Critical Care: 1 (Mercy Hospital) Read online

  How many times had he patiently explained that attending church together would have been as futile as the counseling? that it couldn’t change anything? Some things just happened, that’s all. The important thing was to get past it. Trust yourself to get tough and move on. Logan put the bike back in gear and twisted the throttle. He’d e-mail Beckah. That would be easier. He’d wish her happiness—he did, absolutely—and that would bring an end to it. It was good to finally make a decision.

  Now all he had to worry about was the new nurse Merlene Hibbert was trying to force down his throat. Logan smiled. And how he was going to keep a professional distance when the beautiful educator walked into the ER later today.

  +++

  Claire paused outside the ER, thinking how much had changed in the scant two weeks since she’d first passed through these doors, when the day care explosion forced her into action as a peer counselor. The day she’d first met Jamie, Erin, Sarah . . . and Logan. She remembered how furious he’d made her with his sarcasm, the way he’d blown off Erin’s concerns for her staff—“Tough comes with the territory. . . . Do you see me crumbling here?” And then his dismissal of Faith QD as a God huddle, along with his outspoken opposition to the stress counseling.

  She glanced at her briefcase full of CISM pamphlets, feeling a wave of déjà vu and an unsettling doubt. She’d come full circle, and how much had really changed? She tamped the thought down and pushed open the door. Things were better and she could handle it.

  The nurse at the desk was someone Claire hadn’t seen before. She was petite and probably in her late forties, with curly dark hair, a pert nose, dark-framed glasses, and a warm, engaging expression.

  “Hi,” the woman said. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Claire Avery. Education department.”

  The nurse extended her hand. “Keeley Roberts. New kid on the block—even though I’ve been around that particular block more than a few times.” She shrugged. “But then I always say, to get through it you’ve got to go through it.” Her warm smile reappeared and spread to her hazel eyes, making her seem at the same time incredibly wise and a bit vulnerable.

  Claire murmured agreement and grasped her hand, noticing Keeley’s artsy silver bracelet, etched with calligraphy and inlaid with stones forming a pink-ribbon design. “Where’s Erin?”

  Keeley nodded toward Logan’s door. “In with Dr. Caldwell.” She fiddled with a pen in her plastic pocket protector, her expression showing a twinge of anxiety. “Staffing issues. It’s been a little tense this morning, and—oh, here she comes.”

  “Hey, Claire.” Erin closed Logan’s door and strode toward them. She snapped a salute to Keeley and watched as the nurse went to check on one of the patients. Then Erin motioned to Claire to have a seat beside her at the desk.

  “Argh.” Erin tugged at her ponytail and rolled her eyes. “Just kill me now.”

  Claire glanced over the desktop toward the office door. “Logan?”

  “Of course.” Erin reached for her coffee cup. “Although to tell you the truth, the man walked in here this morning looking happier than I’ve ever seen him. He brought donuts for everyone and was singing—singing!” She laughed. “It was almost spooky. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought McSnarly had a splash of something extra to warm his coffee this morning.”

  “Uh . . .” Claire blushed and turned quickly, pretending to watch Keeley check a patient’s vital signs. “Is that new nurse his problem, then? She seems so nice.”

  “Oh, she is. I almost did a backflip when I read her résumé—both ICU and ER experience. And a great sense of humor, always a plus in my book. I liked her the second I met her.” Erin took a sip of her coffee and glanced at Keeley. “She took almost a year off to care for her terminally ill sister—breast cancer—then wanted a change when she came back, a smaller hospital to sort of ease back in. A good thing for all of us, I hope. So far so good with Logan and Keeley. Not that we’re out of the woods yet. But the reason Logan’s pouting right now is that Sarah went home sick. Merlene’s willing to give us a hand, but you know how he is.”

  “Sarah’s sick?” Claire asked, thinking she’d have to catch her another day for the final CISM check off.

  “It’s not like her at all. That’s what bugged Logan most; he thinks Sarah’s invincible. Like he is. But . . .”

  “But what?” Claire asked, feeling a vague sense of discomfort.

