Critical Care: 1 (Mercy Hospital)

by Candace Calvert

  “Rumors?” Sarah wrinkled her brows.

  Logan smiled, feeling a rush of relief that the subject had changed away from Beckah and babies. “Sure,” he said, tipping his head toward the door. “It’s probably already going around that you and I are involved.”

  “You? If they only knew you remind me of my father.”

  Logan frowned, feigning insult. “Hey,” he said, watching Sarah’s lids close again, “don’t say that to anybody. You’ll ruin my reputation.”

  She smiled without opening her eyes, burrowing her head against the pillow as best she could with the bulky bandage. A broken, abandoned doll.

  “Your dad owns that body shop, doesn’t he? In Pollock Pines? It’s his?”

  “Mm-hmm . . . ,” she answered, her voice barely audible.

  Logan stepped closer and saw that she was asleep. The morphine was working. Good. He’d grab his jacket and slip out. But before he could turn, Sarah’s hand rose, batting aimlessly at the air above her head and nearly hitting him. “Easy, kid,” he said, grasping her arm gently and lowering it to the bed. “You’ll pull on that IV tubing.” He smiled down at her as she opened her eyes. “I’m going home now, Sarah.”

  “I . . .” Sarah’s heavy-lidded gaze drifted overhead. “I keep seeing this silver balloon and my father in that bathrobe. It’s so crazy. My father’s almost bald, but I keep seeing him with long hair and . . . oh.” Her eyes opened wide, even the injured one, like something amazing had happened. “Logan?”

  “I’m here.”

  “I’m not sure I can do this, but I think I need to. We should . . . pray. For our babies. Will you help me?”

  Logan’s breath caught. If he left right now, she’d probably forget the whole thing. The morphine was making her see balloons. With a little luck she’d forget he was even here. That he’d mentioned Beckah and the . . . His stomach twisted again, perspiration rising on his forehead.

  “Please?”

  He looked at her, considering all she’d been through. And that much of the reason she was lying here today was due to him. How could he walk away? How could he tell her he didn’t believe in prayer? “Okay,” he said, taking her hand and bowing his head.

  Sarah squeezed his fingers. “Jesus, thank you for being here. For coming on Emily’s birthday. Please watch over her and also over . . .” She hesitated. “What was your baby’s name?”

  His throat closed. “Matthew Logan.”

  +++

  Logan swiped the sleeve of his flannel shirt across his forehead before sweat could drip into his eyes. Not that he had anything to show for it. He squinted at the oak stump illuminated by the headlights of his Jeep, scarred by ax marks, surrounded by woodchips, rooted deeply into the floor of his future bedroom—and not budging a lousy inch in any direction. Even though he’d been whacking at it for hours. He rotated his wrist toward the light to check his watch. It was 5:40 in the morning.

  He leaned the ax against the stump and walked through the darkness toward the overlook. Below him, only a scant few lights shone near the river. Saturday morning and most of the people in the houses were still sleeping, no doubt. Sane people who hadn’t been swinging an ax in inky darkness for three solid hours. He’d never seen anything so blasted stubborn as that stump, except himself. And God? There it was again. God. Pretty much the pattern since he’d driven up here—chop the stump, think about God, chop the stump, God again . . . chop, God, chop, God. Logan was nuts. Or suffering from sleep deprivation.

  Logan rested against the granite boulders, still warm from yesterday’s sunlight, and breathed in the pungent scents of mossy oak and loam. His land, his home. He’d worked hard to make this come true, the one promise that filled him with hope, but now . . . Logan thought of Sarah again, about how she’d asked him to pray with her and the look on her face afterward. Peace? Was that what he’d seen? Peace, after all she’d been through?

  How could that be? For years Sarah had known nothing but pain. And loss. Rejected by her boyfriend and her mother and even her father for all intents and purposes. Logan clenched his teeth; the thought still made him angry. Then she’d lost her baby to crib death, and yesterday morning she’d nearly lost her life. She was lying in intensive care in horrific pain, with a hole in her chest, yet she’d bowed her head and thanked Jesus for being there and asked him to watch over their babies. My baby.

