AN INNOCENT MAN

by Margaret Watson

  Glancing at Connor MacCormac, Sarah took a deep breath. She would get through this. She'd patch him up, and by that time the chopper would be here. "Okay, let's get busy and suture that wound. We can't wait for the doctor or he'll lose too much blood. Come help me get his pants off."

  The two women struggled to cut off his black jeans, now stiff and rust-colored with congealing blood. The cut on his thigh was deep, but as she cleaned it up Sarah stared at it, puzzled. It should have been ragged and uneven, the result of tumbling down that rock-covered slope. Instead, the edges looked almost surgically neat.

  "Lucky guy," she muttered as she swabbed it with the yellow iodine solution. Trying to ignore his long, tightly muscled legs and the skimpy purple briefs he wore, she finally finished cleaning the wound and covered the lower half of his body in a green drape. The sooner she finished with Connor MacCormac, the sooner she could forget all about him.

  Forty-five minutes later she tied the last suture and stepped back. He was still unconscious, for which she was profoundly grateful. If he wasn't awake, she wouldn't have to think about who lay on her table. She could just pretend he was an anonymous stranger who'd had an unfortunate accident near her town.

  She wouldn't have to wonder why he was back after so many years and wonder what he wanted. She wouldn't have to look at him and know, with sickening certainty, that things would never be the same again in Pine Butte now that Connor MacCormac had come back.

  * * *

  The beast sat on his chest, holding him down, smothering him. Its breath smelled of blood and pain. The tentacles spread over his body, enveloping his arms and his legs. With a rush of panic, Connor tried to move and found he was held prisoner.

  And it was dark. So dark that he couldn't see a thing except the glimmer of fire. The fire that was pulling him out of the darkness, that was showing him the way out.

  But if there was fire, why was he so cold? He could see the flames, but he shivered convulsively. Ice cubes bumped through his veins, chilling him to the core. He had to get closer to the fire to get warm.

  Forcing his eyes open took all his will. Now there was light coming from behind the fire. Still the fire hovered over him, just out of reach. He needed it more desperately than anything else. He shivered, his muscles clenching with the cold; his body throbbed with pain. He needed to make the cold go away.

  The flame came closer, leaned over him. Forcing his eyes open, he looked into a face. A face surrounded by a nimbus of gleaming red-gold hair.

  "Can you hear me, Mr. MacCormac?" It was the voice again, the one that had smoothed away the fear and panic before.

  The soft sound spread over him like a warm blanket, taking away the chill. It was closer this time, but still seemed to come down a tunnel from a long way off.

  He tried to nod, stopping abruptly when a giant hammer came out of nowhere and slammed into his brain, making his head explode with the pain. "Yes," he finally managed to croak.

  "Move your left toes for me."

  He must have obeyed, because the voice said, "Okay, now your right toes."

  After a few moments the woman nodded and turned away. The light seemed to dim as she stepped out of focus. He tried to raise his hand to hold her close to him, but he couldn't lift his arm. Panic returned and he began to struggle against the weight holding him down.

  "Please don't move just yet, Mr. MacCormac," her soft, musical voice said. "I need to make sure you don't have a more serious neck or head injury before I untie you."

  Neck or head injury?

  "What happened? Where am I?" His voice sounded completely foreign to him, slow and indistinct.

  The woman with her glowing hair moved closer to him, and again he felt inexplicably soothed by her presence. "You're in Pine Butte, Colorado." Why had her voice changed, become almost frosty? "You had an accident with your motorcycle outside of town and you're in my clinic."

  The picture suddenly clicked into focus. He remembered the car careening toward him, the sharp pain before everything went black. Head and neck injuries. "What's wrong with me?" His voice was strained and harsh.

  The woman leaned closer, no doubt curious about the change in his voice from confused patient to authoritative questioner. Then she stepped back, fiddling with his IV line. "I don't think it's life-threatening," she soothed. "We'll know better when the evacuation helicopter gets here."

  "I want to know now, damn it. What did you find?"

