Claire brushed the child’s flaxen hair from his forehead, and her hand came away sickly damp. Jamie leaned forward to support himself on both little arms, the flesh around his ribs and over his breastbone retracting with each fish-out-of-water breath. His nostrils flared wide with the effort, and his lips were ashen.
“His heart rate’s dropped from 160 to 90 . . . 86 now,” she reported. Slowing pulse—bradycardia—from impending respiratory failure. We could lose him. I can’t do this again.
Logan frowned and glanced at Glenda, the nurse-practitioner, and then back at Claire. “You’ve given steroids?”
“Prednisone syrup. But he vomited, so I’m not sure he got the full dose.” Claire turned toward the door at the sound of Erin’s voice. Behind her were a trio of respiratory therapists and Sarah.
Logan’s brows furrowed for a split second before he nodded. “Let’s get him to the ER. I need to be ready to tube this kid. He’s tiring.”
Claire’s throat tightened, imagining Jamie on a ventilator with an endotracheal tube down his throat and the terror that would bring his mother. Carly was in a room upstairs. Had they told her there were problems yet?
Logan pressed a fingertip gently into Jamie’s forearm and watched the skin color blanch white and return sluggishly to normal, another indication his condition was worsening. “I’d like to get an IV in, though. We’ll need it for steroids.” His eyes met Claire’s. “You want to pop one in before we move? He’s looking dry, and if his veins collapse . . .”
Collapse. Logan’s voice and the familiar order yanked Claire across the span of two years and back to the Sacramento trauma room. The words from her nightmares filled her ears, her own voice, that horrible day. “His veins are collapsed, Doctor. I can’t get the line in. Oh, please get someone else. . . . I can’t do this! My brother’s dying—don’t let my brother die!” Claire’s legs weakened and the walls closed in, suffocating her like she was trapped in a smoke-filled room. She saw it all clearly again: her brother’s eyes, lashes singed, staring helplessly up at her from the gurney as she reknotted the tourniquet around his blackened and blistered arm and tried and tried. No, stop this.
Claire nodded at Logan. “I’ve . . . got it,” she whispered, reaching for a tourniquet as Jamie’s head began to wobble and nod behind his nebulizer mask. The wheezing continued but his respiratory effort grew weaker, his reddening eyes trying to focus as drowsiness overpowered his anxiety. Ominous signs. Don’t panic. Help him. She forced her hand to steady and reached for the tray with iodine swabs, tape, and needle sets. She’d been very good at this once. She could do it again; she had to.
“No. Wait, Claire.” Erin hurried forward and released the brake on the gurney. “Let’s move him, Logan,” she said, gesturing for the respiratory therapist to switch the oxygen to a portable tank. “I’ve got everything set up in the ER; IV therapy’s there too. It’ll just take a minute to get him there. And we can let the clinic staff get back to their other patients.”
“Good point,” he agreed. “Let’s roll.”
Claire released a sigh and helped prepare for Jamie’s quick transport down the short corridor to ER. She met Logan’s eyes for an instant before he marched away but could read nothing in them. His team followed, closing in like soldiers in formation; then they all disappeared out the door.
She stood alone in the littered exam room, wondering at her sudden jumble of emotions. Strangely, part of her wanted to follow Logan and be part of the team working to save Jamie, and yet . . . She picked up the discarded tourniquet and frowned. She’d nearly panicked over the thought of starting an IV, a skill that had been second nature before. Had Logan noticed her moment of hesitation? Had the others? Was that why Erin interrupted?
Claire stretched the tourniquet tight and let one end go, feeling the latex strip snap sharply against her wrist. It stung far less than a disturbing new suspicion: Am I a weak link? Tears filled her eyes, and she wiped them away before returning to the clinic’s nursing station. Two more hours and she’d be out of here.
Claire waited an hour before peeking into the ER’s code room, listening first from the doorway and expecting to hear the mechanical whoosh of a ventilator. But when she parted the curtain, she was amazed to see Jamie smiling. With his mom in a wheelchair beside him and flanked by two pediatric nurses, he was holding a lime green Popsicle and sitting cross-legged on the gurney like a prince holding court. If it weren’t for the tethers of the oxygen tubing and an IV, Claire was certain he’d be toddling out the door to visit with the ER staff. His cheeks were pink, his breathing nearly normal, and—thank you, God—his eyes bright and animated. He waved at Claire just as Erin appeared by her side.
