Читать книгу Father By Choice - M.J. Rodgers - Страница 7

EMILY BARRETT KNEW WHEN to stop and smell the roses. And those that opened beneath the dazzling April sunshine filling Courage Bay’s Botanical Gardens were irresistible.

She buried her nose inside the fragrant petals of “Perfect Moment,” a red-orange bloom with a center fold of pure gold and then went on to the “Chicago Peace” behind it, a lush pink that measured no less than five inches across. The bright lemon yellow of “Graceland” farther down the trellised walkway was already producing more flowers than any other bush. And then there was “Unforgettable”—so perfectly named—a robust giant with petals as soft as a baby’s cheek.

No gardener could take credit for creating a rose. But when she met their needs, Emily felt as proud as any parent could gazing into their beautiful fresh faces.

“We’re going to miss the crane guy,” Josh Smithson warned.

She looked up to see her assistant purposely eyeing his wristwatch. Nothing was as impatient as youth.

“Don’t you like flowers?” she asked as she straightened, feeling grateful for every one of her thirty-three years.

“They’re all right, I guess.”

The sweep of Emily’s hand encompassed the colorful blooms fluttering in the early afternoon breeze. “All right? What could be more impressive than this?”

“I don’t know.”

Josh’s most frequent answer to any question she asked. Either he knew very little about his own feelings or was hesitant to reveal them.

When Emily was nineteen, she knew exactly how she felt and had no problem sharing it. As her brothers used to complain, getting her to shut up was the real trick. Maybe this was a gender thing. Most of the males she knew refused to acknowledge they even had feelings, much less took the time to examine them.

“You want me to like the flowers, Dr. Barrett?”

If Josh had asked that sarcastically, she would have laughed. But the flat-open sincerity in his words bothered Emily.

“You don’t have to like them for me. Or anyone else. Like them for you or not at all.”

“You won’t be disappointed?”

“Hey, you work hard, and you’re dependable. I’ve never had a better assistant. So if flowers aren’t your thing, it’s okay.”

He greeted her assurance with a bony shoulder shrug.

“What is your thing, Josh?”

“I don’t know.”

There it was again. And the saddest thing about his words was that Emily believed them. Why did high schools require all kids learn algebra—something which most of them would never use—and yet fail to teach them how important it was to get to know themselves—something they could all use?

“Has taking this year off before going to college helped at all?” she asked.

Another shrug.

“Your folks have any suggestions?” she persisted.

“My dad and granddad want me to study science like they did and join the firm. But I suck at that stuff.”

“So outside of being a great assistant, what don’t you suck at?”

“I don’t know.”

Emily gave up. Josh was a good worker, but as a conversationalist he left a lot to be desired. Her thoughts were rudely interrupted by the sudden blast of a leaf blower. Oh, no. Not again. She whirled around, trying to determine where he was. Then the breeze blew a faint whiff of gasoline fumes in her face and she knew.

Emily charged up the path through the rose garden, past the swaying beds of fragrant lilacs, and broke into a jog around the lily pond. Turning the corner, she saw Lester inside the greenhouse. He was shuffling to the tune he heard in his headphones, the leaf blower in his hand blasting dirt and debris off the stone path.

She’d asked him repeatedly not to use that polluting piece of crap in the Botanical Gardens, especially not the greenhouse. The toxic fumes were dangerous to the more fragile plant species, not to mention human lungs.

But Lester considered sweeping with a broom to be beneath his manhood. Which was why, every time he thought she wasn’t around, he brought out the leaf blower.

Emily waved, trying to get his attention. But he wasn’t looking in her direction. She hurried up the cobblestone path toward him, feeling her nostrils burn, trying not to inhale too deeply. She called out to him, but he obviously couldn’t hear her above the noise of the leaf blower and whatever he considered music in his ears.

Her temples had begun to throb. She entered the greenhouse, knowing she’d have to grab his arm to get his attention. But before she could, the heat and exhaust hit her full blast.

And she was sinking into a spinning, blinding nothingness.

