Critical Care: 1 (Mercy Hospital)

by Candace Calvert

  “So?” Sarah asked, pointing toward the door. “You or me in the trenches? I know you wanted to run to the bank.”

  Erin’s stomach sank. The money. Where was it? “No hurry on that. You take a long lunch. I’ll handle the ER.” She winked at Sarah. “And Dr. McSnarly.”

  Sarah’s laugh ricocheted off the top of her uplifted Diet Coke can. “No worries. Logan’s gone. He got the on-call doc to take the rest of his shift.”

  “Really?” Erin clucked her tongue and then nodded knowingly. “Back to Yosemite, I’ll be willing to bet.”

  “And you’d lose. He said he was going upstairs to visit Jamie. Then he was heading out to the 4-H rodeo.”

  +++

  The Cajun band, its fiddle backed up by the brush-thump of a washboard, drew the rodeo crowd. Families with the season’s first sunburns clapped along, relaxing from the day’s activities: gold panning, mutton busting, face painting, and the win-a-goldfish ball toss. They wore blue jeans, T-shirts, and glittery yards of Mardi Gras beads, while devouring mustard-squiggled corn dogs.

  Corn dogs . . . and sheep. The chaplain’s rodeo therapy. Sure. Claire sighed and stretched her jean-clad leg across the bale of straw she was using as a chair. The spring sun seeped through her embroidered T-shirt, warming her. What did Chaplain Estes say about the therapeutic value of petting a lamb and munching a corn dog? Maybe it was true—these people were smiling. But the rest of his prescribed remedy simply wasn’t going to happen. Dance and laugh?

  She rolled her eyes behind her sunglasses. There was about as much chance of dancing and laughing as there was for Smokey the Demon Cat to purr. The same chance that she would . . . go back to the ER. Her stomach fluttered at the crazy, recurring thought. Go back?

  Claire slid her sunglasses off and peered at the huge “Dare to Care: Face Your Future as a Nurse” poster stapled to the front of the recruitment booth. Its trio of scrub-suited nurses—African American, Hispanic, and Asian—looked convincingly heroic, bigger than life. Ready to glove up and face anything life had to dish out.

  She groaned. The only thing she was facing these past few days was the very real possibility she was losing her mind. It was the only way to explain why the walls of her tidy office in the education department had begun to close in. Why its quiet order made her edgier by the hour until she wanted to string paper clips into a lasso, whirl it overhead, and holler like a demented cowboy. And, worse still, why the sirens and stat pages—sounds that had made her cringe for two years—now strangely drew her. They had even caused her to leave the safe haven of the office to wander across the hospital campus toward the doors of the emergency department, the setting of every single one of her nightmares—nightmares that had worsened in the past week.

  She’d been telling herself it was only normal to want to check on Inez. See how she seemed now that she was receiving employee counseling. Or because of the camaraderie she’d begun to feel with Erin. Or, very likely, her concern after hearing that the staff had dealt with another near drowning. In fact, Claire almost convinced herself that all those reasons were true and that every instinct was selfless and purely professional. Until yesterday when she’d caught a glimpse of a familiar pair of shoulders beneath a head of curly dark hair. Her knees went so weak so fast that she could barely make it back to the safety of her office. That combination—Logan Caldwell and the ER—would be her undoing; she’d chain herself to her desk if that’s what it took to avoid them.

  Claire leaned down to grab her purse. The cleanup crew would take down the booth. It was obvious she wasn’t going to hand out any more nursing recruitment brochures. A smile teased her lips. Everybody who had a life was probably out laughing or dancing.

  She could still get in a nice, long run before it got dark. Maybe throw some chicken on the mini grill to share with Smokey. Claire sighed; right, like he wouldn’t just drag it under the table and growl at her. At least her parents would be glad to hear from her. She’d give them a call later and hear the newest list of reasons why she should move to Phoenix. Frankly, right now cactus sounded pretty good.

  “Hey, Educator.”

  Claire jumped at the voice, her heart climbing toward her throat as she looked up.

  Logan was wearing Levi’s with a Western belt, boots, and a well-worn red Henley. The shirt had faded to a deep rose color and was open at the neck, its sleeves pushed up his tanned forearms. His dark curls were windblown and backlit by the sun as he walked toward her.