“The third treatment turned him around,” Erin explained, “along with the IV steroid. We’re going to send him back upstairs to pediatrics in about an hour.”
Claire blinked quickly before tears could well. Goose bumps rose. How could she have forgotten how good this kind of moment felt? So amazingly good.
Erin raised her hand in a high five and kept nodding until Claire joined palms with her.
“And we’re thinking this team’s more than ready for a little celebration,” Erin said with a smile.
“Celebration?”
Erin nodded. “Tonight’s Denim and Diamonds Night at the fair. It’s that family event, the benefit for Sierra Children’s Services. They’ve got it all fixed up with a root beer bar, fake cowboy shoot-outs, and someone said the chaplain and his wife are teaching country-western dance lessons. I bought a few extra tickets, so now we’ve decided to go as a group. Come with us, okay? My treat. We’ll dress up like cowgirls, make fools of ourselves on the dance floor, and eat way too many nachos. Maybe even ride the mechanical bull.” She winked. “After today, I’d say it’s just what the doctor ordered.”
Doctor. Claire glanced around the department. Where was Logan?
“So, how about I stop by and get you around six thirty? C’mon. I think Sarah’s coming and Glenda. Maybe even Inez.” Erin rolled her eyes. “Logan never comes to these social things, but who needs him anyway?”
But he came to the rodeo. To see me. Claire’s face warmed, and she laughed to cover it. She started to make some excuse about going for a run, getting home to feed Smokey, then turned as she heard a boyish squeal in the code room followed by cough-peppered giggles. Jamie was batting a SpongeBob balloon and laughing. A boy who an hour earlier could have been taking his last breaths was now embracing life. Just for tonight, Claire needed to feel that way too. For the first time in a long time, being alone felt . . . lonely.
“Count me in,” she said, giving Erin a thumbs-up. She shook her head, remembering the chaplain’s advice: dancing and laughing. Looked like she was going to do it after all. Without Logan. But then he’d never been part of her plan, anyway. Erin was right. Who needed him?
+++
Logan hesitated outside the door of the 4-H pavilion housing the Denim and Diamonds fund-raiser event. He smiled; hopefully they’d relocated the livestock. He glanced down at his watch. Seven thirty and he’d just seen Erin standing in the gravel parking lot beside her boyfriend’s Corvette. They seemed deep in conversation. Though he didn’t really know Brad well, Logan was glad to see Erin having a little fun. From what he’d observed, most of Erin’s activities revolved around the hospital. That wasn’t much of a life. Of course, he was a fine one to point fingers—or give dating advice.
At any rate, it wasn’t the best time to ask her if Claire was here. Not even a smart idea in the first place, considering the hospital’s eager gossip mill. Logan grimaced, remembering how the painful stories of his divorce made the rounds in Reno, details morphing with each repetition like that grade school telephone game. Then he thought of Beckah’s wedding invitation lying still unanswered on his dresser at the condo. What did a guy give his ex-wife for a wedding gift? A gold medal for finding a better man?
But for tonight he’d simply be careful, or everyone at Sierra Mercy would
think he had a thing for the educator, and—whoa there! Logan moved back quickly as the door opened from the inside and Claire stepped out to stand in front of him. His breath caught and warmth flooded through him. She was gorgeous.
“Oh, sorry!” She looked into his face. “Logan?” Her eyes widened with recognition, long lashes blinking quickly.
“You’re leaving?” he asked, not caring if she could hear the regret in his voice. He didn’t want her to go, not unless it was with him.
Claire smiled, brushing her fingers through her hair, and he caught a whiff of her perfume. Kind of spicy and sweet. He suddenly wanted, more than he’d wanted anything in a very long time, to be close enough to smell it on her skin.
“Just a little cowboyed out, I guess.” Her gaze dropped and she chuckled, and Logan knew she was teasing him about his denim jacket, big-buckle Western belt, and tooled cowhide boots. In the distance, behind the doors, the band was playing Willie Nelson’s “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.”
“Cowboy-doctor,” he corrected, resisting the urge to take hold of her hand. All at once he needed to know how it would feel in his. “Big difference. Honest.”
