Critical Care: 1 (Mercy Hospital)

by Candace Calvert

  “No. I’m fine now,” Claire said, finding her voice somehow.

  He was silent for several seconds as his fingers lingered on the jacket’s collar, and she held her breath, very aware of how close his face was to hers. When he finally broke the silence, Logan’s whisper warmed her skin. “What about you? What are you afraid of, Educator?”

  Claire’s heart leaped to her throat. I’m afraid I want to kiss you.

  +++

  Logan watched Claire’s eyes and realized what she was most afraid of right now was him. And since he didn’t want that, he let his hands fall to his side. By the time he’d taken a step away, she managed a laugh and a glib answer to his question.

  “Afraid of? Only that I’ve let your coffee get cold. Would you like some more?”

  “Sure, thanks,” he said, knowing he’d drink fifty of those awkwardly small cups of coffee and even pet the one-eared psycho cat if it meant he could stay here longer. Learn more about this woman.

  “Coming up.” She smiled and then walked—the foolish sandals making slapping noises against the soles of her feet—to where she’d set the coffee carafe on a table near the door.

  He watched, staggered by how beautiful she looked dwarfed in his faded jean jacket, the loose strands of hair escaping the clip to trail down over her shoulders. And how those amazing eyes still looked a little anxious. It took everything Logan had in him not to rush forward and take her in his arms. But instead he took the coffee and was grateful she was back beside him at the railing.

  He’d have to be careful, watch what he said, and move slowly with this woman. She was different. Logan shook his head. When had he ever worried about these kinds of things before? When hadn’t he simply rushed ahead full throttle right on down the road? A deep chuckle escaped his lips as he set his cup down on the redwood table.

  “What?” Claire asked. “What’s so funny?”

  “Uh . . .” Careful, slow. Safe subjects. “Nothing really.” Logan swept his arm wide, glancing around the deck. “I was only thinking that I wouldn’t expect you to have a cabin way out here in the woods. I don’t meet too many pioneer women.” He lifted his brows. “So, how’d you and crazy Smokey end up with this place?”

  He waited, and when the silence stretched longer and longer, his smile faltered. What did I say? What’s wrong?

  Claire’s pupils widened and she opened her mouth but said nothing, studying Logan’s face for a moment as if trying to make some important decision. He had a gut-level feeling that somehow he’d made a giant mistake.

  Claire’s voice finally emerged in a raw whisper, confirming Logan’s fear. “It’s my brother’s house,” she explained, pain flooding into her eyes. “He died and left it to me.”

  Logan’s throat constricted. Her brother? The photos of the young firefighter on the mantel rushed to his mind. Then, with sickening clarity, he remembered what Sarah told him. How Claire had worked at the Sacramento trauma center. That she’d quit after a family member was injured.

  “Kevin was a firefighter,” Claire continued, her voice sounding hollow and faraway. “He was killed in that big warehouse fire two years ago. In Sacramento.” She looked down at her hands, then back into his eyes, holding his gaze without blinking.

  What could he say? He wanted to wrap his arms around Claire, but would she be okay with that? He settled for taking hold of her hand. She didn’t pull away.

  Logan brushed his thumb across the top of her hand and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Claire. I heard how bad that fire was. And getting a call saying someone in your family—”

  “I didn’t get a call. I was there.” She swallowed and her eyes filled with tears. She stared hard at Logan, nodding to make her point. “I was working in the ER when Kevin came in.” Her breath shuddered and a tear slid down her cheek.

  In an instant, Logan’s arms were around her.

  +++

  Erin reread Brad’s scrawl on the square of paper:

  Decided not to pressure you. Went to the lake by myself. Call you tomorrow.

  Love,

  B.

  P.S. Wish me luck. You’ll get a donation for that charity.