BRAD WINSLOW OFTEN THOUGHT that working in the E.R. was a lot like going to the theater. It was always high drama with life hanging in the balance. But whether he ultimately found himself part of a mystery, triumph, tragedy or farce sometimes depended less on the skill and dedication of Courage Bay’s team of medical professionals than it did on the assortment of characters coming through the door.

Today the E.R. was overflowing with crazy fools bent on tempting fate and the limits of their medical insurance.

Behind curtains one and two were a pair of middle-aged golfers with head wounds—continuing to exchange obscenities while they waited for their CT scans. They’d been so bent on ramming each other’s golf carts as they raced to the next green that they never noticed they’d taken a wrong turn.

Fortunately, the driver of the industrial-size lawn mower they’d smashed into had escaped injury. It was the two idiots who had landed on his windshield that needed their heads examined.

Then there was the guy behind curtain three who decided to sail his son’s skateboard down his daughter’s slide to see how much lift he could get. He lifted over his neighbor’s fence and landed in the swimming pool.

Lucky for him the neighbor had filled it that morning or he’d have cracked a lot more than a collarbone.

And behind curtain four was the teenage artist determined to have a butterfly tattoo on her boob no matter how much her parents objected. She’d assembled a sewing needle, candle, some food coloring and had at it—until her swallowtail turned into an infected swirl of blisters.

Sometimes the most difficult part of being an E.R. physician was maintaining the controlled detachment that was a necessity in the face of such human folly.

Brad was passing the base radio station when the paramedic line began to ring. The nurse who generally answered the calls was trying to get a naked seventy-year-old loony balancing a bedpan on his head to return to the examining room.

Yep, it was definitely the day for crazies. Brad stopped to pick up the phone.

“Courage Bay E.R. Winslow.”

“It’s Paramedic Kellison on Rescue Squad Two. How do you copy?”

“Loud and clear, Kellison.”

“We’re en route to your location with a Code Red.”

Code Red meant they were coming in with red lights and siren—the emergency team’s protocol whenever they were faced with a possible life-threatening situation.

“We’ve got a female, around thirty, fell without warning onto a cobblestone path approximately twenty minutes ago,” Kellison continued. “Unconsciousness. No observable wounds. Her pressure is ninety-five over sixty, rate about seventy. She’s somewhat pale, but nondiaphoretic at this time. ETA to ambulance bay about three minutes.”

“We’ll be expecting you,” Brad said. “CB clear.”

“Number Two clear.”

Brad signaled to a passing trauma nurse and went to put on a fresh gown and gloves. With a little luck maybe this patient wouldn’t turn out to be a loony.

EMILY WAS ENCASED in thick white mosquito nets. She was thankful. The incessant buzzing that was going on outside was getting louder. Last time she’d been bitten by one of those bloodsuckers, she’d endured a painful welt for several days. Had one of the sprinkler systems developed a leak? Was water pooling somewhere? Were they breeding within the Botanical Gardens?

She tried to respect all life. But mosquitoes were a species that stretched the limits of her tolerance. She could hear one of them now—very loud and insistent.

“Wake up, Emily. I know you can hear me.”

Not a mosquito. An urgent voice—deep and very male—from someone used to being listened to. Her eyes fluttered open to a blinding light. She grimaced and quickly shut them again.

A hand closed over her forearm—large, warm. “Emily, you lost consciousness. You’re in Courage Bay’s Emergency Room.”

She still couldn’t make sense out of the blurred words coming through the thick mosquito netting, but the deep resonance of his voice vibrated nicely in her ears.

“Emily, we’re taking good care of you. But I need you to tell me if you hurt anywhere. I’m Dr. Brad Winslow.”

Brad Winslow?

“English ancestry. Thirty-one. Six foot three. One hundred ninety pounds. Black hair. Gray eyes. Birthday, March 25. Favorite color, blue. Favorite food, cheesecake. Favorite song—”

“What?”

