by Irene Hannon
Not until she reached the car and opened the door did she falter.
“You know . . . I’m a little shaky.” She exhaled as she clung to the door. “I’m sorry to impose, but would you mind very much driving me to the clinic? I can find a ride home later. You can just drop me off and be on your way.”
Finally.
“I don’t mind in the least. I’m going that direction anyway.” Now he took her arm.
Again, she leaned into him as they walked to the truck—the gesture telling him more eloquently than words how unsteady she was.
Nor did she talk much as they set off on the short drive to town . . . another indication she was feeling rocky.
And although she’d probably rouse enough to argue with him about waiting around while she was treated, that topic wasn’t up for discussion.
Because he was sticking close for as long as she needed someone to lean on.
10
Why, oh why, did she have to be such a baby about blood?
Grimacing, Marci clutched her stomach as Ben negotiated a curve on the winding road that led down to Hope Harbor.
Heights, small spaces, spiders, snakes, thunder, lightning, roller coasters—bring ’em on. Not one of those common phobias scared her.
Just blood.
Especially her own.
She tucked herself into the corner of the seat, closed her eyes, and leaned her head back.
Lord, please let me get to the urgent care center before I further embarrass myself by hurling in Ben’s truck.
“The road will straighten out in a minute. That should help with the nausea.”
Ben’s voice was soothing—but his ability to read her mind?
Not so much.
Of course, his assumption that her stomach was preparing to revolt again might not have anything to do with telepathy. Could be he’d had sufficient experience with blood-shy patients to know the drill.
For now, she’d go with the latter, less unsettling, explanation.
“I’ll be fine.”
She hoped.
“Don’t worry about it if you’re not. There’s an empty plastic bag in the glove compartment if you need it. Now tell me about this urgent care place. Have you ever been there?”
“Not as a patient, but I did a story about it after I relaunched the Herald. It’s well equipped.” She opened the glove compartment.
Yep. Bag was there.
No need for it—yet—but why not leave the door open just in case?
He asked more questions about the center as she leaned back into the corner, keeping her focused on conversation rather than her roiling stomach.
Smart tactic . . . honed through much practice, no doubt . . . and it diverted her attention for the entire drive.
Marci straightened up as he swung into the parking lot adjacent to the facility at the far end of Main Street.
“It’s small.” He gave the storefront location a dubious perusal.
“It’s bigger than it looks from the outside. They even have an X-ray machine.” She fumbled with the handle of her door.
He touched her arm. “Sit tight. I’ll get that.”
After a brief hesitation, she dropped her hand.
If he wanted to walk her in, why not let him? Her legs hadn’t quite regained their starch, and what would another three- or four-minute delay matter? He could drop her in the reception area and be on his way while she was checking in.
Her door swung open. He leaned in to close the glove compartment and extended his hand. “Take it slow and easy.”
“That was my plan.”
Tucking her injured arm against her body, she slid out of the truck. His grip tightened as her feet hit the pavement, but thank goodness her knees didn’t buckle.
“It doesn’t appear we’ll have a long wait.” He surveyed the empty parking spaces in the lot as he shut the door and walked her toward the entrance.
We?
“You don’t need to stick around. Once we get inside, I’ll be in capable hands.”
“I want to look the place over.”
“Why?”
“Call it professional curiosity.”
Sounded more like an excuse to her.
But why argue over a short additional delay?
“Fine. Once you do that, you can be on your way.”
One side of his mouth quirked up. “Trying to get rid of me?”
Yes—but not for the reasons he might suspect.
In fact . . . the temptation to hold on tight to his muscled arm and lean into his solid strength until this was all over was strong.
Too strong.
But he couldn’t be thrilled about spending his Saturday afternoon babysitting a wimpy woman.
“I don’t want to intrude on any more of your day.”
“No worries. You’ve saved me from my to-do list, which is full of items I’m happy to defer. A couple of phone calls, and I’m free for the afternoon.” He pushed through the front door and guided her inside, to an empty waiting room. “It’s not very busy here. Are you certain . . .”
The door to the back opened, and she called up a smile for Ellen Bennett.
“Marci! Another visit from the Herald. What a surprise.”
“For me too. And I’m here today as a patient, not a reporter.”
“I assumed as much.” Ellen eyed the bandage. “What happened?”
Marci opened her mouth to respond, but Ben beat her to it.
“She’s got a one-by-seven-centimeter linear incised wound, mid-right forearm, smooth edges, down to—but not through—deep fascia. A close encounter with some guttering. It needs to be stitched.”
Marci stared at him. His authoritative tone and concise evaluation were all doctor—and offered a glimpse of the commanding presence he must have displayed during his years as an army surgeon.
Ellen scrutinized him. “You’re Ben Garrison, right? Ned’s grandson.”
“Yes.”
“I thought I recognized you from the service for your grandfather. Would you like to come back while I examine the wound?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
At their simultaneous response, Ellen looked from one to the other.
