A Coldwater Warm Hearts Wedding

by Lexi Eddings

  “Apparently, I can trust no one,” Heather said wryly as she stepped aside and waved him in.

  “You can trust me. Here’s the music you missed in choir.” He held up a black three-ring notebook filled with anthems. “I grabbed an extra copy of everything for you.”

  “You went to choir?”

  He smiled like a frat boy after a panty raid. “And you didn’t. Want to tell me why?” Then his brows drew together in concern. “You’re OK, aren’t you?”

  Suddenly, she wasn’t.

  She’d worn a stoic mask while Aaron’s parents faced the scariest of gut punches, the terror of a desperately ill child. She hadn’t let her emotions get in the way. She’d done her job. Even when she had to bully them into signing that waiver so treatment could start.

  Then that cryptic little message from her mom. Her cousin was worse. That meant he was nearing critical. She knew in her head that Levi would die without a transplant. Now she knew it in her heart.

  She’d been tough. She’d taken care of others all day. She was done.

  Heather burst into tears.

  * * *

  OK, that’s not the reaction I expected. He’d kept his promise to show up for choir. She was supposed to fall into his arms.

  Then she sort of did.

  He wrapped his arms around her, while her shoulders shook with silent sobs. The only thing he was sure of was that this wasn’t his fault. He’d done exactly as promised. He’d shown up to sing with that vocally challenged choir.

  Someone else had made her cry.

  He wished he knew who it was so he could hang the bum up by his thumbs.

  The front of his T-shirt was becoming increasingly damp, but he wasn’t about to complain. He was holding her, Heather Walker, the girl he’d never dared to ask out back in high school. This was even better than dancing with her. She felt exactly as he’d imagined she would. Most of the women he knew in New York could pass for starving refugees. Heather’s body was strong and fit, but soft and yielding in all the right places.

  He drew his fingertips down her back and pulled her in closer. Except for the fact that she was crying her eyes out, he was finally holding the woman he’d dreamed of having in his arms.

  “Hush,” he found himself whispering. “It’ll be all right.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong, then?”

  He wished he hadn’t said that, because she pulled away from him. Then she scrounged in her pocket for a tissue and blew her nose like a trumpet. Even red faced and crying, she made his chest tighten.

  “I’m sorry. I’m usually not such a puddle.”

  “I like puddles. My mom always says she couldn’t keep me out of them when I was a kid.”

  She swiped away the tears. “I must be your dream girl, then.”

  She was, but this wasn’t the right time to tell her so. Not when she was so obviously upset. A guy only got one chance at that sort of declaration, and he didn’t want to blow it by rushing things. “So what happened to make you turn into a puddle?”

  “Where do I start?” Then the words came spilling out of her, tumbling over each other so that he had to really concentrate to follow the disjointed phrases and leaps from one topic to the next. She was worried about a patient. She was distraught over her cousin’s condition and how hard it was to find a liver donor.

  “It was touch and go with Aaron today. And Levi is nearing the . . . the end stage of his condition.”

  “Doesn’t that bump him up the transplant list?” Michael didn’t know much about such things, having been ridiculously healthy all his life. Even when Lacy and Crystal came down with chicken pox, he didn’t catch it. His dad claimed Mike was ornery enough to scare the germs away.

  Michael wasn’t sure he was kidding.

  “Yes, Levi’s condition will move him up, but he’s hard to match,” Heather explained. “His blood type is O negative. He could donate part of his liver to anyone no matter their blood type, but he can only receive a transplant from another O neg. And the donor would also need to be someone of compatible size and tissue match.”

  “Sounds like he has a few strikes against him.”

  “He does. And what about Aaron? I practically forced his parents to sign that waiver. If that antibiotic destroys his bone marrow—”

  “Hush.” Michael put two fingers to her lips. They were soft and warm. “You’re borrowing trouble.”

  “I know, but they’re both so young. It’s just not fair.” She collapsed onto her couch, slouching down into the cushions. Michael sat beside her.

  She didn’t object.

  “I know you’re all about taking care of people, but there’s one person you’re neglecting.”

  “Who?”

  “You. You’re working more hours than you should.”

  “You’re right about that. I’d be much more pulled together if I got enough sleep.” She straightened to sit upright. “But it can’t be helped. The hospital’s short staffed. Funding doesn’t come in from the state like it used to.”

  She went on to tell him that many rural hospitals were closing. Lots of small towns no longer had adequate health facilities. If things didn’t turn around soon, Coldwater Cove might be joining them.

  “Seems to me,” he said, artlessly propping an arm along the back of the couch, “a problem that can be solved with money isn’t much of a problem.”

  “Unless you don’t have the money.” She shot him a wary glance. “I know what you’re thinking. My parents have more money than God.”

  “Never crossed my mind.” He was actually thinking he was glad he’d founded MoreCommas and made a boatload. He could make a generous donation to Coldwater General, more than enough to make up for the missing public funds. He made a mental note to get his assistant on it first thing tomorrow. He wished he could make the grant in his mother’s honor, but it was more important to keep the donation anonymous.