  She frowned, not sure which she felt more, anger or relief. After all, she hadn’t wanted to go. She couldn’t stand anything to do with gambling; Brad knew that. Just the way he knew she’d promised to attend tonight’s fund-raiser. But he’d seemed so upset, as if he expected her to drop everything and leave her friends in the lurch. And she’d done it, agreeing to meet him here at her apartment. She’d rehearsed it all during the drive back from the fairgrounds, practicing out loud how she’d say that relationships needed compromise. That while she couldn’t ignore work responsibilities, she understood it was important to spend time together. Then she’d found his note. From a dealership-logo memo pad and stuck to her front door with a piece of duct tape. Leaving her confused, more than a bit bugged . . . and lonely. Am I ever going to get this right?

  Erin sighed. She’d glove up and go a few rounds with the vinyl speed bag hanging from the ceiling—get her heart rate up, sweat a little. That would help.

  As Erin crumpled Brad’s note and pitched it into the plaid wastebasket beside her computer desk, she tried to forget his mollifying offer to donate his Tahoe winnings. To the Little Nugget Victim Fund. Jamie and his mother. She reached for her checkbook, ran her finger down its balance column, and gritted her teeth. She could do it. Barely. The cash donations had been $407.46. If she waited until next month to buy new tires for the Subaru, canceled her next two hair appointments, and stayed well beyond sniffing distance from Starbucks . . . yes, doable. She’d already swallowed her pride and called the people who’d written checks. She’d reimburse their stop payment fees, put her own check into the Victim Fund account at the bank, and then everything would be square again for the money that had been lost.

  Or stolen? The question hissed in her head. How could she have lost that envelope? She didn’t lose things; she hadn’t even lost her front teeth until she was eight years old, for goodness’ sake. But then, the only other explanation was making her completely crazy. Causing her to look at the hospital staff differently and wonder about that newly hired janitor; did he get paid enough to afford the sports shoes she’d seen him wearing yesterday? Hadn’t that elderly volunteer with the batwing eyebrows been watching soap operas in the nurses’ lounge last week?

  But worst of all—so unforgivably bad—was when suspicion reared its ugly head this morning, presenting those very same words of doubt. At Faith QD. She’d joined hands with Inez to pray, then suddenly began trying to remember who had been there the day she’d had the envelope in her purse. Lost or stolen?

  No. Erin closed her checkbook. She was putting the money back where it belonged. Any further questions regarding the how-who-why were in God’s hands. Besides, Erin had plenty of other things on her plate. Like scheduling interviews to replace the latest nurse Logan managed to drive off. She doubted Claire would agree to work in urgent care much longer, especially after that episode with Jamie’s asthma.

  Erin tugged at her lower lip, remembering the look in Claire’s eyes. She’d done everything fine, skillwise. But that look . . . Merlene Hibbert said Claire had plenty of ER experience. Why had she seemed so anxious?

  +++

  Logan managed to get a fire burning in the old copper fire pit after scouting around and producing paper, kindling, and matches like a lumberjack magician. He’d pulled a bench near so Claire could warm herself.

  She was grateful because, though the unexpected tears were gone, going back inside the cabin—her brother’s house—felt too raw. Too exposed. She couldn’t believe she’d told Logan about Kevin’s death. She hadn’t talked about it to anyone in two years. Not family, not friends, not even her pastor. But then it could have been far worse; she could have confessed her panic during that horrible day and every shift afterward. Proving she was exactly what Logan hated most. A weak link. Then suddenly she’d felt his arms around her
. Only for a few seconds, but it was so comforting.

  “Warm enough now?” he asked, poking at the fire one last time before sitting beside her.

  “I’m good,” she said, meaning it. She inhaled slowly, taking in the crisp night air scented with woodsmoke and pine. She was good as long as they didn’t have to talk about—

  “So,” Logan said, turning toward her, “after your brother . . . you decided to go into nursing education?”

  “Yes,” Claire answered, reminding herself that this subject, like her checklists marked with red ink, were familiar and safe. She met Logan’s eyes. “I’ve already interviewed for the full-time clinical educator position. Cross fingers, I’ll hear something soon.” She chuckled. “Beware of a woman with a spreadsheet and a master plan.”

  “You sound like Erin. She’s always coming up with these new ideas for rallying the staff, like an ER softball team and sponsoring that therapy dog.” He shook his head. “And now this prayer thing in the chapel.”

  This prayer thing?

