Critical Care: 1 (Mercy Hospital)

by Candace Calvert

  Claire leaned forward. And Beckah Caldwell? Where is she? Do you see her too?

  “That’s it for my immediate family.” Logan raised his brows, gesturing at her rapidly disappearing halibut sandwich. “Aha, we see yet another impressive thing about Claire Avery: her hearty—and completely feminine—appetite.”

  “True.” Claire chuckled. “I’m never going to be the woman who faints from skipping a meal. Like Sarah yesterday. In fact, people would accuse me of—”

  “Whoa. Back up.” Logan’s eyes clouded with concern. “What happened to Sarah?”

  +++

  Sarah glanced toward the doors of the nursery conference room and then continued checking the contents of the neonatal emergency crash cart. It was a perfect time to do it, with most of the nursing staff at their monthly meeting. This way she could be certain everything was in order and do it discreetly enough that the staff wouldn’t think she doubted their competence. There was no room for even the smallest error when a baby’s life was at stake. She could get this completed and buy a carton of yogurt from the cafeteria on her way back. So Erin wouldn’t go all mother hen again about skipping meals. She sighed. Not that yesterday’s near faint had been only about food. But she couldn’t let Erin know about the insomnia, the wine, and the sleeping pills.

  The pills—one at bedtime, then another half pill at 2 a.m.—were the reason she’d been late this morning. Late. For the first time since she’d started working at Sierra Mercy. Twenty-three minutes late because she’d slept through both of her alarms. It still made her sick to think about it. Erin had graciously brushed it off, but Sarah couldn’t stop the painful rush of what-ifs. What if someone had come in under CPR and the defibrillator failed? What if a baby started choking and the suction machine wasn’t connected properly? What if it was my fault? All of it?

  Sarah snapped the guide blade into the laryngoscope handle and watched its tiny bulb light, proving its readiness to aid in the insertion of an infant breathing tube. She repeated the process for all the blades and all the bulbs, then took one more look at the gauges on the oxygen tanks and nodded with satisfaction.

  After closing the last drawer of the crash cart, she stared at it for a moment, smiling. The rolling cart, red metal with half a dozen lockable drawers, was actually the same kind mechanics used, that Sarah’s father always used down at the body shop. She’d explained that to him once and he’d gotten a kick out of it, saying doctors could learn a thing or two from mechanics. He always joked that way, always had a ready smile and a hug and an encouraging word. Does he remember it’s almost his granddaughter’s birthday?

  She turned to look through the window of the nursery at the neat rows of infant carts. Their bundled occupants were in various states of wakefulness: some red-faced and squalling, some peaceful with lips puckering in their sleep, and some squinting at the overhead lights. All achingly precious. Each requiring infinite care and protection.

  Sarah checked her watch as she walked toward the elevators. She had time to get the yogurt and be back from her lunch break early. And then she’d stick around the ER another half hour or so after she clocked out tonight to make up for being late. She couldn’t let it happen ever again. Erin didn’t deserve that; she was too good of a charge nurse to be burdened with sloppy staff. Sarah would sleep better after Emily’s birthday passed. Meanwhile, she’d be careful with those pills. She wouldn’t be late again. She couldn’t let Logan down.

  +++

  “It’s been great,” Logan said, steering the Jeep into the grocery store parking lot where they’d arranged to meet this morning. He pulled in next to Claire’s SUV and left the engine running. “And I . . .” Don’t want to let you drive away. So why was he? Why was he letting her gather her things, sort her fishing gear from his, fumble with those rubber boots? “No, Claire. Don’t do that.”

  “What? Oh, are these your salmon eggs?” She looked up, lips parting and cheeks pink from a day in the sun.

  Logan’s heart thudded in his ears. Don’t go.

  Claire held up the jar of fluorescent orange bait. “Did I take yours by mistake?”

  “No,” Logan said, his voice sounding as breathless as it had when he’d clambered after her on that mountain trail early this morning. “I’m saying the only mistake is ending this day. I mean, hey, it’s not late—it’s barely six. We could . . .” He smiled foolishly, his mind a complete vacuum. “Let’s go do something else, okay?”