  What Sarah said about carrying her daughter under her heart, about being blessed to have had a chance to hold her even for a few short weeks and how she wished Beckah could have had that too—it shook Logan to the core. It brought back images of Beckah after the miscarriage, her pale skin and the tragic look in her eyes, and his failed efforts to console her. His failure all around. He kept thinking of Sarah pressing her hand over her heart and saying, “She’s still here,” the same way Jamie had touched Logan’s chest and talked about Jesus. Jamie, who was three years old. The same age that . . . Ah, no. No.

  Logan closed his eyes against the unfamiliar sting of tears as he remembered holding Sarah’s hand in prayer. And the question that stunned him: “What was your baby’s name?”

  Stunned him because it was a truth he’d never allowed himself to feel. Beckah hadn’t only had a miscarriage; she’d lost a baby. My son, Matthew Logan Caldwell. Who would be nearly three years old now. Logan had failed to help Beckah, failed everyone since. Sarah and Claire too. He’d worked his whole life to single-handedly fix everything and he’d accomplished nothing. Failed like he’d failed with that stump. That blasted stump that refused to move. Stubborn as he was, immovable as . . .

  Logan raised his gaze to the sky. Dawn was coming, light piercing what had felt like unending darkness. He ran his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair, walked slowly back to the Jeep, and turned the headlights off. Then he sat down on the oak stump and bowed his head. Tears slid from his eyes.

  “You’ve been chasing me for a long time, Lord. Well, I’ve stopped running. The truth is, I can’t do this by myself anymore. I need you.”

  +++

  Claire raised the collar of her fleece pullover, then lifted her cup and scooted back into the deck chair. She sighed, her breath mingling with steam rising from the hazelnut coffee. Kevin’s weather-station thermometer beside the kitchen door read barely forty-two degrees, a chilly Gold Country dawn. A Saturday meant for snuggling under a down comforter, sleeping in. Except that Claire was missing Smokey . . . and Logan.

  She looked over at the cat’s blue enamel food dish, now topped with crumbled bacon and chunks of cheddar cheese. Irresistible, hopefully, for a cat who escaped the clutches of monster raccoons. But as for Dr. Caldwell, it was obvious Claire offered no such temptation. He hadn’t returned her call.

  It seemed impossible that yesterday’s dawn found her filled with hope and the discovery she might be falling in love with Logan. Now all that joy was gone. Like a burst balloon, candles extinguished before a wish was made. What would she have wished? Easy. That her master plan would succeed, providing the well-orchestrated answer to her constant prayer. She’d made it simple for God, done all the legwork and left him only the official stamp of approval. Monday the hospital would announce the choice for clinical educator, and Merlene’s endorsement boded well for Claire’s chances.

  There was one more thing she was wishing for. Something outside that carefully checkmarked spreadsheet. I wish Logan could be part of my future. But there were too many obstacles. Not the least of which was her tirade against him yesterday. And the fact that it was unlikely he’d ever share her faith.

  It kept coming back to that. Dr. Logan Caldwell was as apt to pray as Smokey the cat was to purr. Foreign acts to both of them. The cat’s quirk she could work around, but a man who wouldn’t trust in God . . . Claire’s chest constricted. Then she leaned forward in the deck chair, tipping her head to hear. The doorbell? She set her coffee down, sifted her fingers through her hair, and walked through the cabin to the front door.

  Logan stood on the doorstep, unshaven
and rumpled, with woodchips clinging to his flannel shirt—and a look of undeniable urgency in his eyes.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Claire stepped back so he could come in, battling a wave of déjà vu. Logan Caldwell on her porch at sunrise. But this time there was no deli bag and coffee, no eager smile. Today felt different. Scary different. Her stomach knotted.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, brushing at his shirt. “It’s early and I’m a mess.”

  “It’s okay. Come in.” Claire waved Logan toward the couch and went to get coffee, rehearsing all the while what she would say. Why is he here? It wasn’t due to a problem with Sarah; she’d checked with the hospital this morning and Sarah’s condition was still stable. So it had to be her voice mail. What had she said? “I don’t feel good about how things ended with us today.” Ended. There it was again. Claire’s fingers trembled as she lifted the coffeepot. Was Logan here to make that ending a reality?