  Still, there were some problems money couldn’t solve. His relationship with his father was a case in point. Introducing the money Mike had made into the equation would only make things worse.

  “Actually, my parents have been very generous already,” Heather said, and started telling him about the Walker endowment for the new mental health clinic at Bates College. “So you see, even if I wanted to, I really can’t go back to them for more.”

  “I suspect they’d want to help if they knew about the trouble the hospital was in.”

  “Maybe, but they can’t hear it from me.”

  She stifled a yawn. She was still in her scrubs, a cute little blue number with panda bears on the pockets.

  “Have you had supper?” he asked.

  “Supper? Who has time?”

  “You do, and right now.” Michael stood, took her hands, and raised her to her feet. “Why don’t you take a shower and get comfortable while I see if I can rustle up something in your kitchen?”

  She lifted a skeptical brow. “You cook?”

  He cocked his head. “Not exactly. I’m not in Jake’s league, that’s for sure. But my omelets have been known to keep the wolf away from the door.”

  “OK.” She headed for her bedroom and bath. “Back in a few.”

  “Take your time.” Man, she looks great walking away. Even in scrubs.

  While he searched the refrigerator for eggs, milk, and cheese, guilt tapped him on the shoulder. He had planned to head out of town right after choir. The Cessna Citation crew was standing by in Tulsa ready to go wheels up. All they were waiting for was him. If he delayed much more, it was going to crunch his already tight schedule.

  But he couldn’t leave a damsel in distress.

  She’d knock you sideways if you called her that.

  He smiled to himself as he pulled a bowl from her cupboard and began cracking eggs. He’d see her fed and then make a speedy exit. If he pushed the hog a bit, he could make up for the lost time. He hadn’t built MoreCommas by not taking chances and s
napping up opportunities when they came his way.

  And Heather Walker was the best thing that had come his way in a long, long time.

  Chapter 10

  Marjorie Chubb, captain of the Methodist prayer

  chain, has offered to teach a class for those who

  are feeling low. She guarantees you’ll feel better

  or the prayer chain will lift you up until you do.

  —from the Methodist bulletin

  Michael loved watching Heather eat. The little groan of pleasure when she first tasted the food he’d cooked, the way she ran her tongue over her bottom lip between bites, the way her eyes closed and she sighed contentedly as she sopped up the last bite with a piece of crisp toast. He’d never seen anyone get so much enjoyment out of such a simple meal.

  “Feeling better?” He took her empty plate from the bistro table and carried it to the sink.

  “Mmm . . .” She wiped her lips with a napkin and took another sip of the hot cocoa he’d fixed for her. “Who wouldn’t feel better after eating the omelet from heaven? Honestly, I can’t believe you made that with what I had on hand.”

  “You don’t cook much, do you?”

  “No. I rarely have the time. And when I do, I usually just open a can of soup or something. It’s a lot of trouble to cook for one.” She leaned an elbow on the table, cheek resting in her palm. “My mother bemoans the fact that if I ever do marry, which she seriously doubts will happen, my poor husband will face nothing but ‘burnt offerings’ for the first year at least.”

  “I have a feeling he won’t mind.”

  The corners of her lips turned up. “That’s sweet. But how did you learn to cook? I mean, you don’t exactly have a gas range strapped to your motorcycle.”

  She thought he was nothing but a biker bum, just as his sister Lacy did.

  “It’s part of the biker code. We’re supposed to carry eleven secret spices with us at all times,” Mike quipped. “Seriously, I can’t take much credit for that omelet. Hunger makes the best sauce. You must have been sharp-set.”

  Heather downed the last of her cocoa, rose, and wandered into her small living room. Then she settled onto the overstuffed couch, folding those long legs under her. After her shower, she’d changed into yoga pants and a T-shirt that was too big for her. The effect was sloppy and comfortable and totally adorable. “Michael Evans has a modest streak. Who knew?”

  “Why are you surprised?” He joined her on the soft, worn leather.

  “Are you kidding? When we were in school, you got off on attention—good or bad. You always seemed like . . .”

  “Like a tool,” he finished for her. “Maybe even a power tool.”

  She scoffed and then shrugged. “If the power cord fits.”

  Would it kill her to disagree?

  “Hey, is that any way to talk to the guy who just made you the omelet from heaven?”

  “You’re right.” She hung her head, looking contrite, except for the mischievous quirk of her lips. “Sorry.”

  “No, you’re not. But it’s OK. I own what I was. I just hope you’ll let me show you what I’ve become.”

  “And what’s that?”

  Dang! Why had he led the conversation that way? He wasn’t ready to tell her what he’d been up to for the past few years. He wanted her to fall all over him because of . . . well, him, not because of the success of MoreCommas. He wanted her to know him, warts and all. And if by some miracle she didn’t run away screaming, well, he’d see what came next.

  But for now, he had to turn this conversation around pronto.

  So he started telling the most harmless tales he could about his traveling days—when he’d bounced from town to town, taking odd jobs.

  “All that wandering . . .” Heather shook her head. “What were you looking for?”

  “A place to fit in, at first. But after a while, I started to appreciate being an outsider,” he admitted. “It gives you a unique perspective on things.”

