Bad to the Bone

by Roxanne St Claire

  “Bye…Mr. Bancroft.” Pru backed out, giving her mother one more look. “Hope Meatball’s okay.”

  Molly let out the softest sigh, one that he couldn’t begin to interpret. Impatience skittered all over him as he turned back to her, anxious for news.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  She waited until the door closed tightly behind Pru. Which, if you asked him, was a pretty shitty bedside manner.

  “We tried to release gas by puncturing his stomach with a needle, but when that didn’t work, we managed to get one X-ray and could see we had to operate.”

  He cringed a little, knowing Meatball was a big baby with zero ability to handle pain. Clipping his nails sent him into a whining frenzy.

  “His heart rate was two twenty with occasional VPCs.” She held up her hands at his look of confusion. “Premature heart contractions.”

  He closed his eyes for a second, hating the sound of that. Of all of this.

  “We had to do surgery.”

  “Did you fix him?”

  “My father and I did,” she said, holding up her hands as if to say those narrow fingers alone couldn’t have done a job like that. Only then did he see the blood rimmed around the arms of her surgical scrubs.

  At what must have been a look of horror, she eased her arms back. “I didn’t take the time to change, sorry.”

  Why would she apologize? She’d been that deep into Meatball’s guts. His heart turned over, a wave of affection and gratitude and admiration nearly knocking him over.

  “We were able to get in there and flip his stomach back into proper position,” she told him.

  “Oh, thank God.”

  “But there was a problem with his spleen.”

  And he fell down that roller coaster again. “What kind of problem?”

  “We had to take most of it out. The GDV obstructed blood flow, and the organ died.”

  “The organ.” The words came out like a groan. “But not the dog.”

  She slowly shook her head. “He can survive nicely without a spleen. Meatball is in recovery now. Still coming off the anesthesia.”

  He finally sighed, letting his head drop and his eyes close again. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “It’s our job.”

  He lifted his head, studying her, finally able to think about this woman who he’d once—one night only—had known so intimately. That girl had been so light and bright and wild and wonderful. With a dry wit and quick tongue. More like her daughter than…

  “We’ll keep him overnight and under close observation for a few days,” she said.

  “A few days?” Oh hell.

  “He’ll need to be on fluids and pain meds. Also antibiotic injections, of course. There are some numbers we’ll run overnight to make sure all is well in there. We have to watch his stomach. It wasn’t the best color, and we need to monitor his vital signs very carefully and slowly introduce regular food back into his diet.”

  So much to be done, he couldn’t even imagine how he’d pay for it. Or how that poor animal would endure it all.

  “Okay,” he finally said. “Can I see him?”

  She hesitated a quick second before nodding. “Yes, yes, of course. My father and brother are back there with him.” She gestured to the door as an invitation, but she didn’t move.

  Despite her cool attitude, he wanted to thank her. Wanted to acknowledge this weirdness between them and somehow clear the air, especially if Meatball would be in her care for a few days.

  But how?

  “I had a nice chat with your daughter,” he said, hoping that would soften her a bit.

  Instead, he could have sworn every drop of blood in her cheeks drained straight away.

  “She knows an awful lot about vet medicine.”

  Still pale, she nodded very slowly, and the complete silence threw him.

  “She seems really smart and…looks like you.”

  Jeez, how deep would she let him dig himself without even responding? A few awkward seconds ticked by, answering his question. Very deep.

  “Anyway, thank you,” he managed, walking by her.

  He pulled open the door, assuming he’d find his way since this ice queen wasn’t going to tell him a thing. He faced a small area with more doors and hallways and no clue where the hell he should go.

  He turned as the reception area door was closing, in time to catch Molly Kilcannon drop her head into her hands and give in to a full-body shudder. Really? Now she shows emotion and compassion and a human side?

  The door closed, and he stood there, stone-still, trying to understand…anything.

  He picked a corridor and started walking to the light coming from one room, trying to shake off Molly, but man, she’d needled him with that attitude, that chilliness, and the fact that she acted like he was committing some kind of crime by talking to her daughter.

  He stopped midstep. He swallowed against a dry throat. He felt his heart literally cease to beat for a second.

  I turned thirteen in August.

  Which meant she…had been conceived fourteen years ago in….

  He squeezed his eyes shut and did some quick mental math.

  November.

  He reached for the nearest wall, suddenly needing support because the world tilted sideways and Trace Bancroft damn near fell off.

  Chapter Six

  Oh, she didn’t like this. She did not like this at all.

  As Molly slipped out of her jacket the next morning and hooked it on the rack in the reception room, she reread the vital sign chart that Cara Lee, the nurse who’d come in for overnight duty to monitor Meatball, had just handed her.

  “Eleven.” Molly felt a tightening in her stomach as she stared at the PCV percentage. “That’s not good.”

  “Poor guy had a rough night.” Cara Lee narrowed blue eyes, her brows pulling as she examined Molly with the same scrutiny she’d give a sick puppy. “Looks like he wasn’t the only one.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Molly brushed back some of her hair, wild and unruly today, remembering the shadows under her eyes that had met her in the mirror that morning. “Well, I didn’t expect to perform surgery last night.”

