by Loree Lough
“DON’T LIE TO ME, EMILY. I’VE DEALT WITH BAD NEWS BEFORE.
If you can’t give it to me straight, I’ll request a new doctor for Gabe. One who won’t sugarcoat things.”
Emily marched toward him, stopping mere inches from where he stood. “I have never lied to a patient, nor have I lied to a patient’s family. I’ve done everything humanly possible to keep you informed about Gabe’s disorder, about our plans to help him.” She drilled a forefinger into his chest. “If that isn’t good enough for you, then yes, you should look into finding another—”
He didn’t know what came over him, but Phillip wrapped his hand around hers and pulled her close. So close that he could feel her heart, beating hard against his chest.
“Emily . . . I-I’m sorry,” he ground out.
And then he kissed her.
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ALL HE’LL EVER NEED
LOREE LOUGH
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
“DON’T LIE TO ME, EMILY. I’VE DEALT WITH BAD NEWS BEFORE.
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 by Loree Lough
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
BOUQUET Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-4923-4
ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-4925-8 (eBook)
ISBN-10: 1-4201-4925-3 (eBook)
This novel is dedicated to my beloved husband,
whose steadfast support has allowed me to dedicate countless hours to researching and writing;
to my daughters,
who’ve long been my cheerleaders and best friends;
to my “grandorables,”
who’ve served as living, breathing examples for the “brighter than average” kids that appear in my books;
to readers,
who stay in touch through social networking sites and plain old snail mail to let me know that they’re looking forward to my next release;
and last but not least,
to God,
for blessing me with the ideas and creativity that inspired every story I have written
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My heartfelt thanks to my new Amish friends for sharing insights and details about your beliefs and way of life. (By now, you know that I wasn’t kidding when I told you I’d be back . . . often . . . so thanks for welcoming me, every time, with open arms!) Thanks, too, to Jody Teets, longtime resident of Oakland, MD, for providing me with details about the town that even a frequent visitor doesn’t have access to!
Prologue
“Is your little boy all right, Mr. Baker? He’s as white as a bedsheet.”
Phillip glanced down at his son, the light of his life . . .
. . . and watched as the boy sank to the floor of the auto supply store like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
Heart pounding, he dropped his billfold on the counter and, gripping Gabe’s upper arms, went down with him. Phillip cradled the boy to his chest and did his best to ignore other patrons who had encircled them. Gently he combed his fingers through his son’s golden-brown locks, searching for a bump—or worse, blood. Finding neither, Phillip breathed a sigh of relief.
The clerk hid behind her hands. “Oh my. Oh dear. Oh goodness gracious!” She peeked between two fingers. “Should I call nine-one-one?”
“I already did,” barked the man to Phillip’s left.
An ambulance . . .
Phillip remembered the day, several years earlier, when Gustafson fell from the barn loft. His wife called an ambulance, and without insurance, it had taken the elderly couple more than a year to pay the invoice. Like most residents of the community, he didn’t have health insurance, either. But that was a worry for another day. He’d find a way to pay the bill, even if it meant working eighty hours a week instead of fifty. Anything for his Gabe. Anything.
“Why does he look upset?” the wife asked. “He should be thanking you for your quick thinking!”
From the corner of his eye, Phillip saw the husband frown.
“He’s Amish, that’s why,” the man said. “Those people will spend big bucks to care for their cows and horses, even pigs! But their kids?” He expelled an angry snort.
Those people, Phillip wanted to retort, did not care more about livestock than their children. Living Plain was a concept very few Englishers fully understood. The lifestyle was, at times, difficult for him to understand. Phillip shrugged it off, as he had every other time someone in town passed judgment on his way of life. It didn’t matter what others thought. Gabe mattered, and nothing else.
The ear-piercing wail of a siren grew louder, and so did the murmurings of those gathered. Then, silence as the boxy red-and-white vehicle lurched to a stop out front.
Two burly first responders leapt from the cab, raced around to the back, threw open the doors, and shoved a gurney into the auto supply store.
“What’s the trouble here?” the taller one wanted to know.
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“I’m the one who called you guys,” the big man offered. “This kid here.” He pointed at Gabe. “He fell, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.
“Fainted is more like it,” his wife corrected.
Phillip wished they’d both just stop talking. “He’s my son,” he said. His voice trembled, exactly as it had on the night he’d lost Rebecca. He cleared his throat. “He . . . he collapsed.”