The sharp demand of his voice sliced through the net surrounding Emily’s woolly thoughts and brought her to a full and sudden consciousness. She opened her eyes and blinked into the blurry face of the big-shouldered man hovering over her.

“Tell me who you are,” he said.

“Emily Barrett,” she responded to the fuzzy outline. “Who are you?”

“Dr. Brad Winslow.”

She’d just been dreaming about Brad Winslow. Was she still dreaming? Slowly, her vision cleared and his features came into focus. Thick, dark hair. Straight eyebrows. A face full of strong bones and clean lines. And eyes the color of polished pewter. Wow. No, he couldn’t be. Could he?

Pulling herself into a sitting position, she looked around. She was in an E.R. examining room, all right. Fully clothed, thankfully, except for her shoes. A blood-pressure cuff circled her left arm. A nurse was pumping it up.

“What happened?” Emily asked.

“You lost consciousness,” Brad said. “The paramedics brought you in.”

The nurse released the pressure on her arm and took off the cuff. “One ten over seventy.”

“How do you feel?” Brad asked.

“Fine.” Physically, she was. But mentally and emotionally, she was still reeling from the shock of awakening to find him.

“Do you know where you are?” he asked.

“I’m in the Courage Bay E.R.”

“And why are you here?”

“You just told me it was because I lost consciousness.”

“Lucid and responsive to verbal stimuli,” he said to the nurse who nodded and made a note on the sheet attached to the clipboard she held.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Brad asked.

“Walking into the greenhouse,” Emily said.

He shone a small flashlight in her eye. She blinked.

“Are you in pain anywhere?”

“No.”

“Do you have any medical conditions?”

“No.”

He switched the light to her other eye. “Are you on any medication?”

“No.”

“Have you had any alcohol today?”

“Of course not.”

“Drugs?”

She understood these questions probably had to be asked. But she was beginning to resent them. “Half a cup of coffee this morning,” she said. “But I’m trying to get clean.”

Not even a twitch to his lip. So much for his purported sense of humor.

“Have you had any operations?” he asked.

“No,” she responded.

He turned off the light. “How many fingers do you see?”

“One.”

And a strong-looking hand, well formed. At least the physical part of him appeared to be as advertised. When he positioned the listening end of the stethoscope in his ears, she knew what was coming. Even so, she gave a small start when he slipped the circular disk beneath the V-neck of her blouse.

Brad showed no sign that he noticed, but the nurse smiled at her in sympathy. “Cold, isn’t it?”

Thankful her response had been misinterpreted, Emily gratefully returned her smile. Before Brad could ask her to take a deep breath and hold it, she had done so.

After listening to what was going on inside her from several different spots, he checked the reflexes in her elbows and knees all the while continuing to ask questions about her medical history.

Emily was proud of her calm and cognizant answers. Especially when she considered how incredible it was meeting him this way. Or meeting him any way for that matter.

Another nurse interrupted the examination when she poked her head into the room. “Two victims of a construction accident en route. Scaffolding collapsed from beneath them when they were two stories up. They’re both critical. ETA is four minutes.”

“I’ll join you when I’m finished here,” Brad called over his shoulder before addressing the nurse beside him. “Why don’t you go help her prep. I’ll handle this.”

The nurse nodded and followed the other one out.

Brad’s hands circled to the back of Emily’s neck and felt their way into her scalp, his probing fingers firm but gentle.

“Do you feel any tenderness here?”

His expression was one of total concentration as he gazed at a blank wall to the right.

She realized she was staring at the slight cleft in his chin and averted her eyes. “Uh…no.”

“What about here?”

“No. I’m fine. Really.”

He ceased the exploration of her scalp, placed a finger on her pulse. His eyes focused on his wristwatch.

“People who are fine don’t suddenly lose consciousness for nearly thirty minutes. Have you had anything to eat or drink today?”

“Breakfast was light. Normally I have a full lunch at noon, but I had to attend to some business about that time. How did I get here?”

Brad glanced at the clipboard that the nurse had left lying on the bed table. “A Josh Smithson called the paramedics. Identified himself as your assistant.”

