A/N: Welcome back! If you missed reading Chapter 3, you might want to do that before proceeding. I've enjoyed and treasured your reviews. Thanks so much for continuing to support my story. I hope you enjoy reading this next chapter…

Chapter 4

Oliver

I want to comfort Mrs. McInerney, but frankly, the woman intimidates me a little. Shane has rarely spoken of her—of any of her family much, come to think of it. The two women are very different, and were I not seeing first hand how frightened and impatient she was about her daughter's condition, I wouldn't have been able to state they were related.

I watch helplessly as she paces up and down the open space between the chairs in the waiting room like a caged lioness, muttering to herself about the ridiculousness of hospital rules. I can't help but agree with her. Marek is finally the one to lose patience.

"Mrs. McInerney, please, sit down. You're just making yourself more upset."

She stops and rounds on Marek, and it is amusing to see how much he starts at her sudden attention, a tough FBI agent like him.

"Steve, why don't you go make yourself useful and get me a coffee. Not any of that hospital cafeteria swill, but the fancy kind my daughter likes that costs at least six dollars for a small cup. And make it flavored, like pumpkin spice or hazelnut or the like."

Marek rises, perhaps eager to get out of her way. "Of course. Anyone else?" He looks askance at my father and me.

"No thank you," we both reply, and Dad barely controls his own amusement as Marek hurries off to do her bidding.

Once Marek is out of sight, she quits her pacing and sits in the chair directly across from me.

"Now," she demands, "I want the real story as to why you and Steve look like you've gone ten rounds in a boxing ring."

Dad and I look at each other, and I clear my throat and reply: "Because we have, in fact, fought in a boxing ring, although it was only three rounds."

"Huh. And what, might I ask, prompted such a brawl? Shane mentioned that you are an honorable, Godly man, Oliver. I know that you and Shane have gotten closer in recent months, and given her description of your character, I find it hard to believe you would fight anyone unless they had done something terrible to Shane."

I look at Dad, mainly for moral support. "How much did Shane tell you about her recent job with the government and Agent Marek?" I ask.

"I haven't spoken to Shane since our five minute talk two months ago as she was about to get on a plane to God-knows-where. She said she'd gotten a top secret computer job with Steve and would be working overseas for a few weeks, with no communication until she got back. So when Steve called me, what was it—thirty six hours ago?—and told me she'd been in an accident when her SUV hit an IED, that he'd pulled her out and gotten her to safety, well, I've been scared out of my mind!"

I nod, although I hadn't heard the part about Steve rescuing her. I wonder how true that is, because even though I've forgiven him, I still don't trust him. Perhaps he was just trying to ingratiate himself with Shane's mother.

"I was there when Steve asked Shane to take this job," I told her. "He vowed he would guard her with his life. He wasn't even in the same vehicle with her when the explosion happened. I admit that when I heard this, I was infuriated. I had begun to suspect that perhaps part of his offer of this job was to get close to her again, romantically, and that since the mission had taken longer than he'd said, that it might be due to his machinations. Also, I worried that she was going into a dangerous situation, much more dangerous than he had led either of us to believe. Unfortunately, I was correct."

Mrs. McInerney sat still a moment, absorbing and processing this new information. Finally, she looked me in the eyes.

"When Steve contacted me about Shane, I was so grateful to him for getting her out of there that I had nearly forgotten what he'd put her through back in DC. He was neglectful and put his job over her. She took it as long as she could, excusing his treatment because he had such an important job with the FBI, that he was serving his country. Well, that may be, and I can certainly appreciate his dedication, but not at the expense of my daughter's feelings. So when I told her that the man would never commit to anything other than his work, I was so happy that she was transferred to Denver and got away from him. I certainly didn't like hearing she'd be working with him after all that time. I knew she'd finally started moving on..."

She looks pointedly at me, and I feel myself blush. I'd kissed this woman's daughter, and I was uncomfortable to say the least to be thinking of such things with Shane's mother sitting across from me.

"And so," she continues, "you fought Steve because he hadn't done what he'd promised and didn't take care of her."