  “Sorry,” he said, coming to a stop in front of her. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” A slow smile spread across his face as he glanced at the poster and stacks of brochures. He chuckled, the familiar crinkles appearing beside his eyes. “Good. Recruit away. Don’t let me stop you. I’m short-staffed.”

  Claire’s face warmed as she stood, feeling once again small beside him. Her heart was racing as she opened her mouth, scared silly she was going to bleat like one of the chaplain’s therapeutic sheep. What’s he doing here? “I . . . um . . .” Claire stopped, grateful for the reprieve when Logan raised his palm.

  “Wait,” he said, all the teasing gone from his voice. “I’m here because I owe you an apology, Claire.”

  Her skin prickled as she remembered his undelivered note. And I owe him an afternoon? She found herself staring at his lips, realizing this was the first time he’d ever said her name. It made her feel ridiculously giddy.

  “I acted like a real idiot,” Logan explained. “A few days ago, after the debriefing. I’m sorry.”

  She wasn’t sure what to say, but the look on his face, like a little boy in trouble, made her smile. Goliath disarmed? Claire tried not to laugh and struggled to resist a crazy urge to hug him.

  She was rescued from the impulse when a loudspeaker squawked, a recital of the team roping times and a reminder about the evening’s dance.

  The Cajun band resumed, and Logan raised his voice to be heard. “So anyway, I want to make it up to you.” He nodded like he was coaching her answer and then stepped closer, tilting his head to look down into her face. He swallowed.

  Claire breathed in a trace of woodsy cologne and soap. Her rational mind warred with her senses . . . and lost.

  “Well?” he whispered.

  “Fine,” she said, taking a step backward. She crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “What are you offering? Willie Nelson and pizza?”

  Logan laughed. “No. Flowers. I’m giving you Daffodil Hill.”

  +++

  Claire’s stride lengthened, calves stretching as her short boots navigated the leaf-strewn, red clay trail. Crisp pine air and dappled April sunshine. It was the perfect escape if it weren’t for her stupidity and the resulting effect that right behind her was—oh, boy.

  “Hey.” Logan grasped Claire’s elbow from behind, his fingers sinking softly into the thin cotton poncho she’d thrown on at the last minute. He was breathless, but he smiled as she slowed her pace and turned to look at him. “Whoa, there.” He shifted his backpack over his shoulder as he caught up with her. “I’m thinking that the daffodils aren’t going anywhere. Bulbs, right? Stuck in the dirt?” He fell into step beside her. “You’ve been covering ground like a gazelle since we left my Jeep. Are you trying to lose me?”

  “I . . . of course not.” Sure she was, and the only thing that could have made her more panicky was if he’d brought the motorcycle, forcing her to ride twelve curvy miles up Highway 49, hanging on to him for dear life. Could have happened. Easily. Why in the world had she agreed to come? She wasn’t good at this. Claire forced a smile, avoiding his eyes as they neared the trail’s end. The hand-carved sign ahead read, McLaughlin Farm 1887, Daffodil Hill. “I’m just anxious to see them, I guess. I mean, four acres of flowers and—oh, Logan, look!”

  Claire stopped at the end of the trail, grabbing his arm without thinking. Her breath caught and her eyes widened, transfixed by an endless sea of green and yellow and white. Blossoms, some delicate, some buttery bold with orange centers, fluted like natur
e’s champagne glasses, rose tiptoe on slender stalks just high enough to dance with the breeze. She faced Logan, speechless.

  “Three hundred thousand of them, I heard,” Logan whispered like he was in church. “Hundreds of varieties.” He gazed at Claire, his expression as hopeful as a boy presenting a homemade gift. “You’re happy I brought you?”

  “Oh yes,” she answered, letting go of his arm and at the same moment wrestling another impulse to hug him. “Thank you.” She blinked, suddenly horrified that she might actually cry as she remembered the dusty silk flowers on her brother’s table, a failed attempt to bring sunshine into that grief-darkened space. The sight of these real blooms—the hopeful life in them—was almost more than she could bear. Claire smiled at Logan despite the ache in her throat. “I don’t think you could have done anything nicer.”