“Poor Josh. I must have scared him to death.”

“What is your business?”

“I take care of plants.”

“Have you been using any new pesticides or fertilizers in your duties?”

“No.”

He released her hand. “Your pulse is a little fast.”

With him taking it, she wasn’t surprised.

He picked up the chart to make a note. “Any chance you’re pregnant?”

Thank God he’d taken her pulse before asking that question. “No chance about it. I’m eight weeks pregnant.”

His eyes shot to hers. “Why didn’t you tell me that when I asked if you had any medical conditions?”

She sat up a bit straighter, annoyed at the insinuated censure of his question. “A medical condition implies something’s wrong. Nothing’s wrong with being pregnant. That’s why I fainted, isn’t it?”

“Fainting during early and middle pregnancy is a common experience. The hormone, progesterone, is at an all-time high, relaxing the walls of the blood vessels, making the blood pool in your hands and feet and away from your head. The medical term for it is postural hypotension.”

“So, it’s perfectly normal.”

“Remaining unconscious for nearly thirty minutes is not normal. Fainting is the way the body gets the head down so blood can immediately return to it. You should have come out of the faint in a minute or two. We need to find out why you didn’t.”

“The leaf blower.”

“Excuse me?”

“The exhaust from a leaf blower our maintenance man was using. The smell was bad enough out in the open air, but inside the greenhouse, the concentration was lethal. I’ve always been sensitive to fumes. When I was a kid, the buildup of carbon monoxide at the back of a school bus could put me out. And often did.”

“What’s the temperature in the greenhouse?”

“Ten to fifteen degrees warmer than the ambient outside air.”

He scribbled something on the chart. “The prolonged unconsciousness could have resulted from the combination of postural hypotension, exhaust fumes and exposure to sudden heat. Your vital signs are normal. I don’t see that you’ve suffered any ill effects. But there’s no point in taking chances. I’m going to order some blood work to make sure we’re not missing anything.”

If he ordered tests on her, there was a good chance that he’d discover her other records at this hospital. Emily couldn’t risk that.

“I appreciate the thoroughness, but that won’t be necessary. I feel fine.”

“Ms. Barrett, it’s important you have the tests. For you and your fetus.”

“I believe you. And your concern is appreciated. Really. But I have an appointment with my doctor on Monday, and I’d feel more comfortable talking things over with her, woman to woman. I’m sure you understand.”

It was the perfect out. No male doctor could argue with a woman about her preference in such a matter.

But Brad Winslow sure looked as if he wanted to. “Your doctor will want to talk to me. Give me her name so that I can note the chart. When she calls, the nurse will know to put her through.”

No way Emily was going to let her doctor call Brad Winslow—or let him know her doctor’s real name. He was waiting for an answer. She quickly searched her mind for a substitute and came up with her favorite grade-school teacher. “Landerman.”

He wrote down the name. “Is Dr. Landerman new to Courage Bay?”

“Her practice is in L.A.,” Emily lied, then realized the other questions that might raise. “She’s an old friend of the family, which is why I don’t mind driving so far to see her.”

“What’s her number?”

“I don’t have it memorized. Thanks for everything.”

Emily could see her shoes on the bottom shelf of the cart next to the bed. She scooted to the side of the examining table, intent on slipping off it and getting to them.

But before she could swing her legs over, Brad stepped forward, rested the hospital chart on the edge of the bed’s metal rim and effectively blocked her path.

“Your assistant wasn’t able to provide your home address, number and next of kin. Let’s take a moment to fill in the blanks, shall we?”

“No reason to take up your time with that,” Emily said quickly. “I’ll give my insurance information to the clerk in admissions. She’ll be able to get whatever she requires from it.”

“You sound like you know your way around this hospital.”

“I’ve visited friends here from time to time.”

She waited for him to move out of her way. He didn’t.

“All right, Ms. Barrett, how do you know about me?”

His authoritative tone had developed an even sharper edge and his eyes were chips of granite.