  “You mean the God huddle?” Claire asked, hearing a hint of accusation in her voice. Same cynical guy. Don’t forget that.

  Logan laughed. “Oh, you heard. Okay, I’ll confess; I teased her. Hey, I can understand how trotting a Labrador retriever through the nursing home might be viewed as therapy. And I’ll tell anyone that Erin is the best charge nurse I’ve worked with. But asking the staff to come in early, just to hold hands in the chapel—”

  “You don’t believe in God?” Claire interrupted. She watched him react to the bluntness of her question and felt a quiver of anxiety, not sure if it was because she’d made Logan uncomfortable . . . or because his answer was so incredibly important to her.

  +++

  Logan felt sucker punched. Where did that question come from? He should’ve stayed home and hacked at the oak stump. He opened his mouth to speak, and his mind went blank. But for only a merciful second, only until Beckah’s face intruded in memory. Along with her tearful voice: “Logan, where’s your faith?”

  “Yes. I mean, no. I believe in God, sure. It’s just that . . .” Logan hesitated, recalling the photos on Claire’s mantel, the metal cross draped over the picture of her brother. And the Scripture neatly stitched on fabric inside that other frame. She was religious. Another reason to be careful. Land mines everywhere. He shrugged. “It’s just that I don’t hold much stock in prayers. I’ll be honest; I’m not convinced God even hears them, let alone answers them.”

  Claire glanced toward the fire and was silent, and Logan sensed that though they sat side by side, the gap between them had stretched miles beyond that too-brief moment he’d held her close. He knew the answer he’d just given Claire—gave Beckah, too—was generic, pat, and evasive.

  Logan picked up the fireplace poker, listened to the flames crackle for a few seconds, and cleared his throat. Even so, his voice emerged husky and halting. “I . . . used to pray.” He leaned forward to prod a log with the poker. The motion released sparks that glittered in the darkness and then quickly disappeared. “When I was a kid, I was always praying. You know, ‘Bless Daddy, my two little brothers, and that old lady on the next block who gives out Hershey bars for trick or treat.’ But mostly I prayed about my mother. That she’d stop drinking so much, wouldn’t fight with my dad, that she’d come to parents’ night at school . . . and stop sitting outside in the dark in men’s cars.”

  He tried to swallow an age-old lump. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Claire watching him. “After she left us—when I was twelve—I prayed every day she’d come back. When she didn’t, I prayed every weekend that she’d call. I moved on to praying before I checked the mailbox on everybody’s birthday.” He swallowed again. “I tore this picture of Jesus holding a lamb out of a library book at school, smuggled it home in my lunch box, and hid it under my pillow. Kept it there until the lamb wore away from holding on to it. I asked Jesus to help my dad stop crying, to help me make my brothers believe she was coming back . . .” He turned to Claire. “Finally I stopped praying.”

  It occurred to Logan to shut up, but for some reason he couldn’t. He saw Claire’s brows draw together and felt her lean closer as she listened. His voice lowered to a near whisper. “A week before my fifteenth birthday, my dad and I drove to Las Vegas to identify a Jane Doe at the coroner’s office. At the last minute, my father couldn’t look. So I did.” Logan’s jaw tensed, and he closed his eyes for a second to buffer the memory. “They estimated my mother was doing ninety miles an hour when she hit a highway abutment.”

  When his gaze met Claire’s, he saw that her eyes were glistening with tears. He struggled against a rush of guilt. Why didn’t I stop? After all she’d been through, the last thing she needed was to hear him recite a list of childhood miseries. Then Logan’s breath caught as Claire flung her arms around his neck, burrowing her head against his chest. She was warm and smelled faintly of coffee and coconut cookies.

  “Logan.” Her soft lips moved against the hollow of his neck as she whispered, “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “Hey, hey. It’s okay.” He nestled his face against her hair, breathing in the sweet scent of it, aware once more of that incredible sense of rightness and peace that came with having her in his arms. “And I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have brought all that up. It was a long time ago, and—” He stopped as she leaned away, letting her arms slip from his neck. She looked at him, the firelight reflecting gold against the gray of her eyes. Her expression made his heart ache.