  He touched the tip of her nose and winked. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

  They wandered the grounds for nearly an hour, dizzied by hill after hill of daffodils nestled amid weathered outbuildings and rusty farm equipment. They shook their heads at the thought of the owners rolling out this amazing carpet of blooms for decades, free of charge, just for the love of it.

  Finally Logan shooed away a trio of speckled chickens and plunked himself down on the grass to rummage through his backpack. “If we don’t eat this,” he said, gesturing for Claire to join him, “I’m going to throw my back out from lugging it.”

  She knelt, disarmed by the man despite her lingering misgivings. After all, he opposed what she’d done for his department and saw no value in procedures set up to protect his staff from the effects of stress. McSnarly. It still suited him.

  Claire settled on the grass, hiding a smirk as she remembered an old adage. How did that go? “When you sup with the devil . . . use a long spoon”? Logan had been called that too. “What’s in there?” she teased, watching him produce a small zippered cooler. “Buffalo wings, beer nuts . . . chewing tobacco?”

  “No,” Logan said, opening the lid and making a show of presenting it to her. He feigned a scowl. “I’m hurt you think so little of me.”

  I know nothing about you. Claire studied the artfully wrapped California rolls, little strips of ginger, and the creamy green mound of wasabi—all packaged for takeout by a Japanese restaurant she frequented whenever she could afford it. “Sushi? You brought sushi to a rodeo?”

  “I heard you liked it,” he said as he produced two glass bottles of spring water from the depths of his pack. “Besides, this isn’t a rodeo. It’s a date.”

  Date. Claire’s face flushed. And there was no way that Logan could have missed the reaction.

  He shrugged, his voice graciously casual. “But I’m afraid you’re going to have to deal with paper plates. And since I didn’t think of something as civilized as a tablecloth, you’ll need to find a spot without chicken droppings to sit.” He handed her the California rolls, then busied himself with uncapping the drinks.

  Claire’s lips sank into the cool, sweet combination of rice, avocado, and crab, and she followed it with a sip of the lemon-infused water he set in front of her. Why was she so nervous? She shut her eyes for a moment, less in appreciation of the food and more because she knew the answer to the question. She was nervous because she hadn’t been on a date in years. Two years. She groaned, then raised her brows so Logan would think it was inspired by his sushi. “Mmm. Wonderful.”

  The awful fact was, the last date Claire could remember was with one of Kevin’s buddies—a gangly, sad-eyed engine company volunteer. He’d taken Claire to her brother’s favorite burger dive about a month after the funeral, then drove her home early after he broke down over his order of onion rings. Grief date. And—sad but true—way more than she’d even wanted. Then and since. It felt like everything inside her that believed in love and happy endings had died along with her brother that awful day in the trauma room. A happy ending was what Kevin and Gayle were supposed to have.

  “So,” Logan said, lowering his drink, “why nursing education?”

  “Oh, I . . .” Claire hesitated, guarding her words so casual picnic conversation wouldn’t turn into painful revelation. She took a sip of water before continuing. “I guess I saw enough of how the nursing shortage is compromising patient care that I wanted to help do something about the quality. To help improve what we have left. A smaller but mightier nursing force?”

  Logan laughed softly. “No-brainer. Just clone Erin and Sarah.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t mind having a dozen of them; nothing I throw at those women rattles them. Not too many nurses like that.”

  She stiffened, words tumbling out before she could stop them. “Why? Because most of us are weak links?”

  “What?” He blinked, obviously stunned by the sharpness of her tone. “No, I wasn’t saying—”

  “Yes, you did,” Claire insisted. “Or at least that’s what you implied the first day I met you in ER.” Her brows furrowed, remembering their prickly conversation at little Jamie’s bedside. “You said if your staff was forced to go through the CISM debriefing—” she narrowed her eyes, mimicking his words—“and ‘explore their feelings,’ they would become weak links.” Like I was after Kevin’s death?

  She pushed the thought down and continued, fueled by a confusing new anger that prodded her mercilessly. “Why are you fighting against your staff instead of for them? You’re blessed with incredible nurses like Erin and Sarah and with good-hearted people like Inez Vega, and you don’t value them enough to care about their well-being and to . . .” She trailed off as she recalled what Erin said about the nurses in Reno and the complaints against him there. Maybe he didn’t care.