She opened her mouth to speak, then hurried to move as the door opened and a trio of preteens barreled out, pelting each other with popcorn. They giggled apologies as Claire sidestepped to avoid them and stumbled in the process.
Logan reached out to take Claire’s arm, steadying her. He couldn’t let her go home. Stay with me. “Come back inside,” he said, hearing the plea in his voice.
Claire hesitated, and Logan remembered how she’d leaped away when he got too close at Daffodil Hill. She’d come within millimeters of squashing a chicken. He needed to be careful with this woman.
“Just for a little while. Let me buy you a root beer. Yeah.” He nodded, pleased that at least she’d begun to seem amused. “Consider it a mercy thing. For a man who wrestled a drunk and got called on the carpet by administration all in the same day.”
“Hmmm.” Claire peered at him out of the corner of her eye.
Logan could tell she still wasn’t convinced. He’d give it another shot. “Okay, a celebration then. For two people who saved Jamie’s life today.”
Her brows drew together for a moment, almost as if his words were troubling somehow, but then she smiled and he knew he’d finally said the right thing.
Behind them, through a crack in the door, he heard the band begin a rendition of Patsy Cline’s “Crazy.” Very appropriate, considering his current state of mind. Logan grinned at Claire and waited.
“Okay,” she said slowly, taking a step toward the door. “I think I can deal with one more mug of root beer, Doctor. For that kind of celebration.”
Logan opened the door, and Claire led the way inside and walked toward the tables. He smiled with appreciation. She couldn’t know it, but the privilege of following her was something to be celebrated in itself. She wore a lace-trimmed T-shirt above trim black jeans, a silver concho belt, and soft leather boots. Her glossy dark hair brushed her shoulders with each subtle sway of her stride.
He shook his head. Rumor mill or not, the truth was he did have a thing for this educator. Now what?
Chapter Seven
Erin sighed. She should’ve taken her chances on the mechanical bull; that situation ended in eight seconds or less. You either vaulted off the top with a big “Yahoo!” or fell flat on your behind. A blessing compared to endlessly second-guessing relationships.
She crossed her arms and rubbed the sleeves of her rhinestone-studded Western shirt, fighting shivers that had nothing to do with the night air. Things were so new with Brad. How could she make him understand her responsibility to the ER crew? Hospital teams were a lot like a family; not everyone understood that kind of closeness. But it was vital. Especially after the shifts they’d had lately.
Brad leaned against his car, a festive swag of overhead bulbs splashing color like pirates’ jewels over his close-cropped blond hair and undeniably handsome features. A boyish smile teased his lips. “So, are you coming with me or going back in there for more root beer?”
“I reminded you about this fund-raiser. You didn’t want to come, but if you’ve changed your mind, I think they’re still selling tickets at the door.”
“No thanks,” Brad said. “And I don’t get why you need to be here.” He counted, bending his fingers back one by one: “Five work shifts this week, an extra hour every day to put that hospital prayer group together, half your day off in a disaster meeting, and . . .”
Bible study class? Erin’s jaw tensed, wondering if he’d include something so important to her in his list. She’d heard it often enough from previous boyfriends, hadn’t she? Still, she’d met Brad at church. Surely he could understand. But they’d been dating barely three months now, hardly time to know each other. Could she really expect him to honor what was important to her?
Before she could find words, Brad stepped forward and drew Erin to him. His arms closed around her until her cheek lay against his shirtfront. She breathed in scents of shampoo and soap. “Look,” he said, nestling his chin against her hair, “I’m only trying to figure out where I fit in, you know?”
He stepped back, holding her away so he could look into her eyes. “I understand work pressures. I may not be saving lives at the dealership, but I put in plenty of long hours. Especially on the days my uncle’s hanging around, trust me. Because it’s a family business doesn’t mean they make it easy for me.” He touched a fingertip to Erin’s chin. “But I also know how to play. And what I’m saying is, I want you to come play with me. That’s all.” Dimples appeared as his smile widened into the grin that would set hearts aflutter in a hefty percentage of the nurses at Sierra Mercy. “Come on. What’s the point of living an hour from Tahoe if you don’t go enjoy it?”