  Claire bit her lip, and Logan knew she was trying not to laugh at him. He waited, half expecting her to beg off and say she had to go buy Smokey’s toy or run a marathon before dark, that she’d already spent way too much time with him. But he had to try. Stay with me, Claire.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Where? Where would you take me?”

  The idea came to Logan as naturally as breathing, though it had never occurred to him to take any woman there before. Hadn’t wanted to. Until now.

  “To my land . . . my building site,” he said. “I want to show you the sunset.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Claire rested her palm on the sun-warmed granite boulder and gazed across the vista, awed by its beauty. Mountaintop after mountaintop brushed with late afternoon sunlight like molten gold, tree-dotted valleys of purple and indigo, scattered meadows of green, and the river slicing through the gorge below . . .

  She spread her arms wide and turned back. “It’s . . .” She shook her head helplessly, feeling a wave of dizziness. “I can’t even find the words.”

  Logan’s smile widened and spread to crinkle the edges of his eyes, and Claire sensed that her breathless attempt at words had been exactly what he’d hoped for.

  “Wait until you see the sunset. But first, let me show you this.” He held up a rolled sheet of paper. “My house plans.”

  They pulled camp chairs from the back of the Jeep, along with their jackets and the containers of coffee and oatmeal cookies they’d bought en route—treats Claire insisted on paying for this time. Then she followed Logan as he paced off the perimeters of his rooms and described in detail the solar heating system, the redwood and steel cable decks, a ceiling-high river rock fireplace, and even a future golden retriever—likely named Scout in honor of his first dog—who’d doze in front of it one day.

  Logan stopped and pointed skyward. “You can’t believe the stars I can see from here. I’m thinking of putting in a skylight, right up . . . there.” He looked at Claire, tapping the house plans. “We’re standing in the master bedroom.”

  “Oh.” Claire glanced away, fighting a teen-worthy blush and realizing that her wish to know more about this man couldn’t have come truer. Even if he hadn’t broached the subject of his past marriage, Logan was sharing something just as intimate—his future plans, his hopes, his dream dog . . . and bedroom skylight. Claire cleared her throat. “And I see that you also have a sizable oak stump in the middle of your floor.”

  “Tell me about it.” Logan groaned. “Are you as good with an ax as you are with a fishing pole?”

  They laughed and set their chairs side by side on what would one day be a deck, then dug into the cookies and coffee while waiting for the sunset. Claire leaned her head back, closing her eyes and thinking that this time with Logan, which had been penciled nowhere on her long list of plans, had been perfect. From the daffodils on the hood of the SUV last night to that ridiculous tussle with the trout, lunch in Tahoe . . . all of it. And there was nothing more she needed to hear about Logan or his past. It was enough to be sitting here close enough that their shoulders brushed, ready to share a sunset. Claire glanced at Logan out of the corner of her eye and saw his eyes were closed too and that his lips had curved into a half smile. Maybe he was thinking the same thing about their day.

  “Beckah would change everything about this house,” he said, opening his eyes.

  Huh? Claire’s breath stuck in her chest. What on earth was she supposed to say to that?

  Nothing apparently, since Logan continued without lo
oking her way. “My ex-wife,” he explained. “I can see it now. She’d have French doors, painted shutters, stained glass, and Victorian birdcages in the breakfast room.”

  “Your ex-wife . . . liked . . . birds?” Claire asked, knowing that the silly question would completely derail his train of thought. But she wanted to respond in a gentle way so as not to appear intrusive. No, that wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all. Claire nearly groaned at the irony. For days she’d been dying to know more about Beckah Caldwell. But now I don’t want him to talk about her. I don’t want to think of him ever having a wife.

  Logan laughed and turned toward Claire. “Ever step into a tub and find a pair of finches perched on the showerhead? It was bad enough we didn’t have a real shower and the showerhead was so low I had to stoop down to wash my hair, but . . .” His voice faded into a chuckle and he shook his head. “Yeah, you might say she has a thing for birds.”