  “Your father said you were done by ten,” Cara Lee said. “I figured you got a good night’s sleep.”

  She figured wrong. “Not really. I stressed about the dog.” And his owner. “Is he still in Special Care?”

  “Of course.” Cara Lee gestured toward the room on the left that served as their ICU when needed. Unlike the office in town, which used to be her father’s practice, the Waterford Farm vet office was a small operation, used primarily for checking on the many dogs housed and trained at the facility. On the rare occasion they had serious treatment, they had two rooms that could be used for high-level monitoring and long-term recovery. Thank goodness, because they’d need both for this case.

  “I’m going to see him now.” She took a few steps and reached for the doorknob. “I don’t want him to be alone long.”

  “Oh, he’s not.”

  Molly felt her breath catch, already knowing what Cara Lee was about to say.

  “His owner’s in there.”

  Molly froze and slowly turned to look at the nurse. “He is?”

  Cara Lee grinned at the reaction. “I know, right?” she mouthed the words. “He’s hot.”

  Oh God. “Really?” The word came out like a croak. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  They were too good of friends for Cara Lee not to lift a you can’t be serious brow, but Molly ignored it and headed in.

  Trace didn’t turn when the door opened. He stood next to the large cage, both hands braced on the bars, staring down at Meatball, who moaned with every inhale and shuddered on the exhale as he slept.

  Trace wore faded jeans and a white T-shirt that clung to well-developed muscles, both arms completely covered in colorful tattoos. His dark hair was tousled on top, but cut short along the neckline and around the ears. Facing his profile, she could see his jaw was cle
nched, and one vein in his neck throbbed in a steady beat that perfectly matched the one pounding in Molly’s chest.

  “He’s a wreck,” he murmured, still not looking at her.

  For a moment, Molly wondered if he meant him or the dog.

  “He’s struggling,” she acknowledged.

  Finally, he tore his gaze from Meatball, turning his dark eyes to her, shocking her with the red rims of someone who might have been crying. Or maybe he had the same crappy night she had.

  “The nurse said I should talk to you.” He sounded like the very idea bothered him.

  Molly lifted the paper in her hand. “Meatball’s blood test shows a low PCV, or packed cell volume. That means the percentage of red blood cells to serum is low, and he might need a blood transfusion.”

  He murmured a curse and threaded his fingers through his hair, pulling it back and making it even more tangled. “Then what?”

  “Then…” She hated to make him agonize any more. One of the many reasons she’d barely slept was shame for how she’d treated him. Even taking Pru and the past out of the picture, she should have been more compassionate. “Then there might be more surgery,” she added softly. “If he doesn’t respond to the transfusion, we’d have to look for a vessel that isn’t ligated completely, or maybe a complication that happened during the splenectomy. Something affecting the red blood cells.”

  She took a few steps to the cage and carefully unlatched it, but Meatball didn’t stir. His left paw was outstretched with the IV stuck in his shaved skin. Reaching in, she stroked his smooth brown belly, feeling for any new distension.

  Meatball’s closed eyes fluttered at the touch, and Molly drew back, looking up to meet Trace’s gaze. He was silent, with agony carved on to every feature.

  “He’s a great dog,” she said, knowing that if he were any other person on earth, she’d add a gentle touch to his arm and a lot more sympathy. He deserved that, no matter who he was. “He has very intelligent eyes,” she continued. “Even as miserable as he was last night, he was sweet.” His tail had thumped the operating table as if to express his trust. And she should have told his owner that last night.

  She should have taken two minutes while Liam and Dad did the X-rays and pre-op tests to sit calmly with Trace to explain what they were going to do, why they had to, and what the possible outcomes were. As she would have with any other dog parent in that situation.

  Instead, she’d been a stone-cold bitch to him.

  “He’s the best,” he agreed.

  “I think we can fix him up,” she said. “I don’t want you to worry too much.”

  His expression flickered, not revealing anything except that her words affected him. “I didn’t think you cared much about the owners,” he murmured.

  Ouch. Well, she had that coming. “I do.”

  He repositioned himself in front of the cage, leaning closer and reaching his arm in where hers was, his skin brushing hers and sending a crackle of electricity through her. She slid her arm out and took a full step away.

  “Hey, bud,” he whispered. “You’ll be out of this cell soon.”

  Cell? Molly tried not to react to that, but might have failed. One corner of Trace’s lips curled in a wry smile.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said softly. So softly, she wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or Meatball. “It’s like an elephant in the room.”

  Oh Lord. Here we go. “It…is?”

  He looked directly at her. “What’s protocol? What’s right? Do you acknowledge the past or try to ignore it?”

  Molly inhaled sharply. “I guess you—”

  “I say face it head on,” he interjected, saving her. “It’s uncomfortable, yeah. But I think it’s best to get it out there and endure the discomfort, because honesty is the most important thing.”

  She nodded slowly. “I was going to—”

  “So, yeah. Protocol says it’s okay to admit you know and I know.”

  He did? She waited, breath trapped, her gaze dropping over his face and landing on a cleft in his chin that looked like a man’s version of the tiny dimple in her daughter’s chin. His daughter’s chin.