  By the time she returned to the living room, her mouth was dry with dread. She set his cup on the coffee table next to the vase of daffodils and sat near him on the couch. He asked about Smokey, and she told him she’d had no luck finding him.

  There was a stretch of awkward silence; then they both spoke at the same instant.

  “Claire, I . . .”

  “About yesterday . . .”

  Claire managed a weak laugh. “Go ahead.” She watched Logan search for words, her heart thudding dully in her chest. Go ahead and tell me it’s not going to work out. That it’s best we end this now. You’re sorry, but . . .

  “I’m sorry. You were right about me. I’m an idiot.” He exhaled, his lips curving in a tentative smile. “You’re not going to faint, are you?”

  Claire opened her mouth, closed it, then shook her head.

  “Good.” Logan cleared his throat, his expression growing serious. “Because I need you to listen. You were right about Sarah. She had that accident—” he winced—“partly because of me. She was trying to please me. She took those pills because she was hurting from some tough things that happened to her, and she knew I was the kind of man who could never understand that. That I would consider it an excuse, a weakness. But you know what? You know what’s so ironic?”

  Claire shook her head, holding her breath. She hadn’t a clue about anything.

  He gave a short laugh. “It was me all along. I’m the weak link. Not Sarah or Keeley Roberts or even . . . McMuffin.” His eyes softened. “And certainly not you. Not you in a million years. You’re the bravest woman I’ve ever met. You came back to the ER and had the guts to stand up to someone like me after all you went through with your brother. After everything that happened afterward. I’d like to get my hands on that Sacramento doc for what he did to you.” He grasped her hand. “I’m sorry, Claire.”

  Claire’s eyes filled with tears, and the ache in her throat made it impossible to form words. Then somehow she was in Logan’s arms, her face nestled against his beard-rough jaw. He was warm and solid and smelled of salty skin and chopped wood.

  She finally found voice enough to whisper against his cheek, “Where did all this come from? What’s happened?”

  His hands slid down her arms, and he held her away while he answered. “Sarah and an oak stump, I guess. That would be the easy answer. But the fact is, I went to the ICU last night to talk with her. To prove you were wrong about my causing her accident. I wanted the truth, and I got a whole lot more of it than I’d planned. Talking with Sarah made me face things I’ve been too stubborn or too angry to deal with. For as long as I can remember. From my mother to my marriage with Beckah. I didn’t tell you she’d been pregnant the year before we broke up.”

  Oh no. Claire struggled for words.

  Logan raised his palm before she could speak. “Wait. There’s more. The truth is, I was disappointed when Beckah told me she was pregnant. I told her the timing was wrong, my career wasn’t established, and my student loans were too high. I couldn’t deal with it.”

  Claire remembered Jada Williams, and her stomach quivered. “Oh, Logan, you didn’t ask her to—”

  “No,” he said, cutting her off, “I’d never do that. But Beckah knew how I felt, and when she miscarried, she was sure I was relieved. I wasn’t—I really wasn’t. I couldn’t convince her of that, and I couldn’t seem to comfort her either. I did it all wrong. She was suffering and I quoted statistics about miscarriage. She couldn’t sleep and I wrote a prescription. At the worst time in her life, I didn’t give Beckah anything she really needed. She got more and more depressed and I told her to buck up, that counseling was worthless. When she wanted us to start going to church together . . . I scheduled myself to work Sundays.”

  Claire touched his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  “The point is, I’m the one who should be sorry. I’m the one who fouled up. When Sarah was talking about all those rough things she’d been through, I started feeling like she was telling me about myself. And when she asked me to pray with her . . .” Logan smiled at Claire’s audible gasp. “Another thing you were right about, it seems.”

  Thank you, God. Oh, thank you. Claire watched Logan through a shimmer of tears, her heart taking flight.

  “Somewhere between the ICU and three hours with an ax in my hands, I realized I was so angry about people leaving me that I’d started pushing everyone away—even God.” He frowned. “Especially God. I wasn’t going to talk to someone who knew the truth about me.” Logan shook his head. “Of course, the real truth was that God’s been there all along, waiting for me to finally figure out that I need him in my life.”