"That's right," I say. "Although perhaps I was a bit…reactionary. I've since apologized to Steve for my ungentlemanly behavior."

"So you blamed him for Shane's condition."

"Yes. Which wasn't exactly an accurate—"

"I'm glad," Mrs. McInerney says sternly. "It looks like he got the worst of it."

"Yes, but I didn't exactly conduct myself in a sportsmanlike manner."

She brushes my regrets aside. "I wish I had been there to see that—heck, I wish I could have helped you. I never liked that guy, and if he put my sweet, trusting daughter in harm's way in an insane attempt to win her back, well he deserved what he got and more."

She rises then, and I automatically get to my feet. I find myself embraced in a warm, loving manner that I recognize as at least one thing she has in common with Shane. I think I manage not to stiffen up at the pain coursing through my body as she embraces me.

"Thank you," she whispers, "for standing up for my daughter. You are exactly the kind of man I'd always hoped for her."

I feel my face warm at her praise. When she releases me, I am dismayed to see she's in tears, and I reach into my pocket for a handkerchief. She laughs self-consciously and takes it, utilizing it on her wet cheeks.

"How much more time until visiting hours begin?" she asks, sniffling into the linen. I take out my pocket watch to tell her and she chuckles through her tears.

"Look at this one-such an old-fashioned gentleman. You've raised him right, Joe."

"He was always a sensitive, kindhearted boy," Dad says, much to my mixed feelings of embarrassment and pride.

Mrs. McInerney and Dad are of an age, and while we continue to wait, Dad coaxes her to sit, and he engages her in conversation about their children. (It's unfortunate that they have single parenthood in common.) I recognize that Dad is trying to distract her, and I am grateful for that. As a bonus, I learn some interesting and amusing details about Shane as a young girl. I will be certain, for example, to ask her about the time she first got her braces. Dear Lord, please let me have that chance.

Dad has always been the charming, personable one, loved by all who meet him. I, on the other hand, feel as awkward as I usually do, especially around people I don't know very well, or those whose actions mystify me. Mrs. McInerney obviously loves her daughter, but the two ladies are very dissimilar. Whereas Shane is sweet, easygoing, with eyes sparkling with good humor, her mother is forthright, no-nonsense and a bit on the acerbic side. I find it quite jarring to realize they are mother and daughter, though I suppose others might say the same of my father and his son.

After some time has passed, Marek returns, coffee in hand, which he presents to Mrs. McInerney as if it were the Holy Grail. She takes the offering with no more than a passing nod of acknowledgement, and despite my earlier resolution to be more forgiving, I find it keenly satisfying to see how deflated Marek is at her easy dismissal. She set the cup on a nearby table and continues her conversation with Dad without missing a beat. Marek's gaze flicks from the cup to Mrs. McInerney and back and I can sense the frustration and annoyance flowing off of him in near tangible waves. He finds a seat across the room and picks up an outdated news magazine, opening it with much more force than necessary and drinks from his own cup. Inwardly, I smile.

Shane's nurse comes into the waiting room then, and she addresses Shane's mother.

"You may see her now," she announces, and Mrs. McInerney bounces to her feet, Dad, Marek, coffee and I completely forgotten in her haste to see her daughter. I don't blame her; I am quite anxious to see her myself, but I know I must wait another half-hour for my turn.

I find myself nodding off more than once, and I am sorely tempted to drink the coffee that Marek brought before it gets cold.

"You may as well drink it," says Marek dryly from his corner of the room. He must have noticed me eying it. I suppose FBI agents are trained to be highly observant.

"Dad?"

"Have at it, Son. But after you see Shane, I think you should go home and catch a few hours of sleep."

I sip the hot coffee. It is much too sweet and overly flavored for my taste—more like something Shane would enjoy-but it is hot and caffeinated and reminds me of her, so I drink it.

"I think I will go home in a bit," I tell Dad, "If only to shower and change. I'll leave Mrs. McInerney my phone number."

Mrs. McInerney emerges after her visit with tear-stained cheeks and red eyes, and Dad and I automatically stand. She is much more subdued, until she catches sight of Marek, and then she becomes so angry she is visibly shaking.