  Has. Present tense. Because he still talks to her. Claire glanced at the mountains. Suddenly she wanted the sunset over and done with. So she could go home to Smokey and go to work tomorrow, then go on doing anything else but listening to Logan talk about—

  “Beckah and I are two different kinds of people,” Logan said, his expression growing serious. “And we didn’t want the same things out of life. I should have paid more attention to that.” He shrugged slightly and his shoulder moved against Claire’s. “If I had, we might not have gotten married.”

  “Um . . .” Claire reminded herself to breathe. Unfortunately she’d gotten exactly what she’d asked for in this awkward conversation. Logan wanted to talk about his ex-wife. So be it. “How long were you married?” she asked as casually as she could after taking a sip of her coffee.

  “Almost three years. Seemed shorter. Probably because I was working an insane number of hours. Commuting between hospitals in three different cities to pay down my student loans, studying for the Emergency Medicine Boards, and . . .” He sighed. “You know how this business is.”

  “I do,” she answered with complete sincerity.

  “Well, she didn’t . . . doesn’t. That was part of it, I suppose. She’s from a family with seven kids. With those Sunday suppers where you risk being stabbed with a fork if you try to reach for more than your share of meat loaf?” He smiled. “Nah, really, they’re great people. Beckah’s mother especially. They made me feel like part of the family from the very beginning. I’m sure that had a lot to do with it.”

  Claire’s throat tightened, imagining Logan in that warm setting after a childhood filled with loneliness. It must have seemed like a second chance at having a complete family. It had everything to do with that, Logan. She nodded, watching him take a sip of his coffee. “What does Beckah do? I mean, does she work?” Claire realized with surprise that she was now feeling concern for a wife whose husband was never home.

  “She’s a preschool teacher.” Logan broke an oatmeal cookie and handed Claire the larger half. “And she’s really good at it. Finches in the shower and dozens of finger paintings taped to the wall of our kitchen.” He gazed out toward the mountains, quiet for a few seconds. “She wants at least four children.”

  Like Gayle did. Claire swallowed, thinking of Kevin’s fiancée and so many dreams that never came to be. The sun was lowering in the sky, and Claire watched as the gold deepened on the mountaintops.

  Logan turned to look at Claire, the emotion on his face difficult to read. Was it concern, confusion . . . regret? “Maybe she’ll have that chance now.”

  Claire raised her brows, not certain what he meant.

  “She’s getting married. On Saturday,” he whispered.

  “Ah.” Claire nodded, not knowing what she could say after a statement like that or what Logan wanted her to say. The sunset couldn’t come fast enough, because she did know one thing for sure now. Logan still has deep feelings for his ex-wife.

  +++

  Erin pressed her eyebrow tweezers into the tiny filigree box, tamping a last strip of paper down against the half-dozen others. Stay there this time. She held her breath and reached for the miniscule latch of the prayer bracelet charm. Before she could close it, the fan-folded strip of paper sprang upward like a child’s jack-in-the-box. Erin moaned. More like Brad-in-the-box.

  The paper, fortune cookie thin, was Erin’s printed prayer that Brad was the kind of man she might have a future with one day. A man she could finally trust with her heart. It was the very same thing she’d prayed for with the last guy she dated, the guy before that, and every doomed relationship she’d had in the last ten years. All the frogs that flunked Prince 101. Was it possible she was destined to meet every bad egg in northern California? Or is it . . . me?

  Erin stood and left the bracelet lying on the bed next to her red leather boxing gloves, sighing as she walked into the living room. She pushed aside her roommate’s newest stack of bridal magazines and curled up on the couch, wondering if it was time to admit the ugly truth. Erin was nearly thirty-two, and if she was ever going to find someone to love, she was the one who had to change.

