It was still early, not yet eight. So far, he was the only one in the small waiting room adjacent to PortGen's birthing suites. He was there to see Luke Jarrod.
A man of careful habits like himself, Luke always started rounds at six unless he happened to be attending a birth. Damn the luck, Boyd thought sourly, eyeing the bright orange double doors directly in front of him.
They'd been blue the last time he'd been in this part of the hospital. The last time he'd been there, of course, was after Karen's accident. He tried to stop the memories, but they came back on a rush. By the time the ambulance had gotten Karen to the delivery room and she'd been prepped, the baby's head had been crowning. Tiny enough to cradle in his hand, she'd been perfectly formed, with downy blond fuzz for hair and a quizzical look that broke his heart. He'd nearly burst with pride when she'd opened her eyes and struggled to focus her milky blue gaze on her daddy's face. Every night for months he'd seen those eyes whenever he'd closed his own.
Anna Elena MacAuley had lived less than ten minutes. Not even technology's latest and best could compensate for lungs that hadn't had time to fully develop. Karen had been too weak to cry for her baby. He'd been too angry. Ten minutes later he'd lost Karen, too.
He remembered Luke's anguished curses, the stunned faces of the nurses, the hushed voices, the sideways glances of pity. Someone—Luke, he thought—had led him to an empty room and moments later, shoved a cup of scalding coffee into his hands.
What he'd said, when he'd left the hospital was a blank. He knew he'd walked for a long time in the clammy chill of a winter fog, walked until he couldn't walk any farther. He'd gotten home somehow, and he'd slept like the dead for eighteen hours.
The hospital had offered him a month's leave. Time to grieve, the chief of surgery had explained with an awkward kindness he'd never forgotten. He'd taken two weeks, then gone back to work, too restless to relax. Too wired to rest. After a period of walking on eggs, his peers had gradually relaxed and the days had fallen into a familiar routine. No one talked about Karen or the baby, for which he was grateful.
A month passed. Two. Winter bled into spring. Daffodils bloomed. He painted his house and learned to cook after his own fashion. That year at Easter weekend, the mercury dipped and the expected rain turned to sleet. Accident victims started arriving early and by evening, every OR had a waiting list. By midnight plasma and whole blood was in short supply, and they'd gone through countless boxes of surgical gloves by the time he'd finished prepping for yet one more procedure.
The patient was young and female and in bad shape with a ruptured spleen and related trauma. He'd had her belly open and the bleeders clamped and was about to excise the torn spleen when, for no reason he'd ever been able to identify, he'd glanced at her face—and seen Karen.
Weeks later they'd told him that he'd finished the operation, stripped off his gloves and disappeared. When he hadn't shown up for his shift the next day, they'd called Prudy on her day off to check on him. She'd found him sitting in a rocking chair in the baby's nursery, still in his scrubs, holding the teddy bear he'd bought months earlier.
The damn bear was still in the nursery, crumpled in a corner of the crib where he'd thrown it in a towering rage. He had himself under control now. For long stretches of time he actually managed to forget he'd snapped. And then, for no reason at all, his vision would blur and his hands would begin to tremble.
So far he'd always been alone, and he intended to keep it that way, which was one of the reasons he'd avoided PortGen and the people who'd known him then. Everyone but Prudy, and that was because he couldn't very well avoid his next-door neighbor.
Needing to move, he got to his feet and walked to the elevator alcove for a drink of water from the fountain there. He heard the distant ringing of a phone, the swish of automatic doors. Hushed voices.
His heart thudded and a hole opened in his belly. He felt a wild need to escape. Gritting his teeth, he retraced his steps and took a seat where he'd be sure to see Luke on his way through.
It was nearly quarter past eight by the time the doors swished open and Luke came loping through. Older than Boyd by six or seven years, he was still lean and fit and had routinely worn Boyd to a nub on the racquetball court. Catching sight of Boyd, he stopped in midstride, his mouth going slack for beat before breaking into a grin. His thick black hair was shot with silver but the deep-set eyes Karen had once called Paul Newman blue were as sharply assessing as ever.
"MacAuley, you sonofagun." He came forward to pump Boyd's hand. "It's damn good to see you, son. Damn good."
"Good enough to bend a few rules?"
Luke narrowed his gaze. "Depends on the rules and the reasons."
Boyd drew a breath. He'd never been good at asking for favors or anything else. "Stacy Patterson. I'd like your read on her prognosis."
"Sure, no problem."
The doors swished open again, drawing Boyd's gaze to a burly orderly pushing a woman on a gurney. From the look of elation on her face and on the face of the man walking next to her, holding her hand, she had just had a baby.
"One of yours?" he asked when he caught Luke studying him.
"Yep. Third one since yesterday morning. All girls."
Boyd managed a polite nod. "Any … problems?"
"Nary a one, thank the good Lord." Luke flexed his shoulders, then glanced toward the coffee machine at the end of the corridor. "You got any quarters on you?"
Frowning, Boyd dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of change. "Enough for two cups of that poison," he said after he'd sorted through the coins.