  “I’m saying I understand. That I care.” She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his cheek.

  Before Claire could move away again, Logan tipped his head and gently kissed her.

  +++

  Sarah set the alarm beside her bed, synchronizing it with the one on her watch. Four thirty would give her plenty of time. She could wash her hair, iron her angel scrubs, grab a PowerBar, and be on the road to the hospital by five fifteen. She frowned. Five thirty if she decided she needed to scrub that wine stain on the kitchen tile one more time. It still seemed kind of pink; she’d be able to tell for sure in the daylight. But the point was, Sarah would be at the ER ahead of Erin—that wasn’t easy. The charge nurse put in plenty of hours beyond the time clock herself. But she knew Sarah liked to get there in plenty of time to make sure the department was properly stocked and the resuscitation equipment ready to go. Bad things happened in the blink of an eye. Little Jamie came to urgent care for a simple bandage change and ended up fighting for his life. What if they hadn’t been prepared? A mother could have lost her child.

  No. There was no room for error, no excuse for mistakes. Logan would be the first to agree with that. And since they were still relying on temporary nurses, he would be depending on Sarah more than ever. She wasn’t going to disappoint him. Sarah shut her eyes, willing the painful, intruding memory to pass. “You’re a disappointment, Sarah Lynne.”

  If she took the other half of that pill, maybe she’d sleep. After Emily’s birthday, she wouldn’t need them anymore. She would find a measure of peace again.

  Meanwhile, there was her work.

  Chapter Nine

  Smokey poked his head into the brisk dawn air and then yanked it back through the pet door like a turtle escaping into its shell. He turned toward Claire, black tail twitching and yellow eyes wide.

  “Not quite there yet, are you?” Claire set her coffee cup on the kitchen table next to her cream cheese bagel. She tapped the pages of a printed outline and sighed. “Trust me, big guy. I completely understand.” She grabbed her red pen and made a check mark alongside the words Interview for clinical educator position March 15. Then drew an asterisk beside the next entry: New educator to be announced at the April board meeting. It was the job Claire needed. Not quite there yet.

  She gazed through the glass door toward the deck, now rosy gold with early sun. So different from last night’s stars and firelight. One root beer, one dance, one coffee . . . one kiss. Completely unpla
nned. Claire’s face warmed. Logan Caldwell had kissed her. And I kissed him back. She still wasn’t certain how it all happened. She only knew that despite the fact that the kiss fit nowhere in her plans, the moment itself had seemed a natural progression. Had felt warm and wonderful and right. A moment shared with the man who’d given her a sea of daffodils, laughter and dancing after such a painful stretch of wilderness, and who somehow made her feel safe enough to talk about Kevin’s death. The man who’d shared a remnant of his painful past. Claire cringed at the image of Logan as a boy holding that secret picture of Jesus and praying for his mother to come home. He’d had to face the horrific pain, the helplessness, of finally finding her in that Nevada coroner’s office.

  Claire rubbed at her forehead, attempting to banish memories of Kevin lying in the Sacramento trauma room, his blistered lips and singed lashes, her own helplessness at being unable to ease his pain, save his life. Then her heartbeat filling her ears, beating her senseless as she panicked, screaming—

  She felt a brush of warm fur against her ankle. Smokey, curving his body against her. She reached down and stroked above the tuft of his missing ear. He leaned his head into her touch, butting against her outstretched palm. Claire shook her head, thinking again about the strangeness of a cat without a purr. And then it struck her. Of course it made sense. The raccoon had taken it, along with the ear.

  “I get it, Smokester,” Claire whispered, picking a bit from her bagel and offering it to him. She sipped her coffee and lifted the red pen. She added a handwritten line to the neatly printed column. Talk to Erin about staffing for the ER and urgent care. Offer to make calls to agencies for temporary nurses.

  She nodded decisively. Because working there myself is nowhere in my plan.

  Claire tightened the laces on her running shoes, took her dishes to the sink, and glanced at Kevin’s chrome-framed NFL wall clock. There was more than enough time for a three-mile run, her favorite opportunity to talk with God. Afterward she’d shower, change, and get to the education office early.