Читать книгу The Man Who Wouldn't Marry - Tina Beckett - Страница 8

SAMMI pumped the inhaler twice and waited.

Toby, still half-asleep, lay on his back propped in a nest of pillows. The terrifying rattle in his chest slowly eased as the albuterol flooded his lungs, widening his breathing passages to allow more air flow.

As Community Health Aide for the island, she knew better than to panic, but when it was your own son… She closed her eyes. Who could maintain any kind of objectivity under those circumstances?

Not that she had much of that anyway. Molly had continually fussed at her for rushing from one house to another to check on patients she’d just seen the day before.

‘You’re going to wear yourself out this way’ had been the rebuke du jour.

Her friend was right, but she hadn’t been able to stop.

Now that Molly was gone and with only one other physician’s assistant on staff at the clinic, she wouldn’t have the luxury of taking off at any hour of day to check on her patients. And either she or the PA would now have to accompany any medevac flights headed to Anchorage. The good part was that she’d be able to meet up with Molly periodically. The bad part was that she was stuck flying with Mark—although Blake could still handle cases that weren’t life or death and who could wait the three hours it took him to reach Dutch Harbor.

‘Better?’ she asked her son, his breathing now almost back to normal.

He nodded sleepily, trying to squinch his way back into his cocoon of warm covers.

‘Not so fast, bud. Let’s just wait another minute or two.’

His impatient sigh made her smile. Okay, if he could do that, instead of gasping for each breath, she could afford to let him go back to sleep. She tucked him in and stood over his bed, watching him for a second. Before putting the inhaler back on the book-packed nightstand beside his bed, she shook it to see how much of the medicine remained.

Were they going through it faster than normal?

She couldn’t shake the feeling that Toby’s attacks were coming more frequently than in the past.

Checking the child monitor before she clicked the lights off, she headed back to her own room, hoping she could squeeze her eyelids shut long enough to turn off her brain. She needed the sleep, or tomorrow promised to be a long, exhausting day.

‘Mrs. Litchfield is in room one. One of her joints is swollen to almost twice its size.’ The receptionist handed Sammi a file folder.

She tossed her braid over her shoulder, catching a movement outside the front plate-glass window as she did.

Mark. He was striding by on his way to the airport, hands stuffed into the front pockets of his leather bomber jacket, long, loose limbs moving in a way that drew the eye. Not quite a swagger, his stride gave off an air of easy confidence that said he didn’t care what the world thought of him.

And unlike Sammi, who couldn’t seem to look away, the man didn’t spare a glance at the clinic, or at her. With a sigh, she forced herself to turn away and head to the exam room.

As soon as she arrived, all thoughts of Mark evaporated when Barbara Litchfield, a woman in her mid-fifties, climbed to her feet and greeted her.

‘Sorry to come back so soon,’ she said, the regret in her voice unmistakable.

‘What are you talking about? I told you to get back in here at the first hint of trouble. Arthritis is nothing to play around with. I know you need those fingers whole and strong.’

A retired orchestral pianist, Barbara had moved to the Aleutians with her husband when he’d retired from a corporate job a couple of years ago. At a time when most retirees sought refuge in the south, hoping for warm, sunny days of golfing and fun, the Litchfields had bucked the trend, fitting right into the harsh landscape of Dutch Harbor. Barbara taught piano lessons—free of charge—to a few of the local kids. It meant a lot to both the former pianist and the kids she worked with. Those fingers were important, and not just for her physical health.

Sammi snapped on a pair of gloves. ‘Let’s take a look, shall we?’

Taking the other woman’s hands in hers, she spotted the affected joint immediately. Swollen and angry red, her left ring finger didn’t look happy, and for good reason. Molly frowned when she noted the woman’s wedding band. ‘Why is that still on?’

‘I tried to get it off this morning when I realized how bad it was, but it wouldn’t budge, and when I tried to force it…’ Her voice trailed away.

‘It’s okay. The base of your finger isn’t swollen at the moment, but if it begins to swell, we may need to cut the ring off.’ She put a hand on the other woman’s shoulder. ‘We won’t unless it’s absolutely necessary, okay? In the meantime, I’m going to give you a shot of cortisone in the joint. Then I really want you to see a rheumatologist in Anchorage. I’ll make a phone call and get you in as soon as possible.’