"So you've fallen for one of my patients, heh?" Luke drawled as he watched Boyd plugging the machine.
Boyd shot his friend a look that had Luke lifting both hands in surrender. "My mistake," he drawled. "Wishful thinking, most likely."
"Shot in the dark, you mean." Boyd handed Luke a cup filled with murky black liquid exuding a pungent aroma of burnt beans along with the steam. Luke nodded his thanks before taking a sip.
"Stuff tastes like engine sludge," he muttered as Boyd retrieved his own cup from the machine's window. "Ruins a man for good coffee, sure enough."
As though by some prearranged agreement, the two men walked toward the door leading to a small patio tucked into a concrete canyon formed by the mental health wing on one side and a retaining wall on the other. Twin metal tables and a clutch of mismatched chairs sat under faded umbrellas, one of which had taken on a precarious list to one side. What sunshine managed to spill over the hospital's tall roof was watery and pale.
"How's Marlyssa these days?" Boyd asked as he settled into the nearest chair.
Luke grimaced as he eased into the chair opposite. "Last I heard she was married to a CPA and deliriously happy spending the poor guy's money."
"Should I say I'm sorry?"
Luke shrugged before leaning back. "I wanted kids. She didn't."
Marlyssa Evans had gone to the same fancy private school with Karen and had been a bridesmaid at their wedding where Luke had taken one look at the raven-haired debutante and pounced. The sexual energy between them had been enough to light the city, and though the hospital odds makers had given their affair a week, it had lasted a good four or five years. Longer than Boyd's marriage, in fact.
"So, what's the deal with you and Mrs. Patterson?" Luke asked after the silence between them turned awkward.
Boyd hooked an empty chair closer and propped his foot on the seat. "No deal. I'm just looking after her until she can pull things together on her own."
Luke studied the contents of his cup, his expression grave. "Did she tell you she'd been released against medical advice?"
"Yeah, she told me. I take it you weren't pleased?"
Luke snorted before downing another mouthful. "We went toe to toe for damn near an hour. I pulled out all the stops. Gave a great lecture on the unpredictable aftereffects of concussion. Warned her that prolonged stress can cause fetal instability." He shook his head, then sighe
d. "The woman is as adorable as a week-old kitten, and as stubborn as any jenny I've ever had the sorry misfortune to meet."
"She's broke. Busted. 'Post-divorce regrouping,' she called it." Boyd scowled. He could still see the lumpy sofa bed in her dingy apartment and the secondhand dresser she'd fixed up for the baby. Now even those things were gone, sold off by Wattchel, along with just about everything else.
"So that's what this is all about—my fee." Luke chuckled. "Hell, Boyd, you didn't have to spring for coffee to convince me to write it off."
"No can do. She'd know it was charity." He glanced up to find the other man studying him with a thoughtful glint in his blue eyes.
"You have a better idea?"
"Charge her enough to make it seem realistic, then send me a bill for the rest of it." Boyd lifted his cup to his mouth and slugged down the bitter liquid. It burned his gullet and soured his stomach, but he needed the caffeine. "And take your time while you're at it."
"You got it. Anything else?"
Boyd felt his gut tighten. "No bull, Luke. What are her chances of having a normal delivery?"
"If she follows doctor's orders to avoid stress, long trips by car, and lifting anything heavier than a book, excellent. In another couple of weeks or so, if there are no further complications, she'll be able to resume normal activities in moderation."
"Care to be more specific?"
"Short trips by car, light housework, moderate exercise, a sedentary job," Luke said slowly. "Slow and easy sex with a considerate partner—in case you're interested."
Boyd scowled. "Get stuffed, Jarrod."
"Might be the best thing the doctor could prescribe. For both of you."
Boyd shifted, his shoulders suddenly tight. He'd asked all the questions he'd come to ask but one. Sitting straighter, he drew a breath. "What about the baby?"
"Far as I can tell, as healthy as they come. Amnio came back clean, and the fetal heartbeat's strong. Looks like the kid's a survivor like her mom." Luke's voice carried a quiet confidence Boyd had learned to trust, and he felt the tension coiled like a snake in his belly ease off.
"One more question. Why did you want her to stay for a few more days?"
"A precaution, mostly." Luke drained his cup before crushing it in one hand to a lumpy ball. "At least that's what I put on the chart."
"What the hell does that mean?"
Luke grinned. "Maybe you haven't noticed, old son, but that is one good-looking, sexy lady."
"Maybe you haven't noticed, old son, but she's also your patient."
Luke's grin took on wolf edges. "Yeah, some guys have all the luck."
Boyd had the feeling Luke was jerking his chain and gave some thought to erasing that damned predatory grin with a right cross. "She's also pregnant."
"Granted. Otherwise, she wouldn't be my patient."
"Which means she's off-limits, you horny bastard."
"Sad to say, you're right—about both." Luke sighed, then lifted his face to the sun. "For what it's worth, if she weren't my patient, I'd be polishing my courtin' skills right quick."
"The hell you would!"