For a second Emily stared at him. Then it hit her. Dear heavens. Those things she’d been thinking about him before she came to. She must have said them aloud. Oh, hell.

Don’t panic, Emily. You can handle this. Remember, the best defense when cornered is to act innocent.

She squinted at him like someone who’d forgotten her glasses. “I’m sorry. I don’t seem to recognize you, Doctor. Do we know each other?”

His skeptical expression told her he wasn’t buying the act. The sound of a siren approached. Footsteps rushed past in the hallway. The injured men from the construction site were here. This was her chance to escape.

Second-best defense—run to the nearest exit.

“You have people who need you,” she said. “I’d better be on my way. Thank you for taking care of me, Dr…uh… I’m sorry. What was your name again?”

“Where did you find out those very personal things about me?” he demanded, not budging an inch.

She did her best to look confused. “What things?”

“My ethnic background, coloring, height, weight, age, favorite color, favorite—”

“I’m sorry,” she interrupted with a regretful shake of her head, “but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You expect me to believe you don’t remember what you said?”

“I have no memory of meeting you before today, Doctor. When am I supposed to have said these things?”

“You said them while lying on this bed not five minutes ago. And you know it. You’re not leaving here until you tell me exactly where you learned those personal details of my life.”

She could see he damn well meant it, too. There was only one choice left.

Third-best defense—scare the hell out of the opponent so he runs to the nearest exit.

Emily plastered a look of excitement on her face. “I told you about personal details in your life? And they were accurate? Well, well. That hasn’t happened in quite a while.”

“What hasn’t?”

“When I’ve been in semiconscious states before, I’ve shown…well, that is, people have told me I display very strong psychic powers.”

For a fraction of a second, something that looked like discomfort flashed across his stoic features.

Emily settled farther back on the bed, no longer making any attempt to leave. As a matter of fact, she was doing her best to convey the impression that she planned to stay awhile.

“Once I collapsed in a store and before I came to, I’d told the owner all about the affair he was having with his bookkeeper,” she lied blithely. “Of course, he was a little upset at me since his wife was standing right next to him at the time. But that’s one of the drawbacks of being a semiconscious psychic.”

Brad’s eyes darted toward the phone on the wall. Debating whether he should call for restraints or a psychiatric consultation?

“This is really exciting, Doctor. You don’t know how glad I am you told me. So many people are afraid of acknowledging any sense beyond the mundane five—especially people from the so-called scientific disciplines. Why most doctors wouldn’t dream of repeating what you did for fear of being ridiculed.”

His eyebrows inched so tightly together, they were about to meet.

“Please, you must give me the details of everything you said and what I told you,” she begged. “When I tell people about this, they’re going to want to be sure you didn’t give me any hints. Not that I blame them for being skeptical. There are so many fakes out there. Do you mind if I borrow some paper and a pen to take notes?”

To his credit, he didn’t so much as flinch. But he was clenching the hospital chart so hard, his knuckles were white. It took an effort of will for Emily to keep a straight face.

A nurse rapped once on the door, then stuck her head into the room. “You want the concussion or the bleeder?”

“The bleeder,” he said. “Ms. Barrett is ready to be released.”

He shoved the paperwork in the nurse’s hands and was out of the room so fast that Emily could feel the gust of air displaced in his wake.

She let out a sigh of relief. Well, she’d managed to dodge that bullet. But only just. On paper, Brad Winslow had been very impressive. In person he was one formidable son of a gun.

“ARE YOU SURE YOU’RE OKAY, EM?” Dorothy Mission asked for the umpteenth time as they worked together to prepare dinner in her kitchen.

Dumping the romaine lettuce she’d chopped into a large salad bowl, Emily sent her friend a look of exasperation. “If you don’t stop asking me if I’m okay, I’m going to throw this salad at you.”

Dorothy smiled. “Could you wait until you slice in the tomatoes? A green outfit always looks more festive with a nice splash of red.”