‘I can’t just keep taking Advil?’

Sammy shook her head. ‘That used to be how we treated arthritis, thinking if we could get the inflammation under control, we could preserve the joint. But newer research suggests the real damage happens much earlier in the disease, even before it shows up on X-rays.’

Just like the damage to Sammi and Mark’s relationship. Just as their feelings for each other started to gain a foothold, unseen currents swirled around them, eating away at the foundation. By the time she’d realized just how deeply she’d fallen for him, the mysterious corrosive agent had done its job. The silver cord joining them had snapped and Mark had bolted.

So why did seeing him walk down the street this morning still tug at something inside her? And why had seeing her son’s hand enveloped in his at the wedding a week ago turned her heart inside out?

She shook off the questions. It didn’t matter. She’d gotten married, had a child with someone else. Mark had dated plenty of other women since his return.

There was nothing between them any more.

‘Let me make a quick phone call then I’ll give you the injection.’ Sammi scribbled a couple of notes down on the chart. ‘I’ll be right back.’

The phone call took less than five minutes. A bit of arm twisting on her end, the promise of a jar of home-made salmonberry jam when the season rolled around, and Barbara had her appointment. Two weeks from today, record time for that kind of specialist. But she and Chris Masters went way back. One of the few islanders who’d gone to medical school and left the Aleutians, he was now a highly sought-after rheumatologist. Appointments with him could take months.

Satisfied, she made a note to herself that her debt to fellow doctors was now up to ten pints of jam and a pie. Not to mention her son, who’d made her promise on her life not to give all their jelly away again this year.

Speaking of Toby…

She jogged back to the reception area. ‘What time is it?’

Lynn’s raised brows told her even before she spoke. ‘Two o’clock, and you’ve missed lunch again.’

‘Right. I’ll eat as soon as I’m done with Mrs. Litchfield. Promise.’

‘You’d better. I’ve already locked the front door, just in case.’

Sammi laughed. ‘Thanks.’

‘I’m going to start heating your food in the microwave, so don’t take long.’ She paused. ‘I’m heating mine too.’

In other words, if Sammi delayed, her receptionist would also go hungry. ‘I’ll be there by the time you pour the coffee.’

The injection was given and Sammi unlatched the front door to let Barbara out—a sheaf of papers and instructions clutched in her hands. She pushed the door closed again, twisting her head around when Lynn’s threat reached her ears. ‘Coffee’s going into the mugs.’

‘I’ll be right—’

The front door started to blow open, probably a result of the gusty conditions today. Sammi was leaning her entire weight onto it to force it shut when a harsh yelp, a colorful string of words and something squishy stopped her in her tracks.

Eyes wide, she turned to look. The doorway she’d sworn was empty a second ago was now filled with Mark, and that squishy thing…

Yikes, she’d just crunched his hand in the door!

‘Coffee’s getting cold.’ Lynn’s warning was drowned by the realization of what she’d just done.

She jerked the door wide. ‘Oh, God, Mark. I’m sorry. I had no idea you were there. Or I’d have never…’

‘Never what? Slammed the door on me?’ He shook his injured hand, the graveled accusation bringing back the fact that she’d done exactly that once upon a time. When he’d announced his intention of moving away to join the armed forces, she’d slammed the door in his face with a ‘Don’t bother coming by before you leave’.

But that was all in the past, where it would stay.

‘Come in so I can look at that hand.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘Seriously. It could be broken.’

He gave a wry laugh. ‘You really think I’d let you set it if it were? I’d probably end up with permanently crooked fingers.’

‘I can think of at least one finger I’d like to fix permanently.’ The one he showed to the world. Not a visible gesture, but one he exuded with his attitude.

In answer to her statement, he laughed. A genuine chuckle that moved from his stomach to his mouth… to his gorgeous green eyes. It took her breath away, and she had to force herself not to gasp.

‘I’m not that bad, am I?’ His brows went up.

Worse. The word came and went without her uttering a single sound.

Before she could give him an actual answer, Lynn peeked out from the other room, her mouth rounding in a perfect ‘O’ as she realized who was standing there. She’d grown up on the island, knew about Sammi and Mark’s infamous past.