Luke stretched out his long legs and closed his eyes. "You being half-dead these days, you probably didn't notice how pretty she is under those bruises. Has soft skin, too. Real touchable like." He opened one eye and sighted on Boyd's face before closing it again. "Seems to me a man would consider himself blessed to taste a mouth like hers more than once in a lifetime, but then, you already know that, you lucky bastard." He sighed and opened his eyes. "Guess you forgot how it is in a hospital, son. Ain't no such thing as privacy."
Boyd felt his stomach muscles twisting into angry knots and muttered a curse that won him a chuckle.
"Last I heard Schultz had started a pool on the exact date and time of the wedding."
Boyd got to his feet, his expression as controlled as his temper. "Take my advice. Don't waste your money." He tossed his cup into a nearby trash receptacle and was about to leave when the door opened and Prudy entered the patio.
"Is this a private party or can anyone play?" she chirped as she approached, a cup of coffee in one hand, a paper plate containing a donut wrapped in cellophane in the other. She was wearing a smock of neon pink splotched with purple over white uniform trousers and green sneakers. In spite of the bright array, Boyd decided she looked tired.
"Mornin", gorgeous," Luke drawled, sitting up straighter. "Sit yourself down and take a load off."
"Are you coming or going?" she asked Boyd when she reached the table.
"Going."
Prudy heard the rasp of irritation in Boyd's tone and wondered what Luke could have said to put it there. "In that case, have a nice day and don't fall off any ladders."
That earned her a look meant to warn her off and she smiled to herself as she set her coffee and donut on the table. In the past week she'd seen more life in Boyd MacAuley than she or anyone else, she suspected, had seen since he'd cleaned out his locker in the doctors' lounge.
"He's got it bad," she muttered as Boyd disappeared into the building. "Has all the signs of a man on the brink of falling in love and fighting it with everything he has."
Luke nodded, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I figure it's terminal."
Laughing, she settled herself in the chair Boyd had just vacated. "Unless I've totally lost my diagnostic skills, the lady in question is crazy for the guy."
"You think he's over Karen yet?"
Considering, Prudy concentrated on unwrapping the lemon-filled pastry. Boyd and Stacy were so utterly perfect for each other—empathetic, caring people who'd been hurt.
"Remember how terrible he looked at the funeral?" she asked slowly, seeing Boyd's too-pale features, the look of a half-crazed animal in his eyes.
Luke nodded, his blue eyes suddenly bleak as though he, too, were reliving that day. "Don't get your hopes up for a happy ending, Prue, cause I got me a feelin' it just ain't gonna happen."
* * *
Ten
« ^ »
A gourmet meal it wasn't, Stacy decided as she added a sprinkle of shredded cheddar cheese to the salad she'd concocted from wilted lettuce, a handful of pecans and a couple of hard-boiled eggs. For the dressing she'd mixed mayonnaise and ketchup, coming up with a decent Thousand Island clone.
Wiping her hands on a spotless towel she'd found stashed in one of the cabinet drawers, she frowned down at the haphazard lunch—frozen pizza, a makeshift salad and, for dessert, peanut butter cups from the bag she'd found in Boyd's sadly depleted larder.
As for the kitchen, it was a cook's dream, with every sort of appliance. It was also darn near surgically sterile, without even a crumb to mar the pristine perfection of the silverware drawer. Unlike her own place—when she'd had one—where she tended to leave things where she'd last used them, his house was organized with a brutally logical precision. Everywhere but the room at the end of the hall.
Biting her lip, she treated the already spotless counter to another quick wipe with a damp dishcloth, her mind going again to the sight that had greeted her earlier this morning when she'd opened the door to what she'd thought was Boyd's office and discovered the wreckage of what had once been a charming nursery.
Stunned and dismayed, she could only imagine the depth of Boyd's grief as he'd torn the room apart. Destroying a crib and rocking chair until they were no more than sticks of white-painted kindling. Smashing lamps and figurines until nothing was left but brightly colored shards littering the off-white carpet like obscene confetti after a drunken brawl. In her mind she saw him using those large hands to tear apart stuffed tigers and bears and penguins once meant to win smiles from a much-loved baby girl.
Stacy couldn't prevent herself from shuddering again, just as she'd shuddered when she'd first seen the carnage. Boyd had faced his own kind of madness, she realized. And survived—after a fashion.
Now he repaired houses instead of bodies. A man who cried out in his sleep and hated himself for being alive.
A man who'd taken her into his arms with a tenderness that still brought tears to her eyes, and kissed her with lonely hunger he was determined to deny.
A flash of color caught her eye, and she turned back to see Boyd coming up the walk, carrying a large cardboard box, his long legs eating the distance with an ease she, with her present waddling gait, envied.
There was something wonderfully earthy about a man in torn thigh-hugging jeans and a tight T-shirt stained in a jagged vee at the neck by the sweat of his labor, she decided, her heart suddenly taking off on a ragged gallop—something primitive and powerfully male that few women could resist. At least she couldn't, she realized, inhaling deeply.
Daddy by Accident Page 11
