“Yeah, well, I’m generally on the other side of the injection. Guess I’ll have to rethink the whole this-isn’t-going-to-hurt spiel.”
“If you’re working as the clinic director, odds are you aren’t going to have that much one-on-one patient contact.”
“Okay by me.”
“Is it?” Her questioning gaze met his. “I mean, are you really okay with that? I’m not so sure I am,” she said.
“Sounds to me like you really don’t want the director position. You’re not ready to be a paper pusher. Why don’t you just tell your father?”
Sara froze, her green eyes rounded. “What makes you think my father has anything to do with this?”
He narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
“Oh, I see—apparently you specialize in psychiatry in your spare time.” Her jaw tensed.
“Any first-year med student could figure this out, Sara,” Ben said.
She rolled back the torn edge of his starched, pinpoint-cotton dress shirt and glared at him. “Lift your arm higher.”
Whoa. He’d definitely pushed a button, and she was not happy. Probably not a good idea to tick her off before she picked up a suture needle.
Ben raised his arm.
“Higher.” She pulled out the suture kit, ripped open the cover and dumped the contents onto the sterile field. “Tell me again why you didn’t go to the E.R. with this laceration?” Sara asked as she reassessed his arm.
“I couldn’t see myself applying pressure to the site and driving at the same time.”
“Hmm,” was her only response.
Ben released his breath. He’d neatly side-tepped that one. No way would he step into the E.R. and then break out in a cold phobic sweat in public. His credibility would be shot to pieces, on top of the humiliation of falling and cutting his arm.
“I’m going to assume your tetanus is up-to-date.”
Ben nodded.
She glanced around. “Do you have bandage scissors? Mine seem to have disappeared.”
“In my bag on the couch.”
Tearing off her gloves, Sara opened his satchel, then re-gloved. “Can you feel that?” she asked as she prodded his upper arm.
“Not a thing.”
“Too bad,” she murmured.
He nearly laughed out loud. “Doctor Elliott. What happened to primum non nocere?”
“Do no harm.” Her lips curved into a begrudging smile, her humor apparently restored. “I’m sure Hippocrates would understand if he met you.”
Ben’s lips twitched. Sara Elliott was a worthy opponent. Smart, witty and beautiful. A dangerous combination under any circumstance.
Her dark lashes were lowered as she worked, and he found himself absently counting the light freckles scattered over her sun-kissed cheeks and trailing across her small upturned nose.
Minutes later she pulled off her latex gloves, and their gazes met. Sara paused, her bright eyes startled.
“What are you looking at?” she asked.
“Sixteen freckles.”
“Please. Don’t remind me.” Annoyance laced her voice. “Those have been generously passed down from my mother’s side of the family.”
Ben’s mind began to backtrack to Henry Rhoades’s office as the light bulb slowly illuminated his thoughts. “The picture on your uncle’s desk. It’s you.”
“Yes.” The word was a soft murmur before she averted her gaze to efficiently wrap sterile gauze around his arm, trim the excess and tape the edges.
“And the woman in the picture?”
“That would be my mother, the other Dr. Elliott.”
Ben swallowed, the epiphany becoming even clearer. “Your mother is Dr. Rhoades’s sister.”
“Correct.”
All the bits of information began to fit together. “Amanda Rhoades.”
“Yes. Amanda Rhoades-Elliott. You know who my mother is?”
“My parents spoke of her often. She was quite well known for her work in rural medicine.”
“My mother was an incredible woman. Period.”
“And the accident?”
“She died, and my uncle was paralyzed.”
Ben stood still.
Eyes hooded, Sara began to clean up the area, carefully folding the edges of the sterile field inward until she had a neat package.
Only then did she raise her head, allowing Ben a view of the faint silvery line running close to her hairline and nearly hidden by her long hair.
“How did you get that scar?” he asked.
When she sucked in a breath and turned away, Ben’s gut clenched. Why hadn’t he realized it sooner?
“You were in that accident.”
Sara nodded.
Suddenly things became all too clear. Her mother died, her uncle was paralyzed and she was left with a scar to remind her of the accident for the rest of her life. Air whooshed from his lungs.
“The clinic means more than just a lot to you, Sara.”
“Don’t go all sentimental on me, Doc. I like you better when you’re prickly.” She shoved the refuse into a biohazard bag as efficiently as she had changed the subject.
Ben straightened. “I’m not prickly.”
“Oh, please. I may have my issues, but so do you. You’re more defensive than a momma cow.” Clearing her throat, Sara glanced at his arm. “The laceration should heal nicely. Edges are well approximated. And you know the drill. Keep it clean and dry for the next forty-eight hours.”
Ben nodded.
“Do you have any antibiotic ointment on hand?”
“I do.”
“Great. Then you’re all set.” She looked around the dingy little kitchen. “Mind if I wash my hands?”
“Please.” He gestured toward the old-fashioned porcelain single-basin sink.
“Tell me you called your landlord about those broken porch planks.”
“Not yet. I figure we can do a little trade of services.”
