Besides, if her parents hadn’t paid her tuition, she wouldn’t have been able to afford the down payment on her house.
Charlotte stopped outside exam room 8. “It’s tough,” she said, nodding in what she hoped was a commiserative way and not in a way that made her look as if she was having a seizure. “I recently went through it when I bought my house. Luckily, I found a great place over on River Road.”
“River Road...by the big steel bridge?”
Shady Grove, nestled along the winding Monongahela River, had two main bridges separating the west and east sides of town; a steel one north of the highway, and an ornate wooden structure near Washington Square park. “It’s about a mile from it, yes.”
He nodded at Dr. Saleh as she walked by. “That seems like a nice area.”
“It is. I love it. It’s not too far from the hospital, but the houses are spread out so there’s plenty of room for nice-sized yards.” Even if buying her house had eaten into her savings. But oh, well. Some things, such as sticking to her five-year plan, were worth a little sacrifice.
She was still on track. Even if some of the players in her game had changed.
And this player didn’t seem as clueless as James had been. Yay for her. While having a simple conversation at work didn’t quite compare to Justin actively pursuing her, he had initiated said conversation. He was also smiling at her. Interested in what she had to say.
Possibly even interested in her.
“If I see any houses in my neighborhood,” she said, “I’ll be sure to let you know.”
His smile widened. “I’d appreciate it.”
Appreciated it, but not enough for him to give her his cell phone number so she could get a hold of him easily.
For once, why couldn’t a man she found attractive take the lead instead of leaving it up to her to do everything? If she was better at flirting, this wouldn’t be so difficult. She’d drop a few hints and let Justin take it from there. But she’d never developed the art of the come-on, had always felt fake and foolish trying to be coquettish and seductive.
Proof of which was when she’d tried using her feminine wiles—as they were—on sexy Kane Bartasavich.
“Good luck with the house hunting,” she said, keeping her friendly, but not too friendly, smile in place, and her tone light. She knocked on the patient’s door, then went in, proud of herself for a job well done.
She hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t made the same mistakes she had with James, trying to rush a relationship. The old Charlotte would have tried to set up a date and time for her to show him the neighborhood, offering to cook him a homemade meal afterward.
But the new and improved Charlotte knew better. This time she was going to rein in her impatience and take things slow. Let things grow organically between her and the man she wanted.
Though she wasn’t above using a bit of fertilizer if need be.
She still had her plan: to be married by the time she was twenty-seven, start having kids when she turned thirty and raise those adorable children in her house by the river.
No, the plan hadn’t changed, but she’d had to adjust certain areas of it. James wasn’t the man for her. They hadn’t had enough in common, not nearly enough for a lifetime of marital bliss. She’d wondered about it all those months ago, had worried over it, but had brushed aside her concerns about their stilted conversations, the long, drawn-out pauses where neither seemed to know what to say. The dreaded discussions about the weather.
Whereas she and Justin were well-suited. He understood the demands of the medical profession, the long hours, difficult cases and how stressful it was caring for the ill. How hard it was to lose a patient.
She and Justin were meant to be together. Of that she was certain.
CHAPTER THREE
KANE LOCKED THE back door to O’Riley’s, pulled on the handle to be sure it was secure. A light spring rain dotted his hair and shoulders, the sky an inky black. He breathed in the cool, damp air, but it did nothing to soothe the edginess inside him.
A couple blocks away, a car revved its engine before the sound faded and all turned silent again. When he’d lived in Houston, his night would be in full swing at 3:00 a.m. He’d take whatever party he’d started in the clubs back to the apartment his old man kept in the city, but rarely used. Outside, sirens would blare, alarms would sound. Inside, he’d do whatever it took to forget how much he hated his life.
How much he hated himself.
Three in the morning in Afghanistan meant being hyperalert to every sound, every slight movement, as adrenaline rushed through his body. The occasional shout or, on more than a few occasions, the pop, pop, pop of automatic gunfire, shattering the night. Or else it meant spending the night in the barracks, stuck in the halfway point between sleep and wakefulness. Always fitful. Always on edge.
It’d taken him months after leaving the service before he could sleep for more than a few hours at a time. Longer before he’d become accustomed to 3:00 a.m. in Shady Grove. The quiet. The absolute stillness.
The peace.
It was that sense of calm that was getting to him, threatening to drive him crazy. There was something inside him, a restlessness he’d never outgrown, pushing him to keep moving. Job to job. Town to town. Woman to woman.
Afraid to stop.
Palming his keys, he turned the corner of the building and stepped into the alley. Slowing, he frowned. Apprehension tightened his spine. His scalp prickled with unease. The instincts he’d developed as a wet-behind-the-ears recruit in boot camp, the ones he’d honed during his eight years of active duty, kicked in. Call it a premonition, intuition or good old paranoia, but he knew he was being followed. Watched.
So much for the whole peace thing.
His muscles tensed. His grip tightened and the sharp edges of the keys dug into his palm as he glanced around. The light above the door leading to his apartment didn’t do more than illuminate the entrance and throw shadows on the pavement. Kane did a slow turn.