‘You’re going to have to start without me,’ Sammi said. ‘Mark’s gotten an… injury that should probably be checked out.’

Mark grinned in the receptionist’s direction and the woman’s color immediately deepened to an ill-looking salmon, before she nodded and withdrew.

Damn him. How could he have that effect on every woman he encountered? And why had she been so stupid to fall for it herself all those years ago? Well, no danger of that now. She’d found a cure, and that was her son. She’d protect him from being hurt at all costs. And Mark could do exactly that with very little effort.

Jaw tight, she led the way to one of the exam rooms. ‘Hop up on the table.’

He leaned against it instead. ‘Don’t I get a gown?’

‘Don’t push your luck.’ Despite her irritation, the man still had the power to make her lips curve from the inside out. She pressed them together so he wouldn’t see as she started toward the dispenser on the wall.

Gloves? Really?

Yes.

Wearing them would give her a measure of protection that had nothing to do with disease and everything to do with self-preservation. She glanced into his face. Would he know the reason?

Yep. It was there in the brow that lifted a quarter of a centimeter.

Forget it. She wouldn’t let him know how terrified she was of touching him or how taking her son’s hand from his had twisted her heart and left it raw and vulnerable.

She stopped in front of him and tilted her head to meet his gaze. ‘Where does it hurt?’

‘Seriously?’

‘No more games, Mark. You could have broken something.’

His cocky smile disappeared and something dark and scary passed through his eyes. ‘Did I, Sam? Break something?’

For the longest moment she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t tear her gaze from his. No one ever called her Sam.

No one, except Mark.

And she had the distinct impression the broken thing he was asking about had nothing to do with his hand and everything to do with her. No, that couldn’t be right. He hadn’t cared one iota about the damage he’d caused when he’d taken off without so much as a ‘Why?’.

She shook her head, but had to avert her eyes as she did. ‘Let me see your hand.’

He held it out, and she winced at the long diagonal stripe of discoloration already showing up just below his metacarpophalangeal joints. He must have had his hand wrapped around the frame of the door when she’d leaned against it. ‘Wiggle your fingers.’

He obliged, and Sammi watched for a reaction as he curled his fingers into a loose fist and released them. Only there was no reaction. ‘It doesn’t hurt?’

‘It was slammed in a door. What do you think?’

The amused sarcasm was back in place. She decided not to rise to the bait this time. ‘Palm up.’

It was only when he turned his hand over that she realized she was avoiding touching him. But she was going to have to eventually. She’d have to X-ray his hand at the very least.

Suck it up, Sammi.

Sliding her fingertips beneath the back of his hand and desperately wishing she’d gone for the gloves after all, she tested the swelling on his palm with her thumb. ‘I don’t think anything is broken, but I do want to take an X-ray.’

She glanced up, surprised to find a muscle tic in his jaw. ‘That bad?’ she asked.

‘You have no idea.’

‘Hmm…’ She looked closer at his hand, turning it gently. Maybe there was more damage than she’d thought. ‘Follow me.’

Leading him into the tiny X-ray room, she fitted him with a lead apron, forbidding herself from thinking about exactly what she was protecting. She lined up his hand on the table and used the flexible arm on the X-ray tube to pull it down over the injured area, glad to be able to keep her mind on the job. ‘I should be able to get this all on one frame, but if not, we’ll take a couple more. Hold still for a second.’

She went into the control booth and took the first film, then rejoined him, swinging the tube away from his hand. ‘All done. Let’s see what we’ve got.’ A thought occurred to her as she pressed buttons on the computer to call up the image. ‘Why did you come to the clinic anyway? Are you sick?’

The correct X-ray flashed up, and Sammi zeroed in on the injured portion, not seeing any obvious breaks. Before she could heave a sigh of relief, though, several areas of calcification on his middle phalanges caught her attention. Fractures. Each apparently healed and running across his hand in a line. If not for the location of the bruise from where she’d slammed the door, Sammi would swear she was looking at his current injury. Except these were old. Already fused together.

As she stared, trying to work out how he could have broken a succession of bones like that, Mark’s voice came through. ‘I’m not sick. I came by to tell you I’m…’

His voice faded away as her eyes met his, horrified realization sweeping through her chest. ‘Oh, my God, Mark. Did your father do this to you?’