Emily chuckled as she went back to her task. “Truth is, I nearly had a heart attack when it dawned on me that I’d unconsciously blabbed all that stuff to Brad Winslow.”

“Imagine the jolt he must have felt hearing what you said.”

“At least he made sure I was okay and everything that was medical had been attended to before he tried to nail me to the wall on it.”

“Em, I know you said you never wanted to meet him, but now that you have, are you glad?”

She gave the question some serious thought as she chopped the carrots. “I admit it did satisfy a certain curiosity.”

“Is he everything that you…hoped?”

Emily glanced over at the speculative look on her friend’s face. “Forget it, Dot. He’s just a man like any other. And, as far as I’m concerned, good for one thing and one thing only.”

“Oh, I think they might have one or two other uses,” her friend said with a mischievous smile.

“I can open tight jars and take out the trash myself, thank you,” Emily said, knowing perfectly well that was not what Dot had been referring to.

“Come on,” Dorothy persisted. “You selected Brad Winslow out of the hundreds you could have picked. You must think he’s special. What stood out most strongly when you met him today?”

“That he’s no one to fool around with. If I hadn’t lied my head off and known what button to push, he’d have found me out, and I’d be in serious trouble now.”

“Em, I respect your wishes on this, really I do. But you’re such a nice person that… I mean even after all you’ve been through, I guess I still hope you’ll…oh, forget it. You’re right. I can’t pretend to understand what I haven’t experienced. And people who say they know how someone else feels are irritating.”

“On that we agree wholeheartedly,” Emily said.

“You two are agreeing?” Holly Mission said as she entered the room. “Oh, this can’t be good.”

Dorothy gave her daughter a hug. Holly was both smart and sweet—a seventeen-year-old version of her mom.

“So, is Lester gone?” Dorothy asked Holly.

“Yeah, Josh and I stuck around until he got his stuff together and drove off.”

“Did you get his key to the maintenance gate?”

“Oh, hell, Mom. I forgot.”

“Key?” Emily repeated.

“Lester quit,” Dorothy said. “When I went to bawl him out about the leaf blower incident sending you to the E.R. this afternoon, I found him loading sacks of organic fertilizer into his pickup.”

“He was stealing them?”

Dorothy nodded. “First story he gave me was that he was moving the sacks to the other side of the Gardens so they’d be in place when he fertilized next week. But when I pointed to some of your new rose hybrids in between the sacks of fertilizer in his pickup, he had no convenient lie ready for why they were there.”

Emily shook her head. “I’ve been wondering why so many of our supplies seemed to be missing lately.”

“His father has opened a small nursery on the outskirts of town,” Dorothy said. “No doubt Lester’s been taking the supplies from the Botanical Gardens over to him. I told him he had a choice. Either quit or I’d see to it that you fired him.”

“That must have been hard for you, Dot.”

“I never should have suggested you hire him in the first place. I love my cousin but her kid is a loser. I swear he got all of his father’s genes and not one of hers. When Lester was thirteen, I caught him stealing from her purse so he could buy marijuana from another kid pushing it at school. Supposedly, he got himself clean. But clean or not, ten years later and he’s still a thief.”

“I’m sorry about forgetting the key, Emily,” Holly said. “But I don’t think Lester will come back. I watched closely to make sure that he didn’t try to put anything that wasn’t his into his pickup. Josh was right beside me, scowling at him the whole time he was getting his stuff together. And when he started to drive away, Josh yelled at him not to come back.”

“Well, good for our Josh,” Dorothy said. “He seems to be working out okay despite his grandfather’s claim that the boy’s clueless.”

“Josh is a very good assistant,” Emily said. “He simply needs a little time to find his direction in life.”

“Speaking of time,” Holly said, “Josh asked me to remind you to meet with the crane guy today.”

“I have. The sundial has been prepped and readied for tomorrow.”

“Do you need my help on anything?” Dorothy asked.

“Thanks, but I took care of the other last-minute details before coming over. Gardens, dignitaries and media are all in line. We are good to go, Mission Control.”