Nothing.
Blowing out a breath, he forced his fingers open. He was getting paranoid. Small-town living. It got the best of people. Wherever he ended up next would have to have cars and bright lights and tall buildings. And people. Plenty of them.
It was easier to lose yourself in a crowd.
Mreeow.
A yellow cat darted out from behind the garbage cans. Kane didn’t jump—but it was close. The cat took off across the parking lot, its tail down, ass swinging side to side as if its back legs were unable to keep up with its front ones.
As if it was trying to outrun itself.
Kane knew the feeling.
He tipped his head back and shut his eyes as the rain cooled his face. Inhaled to the count of five, then exhaled until his lungs were empty and his head light.
But the hunger inside him remained. The need, not quite as desperate as it had once been, a constant presence, a reminder of what he’d almost lost. It was nights like these where he was most vulnerable. Times when he was alone with his thoughts. His memories. When the monster inside him reared its head, demanding to be fed no matter the cost. No matter who got hurt.
Kane ground his back teeth together until his jaw ached. It was the middle of the night and he’d just spent nine straight hours on his feet followed by another hour of setting chairs onto the tables and scrubbing the bar’s floor and bathrooms. Exhaustion tugged at the outer edges of his consciousness, reminding him it’d been over twenty-four hours since he slept. He should go inside, drag his sorry ass and weary body up the stairs to his apartment, then into bed.
But he’d been here before, too many times to count. The setting might change—different town, different apartment and bed—but the plot remained the same. He’d spend hours tossing and turning while the sneaky, hypnotic voice of his past whispered in his head, test
ing his willpower. Tempting him into giving up. Into giving in to his body’s demands, just this once.
He whirled around, and with long, determined strides crossed to the small garage in the corner of the parking lot. He unlocked the side door. Inside, he pressed the automatic opener, then swung his leg over the seat of his bike while the garage door lifted. No, sleep wouldn’t come tonight. Rest never came. Not for him.
He started the motor, revving the engine a few times before shooting out into the street, not bothering to lock up behind him. The wind blew his hair back. Rain stung his cheeks and eyes. At the corner, he barely slowed, then took a hard right, his rear wheel swerving for a moment on the wet pavement, much as the cat’s back end had done.
Unlike the stray, Kane had learned he couldn’t outrun himself or his past. But for a few hours, he could outrun his demons.
* * *
“HELLO?” ESTELLE MONROE called as she poked her head into the doorway. “Anyone here?” She waited a beat. Then two. “Hello?”
Silence.
She frowned. She didn’t even want to think about why he wasn’t home, safe and snug in his bed in the middle of the night. A man who looked like Kane, with his rough edges and bad-boy attitude, never lacked for female companionship.
Her mother had warned her years ago that if Estelle was going to love Kane, she couldn’t be jealous of his flings, the time and attention he gave other women. She had to learn to share him.
And console herself with the fact that he always, always came back to Estelle.
With an inner shrug, she walked into the dark apartment, slipping her key into the front pocket of her jeans.
She felt a little bit like Goldilocks.
She even had the blond hair. Well, Goldilocks minus the breaking and entering, running into angry bears and eating porridge, of course.
She’d never had porridge but it did not sound very tasty.
Hefting her backpack onto her arm, she took a cautious step only to hear Kane’s stern voice in her head.
Lock the damn door.
Even in her imagination, he was a grouch. That man needed more laughter in his life. For Christmas this year, she was so getting him the entire set of Friends DVDs.
She flipped the lock, then pulled out her phone and used its light to guide her around a tall-backed chair to the squat lamp on a table next to it. She turned it on.
And wished she hadn’t.
Por dios...
Because it couldn’t hurt, she crossed herself, too, since it seemed to go with the prayer and all. Or, at least, she gave a close approximation of the way she’d seen her best friend—ex-best friend—Pilar do it. If ever there was a good time for genuflecting, this was it.
Bare walls, ratty carpet and god-awful furniture he’d probably bought secondhand, though she’d explained to him time and time again it wasn’t sanitary. The apartment itself was tiny, a living room that opened into a kitchen and a short hallway. The man lived like a hermit or something. There were no decorations anywhere, no pictures on the wall of her or the rest of his family. Lord knew he didn’t have any friends to take snapshots of. Nothing even matched, for Pete’s sake.
Well, she decided, lifting her pack—and her chin—higher as she headed toward the hall, she’d just have to stick it out. The alternative was simply unacceptable. She skirted a particularly disgusting-looking stain on the floor. Honestly, though, she should get hazard pay.
It took her only a moment to find his bedroom. She probably should take a shower. But his bed looked so inviting with its heavy blanket and soft pillows. More importantly, it looked clean. Something she could achieve herself tomorrow.
She quickly changed into her oversize Texans jersey and slid beneath the covers. Her phone buzzed. Mouth tight, she checked the message.
I’m so sorry!!! Please call me!!!
Message number thirty-six. And those were just the ones Pilar had sent since Estelle landed in Pittsburgh’s airport a few hours ago. Pitiful.
