I took a small needle and numbed the skin. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. That was when I saw his wrist. There was a faded blue tattoo on it, a star with a rope wrapped around it. The ink was old and blurry, like it had been there since before I was born. "Cool tattoo," I said. "Got it a long time ago." He pulled his sleeve down fast. "Bad decision." "Those are the best ones." He didn't laugh this time. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it. It buzzed again. I pulled it out with my free hand and glanced down. It was Colton. Thinking about you. Try to sleep when you can. Love you. I smiled before I could stop myself. Then Brooke's text popped up under it. Did you eat? Eat something. I'm serious. "Boyfriend?" Frank asked. "Fiancé." "That him?" He nodded at my left hand. The ring caught the light. It was a small diamond on a thin gold band, and I still wasn't used to it. "That's him," I said. "Colton." "Colton what?" I paused with the needle in the air. "Why?" "Just asking. Making conversation." "Hale," I said. "Colton Hale." Frank's face changed. It was quick, like a door closing. His mouth went flat. His eyes dropped to the floor. "Do you know him?" I asked. "No." "Are you sure?" "I said no, miss." His voice was too sharp. I let it go. People get strange when they're hurt and scared and it's three in the morning. I've seen grown men cry over a splinter. "Okay," I said softly. "Hold still for me. This part pinches." I started to stitch. The room was quiet except for the beep of the monitor and the tiny sound of thread pulling through skin. I like that sound. It sounds like fixing something. I counted in my head. One. Two. Three. "You work nights a lot?" Frank asked. "Mostly." "Hard on a girl." "I like it. It's quiet." "Quiet's not always good." "What does that mean?" "Nothing. Just a thing old men say." Four. Five. "Do you have family, Frank? Someone I can call?" "Nobody left." "I'm sorry." "Don't be. Lots of us don't." He swallowed. "What about you? Your people live around here?" My hands went still for half a second. "No," I said. "I grew up in Fairbanks." "Your folks still up there?" "It's just me." "Just you." "Yep." "What about your mother?" The needle slipped. I caught it before it did any harm, but my heart was pounding. "She passed away," I said. "A long time ago." "How long?" "Why are you asking me this?" "Just curious." "Frank, I need you to hold still." "I'm holding still." He wasn't. His eyes were wet. They were moving over my face, my hair, my nose, my chin, the way you look at a photograph you thought you lost. Six. Seven. I want to tell you something about my mother. I don't remember much. I remember her laugh, which was loud, too loud for church. I remember her good blue coat with a rip in the pocket. I remember her hands smelling like lemon soap. And I remember her name. But nobody had said it to me out loud in eighteen years. Not my foster families. Not my teachers. Not even Linda, the kindest of them all, who stopped saying it when she saw me cry once at dinner. It was like the word had been put in a box and buried. I pushed that thought down. I always do. "Almost done," I told him. "Two more." "You're good at this," Frank said. His voice cracked. "You're real good." "Thanks." "You've got steady hands." "I've had a lot of practice." "Somebody taught you to be careful." "Nobody taught me. I just learned." "That's the saddest thing I ever heard," he said quietly. I looked up. "Excuse me?" "Nothing. Forget it." But I couldn't forget it. The back of my neck was hot. Something in my chest felt loose and strange, like when you walk into a room and somebody has moved all the furniture. I tied off the last stitch. Ten. Neat and small. "There," I said. "All done. You'll have a little scar, but it'll look tough." He didn't answer. He was staring at my badge now. I turned it so he could read it. SIERRA WHITAKER, RN. "Whitaker," he whispered. "Yeah." "Not Brandt." I blinked. "What?" "Nothing." "You said Brandt." "I said nothing." "Frank, you said something." I felt cold all over. I did not know that word. Not from my mouth, anyway. But my body seemed to know it. My skin was tingling like I had touched a live wire. "I'm going to go grab you some paperwork," I said. My voice sounded thin. "You can rest here a minute." I turned for the curtain. His hand shot out. It was fast for an old man. Rough, cold fingers wrapped around my wrist and held on tight. Not hard enough to hurt. Hard enough that I couldn't pull away. "Frank, let go." "Look at me." "You're scaring me." "Please. Just look." I looked. His eyes were full of tears. His mouth was shaking. "You're Annie's girl," he said. The whole room went still. The beeping faded. The baby down the hall, the vending machine, Jake's voice at the desk, all of it just fell away. "What did you say?" "You've got her eyes." His voice broke in half. "Lord, you've got her whole face." "How do you know that name?" "I never forgot it," he said. "I tried. God knows I tried." "Let go of me!" My voice came out in a whisper. I couldn't make it louder. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else. "How do you know my mother's name?" I asked. "Who are you?" His grip tightened. He looked past me, at the curtain, like someone might be standing there listening. Then he leaned in close, and what he whispered made every hair on my arms stand straight up. "Because I'm the reason nobody ever saw her again!" What on earth did he just say about my mother?