Dorothy smiled as she set a plate of sliced roast beef on the kitchen table. Emily put the mixed-salad bowl between the beef and a basket of steaming baked potatoes. The fact that her friend still insisted on eating in the kitchen when Emily joined them always made her feel like one of the Mission family.

“Smartest thing I ever did was to convince my fellow board members to put you in charge of the Founders Day Celebration. It’s going to be a smashing success, Em.”

“Okay, what are all you smashing women smashing now?” Ted Mission asked with a grin as he came rustling in the back door, keys and briefcase jangling by his side.

Dorothy immediately stopped what she was doing and went to greet her husband.

Ted and Dorothy Mission had been married more than twenty-five years, were past fifty and packed a dozen extra pounds of good living around their middles. But the embrace and kiss they shared were as hot as young lovers’.

“They’re at it again,” Holly said, shaking her head, but wearing a smile.

Emily watched her friends as she always did—with undisguised envy. Dorothy and Ted had it all—rewarding careers, a long-term love match and a brainy daughter headed for Harvard in the fall.

Once Emily had dreamed of having it all. Now she knew that fulfilling work and a precious baby to love would be enough.

For men might come and go. But a child was forever.

ATTENDING PHYSICIAN Alec Giroux was going over charts when Brad walked by his office on his way out. He waved Brad over.

“You certainly had your share of crazies today,” Alec said as he gestured to the stack of charts in front of him. “Nice save on that chest wound.”

“We were lucky we didn’t lose anyone,” Brad said as he folded his arms and rested his leg against the desk.

Alec leaned back in his chair, the expression on his face conveying the fact that he knew luck had nothing to do with it. “You’re going to ace those board exams next month.”

Brad appreciated the vote of confidence. From the moment he’d begun his residency in emergency medicine at Courage Bay Hospital four years before, Alec had been far more friend and supporter than supervisor.

“You going to take Guy up on his offer of a permanent position here when the exams are over?” Alec asked.

Brad wanted to. In his first month on the job he’d learned more from Alec and his brother, Guy, their chief of emergency medicine, than he’d learned in all his years at medical school. They were the best.

But the money at the community hospital was not. He hadn’t paid off all of his eight years of staggering school loans.

“I’m giving it some thought,” he said, honestly.

Alec nodded. As a single father, he probably knew how difficult it could be to catch up on bills and make ends meet.

“I was reviewing Emily Barrett’s chart,” he said. “Surprised to see it among the bunch of wackos we had walking the halls today.”

Even hearing her name was enough to get Brad to un-cross his arms and plant both feet firmly beneath him. “You know Emily Barrett?”

“My sister, Natalie, says she’s a regular in the pediatric and geriatric wards upstairs.”

Yeah, Brad figured knowing someone at this hospital was how Emily had really learned that personal stuff about him.

“Emily brings flowers and potted plants to the patients who don’t get visitors,” Alec continued. “Nice lady.”

“Certifiable kook,” Brad said beneath his breath.

“I pulled her hospital records,” Alec went on, not having heard the comment. “I was hoping they might shed some light on her prolonged unconsciousness today, but no clues there. You were right to suggest more tests. Shame she refused them. All we can do is trust that she’ll follow up with her obstetrician.”

Brad took a step forward. “She didn’t tell me she’d been admitted to this hospital.”

“Outpatient in the OB-GYN clinic for her artificial insemination eight weeks ago,” Alec explained as he handed over the record. “Dr. Jill Crispin does all of her inseminations and deliveries here.”

Brad started, not sure he’d heard right. “Are you telling me Jill Crispin from the Crispin Fertility Clinic is Emily Barrett’s doctor?”

“You know Dr. Crispin?”

“I’ve heard of her,” Brad said as he quickly read through the hospital record of Emily Barrett that he held in his hands. This had to be a coincidence. The transactions were absolutely confidential. No way either party could learn about the other.

Except as his eyes fixed on Emily Barrett’s maiden name, he suddenly saw that there was one way.

“Brad, is there something wrong? Brad?”