"Get out," she nearly growls. "I don't want you here anymore and have given orders that you not be allowed to see her. You did this to my baby girl, and while I'm grateful you got her back here, the very sight of you makes me ill."

Marek, looking bruised, battered, and resigned, stands and nods without a word in his own defense.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, ma'am. I'll be in Denver a few more days should you need anything. You have my number. Joe, Oliver, it's been…interesting seeing you," he says wryly to us, and makes a dignified exit. I almost feel sorry for him.

The moment he leaves, she crumbles, and Dad wraps his arms around her. He inclines his head toward the hallway, letting me know he is there to comfort the weeping woman. I bid a hasty retreat, and head toward Shane's room.

Shane's condition has not changed, I note sadly as I resume my seat beside her bed. I take her hand, cry a few tears myself, and talk to her about my observations about her mother. When it is time to leave, I feel exhausted from head to toe, my face and body ache, and the thought of a hot shower sounds like Heaven on earth.

Back in the waiting room, Mrs. McInerney seems much calmer, and my sainted father shoos me off, relating with his expression that he is happy to stay with her. I awkwardly touch Mrs. McInerney's shoulder in an effort to convey my sympathy, and she puts her warm hand over mine, meeting my eyes.

"Thank you, Oliver, for caring so much for her. Please, go take a break. I'm here for her now."

"I'll be back soon," I say. "Do either of you need anything?"

"No, thank you," she replies. "I'm sure I can find a decent tea bag somewhere around this place. I'm really not much of a coffee person." She gives me a small, knowing smile, and I grin back at her, even though it stretches my cheeks painfully. It is in that moment that I see the first hint of where Shane got her brand of mischievous humor, and this somehow both comforts and saddens me at the same time. Dad smiles his farewell.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As soon as I get home, I take off my suit coat and tie, then begin unbuttoning my shirt on the way to my bedroom. I sit on the edge of my bed and remove my shoes, and a wave of tiredness threatens to overwhelm me. I lay back on the bed, just for a moment, I think, close my eyes…and promptly fall asleep.

I awaken four hours later, disoriented and slightly panicked. I get up and check my messages on the answering machine. Thankfully, I haven't missed any calls. Breathing a sigh of relief, I take a shower, shave very gingerly, and, feeling like a new man, get dressed in clean clothes and return to the hospital. On my way, I stop at a florist and purchase a vase filled with two-dozen yellow roses. I want Shane to see these the moment she awakens, and perhaps their sweet fragrance will permeate her mind as she sleeps.

Dad is still there and he's happy to see I'm back. Mrs. McInerney must be in with Shane.

"Thank you for staying with her. With them. I didn't intend to fall asleep."

"I'm glad you did. You look much better. Besides your face, I mean. It looks like a box of crayons melted together in the sun."

"Thanks, Dad. Any change with Shane?"

"No, Son, not that I've heard. I'm sorry. Norman and Rita came by on their lunch hour. Oh, and Ramon. You just missed them."

They are good friends. "That was kind of them," I say aloud. "Did they mention how things are going at the DLO?"

"They told me to tell you all was well. Still trying to find Hattie, Rita said."

I nod. Funny how the most important things suddenly become the least important when someone you—when someone you love is in the hospital.

"Dad, why don't you go on home and get some rest yourself. I'll be here the rest of the day."

"Okay. I admit I could use a break, if only to get out of this blasted uncomfortable chair." He stood then and stretched, his hands on his back.

"How is Mrs. McInerney?" I ask.

"Well, it seems she has bullied the nurses into changing the rules for her. She insists on staying in there with her daughter as long as she wants to. I've looked in on her a few times. She sits beside Shane and talks to her, brushes her hair, files her nails. I'm sure these things are a comfort to her, as a mother."

I can understand that. "Again, thank you," I say, and Dad gives me a one-armed, side hug, given that my other hand is still holding Shane's vase of flowers.

"Yellow roses," Dad says, catching a good whiff. "Dosen't Shane have those at her house?"