With a flourish, and a great deal of glee, Estelle deleted the message and tossed the phone onto the other pillow. Pilar obviously didn’t understand that Estelle was not going to forgive her. Ever. There weren’t enough exclamation points, sad-faced emojis and sobbing voice-mail messages in the world to make up for what she’d done.
A betrayal like that was unforgivable.
She inhaled sharply, the sound loud and mournful in the silence. What if...what if her mom thought the same thing about her?
Queasiness turned her stomach. A nasty, sick taste rose up in her throat. Coated her mouth.
Breathing through her nose, she shook her head. No. They were two totally different things. Pilar had gone behind Estelle’s back with her secret texts and phone calls to Chandler, making sure she was there to keep him company when Estelle was busy.
All Estelle had done was be nice to Adam, her mom’s fiancé. Yes, she’d flirted, but it hadn’t meant anything. Surely her mom would understand that. She and Estelle were best friends, Mama always said so. There was nothing, nothing Estelle could do that would make Meryl stop wanting her. Stop loving her.
Estelle snuggled down until the blanket was up to her chin and said a prayer.
Just in case.
* * *
CHAR LOOKED UP from the computer at the nurses’ station to see Leo—back for the third time tonight, lucky her—push a gurney into room 4, his hair and clothes wet. She caught sight of the patient’s muddy, damp jeans and worn biker boots, the length of the legs, the size of the boots telling her their latest guest was a man.
She turned her attention back to the screen. Frowned when a cool breeze caressed the back of her neck. She rubbed at the spot but the tingling sensation remained. Looking up again, she tipped her head to the side, narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. There was something familiar about those legs, those boots. She knew him, she realized, walking around the high counter.
Then again, she knew most of her patients. All part of living in the same small town she’d grown up in. It was a blessing, being able to help those she cared for.
It was a curse when they were beyond help. When all she could do was offer comfort, try to ease their pain. Hold their hand while they slipped away. Then comfort the loved ones they’d left behind.
This guy didn’t seem to be in that situation. No codes had been called. Thank God.
“What do we have?” she asked Leo as he stepped out of the room. She’d been with a patient and had missed the EMT report given while they’d been en route to the hospital.
Jocelyn Deems, a fellow RN, brushed past them with a wave. She would take the patient’s information, get him registered into the computer system and determine the priority of the patient’s treatment based on the severity of his injuries.
“Male, age thirty-four,” Leo said, flipping through his book of notes. “Single vehicular accident on Songbird Lane. Patient took a corner too fast and lost control of his motorcycle. A passerby called it in, said the patient was on the side of the road, unresponsive. When we got there, he was conscious and had managed to sit up on his own. Suffered contusions and abrasions, possible concussion, rib injuries, as well as a likely fracture of right arm.”
Char winced. “Ouch.” She tried to look over his shoulder at his notes. “Intoxicated?”
“No, thanks,” Leo said with a grin. “I’m on the clock.”
“Ha-ha. I meant the patient.”
“My best guess based on years of experience and, of course, my infinite wisdom would be no.” Though a blood test would tell them for sure. Leo flipped his book shut. He had a thing about people reading his notes before he’d transcribed them into an official report. “So you won’t have to deal with a drunk puking all over your clean exam room.”
She blanched. “It was reflex, okay?”
H
is grin turned absolutely wicked. “Sure. Some people just can’t handle certain smells. Or sounds. Or stomach contents being—”
“I get it,” she said. “Jeez, you lose your cool one time and you never hear the end of it.”
Most cases she handled without a problem. Blood, even copious amounts squirting from one of the main arteries? Keep pressure on it. Broken bone sticking through the skin? Make the patient as comfortable as possible and send them up to X-Ray. Mangled flesh, infected cuts, snotty noses, puss-oozing polyps? No problem.
But no matter how hard she tried, her stomach rebelled each and every time a patient puked. Oh, she did her job. Made sure the patient was taken care of, called janitorial to clean up the mess.
Then she’d head to the nearest bathroom and promptly lose whatever she had in her stomach.
It was annoying. Interfered with her doing her job. But mostly, it was humiliating.
“Nurse!”
At the sharp bark, Char jumped and whirled around. She saw Dr. Stockdale—with her linebacker’s build and coarse gray hair pulled back in a severe bun—bearing down on her and Leo. The physician’s high-stepping, arm-pumping walk clearly said, I move at this incredible speed because I am superior to you in every way.
A belief she never let the people who worked with her forget.
“You need to give her your best De Niro,” Leo whispered out of the side of his mouth.
Char didn’t take her eyes off the older lady. Kept her own voice low. “I think by this time in her life she has plenty of money of her own.”
He laughed. “Not dinero. De. Niro. As in Robert. You know. You talkin’ to me?”
Char snorted out a laugh, then quickly schooled her features into a calm, expectant expression. “I bet she’d just love that.”
Dr. Stockdale got closer and closer, making it pretty darn obvious she was, indeed, talking to Charlotte. Char leaned back, realized what she was doing and that it could be construed as intimidation, and straightened. “Yes, Doctor?” she asked, all pleasant and professional.
Small-Town Redemption Page 5