“You don’t need to stay, Ben.” Marci tried to pull her arm free.
He held tight.
“Yes, I do.” He shifted his attention to Ellen. “FYI, she’s a little squeamish around blood.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. Why don’t you both come back, at least for the initial evaluation?”
Without giving her a chance to protest, Ben guided her through the door.
Fine.
He could stay for a few minutes—until she got to one of the examining rooms and no longer needed his arm for support.
“Where’s Chuck today?” She tried to sound nonchalant as she followed the woman down the hall . . . but Ben wasn’t likely to miss the tiny quaver in her voice.
“He had a family wedding in Portland this weekend, so we told him we’d cover the front desk yesterday and today. Have a seat there.” Ellen motioned toward an examining table in the first room off the hall.
“Chuck’s the office manager for the center.” Marci scooted onto the table, directing her comment to Ben. “I know him from Grace Christian.”
“He’s been a tremendous asset to our operation. Very responsible and buttoned up.” Ellen began to unwrap Ben’s makeshift bandage.
“I could tell that from . . . ouch!” Marci looked at the wound.
Big mistake.
The room began to ripple, and another wave of nausea swept over her.
A plastic kidney-shaped dish was thrust under her chin—just in time to catch the remaining contents of her stomach.
As soon as she stopped retching, strong arms guided her back and down, until she was lying flat.
Good grief, could this get any more humiliating?
“I see what you mean about being squeamish.” Ellen patted her arm.
“Clos
e your eyes and take some deep breaths.” Ben touched her shoulder.
Sound advice.
As she sucked air in and blew it out, a cool, damp cloth was draped over her eyes and forehead.
Heaven.
“Is there a doctor on staff?” Ben was back in professional mode.
“Yes, but he’s not here today. I’m a one-woman show at the moment.” Ellen removed the rest of the bandage. “You’re right about the stitches.”
“Should we go to Bandon or Coos Bay?” A note of concern threaded through Ben’s words.
Remarkable how you could pick up tiny nuances in inflection when you focused on sound rather than visible cues.
“Not necessary. I’m a physician’s assistant. Believe me, I’ve done more than my share of stitching, a lot of it much worse than this.”
Silence.
“Okay.”
I guess.
Marci heard Ben’s unspoken caveat even if Ellen didn’t—and a wave of warmth percolated through her.
He was concerned about her and wanted to be certain she got first-class care.
Sweet.
“It might help if you stick close to her while we get this done.” Ellen was all business now, brisk and professional.
A few seconds later, her hand was enfolded in a comforting clasp. “I’m here, Marci. This won’t take long.”
She ought to tell him to go.
Ellen had this under control.
But the words stuck in her throat.
“I’m going to numb your arm and clean up the wound before I stitch it, Marci. Hang on. I’ll be back in a minute.” Ellen’s voice faded, as if she’d walked out the door.
“The worst part will be a few pricks of the needle.” Ben squeezed her hand.
Nope.
The worst part was puking twice and almost fainting—and that was over.
It was a downhill coast from here.
“I’m fine. Needles don’t bother me.”
“Lucky you. I’ve seen hardened soldiers carrying assault rifles keel over at the sight of a syringe.”
Really?
Or was he trying to make her feel better by downplaying the spectacle she’d made of herself?
Whatever his motivation for sharing that tidbit, she did feel better.
“In case no one’s ever told you, you have a terrific bedside manner.”
Rather than offering a verbal response, he squeezed her fingers.
“We’re all set, Marci.” Ellen spoke again. “You’ll feel a few pinches while I numb the area. Ready?”
“Yes.” She held on tight to Ben’s hand.
The shots weren’t fun—but at least they didn’t make her nauseous or dizzy.
“The lidocaine will take effect very fast. I’m going to get set up to clean the wound, and I’ll have this stitched in less than ten minutes. How are you doing?”
“Fine.”
Ellen and Ben chatted while the woman worked, and Marci was content to zone out, her hand in his—until the gist of the woman’s comments began to register.
“. . . finding someone to take Dr. Logan’s place.”
“What? Is Dr. Logan leaving?” Marci almost tugged her hand free from Ben’s to remove the cool cloth. Caught herself in the nick of time.
Her hand could stay right where it was while she talked. No need to see the players.
“Yes. He accepted an ER position with a hospital in Portland.”
“But what will happen to the urgent care center?”
“We’re not sure. I can’t blame Dr. Logan for moving on to a bigger opportunity now that he’s got some experience under his belt, but it will be difficult to find a replacement. Getting a highly qualified resident fresh out of training to take Doc Walters’s place after he retired was an incredible blessing—but we may not be that fortunate again.”
“What happens if you don’t find someone? Can’t you and Barb run this place alone, maybe hire a nurse?”
“No. We need an MD as a director. A physician’s assistant and nurse practitioner can do a lot—but a doctor has to be in charge.” The woman sighed. “I’d hate to see it happen, but we might have to shut our doors.”