"Yes," I say. "They're her favorite."

He squeezes my shoulder affectionately. "I'll see you later, Son. Call me if you need me."

"Good-bye, Dad."

I walk down the hall to Shane's room and knock lightly on the door.

"Come in," calls Mrs. McInerney.

I enter, and Shane's mother is sitting in the chair where I'd already spent hours, myself. She's been crying again, but when she looks toward the door, her eyes light up at the roses. I bring them in and set them on the bedside table.

"How is she?" I ask. My eyes devour the sight of Shane, so beautiful, so serene-a sleeping fairy tale princess with an oxygen mask. If only my kisses could awaken her…

"The doctor came in earlier. He says the swelling has come down considerably. If she continues to progress, maybe they'll wake her up tomorrow, or the day after. We can only pray now."

"Always," I say hoarsely.

I move to stand closer to Shane, and I reach out and gently caress her cheek with one light finger. Her skin is unbelievably soft, as I remember well from that night when I caressed her cheek while I kissed her. I'm feeling overwhelmed with gratitude that there is some improvement, and I clear my throat, trying to focus on something I can do to be useful.

"Have you eaten?" I ask Mrs. McInerney. "Found that tea? Is there anything I—"

"Your father brought me lunch earlier, and a nice cup of chamomile. You O'Tooles are exceptional gentlemen. And I met your lovely coworkers and your friend Ramon. He's a real charmer. I understand a bit better why Shane wants to stay here."

"Yes, well, everyone here adores her."

"And do you, Oliver? Adore her?"

"With every fiber of my being," I say passionately, and I find that trying to keep my voice from quavering is very difficult.

"Good," she says, and she rises and goes to the other side of the room, where she opens a closet meant to hold patients' clothing and valuables. She pulls out a small, rolling suitcase, sets it on the counter next to the sink, and unzips it. This must be the same luggage Shane took with her on her job. Mrs. McInerney rifles through the bag a moment until she find a small bundle of what appear to be letters. She comes back to the bed and stops, holding them out to me. I see that the top one has my name on it.

"I found these when I was looking for her hairbrush. They're all addressed to you, though not stamped. I didn't read them, of course, but since I know she was forbidden to mail anything while she was gone, I assumed she had intended for you to read them eventually. There were a few in there she'd written for me, but not nearly as many as this." I look up from the letters and see that she isn't upset by this; her eyes are actually sparkling with amusement. She extends her hand to encourage me to take the whole stack, but I hesitate, my mind filling with questions.

Would she really want me to read these?

What if they were just meant for her own eyes, like a diary or journal? Dear Oliver instead of Dear Diary?

Were they filled with regret at our kiss, or at her leaving?

And the most unbearable thought of all—was one of them actually a Dear John letter, where she tells me she's fallen in love with Marek and decided not to come back to Denver, to stay with him in DC?

I swallow over a heavy lump in my throat. My mind flashes with images of all those times when we read lost love letters together from others. She would cry over the beauty of them, or the tragedy. No woman had ever written love letters to me, however. My own wife had left me in a phone message. Shane of all people would understand the value, the import I place on a well-crafted letter.

"They're not going to bite," Mrs. McInerney says, still holding the bundle as I obsessively ruminate.

I clear my throat. "Oh," I say lamely. "I-I'm not sure I feel right about reading these without her express permission."

"Your name is on them, Oliver."

"I wouldn't want to embarrass her, later…"

"Look, I read mine. They were all about how difficult her job has been, how she misses home, misses the POstables, as she so drolly calls you all at the DLO. How she misses you, Oliver. She mentioned a recent date, a certain kiss…"

I wonder if she can see the sudden flush of red above all the other mottled colors of my face. She told her mother about that? About us?

"Take them," she says. "Read them or not, it's your choice, of course. But I know my daughter; I believe in my heart she would want you to read them."

I look back down at the letters. They're in air mail envelopes, confirming that she'd been overseas. My heart pounds with so many emotions—fear, excitement, love, hope…

I release the breath I've been holding, and I reach out and take the letters...

A/N: Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear what you think. More to come.