The men made quick work of easing Gabe onto the gurney. It wasn’t until they unbuttoned his dark wool jacket that tears filled the boy’s eyes.
“What are they doing, Dad?”
“It’s okay, Son. These good men are here to help you.”
A shallow, shaky breath issued from Gabe’s bluish lips as he blinked the tears away.
“What’s his name, sir?” The man’s name tag said MATTHEWS. His partner’s read WHITE.
“Gabe. Gabriel Baker.”
Stethoscope in place, Matthews listened to Gabe’s chest while White gripped the child’s pale, narrow wrist.
“Thready pulse,” White said. Then, leaning closer to Gabe’s face, “Gabriel? Can you hear us?”
The boy nodded.
Matthews clamped a device onto Gabe’s forefinger.
“What is that?” Phillip asked.
“An oximeter. It measures the oxygen in his blood.” He turned to the boy. “How old are you, Gabe?”
“Four.”
Phillip’s heart clenched when his boy held up four tiny fingers and sent a wan smile his way.
“Wow. Four, huh! I have a five-year-old daughter.” He held a thermometer under Gabe’s tongue. “Ninety-nine point five,” he said after it beeped. Then, “When will you turn five?”
“July fourth.”
“No kiddin’! Lucky kid! Fireworks and a cake!”
A slight furrow creased Gabe’s pale brow. Was he remembering last summer’s community celebration, when his aunt Hannah tripped over a tree root, carrying the birthday cake, and splattered it across the lawn? No, it had probably been the baseball game that inspired the frown. Gabe, so busy waving at his grandmother during the ninth inning that he’d nearly missed the ball. It bobbled in the tiny, made-by-Phillip mitt, and when at last he got control, the ball sailed right past the first baseman. The error cost his team the win, and it had been pretty much all Gabe talked about for the remainder of the day, even as bright, colorful fireworks painted the inky sky with star- and waterfall-shaped explosions.
Matthews pricked Gabe’s finger. The boy flinched, but only slightly. “Sorry, kiddo. I should have given you a heads-up about that.” He met Phillip’s eyes. “This is just to rule out diabetes, sir.”
“He isn’t diabetic.”
“It’s a disorder that can present itself quickly.” He touched a small card to the dot of blood and directed his attention to Gabe. “Are you thirsty a lot, Gabe?”
The boy shook his head.
“Headaches?”
“Sometimes . . .”
He looked over at Phillip. “Has he lost weight lately?”
“No. Not that I know of. Gabe has never been . . . hefty.”
“Noted. So tell me, Gabe, do you find yourself feeling tired easily?” Meeting Phillip’s eyes again, Matthews said, “If he is diabetic, it could explain what happened today.”
“Yes, I do get tired, but only if I run a lot.”
White stepped up. “So who’s your favorite superhero, kiddo? Spider-Man? Batman? Ant-Man?”
“We’re Amish,” Phillip said. “He doesn’t know anything about those—”
“I know about Snoopy. Can he be a superhero?”
“Sure he can.” White wrapped a colorful bandage around Gabe’s tiny finger and squeezed his shoulder.
Matthews met Phillip’s eyes. “Has he had a cold lately? The flu? Any long-standing medical issues we should know about?”
“Issues?” Phillip echoed.
“Like heart disease. Cancer. Diabetes.”
“No, no, thank the good Lord. Nothing like that. He’s never been as sturdy as other boys his age, but until recently, he hasn’t been weak and pale, either.”
“Are you in pain, Gabe?” White asked.
“No, just dizzy.”
“Dizzy, huh? How often do you feel this way? Every day?”
“Yes, but not the whole day. As I told you, usually just when I run, or climb the stairs too fast.”
The paramedics exchanged a glance. Phillip didn’t like the concern on their faces.
“Well,” Matthews said, “you’re a brave boy. Your dad must be real proud of you.”
Gabe zeroed in on Phillip’s face.
“Yes.” He gave Gabe’s hand a light squeeze. “As proud as a father can be.”
Matthews covered Gabe with a blanket while White fastened the security straps over the boy’s chest, waist, and thighs.
White asked, “Did he hit his head when he fell?”
“No, I don’t believe so. I checked for a bump, and blood, but didn’t find either.”