Sara raised her brows, blatant skepticism on her face.
“Hey, I’m handy enough around power tools. Built plenty of churches and clinics in my time. I told you my parents were medical missionaries.”
Eyes narrowed, she gave him a slow assessment. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t exactly look like a power tool kind of guy.”
Ben paused, more curious than insulted. “I don’t? What kind of guy do I look like?”
“Let’s just say a little more Brooks Brothers than Home Depot.”
He shook his head at her assumption. “You’re way off target.”
Turning on the faucet, Sara’s glance moved to inspect the rest of the small log cabin. “Am I? Well, by the looks of this place, that can only be a good thing.”
“The Realtor called it rustic.”
“Rustic?” Sara released a short laugh as she scrubbed her hands. “I’d say she saw you coming a mile away.”
“Maybe so, but I don’t mind. It just needs a little work.”
“Good to be optimistic.” She dried her hands on a paper towel.
Ben worked hard to hold back a grin as Sara continued her feisty tirade.
“I have to tell you, your three-hundred-dollar coffee machine looks a little nervous on the counter next to that kerosene lamp.” She looked around again. “So what’s the real reason you’re out here in the middle of nowhere?”
When her probing gaze met his, he said nothing.
“Well, I suppose working with your hands is good therapy,” she mused.
“You’re implying I need therapy?”
“I was raised on a ranch.” She shrugged. “I’ve been around wounded animals enough to recognize one.”
“Now who’s doing analysis?” he muttered.
>
“As you said, any first-year med student could figure it out.”
“Good to know you can give as well as you get, since we’ll be working together.”
She snapped shut the brass latch on her leather medical bag and grabbed the handles. “And on that note, I’ll be going.”
“Sorry to take you away from your date.”
A bright grin lit up her face. “Rocky? He’s the faithful type. Always there waiting when I get home.”
Ben frowned, surprised that he found himself envious. “So this is a serious relationship.”
Sara laughed. “You could say that. Rocky is my horse.”
“Your horse.”
She only smiled.
His phone buzzed, and he pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the screen. His parents. Clamping his jaw, he took a deep breath.
“Everything okay?” Sara asked.
“Yeah. Fine.”
The phone kept ringing, demanding his attention.
“Go ahead and take that,” she said. “I can see myself out.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “They’ll call back. Let me walk you to your car.”
“No need. I’ve got it.” She stepped back, distancing herself from him, moving toward the door.
“Sara.”
She turned.
“Thanks for coming all the way out here.”
“No problem. Professional courtesy.”
Professional courtesy? He supposed he deserved that, and yet he couldn’t resist another question. “Have you considered the possibility that we could be friends?”
“Friends?” Sara cocked her head. “Are you sure? You seemed pretty adamant about the job this afternoon.”
“Oh, I am adamant, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”
“Okay, friend. So do you want me to write a script for pain medication?”
“You were going to let me suffer?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it as her cheeks flushed with color.
“I’m just giving you a hard time,” he said. “I’ll be fine with a little acetaminophen.”
“Then I guess I’ll see you Monday.”
Ben nodded. Monday.
Right now Monday couldn’t come soon enough. He needed to stay busy.
His phone buzzed again, just as she pushed open the rickety screen door, and he froze.
“Ben, are you sure everything is okay?”
“Yeah. Sure. It’s all good.” He nodded toward the porch. “Careful where you step.”
Sara tiptoed around the broken planks and down the stairs.
When the door closed with a gentle bang, Ben slumped against the counter, unable to move as the cell phone’s persistent sounds beckoned him.
Not today, Lord.
Tomorrow he’d call them. Tomorrow.
The phone kept ringing, and he continued to ignore the plea, unable to answer and hear the pain in their voices, knowing he had put it there.
His sister had gone in for a simple tonsillectomy. They’d all laughed because she’d be the oldest kid on the unit.
He’d assured his parents they didn’t have to come home. Of course he’d take care of things. Except he was called away on an emergency, and when he arrived at the hospital and walked down the hall toward her room, something was very wrong.
The flurry of activity.
A code in process.
He began to run. Slamming through her doorway in time to hear the code called.
Time of death: 3:45 p.m.
Carolyn.
Ben closed his eyes tightly.
Oh, Carolyn. He’d let her down. Let them all down.
Sorry. So very sorry.
Not his fault. That’s what his parents had said over and over again. But how could anyone forgive him when he couldn’t forgive himself?
Chapter Four
Ben lifted his head. What was that noise? He rubbed his eyes against the morning sun that streamed into the room through the open blinds, taunting him for sleeping in. His watch showed 8:30 a.m. Something besides the twitter of birds outside his window had roused him from a deep sleep.
He’d slept solid and slept in, which hadn’t happened since before... It hadn’t happened in a long time.
Disoriented, he glanced around. His gaze took in the Spartan room, furnished with only a small bureau, a single chair and a small beat-up maple desk. No, this sure wasn’t his lux covenant-controlled condo in Denver with its “no noise before 9 a.m.” policy. Then he spotted his open suitcase in the corner. Paradise. He was in Paradise.