  Erin looked around and then lowered her voice. “She fell asleep in the break room. Had her head resting on the table, almost on top of her breakfast burrito. You know Sarah. She was frantically apologizing, saying she’d had to take some cold medicine before work, then tried to make it up by offering to skip lunch.” She sighed. “The fact is, she spent over four hours helping in the nursery last night—from midnight to four thirty—rocking babies. Not that she admitted it. I only know because I happened to run into the OB charge nurse as she was going off shift this morning.”

  “Yikes.” Claire shook her head.

  “And yesterday she was late. Not very late, but Sarah’s always early.”

  “She went home willingly today?”

  Erin grimaced. “I didn’t give her much of a choice, I’m afraid. When she balked, I had to mention patient safety. I can’t put my department at risk. I was gentle, I promise you, but I could tell she had a problem hearing that. I promised not to tell Logan she’d fallen asleep. That girl lives to please him.”

  “You’re right.” Claire reached into her briefcase, pulling out a bundle of pamphlets. “When I talk with her, I’m insisting she takes one of my health tip sheets. Will she be here tomorrow?”

  “She’d better be, or Logan will have a fit. And—” Erin stopped, glancing over the top of the desk. “Heads up. Here he comes.”

  “Ladies.” Logan approached the desk.

  Claire struggled against another blush. This man made her senses swim. How on earth was she going to make it through her last urgent care shift tomorrow?

  “Dr. Caldwell.” Claire smiled, aware that she’d seen him at dawn, unshaven and sitting at her breakfast table, petting her cat . . . kissing her. And how great he looked now, his scrubs the same color as his eyes, a stethoscope draped casually across his broad shoulders. Those little crinkles starting to form as his smile broadened . . .

  “I see you brought your pamphlets,” Logan said, pointing at the bundle in Claire’s hands.

  “Yes.” Claire lifted her chin, once again feeling an odd sense of déjà vu at having come full circle. So much had changed and yet so much remained stubbornly the same.

  “She’s doing a last follow-up with the staff,” Erin explained, leaning toward Claire in an obviously protective gesture. “To make sure everyone’s okay. It’s required.”

  “Healing the healers?” Logan asked, his gaze moving back to Claire.

  “That’s right,” she said, unblinking. Counseling and prayer too.

  “Well,” he said softly, his eyes holding hers, “can’t hurt, I suppose.” He picked up a reflex hammer and walked toward one of the patient gurneys.

  Erin’s breath escaped in a snort. “‘Can’t hurt’? I’m telling you, there was something in that man’s coffee.”

  +++

  Erin stopped at the red light and hit the speed dial on her cell phone one more time. Brad was working at the dealership, but he usually kept his phone on his belt. It rang once, twice . . . She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror and decided she liked the new shade of lipstick after all. It looked great with her hair. It was a delicate coral pink called New Dawn, pleasing, like her whole new attitude toward the relationship with Brad. Pleasant, agreeable, nonjudgmental, sweetly patient.

  Why isn’t he answering the stupid phone? She growled and jabbed the End button, then stepped on the accelerator when the light turned green. She’d drive over there, even if the traffic on Highway 50 was miserable this time of day. It would be worth it to surprise Brad.

  Erin turned up the volume on the S
ubaru’s radio and sang along with the music, feeling her spirits lift. Brad really was a nice guy, and he had a point that Erin should lighten up and have more fun; she did get too intense. But maybe that came with the territory from watching her mother pull herself out of the hole after so many painful disappointments with Dad, and . . . No point in dredging up the ugly past. Having more fun could be a good thing.

  She laughed, thinking that it sounded like one of those tips in Claire’s pamphlets: “Do things that feel good to you. Reach out. Eat right.” Well, Erin was going to do all of them, starting tonight. She’d surprise Brad and invite him out to dinner. And she was going to be far subtler about church. If he wanted to take the membership classes, she’d be thrilled, but she wouldn’t push it. Some things took time. Meanwhile, she’d knock Brad’s socks off by showing up unexpectedly, with killer lipstick and a whole new gentle attitude of trust. I have to trust him. She’d pull into the dealership, packing a great big New Dawn smile.

