Читать книгу Nighthawk's Child - Linda Turner - Страница 7

The previous August

G avin stared down at the message that he was wanted in his boss’s office as soon as possible and swore under his breath. He didn’t have to know what this was about to know that it wasn’t good. Whatever else Michael Preston was—and as Chief of Surgery at Whitehorn Memorial Hospital, he’d been called more than a few choice names over the years—he wasn’t insensitive to the pressure of the work his surgeons performed. He wanted them calm, cool, and collected when they walked into the operating room, so he made sure any discussions he had with his residents was restricted until after surgery. Or at least, he always had before.

But then again, he’d never had one of his surgeons accused of murder before, either.

His square-cut face set in harsh lines, Gavin was tempted to ignore Michael’s missive and to meet with him later, after surgery. Whatever beef Preston had could wait. Gavin’s patients came first with him. Since his arrest, work was the only thing that kept him sane. With the rest of his life in turmoil, he couldn’t take a chance on screwing up his residency. Scowling, he strode down the hall to Michael’s office.

Seated at his desk, the older man was waiting for him, his expression grim. Gavin greeted him with a curt nod. The nerves in his stomach clenched in a fist, but he had no intention of letting Preston or anyone else see him sweat. He’d learned the hard way to protect his thoughts. His own face impassive, he shut the door behind him and stood stiffly in front of Preston’s desk. “You wanted to see me?”

To his credit, Michael didn’t try to lighten the moment with frivolous chitchat, but instead got right to the point. “Sit down, Gavin. A situation has arisen that I think you need to be made aware of.”

He preferred to stand, but this wasn’t the time to draw lines in the sand. Dropping into the chair positioned across from Michael’s desk, he stretched his long legs out in front of him and mentally braced for whatever was about to come. “You might as well give it to me straight. This has something to do with the trial, doesn’t it?”

He didn’t bother to deny it. “You know the hospital’s policy regarding the charges against you. You’re innocent until proven guilty.”

“If you called me in here to tell me the hospital knows it’s only a matter of time before that happens, you wasted your time,” he said flatly, irritation flashing in his dark eyes. “I know the evidence looks damning, but I didn’t kill Christina Montgomery. And somehow I’m going to prove it.”

“I hope you do,” the other man said honestly. “You’re a damn fine surgeon. We need you around here. The problem, though, isn’t the administration. It’s your coworkers. More than a few of them have doubts about your innocence.”

He wasn’t telling Gavin anything he didn’t already know. He was aware of how a majority of the staff felt about him. As had most of the people in town, they’d rushed to judgment the second they’d heard he’d been charged with Christina’s murder. Trying and convicting him, they hadn’t stopped to consider the fact that all the evidence against him was circumstantial or that he wasn’t a violent man. He was a doctor, for God’s sake, and in the business of saving lives, not taking them.

And if he was going to kill someone, it certainly wouldn’t be the mother of his baby girl. He’d never loved Christina—their relationship had been little more than a one-night stand—but he certainly hadn’t hated her or wanted her dead. If anything, he’d felt sorry for her and had only tried to help her once he’d found out she was pregnant. And because of that, people now thought he was a murderer.

“I can’t control what people think,” he said curtly. “If they want to believe I’m a murderer, that’s their problem.”

Leaning back in his chair, Michael sighed heavily. “I wish it was that simple, Gavin, but it’s not. They’re refusing to work with you.”

Surprised, his dark brows snapped together in a scowl. “Who is?”

The older man gave him a speaking look. “I won’t name names, but suffice it to say, it’s enough people to create a problem with scheduling. That’s why I wanted to speak to you before you went into surgery. You can’t operate this morning. I couldn’t put together a surgical team that was willing to work with you.”

Gavin couldn’t have been more stunned if Michael had reached across the desk and backhanded him. No one wanted to work with him? How could such a thing have happened? He was a good surgeon. A damn good one! He’d worked hard to get where he was, and he was proud of that. Unlike his white colleagues, he’d come from the wrong side of the tracks—the reservation—and had to fight every step of the way to make something of himself. It hadn’t been easy. Not that he was looking for accolades, damn it, he assured himself with a scowl. He wasn’t. He just wanted some respect from his peers. And now Michael was telling him that no one wanted to work with him. So much for respect.

It was over, he thought numbly. The career he’d spent years building, all the hard work, the life he’d mapped out for himself as a leading surgeon…it was all over. Unless he could find a way to clear his name, the dreams that had gotten him through college and medical school were dead.

Disheartened, disillusioned, so frustrated he wanted to rage at the world, he could think of nothing to do but accept the inevitable. As long as he had a murder charge hanging over his head, he couldn’t work.

“I won’t quit,” he told his boss coldly. “I know there are some people in this hospital who would like to see the last of me, but I’m not quitting. I’ll take a leave of absence instead and return to work the day after I’m acquitted.”

If Michael thought there wasn’t a chance in hell of that happening, he wisely kept that to himself. Instead he nodded in agreement and rose to hold out his hand. “That’s fair enough. I wish you luck, Gavin.”

It went without saying that they both knew he was going to need it.