  “Of course I do.” Logan set his plate down and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “It’s just that I don’t put much stock in counseling.” He raised his palm before she could respond, his eyes holding hers for a moment as if he was deciding what he wanted to say. “Because I did that once. With my wife. Back when our marriage was in trouble a few years ago. Didn’t work. She left me.”

  “I . . .” Claire’s throat constricted, and she was instantly sorry. She’d seen a flicker of pain in his eyes. What could she say?

  “Hey, long time ago,” he said, dredging up a smile. “Everybody’s fine now. No condolences required.” The rascal gleam came back into his eyes. “Nor applause for the good sense of my ex.”

  Claire smiled, feeling more comfortable again.

  “Look,” Logan explained, “I care about my staff. I’m willing to do whatever I can to keep my team functioning on all cylinders. But counseling . . . count me out.” He raised his water bottle like he was making a toast. “So, here’s to agreeing to disagree?”

  Claire lifted her bottle toward his. “Done.” She pulled her bottle back a few inches before he could clink it. “However, ‘functioning on all cylinders’—though it has a certain automotive sense of poetry—doesn’t quite do it for me. I was going more for happy team.”

  He laughed and reached forward until their bottles were a hairbreadth apart again. “I thought I was doing pretty well today,” he said, glancing back toward the masses of blooms. “Even you looked happy for a minute there, Educator.”

  Even me?

  Logan leaned nearer, his gaze holding hers for a breath-catching moment, and Claire saw that there were flecks of gold in his eyes like the sparkle of treasure in some clear California stream. She could feel the warmth of his skin, smell the soapy clean scent of it, and see the soft texture of his lips. She wondered what it might be like to . . . “Cheers, then!” she said much too loudly, clinking her water sharply against Logan’s, then scooted backward so fast that she crashed into the chicken pecking at her abandoned sushi. It squawked furiously and scurried off . . . almost as fast as Claire wanted to.

  Logan was silent and she didn’t dare look back at him. She busied herself with retrieving the sushi, hoping to hide her blushing face. She was a fool to have come here today. She hadn’t had enough sleep to make rational deci
sions. Obviously. Or why else would she go off into the woods with a man she barely knew, probably didn’t even actually like, and then start imagining what it would be like to . . .

  “I wasn’t trying to kiss you,” he said, breaking the silence.

  Oh, Lord, help me. “What? Oh . . . I wasn’t thinking that.” Claire forced herself to look at him, to stop panicking. He was a doctor, not a mind reader.

  “You were . . . You sat on a chicken.”

  “I . . . well . . .” Claire sputtered helplessly for a moment and then struggled futilely against a surge of laughter.

  “Frankly,” Logan said, watching her laugh, “I’m insulted by that. Traumatized maybe. Yes.” His voice faltered, slowly dissolving into deep laughter that blended with hers. “I might . . . need . . . counseling.”

  She threw the sushi. He ducked.

  They laughed together for a few more moments. When the silence came back, it was still awkward to Claire but different somehow. She stood and hugged her poncho around herself as the afternoon breeze rustled the pines around them. Somewhere in the distance, there was the tinkling laughter of children. A dog barked.

  “Not that I didn’t want to kiss you,” Logan said barely above a whisper. His eyes were serious, but he made no attempt to move toward her. “Just wanted that on the record.” He glanced down at his watch. “And now it looks like I should get you back to the fairgrounds.”

  Thank heaven.

  He sighed like he was about to ask something to which he already knew the answer. “And maybe convince you to stick around for the band. A little country two-stepping? I’m not very good, but . . .”

  “No, I’d better not,” Claire said in a rush. “I’ve got some things to do before work tomorrow.”

  “I thought so,” he said, finally crossing the short distance to stand in front of her. “You’ll be in the education department, and I’ll be way over in the ER.”

  “Right,” she said, telling herself it was so much better that way. That it was the only way it could be. “But I want to thank you for my daffodils. Seeing them today meant more than you can know.” Ever, ever know. A lump rose in her throat without warning, and this time Claire was helpless to resist hugging him.