  Only, when she arrived twenty minutes later, he wasn’t there. Erin crossed her arms and looked at the young salesman behind the desk. “But his car’s here.”

  The man—Evan, according to his badge—nodded. “He borrowed the new Denali. Sweet vehicle. Heated leather seats, DVD entertainment system, rearview cameras—”

  “Where’d he go?” Erin interrupted.

  “Some meeting, I guess.” Evan frowned. “You don’t exactly ask the owner’s nephew—”

  “Can you reach him?” Erin blurted, ignoring her new promise of patience.

  “No, and I’ve been trying,” Evan explained, twirling a key ring on his finger. “I had a customer who wanted to see that Denali, but it looks like Brad left his cell phone locked in his office.”

  “Well, I’ll leave a message with you then, and . . . Oh, never mind. Thanks.”

  She was halfway to her car when the idea came to her. Why not? Brad never locked his car, and he’d no doubt be back in plenty of time to go out to dinner. She’d leave him a note. A really sweet, agreeable, and fun note, telling him she’d like to see him tonight. She could already imagine his surprised expression.

  Erin slid into the Corvette and found a sheet of paper in the glove compartment. But no pen or pencil. None in her purse, either. She rooted around in the passenger-door pocket. Nothing. Then slid across to the driver’s door, slipped her hand into its pocket and . . . bingo, a pencil. Along with a wad of torn papers. No, they looked more like . . . checks?

  Erin flattened one of them out and read what she could. Her heart nearly stopped. No. How can this be? Heart pounding, she scooped everything out of the side pocket and spread the pieces of torn checks on the car seat. Four checks. Along with an envelope. Labeled in her own writing: Little Nugget Victim Fund.

  +++

  Claire, arms full of notebooks and binders, fumbled blindly with the key to the front door and nearly fell inside when it opened. She laughed, remembering Logan standing on that same porch early this morning, his arms full of breakfast. She set her pile of belongings on the table and shook her head. Less than twenty-four hours ago she’d been ending a day with Logan that began with fishing and concluded with a sunset and an amazing kiss. And this morning there had been so many more kisses—incredible, heart-melting tenderness. How was it possible so much had happened in a single day? It felt surreal, like a dream.

  She glanced around the room, then whistled. “Smokey?” She rolled her eyes. He was probably on her bed, leaving black fur all over her white down comforter. Typical. But then, nothing really bothered her right now. She was too giddy to care.

  Logan had called her office, and they’d arranged to meet out by the helipad for a few minutes. Just a short conversation, a covert but knee-weakening hug and a quick kiss, like two secret agents. Logan promised to call her later tonight when he got back to his condo. He was playing basketball with one of the Placerville ER doctors, part of his regular routine. She’d been touched when he apologized, but frankly Claire was relieved. Her mind was still jumbled, and she needed time to sort it all out. Time to accept the fact that . . .

  She looked at the fireplace mantel and then walked over to Kevin’s picture, a lump rising in her throat. “I’ve found someone, Kev.” She took a breath and felt it escape without swirling through the old, painful hollow. “It’s finally happened.” She touched a fingertip to his smiling face. “And I think you’d like him. I know you won’t believe this, but even your crazy cat likes him.”

  Claire turned around. How come Smokey hadn’t found her? It was dinnertime, and she could set her clock by his demanding meows. She headed toward the bedroom. “Smokey?”

  When she saw he wasn’t there, she checked the bathroom, the shower, and the laundry room, telling herself not to worry. Then she checked under the bed, in the closets, and in the kitchen, feeling anxiety rise. She hardly ever blocked the pet door until nighttime, because that was normally when the raccoons and opossums came out. Smokey stayed inside during the day, so—

  Claire’s breath caught as she peered onto the deck. Oh no. She opened the door and knelt down, picking up the clumps of fur outside the pet door. Black fur, Smokey’s fur. And a trail of dried footprints. Slender, like palm prints. With five toes.