  Even through the pain-induced haze, he saw her eyes turn cool and assessing. "Very well. You have a concussion, possibly with mild subdural hemorrhage. Three or four ribs are cracked. I haven't looked at your X-rays yet to determine the severity. There was a three-inch laceration on your left thigh with moderate arterial bleeding. As far as I can tell, there is no bleeding into your abdominal or chest cavities. You're able to move all your extremities, so the possibility of spinal cord injury is slight. Are you satisfied?"

  "Yeah." He closed his eyes, letting the pain take him under again. When he woke up next time, it would be less. "Thanks, doc. Sounds like you did a good job."

  "You're welcome. And I'm not a doctor," she said tightly.

  He lifted his eyelids again, held them open by sheer force of will. "No? You know an awful lot about medicine."

  "I'm a nurse practitioner. In Pine Butte, I'm all there is."

  "Good thing I landed where I did, then," he breathed, closing his eyes and sliding away into the welcome darkness. The last thing he saw was the red-gold of her hair.

  * * *

  He was back in the hospital. Phones shrilled, people barked instructions in the next room, instruments clattered into trays, and the smell of blood and disinfectant hovered in the air. He had to get up.

  Opening his eyes, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to sit up. Pain exploded everywhere, in his legs, his chest, his head. Groaning, he fell back against the hard surface beneath him.

  "Mr. MacCormac, you have to lie still." Cool hands slid under his bare legs and lifted than onto the table. "Do you remember I told you about the possibility of head or neck injuries?"

  The motorcycle accident. He was in Pine Butte, in a nurse practitioner's office. He remembered concussion, cracked ribs, a lacerated leg.

  Eyes closed, he took stock of his injuries, testing his arms and legs, running through his reflexes. "I'm fine," he said finally, opening his eyes again. "Concussion is the worst of it."

  "I'm glad you're so certain," she answered, her voice cool again. "I prefer to wait for a doctor to examine you."

  "No doctor is going to do more than you did," he answered, gathering his strength. "I'm going to get up now."

  Instantly he felt her hands on his arms. "Where do you think you're going to go?"

  "To the bathroom." Focusing his eyes, he looked into her blue-green ones. Concern and faint embarrassment were mixed with deep, simmering anger hiding far below the surface. Is this how everyone in town would look at me? he thought with bitterness. Was this the legacy of his young life in Pine Butte? Deliberately shoving the thought out of his mind, he forced himself upright, ignoring the pain crashing over him.

  "Your ribs haven't been taped," she snapped, holding tightly to his arm as he swayed on the table. "Your leg hasn't been bandaged, either. But if you want to rip out your stitches and poke a hole in your lungs, you be my guest."

  "Tape them up now," he ordered. "My bladder can wait that long."

  She stood and surveyed him with frustration. Shoving back the red-gold curls that framed her face, she said, "Are you always this much of a pain in the butt, Mr. MacCormac?"

  His face relaxed into a tiny smile. "Usually I'm worse. At least to hear the nur—" He broke off abruptly, appalled at what he'd been about to reveal. The knock on the head had made him forget. That was something he'd sworn he'd never do. "You have to do it eventually, anyway," he pointed out, no longer smiling.

  She looked as if she wanted to erupt. Instead, she spun around and left the room. Sitting on t
he table, he acknowledged ruefully that she might well have had the last word. Without support for his ribs, he could neither stand up nor lie down.

  A few moments later she reappeared, carrying an armful of bandage material. Setting it down on the table, she straightened and surveyed him. "This is going to hurt you, Mr. MacCormac." She didn't sound as if she was too upset at the idea.

  "Just get it done. Once the ribs are taped, I'll be fine."

  After watching him for another moment with an inscrutable look in her sea-colored eyes, she abruptly turned away and grabbed a roll of adhesive tape. Moving closer to him, she didn't look at his face again. Instead, keeping her gaze firmly fixed on his chest, she wound the tape around him again and again. When she finally stepped back to admire her handiwork, he felt as if an iron band had been strapped around his chest.

  "Perfect," he pronounced, moving experimentally. "Now if you'll get the leg, I'll be ready to go."