  The froggy brotherhood hadn’t been shy in offering plenty of advice along those lines. Usually in a last indignant croak when Erin broke things off. All she had to do was stop being so opinionated, independent, stubborn, judgmental, devoted to her family, loyal to her friends, obsessed with her career, quick to lead a cause, short-tempered, bossy, and religious. She glanced at her tabbed Bible lying on the coffee table next to her newest study workbook. Too religious? How on earth could she have a relationship with someone who didn’t understand that she was far from being the Christian she wanted to be?

  She thought of her starry-eyed and newly engaged roommate’s gentle advice. “Don’t be so picky. Don’t get riled up about the small things—no one’s perfect. Any counselor will tell you that successful relationships are all about compromise.”

  Compromise. Erin wove her fingers through her thick hair, lifting it from the shoulders of her hooded sweatshirt, and thought about Brad’s plans for Sunday. Compromise would mean someone else would sit beside her recently widowed grandmother at church. It would mean missing her ten-year-old nephew’s colorful account of the Scout troop pinewood derby and her pregnant sister’s photo from her first ultrasound. It would mean trading all that for a smoky and crowded Reno breakfast buffet, followed by three hours of shouting to make conversation over the roar of stock car engines.

  Erin let her hair fall back to her shoulders. Not that the Reno races weren’t exciting and fun, but Brad knew how important Sundays were to Erin. Her schedule only allowed her to be off every other weekend, making that one family day all the more precious. Didn’t that matter? Was it impossible to find someone who understood things like that?

  Once again she reminded herself of Brad’s kindness to her mother, his generous contribution to Jamie’s fund, and his recent questions about church membership classes. Then she reminded herself that they’d been dating only a few months and that not all men were like Dad.

  She pushed the thought aside and then nodded decisively. She was sticking to the promise she’d made herself. To have more patience and leave judgments where they belonged—in God’s hands. Brad was trying, and so would she. She was going to risk trusting him. Even if she had to go three rounds with her punching bag every night to keep herself from a frustration meltdown. She’d give Brad the benefit of the doubt.

  Meanwhile, Erin had other problems to solve. She needed to go over her grandmother’s credit card statements. There was no way Nana authorized those ridiculous charges. And then she’d reread the RN résumés. She and Merlene finally had some qualified applicants for the ER position. Logan would find something wrong with every single one of them, though.

  Erin groaned. At her cynical worst, she wasn’t even close to being as picky as Logan. That poor man was never going to find someone to love.

  +++

  Logan watched the fading sun, sitting close enough to Claire that he could feel her shoulder stiffening agai
nst his, and wondered why in the world he’d spent the last ten minutes talking about his ex-wife. He’d heard somewhere that was a huge taboo in dating. So was he really that much of an idiot? To be sitting beside this beautiful and intelligent woman, after one of the best days he’d had in years, after sharing his house plans, minutes from a spectacular sunset . . . and end up talking about something as pointless as birds in a shower? And the wedding on Saturday. Why had he done that? More importantly, what could he do to make Claire comfortable again?

  “The sun’s finally starting to move down,” Claire said with a second furtive glance at her watch. “Not much longer.”

  She’s acting like she can’t wait to go home. Say something. “I’m glad. I mean, I’m glad you’re here to see it with me.” He smiled, noticing that the fading sunlight was making Claire’s gray eyes turn sort of smoky lavender. “You’re the first person I’ve ever brought here to see it.”

  She smiled back, and Logan knew with a rush of relief that he’d finally said something right. Telling her the truth feels right. Maybe that was why he’d said those things about Beckah. Not that he was planning to do it again.

  “Well, then I’m glad too.” Claire’s smile widened. “Although—” she lifted a brow, her voice taking on a teasing tone—“I’d half expected to find a path worn by the feet of single women.”

  Logan laughed. “Yeah, maybe by the feet of a dozen nurses waving picket signs and shouting curses. All led by our chief of staff.”

  “You mentioned being called on the carpet. What was it about?”

  “Same old, same old. Another complaint from another nurse.” Logan ticked the specifics off on his fingers. “I’m insensitive, critical, expect way too much, and am completely unappreciative. I’m the devil incarnate—” He stopped, hearing Claire’s sudden laugh.