  He told her about how surprised he was to discover that people in other parts of the country thought about their world in a totally different way from the folks in Coldwater Cove. He’d met people of all colors, religions, ethnic backgrounds, and education levels and soaked up as many new ideas as he could.

  “And I learned something from all of them.” Even if sometimes it was what not to do. He wouldn’t burden her with stories of strung-out junkies or the pickpocket who was in trouble with the law so often, he could recommend which jails up and down the Ohio River offered the best grub to their prisoners. “I picked up a few interesting skills along the way.”

  “Such as?”

  When he was really down-and-out, he’d learned to pinch a penny until it squealed, but that wasn’t likely to impress her. “Well, one Christmas I took a temp job giving foot massages to shoppers in a mall near Newark.”

  “Ooh! Show me.” She propped her feet up on his lap, and he demonstrated his expertise until she was all but purring. Conversation flowed easily between them. They discovered they both loved The Ring trilogy, but hated what filmmakers did with The Hobbit. They agreed to disagree about whether soccer was a real sport or not, but were in complete accord on the subject of pumpkin pie.

  It was the dessert voted most likely to make them both feel “yammy.”

  After the massage, at some time during the talking, somehow Heather had ended up snuggled next to him, her head resting on his shoulder.

  This was, bar none, the best night of his life.

  She smelled so good, like fresh-cut grass and cool linen. “I hated seeing you unhappy earlier,” he murmured into her hair.

  “I had reason to be.”

  “Yeah, sure, you did. I know you’re worried about your patient and your cousin and all, but I bet you have tough cases all the time. Why do these two get to you?”

  She told him about her student nursing experience and how they’d lost a child that first week.

  “That’s rough.” He wished he hadn’t turned the conversation to something so serious, but maybe she needed to talk about it. Women were always wanting to talk about things. Whether talking did a speck of good or not made no difference at all to the need to verbally chew a problem to death. Michael supposed, in the long run, it would do her good to talk it out.

  She launched into a monologue about kids and illness and how much easier it was to deal with death when the patient was older.

  “Not that my older patients are any less valuable,” Heather was quick to add.

  “Do you think it’s because adults have had a chance to live and the kids you work with haven’t?”

  “Maybe, but life is precious at every stage. No matter how many days someone has had, most of my patients want at least one more.” Heather’s fingers clenched the hem of her T-shirt into a tight bunch. “And I desperately want to give it to them.”

  “That’s biting off a little more than you can chew, isn’t it? I may have ducked out of Sunday school more often than not, but isn’t God supposed to decide that sort of thing?”

  She sighed. “You’re right. But at least I can make sure however many days they have, they’re as comfortable as I can help them be.”

  “Now that’s something I’m sure you can handle,” Michael said, hugging her a little tighter. “You’ve sure made me comfortable.”

  “Me too.”

  He wished she didn’t sound so surprised about it, but the fact that she stayed snuggled up next to him still made it a win.

  Heather went quiet for a moment. The rhythm of their breathing fell into sync as Michael stroked her arm. He was almost sure she’d drifted off to sleep, when she started speaking softly again.

  “I’ve never told anyone this,” she said. “It borders on mania and I hate it in myself.”

  “I can’t believe there’s anything to hate in you.”

  She sighed. “Obsessive-compulsive tendencies don’t work every time they’re tried.”

  “What do you obsess about?”


  “Every time I work with a young patient, I start thinking about Jessica again. And not the good memories from when we were kids together,” she said. Tension growing, she stiffened in his arms a little. “I replay that horrible time in my head.”

  Not good. Michael kept his face carefully blank. Maybe he should tell her about MoreCommas. Anything to keep her from revisiting the night her sister died.

  “There was nothing you could’ve done to change what happened to Jess,” he reminded her.

  “I know. The trouble is, I couldn’t ever do anything to change things for my parents either.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Her shoulders shook again, and he held her closer. “Gosh, I really thought I was over this.”

  “Over what?”

  “Over wondering if they wish it had been me in that car instead.” She didn’t make any noise, but he knew from the tremor in her shoulders that she wept.

  “I know they don’t wish that. They couldn’t.”

  She turned in his arms and, eyes glistening, frowned at him. “Have you even met my parents?”

  “Not really, but I know they can’t think that. Not for a minute.”

  “Well, I guess I don’t make it easy for them,” she said. “Whether it’s about money or where I live or who I date, I fight them at every turn. I’m not the ‘good daughter’ and never have been. How could they not wish to have Jessica back?”

  When Michael was wandering, he’d met lots of people, but none with more going on upstairs than Jadis Chu, who was now his right hand at MoreCommas. She’d given him some words of wisdom in that maddeningly no-nonsense way of hers, and they’d stuck.

  “Someone once told me that it’s possible to care deeply for someone, to love them even,” he said, “and still not like them very much.”

  The thought had given him hope that his family wasn’t completely dead to him. His dad might not like him a bit, but somewhere, deep down, Michael had to believe he still loved him.

  But his words didn’t seem to comfort Heather. “You think my mom and dad don’t like me?” she asked.