  "The only place you're ready to go is into the evacuation helicopter and to the hospital in Glenwood Springs," she retorted, slapping antiseptic cream onto the neat line of stitches on his thigh. "As soon as we're done here, I'll call them again and find out when they're coming."

  "I don't need to be evacuated to Glenwood," he said, wincing as she pressed the tape over his wound. "I already told you, I'm fine."

  "And whose expert opinion is that?"

  "Mine. I know my own body."

  "I'd rather let a doctor tell me that, thank you."

  "What are you going to do, put me on that chopper by force?"

  She tore the tape off a little more roughly than necessary. "Obviously I can't force you to do anything. But if you have any sense at all, you'll let a doctor look at you. There could be something seriously wrong with you."

  "There isn't." Moving slowly to the edge of the table, he slid onto the floor and waited for the dizziness to pass. Her warm, strong hand gripped his elbow. He felt disapproval radiate off her in waves. "Now if you'll just point me in the direction of the bathroom?"

  When he emerged a few minutes later, she stood by the door, worry and anger mixed on her face. "All right, Mr. MacCormac, you win. If you can walk to the bathroom, you can't be too seriously injured. I've canceled the helicopter. But at least stay here in the clinic overnight where I can keep an eye on you. No hospital in the world would let you walk around so soon."

  He eyed the hard table doubtfully. "Spending the night sleeping on that thing would probably finish what the accident started."

  For the first time a smile softened her lips, and he blinked at the transformation. For just a moment, warmth and caring shone out of her eyes. Something about that smile niggled at his memory.

  "I can do a lot better than that." She interrupted his thoughts, and the fleeting memory was gone. When she opened a door at one end of the exam room, he saw a bed in a homey-looking room on the other side. "The clinic is prepared for overnight guests."

  He shuffled gratefully toward the inviting vision. By the time he'd reached it, his body was screaming with pain. As she eased him onto the blessedly soft mattress, he looked at her and mumbled, "Who are you? I'm sure I know you."

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt the distance open up likes chasm at his feet. "My name is Sarah Wesley, Mr. MacCormac. Perhaps you remember my sister, Barb?"

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  «^»

  She watched as he dragged himself back from the edge of unconsciousness. It was obvious that Connor MacCormac was as strong-willed as ever.

  "Barb." His eyes closed as her sister's name trembled on the air between them. "How is good old Barb?"

  His bitterness swirled around her, but before she could respond, he opened his eyes again and stared at her. "You're Barbie's sister?" She heard the surprise in his voice as his eyes scanned her face one more time, then she could see the memory click into place. "I thought you looked familiar."

  "I don't look anything like Barb did," she answered coldly, moving away from the bed. If he thought that remark would ensure him a warm welcome, he was about as wrong as he could be.

  "No, you don't." His voice was quiet and strangely expressionless as he lay back against the pillows, struggling to stay alert. The pain in his eyes softened as he looked at her. "But I remember you. You had to be, what, thirteen or fourteen?"

  "I was fifteen when you left." She felt the familiar anger, and anguish, creep into her voice and clamped her lips together. Whatever else he was, Connor MacCormac was a patient right now. Anything she needed to say to him could wait until he was stronger.

  His eyes were closed, but a hint of a smile flickered over his mouth. It was gone so quickly she wondered if she'd imagined it. "You used to be nothing but long legs and red hair. You grew up real nice, Sarah Wesley."

  She stared at him, speechless, as a tiny lick of pleasure fluttered through her chest and was quickly subdued. Just what was that remark supposed to mean? She was sure he'd never noticed her when he dated her sister. She opened her mouth to answer him, tell him it was none of his business how she'd grown up, but she realized he'd fallen asleep. After pausing for a moment by the door to watch the regular rise and fall of his chest, she finally stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her. What on earth was the matter with her? Her heart was racing like a steam engine roaring down the tracks, and she had to wipe her damp palms on her jeans. So what if he remembered her?

  He'd been involved with her sister, after all. Under the circumstances, it would've been strange if he didn't remember his lover's family.

  And under the circumstances, she reminded herself grimly, it was totally inappropriate to be feeling any kind of connection to him at all. After what he'd done to her family, sympathy for Connor MacCormac was completely out of the question.