White turned Gabe’s head, just enough to comb gloved fingers through the boy’s hair. “I don’t see anything, either. But don’t worry. They’ll have a closer look in the ER.”
With that, the small crowd parted as the partners wheeled the cot toward the exit.
“We’re taking him to Garrett Regional.” Locking the gurney into place on the ambulance floor, Matthews added, “You can meet us there, sir.”
Phillip and his neighbors in Pleasant Valley were New Order Amish, and many drove gas-powered vehicles. His ’99 pickup looked every bit its age and had earned its nickname. Yes, Old Reliable would get him to the hospital, but he had no intention of following the ambulance. “I promised not to leave him alone,” he announced. “I’m going with you.”
Matthews perched on the narrow bench beside the gurney. “Okay, but it’s gonna be tight in here.” He pointed at the other end of the seat. “Park it and try to stay out of the way.”
The clerk raced up to the still-open rear doors. “Mr. Baker!” she hollered, an oversized bag dangling from one hand, waving Phillip’s wallet with the other. “Mr. Baker, don’t forget these!”
Phillip could have hugged her. “Thank you. I totally forgot.”
“Under the circumstances, that’s perfectly understandable.” She handed him the plastic bag of spark plugs, air and oil filters, and other assorted parts he’d purchased to repair the assortment of lawn mowers, small earth movers, and miscellaneous farm equipment awaiting his attention at the shop. “Your receipt is in the bag. Good luck with your little boy.”
“Thank you,” he said again, and climbed in beside Matthews.
From the driver’s seat, White called over his shoulder. “Puttin’ her into gear and headin’ out. Everybody buckled up?”
Seconds later, siren blaring and lights flashing, the vehicle maneuvered in and out of traffic on Route 219.
“I think we set a record,” White said, parking alongside the hospital’s ER entrance. “Six minutes flat.”
Seemed more like an hour to Phillip, especially as he watched his nearly unconscious son struggle to keep his eyes open.
Inside, the first responders wheeled Gabe into an exam cubicle, and Phillip dogged their heels.
“The ladies at the desk are gonna want some info from you,” White said, nodding toward the admitting counter.
“It can wait. I promised to stay with him, remember?” There wasn’t much to tell, anyway: name, age, birth date. Besides, he couldn’t risk having them turn Gabe away when they learned he was uninsured.
“By law, they have to treat your boy, even if you’re not insured,” Matthews said reassuringly.
White added, “They’ll see him sooner once they have what they need.”
Torn between setting things in motion and leaving Gabe alone, Phillip shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Okay with you, Gabe, if we hang out with you while your dad fills out some paperwork?”
A weak
nod was his answer.
Phillip squeezed his son’s hand again. “I won’t be long.”
It took less than five minutes to provide the necessary information, and to his great relief, the woman barely reacted when he explained his lack of insurance. Upon returning to Gabe’s cubicle, White greeted him with a grin. “You’re in luck. My sister’s on duty. She’s one of the best diagnosticians in the state.”
A female doctor? Phillip didn’t know how to feel about that.
All it took was a pathetic moan from Gabe to shift his attitude: If she could help his boy, it didn’t matter that she was a woman.
Right?
Chapter One
Emily stepped up to her patient’s bed. She’d read his chart before entering the cubicle, added the data to what her paramedic brother and his partner had scribbled in their report: low blood pressure, low-grade fever, low blood sugar, shallow breaths . . . She’d order a full workup, starting with X-rays to rule out a concussion. Based solely on the pallor of his skin, she’d order extensive bloodwork, too.
Grasping the boy’s thin wrist, she smiled. “My name is Dr. White. What’s yours?”
“Gabriel Baker. But you can call me Gabe.”
“Gabe. Simple and strong. I like it.” Silently she concentrated on her watch face: seventy pulse beats instead of the normal eighty to one hundred twenty.
“I’m his father. Phillip Baker.”
How she’d overlooked him, Emily couldn’t say. He stood no less than six foot two and likely weighed in at two hundred pounds of raw, broad-shouldered muscle.
“I’ll need your permission to run some tests on little Gabe here.”
“Of course. Anything. Whatever you need. Whatever he needs.”
He’d tried to mask it, but she heard the unease in his voice, noted the “deer in the headlights” glint in his eyes— gray-blue eyes that reminded her of a pre-storm sky. His obvious distress surprised her, because Amish males were, in her experience, stoical.