  “I spent the last fourteen years in prison.”

  And all her breath came out in a whoosh. That’s what he was talking about? “My father told me,” she said. “He said that’s where you’ve been.”

  He shifted his attention back to Meatball, and only then did Molly notice that for the entire conversation, he’d kept a hand on his dog’s head. She stared at that hand, at the size and strength of it, the dusting of dark hair and the clean, blunt-cut nails. The tats stopped at his wrists; his hands were ink-free and masculine. And, God, she remembered to this day what he could do with those hands.

  “Did he tell you what for?” Trace asked.

  Get a grip, Moll. He wanted to talk about prison…not Pru. She could handle prison. She could handle anything but the inevitable truth she had to tell him. Today.

  “Not in great detail.”

  He stood up straight and let go of Meatball. “I want details,” he said solemnly. “And I want them now.”

  “Details.” She fisted her hands at her sides. Did he mean Pru now? Obviously, he had to wonder or suspect. “Details about…” She added him a questioning look.

  “About when you’re going to do a transfusion and what will make you decide to do surgery again. And what kind of surgery would it be. What are the risks?”

  With each question, she felt herself relax a little, back in the zone of veterinary medicine, not talking about the child they shared. Still studying his expression and holding his gaze, she let out a sigh and made a decision. She would tell him later. She’d explain the process with Meatball, get the transfusion going if he needed it, and after they knew for certain whether there’d be another surgery, she’d tell him about Pru.

  “Would you like to sit down in my office and have a cup of coffee?” she said. “I’ll go over everything, from beginning to end. I have some pictures of his stomach from the surgery, and I can tell you where my concerns are. He’s fine for now. I want to run another PCV test in an hour and then decide. We have time to talk.” And rock your world.

  He didn’t answer right away. For a long moment, he held her gaze, silent. Her heart hammered so loud, it was a wonder he didn’t hear it.

  “Do you have any other pictures?” he whispered.

  She drew back an inch, not sure she understood. “Pictures?”

  “You know, baby pictures? First day of school? On Santa’s lap or with her first puppy?”

  “Oh.” It was barely more than a breath.

  “You see, I’ve missed so much.”

  She closed her eyes against the sting of tears. “Yes,” she admitted. “You have.”

  * * *

  Wally would be proud. In fact, Jim Wallace, certified shrink to the cons and officially the best friend Trace had ever had, would jump up from his chair, give a high five, and hoot out loud in the most undignified, untherapistlike way.

  Trace might have made a few false starts in the conversation with Molly, mentally backing off and changing the topic without her actually realizing that’s what he’d done, but he reached his end goal.

  Do what needs to be done, Trace. He could hear Wally’s voice. Can’t get a goal if you don’t know it. It’s going to make you uncomfortable, Trace. You can handle it, just do what has to be done no matter if it hurts short-term. That’s how you grow. That’s how you change.

  And last night, sleeping in a hovel that now legally belonged to Trace, he was plenty uncomfortable, but it was nothing like this morning waiting for Molly to show.

  He’d wrestled with the facts all night. Dealt with the horror of possibly losing Meatball, which would be one of the many cruel ironies that plagued Trace’s life. Like the fact that he accidentally killed a man while defending a woman. Or that he spent his life loathing his inmate father only to become an inmate himself. And the twist of fate that, after a war wit
h the prison system that he’d ultimately won, the dog he’d been allowed to keep was at death’s door a few weeks later.

  And now…this. Because of the biggest mistake he’d ever made in his life, he’d missed out on a mistake he hadn’t even known he’d made.

  Umproo.

  Of all of life’s cruelties, the realization that he had a daughter took precedence and even offered a much-needed relief from worrying about Meatball. And now what? How the hell would he ever convince Molly Kilcannon to let him—with his murder rap and prison time, his inked-up body and run-down spirit—be anywhere near a little girl who was so completely and totally perfect?

  Molly Kilcannon had all the power here.

  “If you don’t mind, can we take this outside?” Trace held up his coffee cup with a remarkably steady hand. “After fourteen years, I can’t get enough fresh air.”

  “Oh, of course.” Molly looked a little surprised by the request and glanced toward a coatrack in the corner of the lobby where they’d come to get coffee. “Let me get my jacket.”

  They put their cups down, and she reached for a pea coat on a hook.

  “I’ll get it,” he offered, opening the jacket and holding it for her. That earned him a quick look over her shoulder. “To prove chivalry’s not dead,” he added. And to stay on your good side.

  She slid into her coat and went back to get the coffee while he pulled on his Goodwill special. When she handed him the cup, he couldn’t help but notice the slight tremble in her hand.

  Okay, she might have the power, but she was scared. And he didn’t want that, not at all.

  She stepped to the desk and waited a second while the receptionist finished a call. “I’ll be outside for a few minutes,” Molly said. “Cara Lee’s going to run another test on Meatball in a bit, and I’ll want the results as soon as possible.”

  “Sure thing, Dr. Molly. I didn’t think you were going to be here today.”

  She shrugged. “I’m supposed to be at the other office, but they’re covering for me. I wanted to check on Meatball and talk to…” She gave him a glance. “To Trace.”