  +++

  Sarah moaned, squinting into the light . . . too bright, too much. Her back was stiff and sore, and . . . oh, the rocking chair. She’d fallen asleep in the rocking chair; she’d get up and get into bed, get some z’s before work. She moved and the prescription bottle rolled in her lap.

  It had taken two pills last night, plus two glasses of wine. And still she’d slept precious little. She stroked the small quilted blanket on her lap. How could she sleep, with the pain of knowing that the stroke of midnight made it officially Emily’s second birthday? But maybe now she could turn off the merciless blinding lamp and get into bed, and—oh no!

  She rubbed her eyes and stared at the window. The sun. Not a lamp. Sunlight because it was—she jerked her head, looking frantically from the clock to her watch—quarter to seven? Fifteen minutes before her shift started? No, no. Her heart thudded in her ears. I can’t be late. She shoved the pill bottle into her pocket and rose from the rocking chair, the baby blanket sliding onto the floor. Her sleep-deprived brain, fuzzy like it was wrapped in sterile cotton, scrambled to make a plan. She was still in her scrubs from yesterday, so . . .

  Sarah took a step, and her knees buckled as a wave of dizziness swept over her. Her stomach roiled and perspiration prickled her forehead. It was hard to see. She shook her head, but it didn’t help. Low blood sugar probably—she hadn’t eaten last night, and there was no time now. She’d get something at the hospital. But if she was too woozy to drive, how would she get to work?

  Think, think. She’d take a cab. Good. No. How would she explain that to Erin? What would Logan think? But then what would he think if she wasn’t there? if she let him down again? if Erin had to explain that Sarah’s behavior was unsafe to patients? Sarah squeezed her eyes shut, remembering the humiliation of being sent home.

  If there was one way to honor Emily on her birthday it was to be where Sarah could make a difference, where her skills could save lives. In the ER. The only place I count for anything.

  She was okay to drive. She was tough. She’d splash some water on her face, grab her purse, and take every shortcut she knew. Logan could count on her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Hey, Claire.” Erin looked up as Claire walked into the hospital chapel, surprised and grateful to see her so early. A friendly face was exactly what she needed. Along with a plan for dealing with Brad that didn’t result in eating prison food for the rest of her life. The angry snarl of disbelief twisted beneath Erin’s ribs. He’s a thief. And I’m a fool. Again.

  “Hey yourself.” Claire handed her a cup of coffee and then sat down beside her. “My turn—raspberry mocha.”

  “Thanks. It’s exactly what I need right now.” Erin fought against the sting of tears. No. No way was she going
to cry. Or start any ugly venting. She wasn’t about to dump all this on Claire and ruin her day. That’s what punching bags were for. She cleared her throat. “Why are you here so early? Urgent care opens at ten; you could’ve stayed in bed another couple of hours, pal.” She took a sip of her coffee, sweet and rich.

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  Erin nodded sympathetically, though she doubted Claire’s insomnia had anything to do with fantasies about lashing a certain car salesman to the hood of a luxury SUV, driving it to the edge of a Sierra cliff, and . . . Erin fought the image down.

  “Actually I’ve been up since dawn looking for Smokey—you know, the crazy cat. He’s run off.” Claire frowned. “But since I was up, I thought I’d get here early and catch the HR director about my application for the clinical educator position. They should be announcing the choice on Monday, and I want to do a little last-minute campaigning.” Claire studied Erin’s face. “Hey, are you okay?”

  “Sure. Absolutely.” She lifted the coffee cup. “Only not awake yet. This’ll help. Hopefully I’ll have some folks wandering in for Faith QD in a minute here. Who knows, maybe McSnarly will finally show. I’m not giving up on him yet.”

  “Well . . .” Claire’s gaze moved toward the altar decorated by the women’s auxiliary with a wicker basket of daffodils. “There’s always hope.” She turned back to Erin. “Anyway, I’m here. You’re here.” She patted Erin’s hand and smiled, her eyes warm. “And I seem to recall this truly amazing book saying, ‘For where two or three come together . . .’”