“That would be terrible! All of us would have to go to Bandon or Coos Bay for minor medical emergencies—like my arm. And a lot of Hope Harbor residents have come to rely on this place as their primary medical resource.”
“I know. Dr. Logan is putting out feelers, and we’re going to run ads in medical media, but I’m not holding my breath. We do have three months to search, though. He was able to negotiate a delayed start with his new boss. I know he doesn’t want to leave us in the lurch.”
“When did you find out about this?” Marci felt a tug on her arm and tried not to think about what the woman was doing to her skin—or the blood that might be oozing from the wound.
“Last week. I probably shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not public knowledge yet.”
“I won’t tell anybody.”
“Neither will I.” Ben rejoined the conversation. “I hope you find someone, though.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know a qualified physician who might be interested in the job, would you?” Ellen didn’t sound too hopeful.
“No. Sorry. My contacts are either in the service or in private practice.”
“I figured that—but it was worth asking.” A final tug on her arm. “All done, Marci. You’re good to go.”
Someone removed the damp cloth from her face. She blinked at the bright light and focused on Ben, seated beside her.
He smiled. “You did great.”
“I’m fine as long as I don’t see any blood.”
And as long as you’re holding my hand.
A thought she throttled before it could spill past her lips.
“Do you know when you last had a tetanus shot?” Ellen disposed of some wrappings in a trash receptacle.
“About nine years ago. I cut myself at work, and one of my colleagues took me to the ER—after I fainted. From the blood, not the cut.”
Another embarrassing faux pas that would live in infamy.
“We should do a booster while you’re here. Do you feel steady enough to sit up?”
She risked a peek at her arm. The cut was covered by a sterile pad Ellen had taped in place. No blood visible.
“Yes.” She pushed herself up and swung her legs over the edge of the table.
Ben rose, keeping a firm grip on her—as if he wasn’t certain he believed her.
No problem.
He could hold on to her for as long as he liked.
“What’s under the sweatshirt?” Ellen moved beside her.
“A tank top.”
“Perfect. I’ll help you get the sweatshirt off.”
Less than five minutes later, after taking care of the injection with quick efficiency and copying Marci’s insurance card, Ellen handed over a printed page of instructions and made an appointment for her to return in a week to have the stitches removed.
“You shouldn’t have any trouble, but if you do, don’t hesitate to call.” She frowned at Marci’s tank top as she walked them to the door. “Whoops. We forgot your sweatshirt. Let me get it for you.”
As Ellen turned away, Marci clasped her arm. “Don’t bother. It’s not repairable.” And seeing that blood-soaked tear again was the last thing her stomach needed. “Could you pitch it?”
“Sure. You take it easy for the rest of the day.”
“I will. Thanks again for everything.”
“That’s why we’re here—for the next three months, anyway.” She glanced out the window, where a swirling mist obscured the street view. “Drive safe going home.”
Ben said goodbye too, complimented the woman on the job she’d done with the stitches, and guided Marci outside.
At the distinct chill in the early-May air, she shivered.
“Here . . . take this.”
Without giving her a chance to protest, Ben pulled off his sweatshirt, revealing
a snug black tee that outlined impressive pecs and biceps.
Another shiver rippled through her—one that had nothing to do with the cool air.
“Let me help you put this on. Watch your arm.”
Somehow he managed to get the much-too-big shirt over her head and guide her arms through the sleeves with very little help from her.
It was kind of hard to think . . . or coordinate her limbs . . . with the warm, fleecy shirt gliding over her exposed skin and surrounding her with the subtle but potent scent that was all him—and all man.
Whew.
Despite the chilly mist, she could use another cool rag on her forehead.
“Better?” He studied her.
“Much warmer.”
“Good.”
Not really.
Getting all hot and bothered about a man who would be leaving in a month would be foolish—even if she happened to be in the market for romance.
Which she wasn’t.
Not yet, anyway.
Or she hadn’t been until a certain army doctor walked into her . . .
“. . . home soon.”
As the tail end of Ben’s comment registered, she tuned back in to her surroundings.
They were halfway to his truck.
“Wait.” She jolted to a stop. “I can get a ride home. You don’t need to take me all the way back to the Point.”
“All the way?” The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Nothing in Hope Harbor is more than ten minutes away.”
“Still. You must have better things to do with your Saturday than chauffeur me around.”
A parade of intriguing emotions passed across his face before he exhaled and locked gazes with her. “No. As a matter of fact, I don’t.”
What did that mean?
Was it possible he wanted to spend time with her?
“Why not?” The question was out before she could stop it—as usual.
The corners of his mouth twitched, as if he’d expected no less from her. “You’re an . . . interesting . . . woman. And as a physician, I’d feel better seeing you safely home after watching you almost hit the mat twice in the past hour.”
“There’s no blood now.” She tugged on the hem of his sweatshirt. “And I know lots of people in town who’d be happy to run me home.”
“Including me.”
For personal—or professional—reasons?