“The lake? Tonight?” Erin considered the ER group. How many of them had come? Brad was asking her to take off when it was her idea to get everyone together in the first place? She’d given Claire a ride.
“Yes!” Brad’s eyes glittered. “We could make it there by ten, catch a late show at South Shore, and maybe hit the seafood buffet.” He stroked his thumb gently along her jaw. “I know you don’t gamble, but you could browse the gift shop for a few minutes while I duck into the casino and roll the dice. Maybe I’ll win some cash for that charity of yours. Wouldn’t you like that?”
Cash. Erin’s stomach lurched and she looked down, scraping the toe of her boot in the gravel. She still hadn’t found the Little Nugget Victim Fund envelope. The donations for Jamie and his mother. She hadn’t admitted it to anyone at the ER yet, let alone Brad. It was probably not a great idea to tell a guy you’re just getting to know that you can’t be trusted with money. She’d have to use part of her paycheck to reimburse the cash.
Brad took hold of her hand. “In case you’re worrying, I’m not making moves to get you to stay overnight. I’ll drive you back home. Scout’s honor.” He raised two fingers and grinned. “So that’s the plan. What do you say?”
“I don’t know. It was my idea to put this evening together. My crew’s been having a tough time lately. . . .”
“So am I.” Brad’s smile vanished. “Ever since I started dating a woman who can’t make time for me. Where do I fit in? Tell me that.”
What was that, an ultimatum? Erin’s teeth clenched as she fought a familiar urge to turn and walk away. The same way she had in so many other relationships. But then she’d promised herself she wouldn’t do that this time. That she’d try harder to make it work and not be so judgmental. She took a slow breath, telling herself that plenty of women would find this dilemma flattering and wouldn’t think Brad’s spontaneous—if ill-timed—offer of fun was . . . what? A red flag that he shouldn’t be trusted? A sign he was too slick, too smooth, insincere—destined to hurt her, just like . . . ? Am I ever going to trust any man?
“Brad, it’s just that . . .” Erin glanced toward the doorway to the Denim and Diamonds event in time
to see Claire step inside. Followed by . . . Her eyes widened. That’s Logan.
+++
Claire walked under strings of colored lights and across sawdust-strewn planking, passing the foolhardy volunteers for the mechanical bull and entire families thumping their boots to the chaplain’s finale of the Boot Scootin’ Boogie lesson. She had absolutely no idea where she was going or, for that matter, even why she’d accepted this invitation. The only thing she felt certain of was that Logan Caldwell’s eyes were glued to her back. Which gave a whole new meaning to Merlene Hibbert’s cryptic warning, “I’d watch my back if I were you.” Claire chuckled, then grew thoughtful. Logan said tonight was a celebration. “For two people who saved Jamie’s life.”
She tensed, remembering her anxiety during the toddler’s emergency, how nearly impossible it was to keep her hands from trembling. And the way the flashback about Kevin caused her to hesitate over starting Jamie’s IV. When, in a critical moment, she could have stalled out. Claire’s stomach sank. Was that why she’d agreed to come inside with Logan, to find out for sure if he’d noticed her moment of hesitancy?
“How about over there?” Logan asked, stepping up beside her and pointing at a couple of empty chairs.
Squeals of delight and laughter rose from children gathered at the air rifle shooting gallery and whirling cotton candy machine just beyond.
“Um . . . sure,” she said, fighting a new wave of ridiculous paranoia. If Logan had a problem with a nurse’s work, everyone knew it—stat. He wouldn’t be offering a critique tonight. Just a silly root beer. And nothing more. She reached the table and pulled out a chair when Logan stopped her.
“Whoa, cowgirl.” He nodded toward the dance floor. “They’re starting a two-step. C’mon.”
“What . . . you mean, dance?” Claire scanned the square of wooden planking crowded with dancers of all ages—a father with a daughter in his arms, her tiny pink boots dangling; two elderly women in cowboy hats, laughing as one gingerly twirled the other; a young couple wearing matching Western shirts. The band—in hospital scrubs and cowboy hats and made up of three OR techs, an anesthesiologist, and the chief of pediatrics—belted out a familiar and lively Alan Jackson tune. Claire looked helplessly at Logan. “I don’t know. . . .”
Critical Care: 1 (Mercy Hospital) Page 8