  Claire swiped her fingers against the corner of her eye. Then she waited while Logan sat there in silence, noticing how tired he looked. More than tired. He looked vulnerable despite those big shoulders and that strong, beard-shadowed jaw. Vulnerable and raw and . . . so very dear. I’m falling in love with him. I care for this man with my very soul. Claire smiled, her heart so full she could barely breathe. She was going to tell him how she felt. Right now.

  “So we had a talk,” Logan said before she could speak. “On the stump.”

  “We?”

  “God and me. But mostly I just listened. It seems I’ve got a lot of things to make up for. Like—” He stood up suddenly. “Wait, it’s Saturday!”

  “Right.” Claire patted the couch. “Sit back down; you’re exhausted. I’ll fix some breakfast and . . .” Tell you how I feel about you.

  “Ah, blast.” Logan checked his watch. “I’ll have to hurry. Thank you for listening, but I need to go or I’ll never get there in time.” He bolted forward, his leg bumping the coffee table.

  Claire grabbed the vase of daffodils before it could topple over. “Wait.”

  “Can’t. I’m sorry. I have to do this,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll call you.”

  +++

  Logan fastened his helmet strap; he’d make better time on the bike than in the Jeep. Two hundred twenty-four miles to Carmel, according to MapQuest. Three hours and forty-five minutes. He could shave some time off that. Traffic on I-5 wouldn’t be too bad on a weekend, except that you never knew how it would go near the Bay Area.

  Logan kicked the starter, put the bike in gear, and pulled out of the condominium carport. He’d get there before Beckah’s wedding. He had to. He needed to tell her he understood why she left. That he’d driven her away, done everything wrong even though he hadn’t wanted to. She needed to know that even though he’d made it impossible for her to stay, he’d never wanted her to go. It was all his fault. There wasn’t much time, but he had to try to finally make things right.

  +++

  Erin peered through the wavy window glass of Gold Strike Coffee and toward the road lined with old-fashioned streetlights, wishing it were warm enough to sit at one of the little tables outside. But midmornings in April were still parka weather in historic Placerville. It was called Old Hangtown back in the 1840s because of the way justice was carried out at the end of a rope.

  She f
rowned and reached for her coffee cup. No, she wasn’t going to think about Brad. Yet. She’d deal with him later today. This morning she was meeting with Claire to talk about Sarah. Ah, there she is. Erin returned Claire’s wave and watched her cross the street toward the coffeehouse, thinking once again how radiant her friend looked lately. That the flush on her cheeks had to be from more than the chill morning air.

  “Hey there,” she called out as the old door’s bell announced Claire’s arrival. “They have cinnamon rolls this morning. Still warm—I got you one. Grab your coffee.”

  She did and a few minutes later joined Erin at the window table. Claire thanked Erin for the pastry, then unwrapped her marled lavender scarf, her eyes shiny as she settled into her chair. Erin smiled knowingly as Claire laid her cell phone on the table. Who’s the lucky guy?

  Claire smiled back before lifting her cup. “Obviously you couldn’t sleep either.”

  Erin shook her head. “I still can’t believe yesterday. If this keeps up, I’ll be wallpapering the nurses’ lounge with those awful critical stress pamphlets. Oops, sorry.”

  “No problem. Trust me, none of this was in my master plan. Not one bit of anything that’s happened over the past two weeks, bad and good . . .” Claire’s voice faded away, and soft color rose to her cheeks again.

  Well, well, well. Every symptom in the book.

  “Thankfully Sarah’s condition stabilized,” Claire said. Her dark brows drew together, and she lowered her voice. “But what about the accident investigation—could that jeopardize her nursing license?”

  Erin set her cinnamon roll down. “Good question. I was awake half the night thinking about it.” And about thieving Brad. “Sarah’s blood screen was basically clean. Alcohol and drug levels nearly nonexistent. So the police won’t have anything to hang their hats on there. But there’s still a chance she could be charged with speeding or reckless endangerment, I suppose. Driving without sleep is as dangerous as any drug.” Her stomach tensed. “I may as well be herding cats for the way I managed this one.” And my love life.