When Hearts Collide by Kendra James Page A

the light was, but there the pain was too intense. He tried to reach out, but it hurt too much. He let himself drift below the surface again, deeper and deeper, the pain becoming less and less.
    He heard muffled sounds, sounds and voices that seemed somehow familiar. He fought to make sense of them, but they sounded like a foreign language spoken through layers of cotton batting. He struggled to open his eyes, struggled to keep them open, struggled to not succumb to the forces keeping him prisoner.
    There was one vision that continued to hover over him–a vision of a red-haired angel. Sometimes the angel held him, her soft fingers caressing his face. Other times, she cradled Gracie. He reached out, but his body refused to obey his commands.
    Then she was there again. Who was she? Did he know her? He should have remembered that face with its halo of red curls. She reminded him of Rachel. But he didn’t want to think about her. He wanted to think about the angel.
    He concentrated on the red-haired vision. It was better than the recurring nightmare—the one where a flash of brown darted across the road, the car swerved out of control, the tree came at him. His heart quickened as he remembered a loud crash, sand and gravel exploding around him, pain, and then everything went black.
    Briefly, the blackness had cleared, and he’d seen the pale face, a halo of red curls, felt the brush of warm breath on his ear before he’d plunged into darkness again.
    The dream kept recurring. The same dream, the same crash, the same angel. But he didn’t believe in angels. He tried to open his eyes and move his head, but the pain returned like a torrential wave.
    He fought to escape the pain. He heard a low moan, then realized it was coming from deep in his throat. He felt the softness of a hand on his arm, a soothing voice, the faint smell of alcohol. Then he was sinking under the layers of fog as the piercing wave receded. By the time the nurse put the syringe in the sharp’s container, Pearce was dreaming again of the red-haired angel.
    When he was finally able to focus again, Pearce saw walls, some pale green, some glass, and he saw pale striped curtains, but mostly, he saw the white-tiled ceiling above him. And he heard sounds, beeps and wheezes and clicks and drips. He saw wires leading from his chest to a monitor, felt tubes stuck in his arm, his mouth, his nose.
    He tried to move, but the pain was too much. He closed his eyes, but voices disturbed him. They were close. One was deep; the other was softer, higher pitched. The female voice spoke his name. Pearce forced his eyes to open. His vision was blurry and sleep coated his lids. He blinked several times before the faces came into focus.
    “Mr. Taylor,” the male voice said, “I’m Doctor Summerville. You were in a car accident last night. Do you remember?”
    Pearce felt himself nodding, but the tube in his throat made it difficult. The tube was attached to double, semi-transparent hoses connected to a machine by his bed. Was he so badly injured he needed a ventilator to help him breathe? Above his head, he heard the bleep of his heart on a monitor. If he cranked his head, he could see the wavy line that raced across the oscilloscope. He felt the soft, reassuring touch of the nurse’s hand on his arm.
    The male voice continued. “You’re doing fine. You have a broken leg. We put some pins in it, and it’s in a cast. We had to stop some abdominal bleeding, but you’re fine now. Do you understand?”
    What about Gracie?
    “We’re going to take the tube out of your throat. It was helping you breathe, but you don’t need it now.”
    He felt the nurse’s hand leave his arm and saw her disconnect the transparent tubing from the ventilator.
    “Mr. Taylor, are you ready?” Doctor Summerville asked.
    He must have nodded.
    “When I tell you, take a deep breath, and then cough.” The doctor grasped the tube protruding from Pearce’s throat while the nurse eased the brown