  Maybe he'd had a rotten deal when he was a kid. It wasn't his fault that his father had died when he was twelve. Nor was it his fault that his mother was incapable of taking care of him and he'd grown up unbroken and unfettered as a wild mustang. But what Connor MacCormac had done to her family had been completely his own choice. There was no one to blame but him.

  She moved into the exam room and automatically began to clean up. Just remember that the next time you get all fluttery inside when he smiles at you, she told herself grimly, scrubbing the exam table. He was still the same Connor, the same irresponsible and reckless boy he'd been twelve years ago. Having a motorcycle accident in the mountains was proof enough of that. He must have been going too fast or he wouldn't have fallen over the edge.

  When the exam room was spotless, she walked to her desk and pulled out a blank patient record, then entered his name on top. She left the address blank. With any luck, he'd be gone before it mattered what his address was.

  Her assistant cleared her throat behind her, and she reluctantly turned around. "Yes, Josie?"

  "The waiting room is full, Sarah," she offered. "What should I tell them?"

  Glancing at her watch, Sarah realized that the afternoon was almost over. Standing up, she fought against the weariness that weighted her arms and legs. "Send home anyone who can wait until tomorrow. I'll take a look at the emergencies right now."

  An hour later the last patient walked out the door and Josie quickly locked it behind him. Fiddling with the lock, she stared at Sarah for a long minute, obviously torn. Finally, clearing her throat, she said, "Do you want me to stay here with you?" She nodded in the direction of the room where Connor lay sleeping. "To, you know, help you?"

  "Thanks, Josie." Sarah smiled gratefully at the young woman. "I appreciate the offer, but you don't need to do that. He's going to stay right where he is the rest of the night. I'll be fine."

  Josie grabbed her purse and unlocked the door. "Okay, if you're sure, I'll see you tomorrow."

  "Thanks," Sarah said again to the already closing door. She didn't blame her assistant in the least for being in a hurry to go. With the inside story on a hot gossip item like Connor MacCormac's return t
o Pine Butte, most people wouldn't even have asked if she wanted them to stay.

  Her stomach growled loudly in the silence, reminding her that she'd missed lunch and that dinnertime had already come and gone. Glancing at her watch, she walked to the room where her patient lay sleeping. It was time to check him again before she could think about feeding herself.

  Pausing at the door, she watched him for a moment in the dim light. His hands looked both slender and strong resting on the white blanket. Somehow they didn't fit her image of him. She would have expected rough, callused hands, hands used to hard, manual labor, hands that matched the motorcycle and black leather. Instead they looked like a musician's hands, graceful and clever.

  Snorting at her fantasy, she walked to the bed. He was sound asleep, and for a moment she hesitated, reluctant to wake him. At least he wasn't in pain while he slept, and when she roused him to check his pupils he would feel the bruises in every bone and muscle in his body. With the head injury, she couldn't even give him a painkiller that would help.

  It had to be done. Laying her hand on his shoulder, she bent down and murmured, "Wake up, Mr. MacCormac. I have to look at your eyes again."

  He groaned from somewhere deep in sleep, and she laid her other hand on his chest. His respiration was normal, as it had been the last three times she'd checked him. "Wake up, please," she prodded. "Just for a moment."

  "Go away," he croaked.

  "I will, as soon as you open your eyes."

  At that, bright blue eyes stared at her, expressionless. His pupils constricted quickly to black dots as she shined her penlight on his face. When she turned the light off, he closed his eyes again.

  "Are you satisfied?"

  "Yes, thank you. You can go back to sleep."

  He'd already drifted off. She rocked back on her heels and watched him sleep for a moment, amazed. She'd never met anyone with as much control over his body as Connor MacCormac seemed to have. If she hadn't seen him get up and walk to the bathroom earlier, then walk into this room, she wouldn't have believed it. Concussion patients weren't supposed to be able to stand, let alone walk. And the way he'd opened his eyes on command, when she knew every cell in his body had to be screaming to keep them closed, was almost spooky.