Perched on the edge of the mattress, he paused to listen. There it was again. Someone was at the door. How could that be? He’d rented a cabin located in a remote area five miles from town for a good reason.
Running a hand through his hair, he stepped into jeans and scooped a discarded shirt off a chair. As he shrugged into the cotton T-shirt, pain zinged through his arm. He’d forgotten about the stitches in his triceps.
Oh yeah, wide awake now.
He stumbled through the living room, nearly running into several half unpacked boxes. The place was a mess. Could he possibly get maid service in the middle of nowhere?
He opened the door and paused. The elderly man standing on the other side of the screen door grinning up at him looked familiar. A moment later, Ben made the connection. It was the gentleman who’d collapsed in the café, and he looked no worse for the trauma of yesterday’s incident.
“Dr. Rogers, did we wake you?”
We? Ben glanced past the nicely dressed gentleman to see his smiling silver-haired wife peeking around her husband’s shoulder.
“No. I mean, yes. I overslept.” He shook his head to clear the last cobwebs. “First night in a new place. I guess I’m not used to the altitude either.” Ben paused. “Can I help you, Mister, ah...”
“Carter. Orvis Carter. This is my wife, Anna.”
“Morning, Doctor. Did you know you have a hole in your porch?” Perplexed, Anna Carter glanced at the splintered wood surrounding the gaping hole in his porch.
“Yes, ma’am. Found out the hard way.” Ben raised his gauze-wrapped arm.
“Oh, my, my, my,” Anna crooned. “Well, no worries. Our son is a carpenter. We’ll have him stop by and fix that hole.”
Ben narrowed his eyes, focusing on the couple. Exactly why were the Carters at his door? How had they even found his door? And why did he smell warm cinnamon?
His stomach growled loudly in hungry response. As if reading his mind, Anna stepped around her husband and thrust a large white bakery box and a thermos into his hands.
“These are yours,” she said. “Our daughter-in-law Patti Jo owns the café, and she made them up special just for you. Oh, and she roasts her own coffee beans, as well. You won’t taste a better cuppa than her Mountain Blend.”
They’d driven all the way to the cabin on a Saturday morning just to bring him fresh pastries and hot coffee? Ben immediately regretted his cranky disposition. He paused, lacking words to respond to the unexpected kindness.
“You do like baked goods, don’t you, Doc?” Orvis said, looking concerned.
“Yes. I’m a huge fan of baked goods. I eat them all the time.” He shook his head. Apparently his social skills were as rusty as his bedside manner.
“I know it isn’t a proper thank-you for saving my life but, well, Patti Jo does make the best cinnamon rolls in the county, and up here we take our baking pretty seriously.”
“Please, tell her thank you.”
“Oh, and we put some plastic bags in there,” Anna said. “You just tuck the leftovers into the freezer. They keep for a long time.”
“Thank you. So you’re feeling all right?” Ben address
ed Orvis. “No soreness or pain around the rib cage?”
“A bit. A bit. But only when I breathe.” Orvis chuckled at his own joke. “Imagine that’s to be expected.”
Ben nodded. This was the strangest follow-up appointment he’d ever had. In fact, it was the first time a patient had ever made a house call. “You’ve got a physician who’ll check you out, right?”
Orvis shook his head. “Aw, I’ll be fine. Don’t have much use for doctors. Present company excluded, of course.” His face brightened. “Say, I hear you’ll be working at the new clinic.”
“That’s my plan,” Ben said.
“I might reconsider if you’re working there.” Orvis looked him up and down. “I like you, Doc. You’re a man of few words. That’s a rare breed around these parts.”
“Thank you, Mr. Carter.” Ben paused, confused by the strange compliment. “But the clinic doesn’t open until late September. You need to schedule an appointment with a medical professional soon.”
“Orvis. You call me Orvis.” He nodded. “And I’ll give it some thought.”
After an awkward pause, Ben held open the door. “Would you like to come in?”
“Oh, no,” Anna said. “We’ll let you enjoy your Saturday.”
“Sure enough, Anna is right. But we’ll be back to fix that porch.”
Ben worded his response carefully. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but I can probably fix those floorboards myself.”
“With that arm? You go on and do your doctoring, and leave the carpentry to Orvis Jr. Our eldest really is a carpenter, you know. He’s got the tools and everything.” The older man moved down the stairs and walked back and forth, assessing the wide, weather-worn planks, stopping to kneel down and glance under the porch at the damaged area. “From the looks of things, this whole porch would be best replaced.”
“The whole thing?”
“I dare say, Doc. The wood looks spongy, and see those struts?” He pointed to the underside of the structure. “Rotted clear through. Probably mold under there, as well. Can’t believe Flora rented out the cabin in this condition.”
“You know Mrs. Downey?” Ben asked.
“This is Paradise. Everyone knows Flora Downey, and it’s good for business for her to know everyone.”
Mending the Doctor's Heart Page 4
