Catch a Falling Star (23 page)

Well, mostly. A man without a shirt was no reason to blush. She was a big girl, after all, and a doctor. And Griffin Walker was one sick guy if he couldn't even get off the floor. But still . . . she'd never seen the man without a shirt.

And now she knew where his tattoo was.

She knelt beside him on the carpeted floor, wondering for half a second why the man would have a tattoo of a three-headed beast on his left shoulder blade. Just another piece to the puzzle of Griffin Walker. Then her fingertips touched his brow, slipping through his short-cropped hair. Softer than she imagined.

Focus, Kendall. You are a doctor examining a patient, not a woman in love.

And that was a crazy thought. She was most definitely not a woman in love—at least not with Griffin Walker. She was a family physician, and after that she was Griffin's
friend.

Her fingers rested on his forehead. He didn't appear to have a temperature.

“Kendall . . .”

“Hey, Griffin.”

His eyes remained closed, his lips barely moving. “Get out of my room.”

“All in good time, sir.” She pressed two fingers against the pulse beating in his neck.

“Not dead.”

“I know that.”

“Wish I was.” He moved his head the barest of inches and grimaced.

“Do you have a migraine?” He never mentioned that as a problem before.

“Nope.” He swallowed. Licked his lips, which looked dry and flaky.

“Do you have ear pain?” She kept her voice low.

“No.”

“Neck pain?”

“No.”

As she asked each question, Kendall probed gently around Griffin's head and neck.

“How about we get you to roll over on your back?”

“How about we don't.” Griffin's hand snaked up and clamped around her wrist.

The man was sick, but he was strong.

Kendall decided to use her best
Dr. Kendall Haynes
voice. “Let go, Griffin. I'm trying to help you.”

His grasp didn't weaken. “Then leave me alone.”

“You are a typical guy when you're sick. Grumpy.”

Silence.

“And no sense of humor, either.” Kendall waited for a few seconds. The only sound in the room was Griffin's breathing mingling with her own. “Did you take something, Griffin? Drink something?”

A growl curled Griffin's lips and he opened his eyes halfway, trying to make eye contact with her—and failing. “You're kidding, right?”

“Look, if you won't tell me what's going on, I have to pursue all the possibilities.” She placed her hand over his where he still gripped her wrist. His skin was cold to the touch. “And just because we're friends doesn't rule out you doing stupid things.”

His eyes closed. “No drugs. No alcohol.”

“Well then, assuming you didn't fall and break something—like your stubborn neck or thick skull—I suggest we get you up off the floor and back into bed.”

“Only if you want me to throw up all over you.”

“You wouldn't be the first person to do that.” Kendall hoped her attempt at humor, weak as it was, would get both of them through this. “Too bad I didn't think to bring a change of clothes. I'll just have to borrow one of your T-shirts, since you are opting out of those today. Or maybe one of Ian's. It might fit me better.”

She patted Griffin's shoulder in an encouraging let's-get-going-already way. The best place for him was safely tucked in bed.

“If I'm getting in bed, I'm getting in it by myself.”

“Of course you are.” Kendall couldn't resist another attempt at humor. “Did you think I was suggesting otherwise, Colonel Walker?”

At last—the merest of smiles quirked the corner of his mouth.

“Do you talk to all your patients like this?”

“Never. And you are not my patient. You are my most stubborn friend. I wouldn't take you on as a patient.” She stood, resisting the urge to touch Griffin's face, his hair . . . trace the outline of his tattoo. “While you get yourself upright, I'll get the bed ready.”

She turned her back and focused on straightening the jumble of sheets and blankets tossed all over the king-sized bed. Why oh why did Griffin Walker have to purchase such a large bed? Kendall had to stand on the bed frame to set everything to rights again. Now, where were his pillows? The man used pillows, right? She searched the room and saw one tossed behind the door.

The bed moved as Griffin grasped the mattress with both hands. She'd forced herself to ignore his guttural moan as he moved across the floor. The man wanted to do things for himself? So be it.

“I'm just going to get your pillows—”

“Leave 'em . . .” Griffin stood for a few seconds and then fell into bed. Another moan slipped past his clenched teeth.

“Griffin, what is going on? This isn't the flu or a migraine. Help me out here.” Kendall covered him with a blanket, evaluating the pasty-white color of his face, trying to remain detached. Clinical. And she thought he looked bad when he was on the floor. She pushed his damp hair back from his forehead.

Griffin turned his face away. “Can I have some water? Ian threw the last bottle on me.”

“I don't blame him.” Kendall marched from the room, sorry she wasn't still wearing her shoes. Trying to stomp away in bare feet didn't have the same effect.

Downstairs, Ian sprawled on the floor in front of the TV, a sleeping Sully stretched out beside him. Griffin may not be
much for spending money on furniture, but he'd splurged on a sixty-inch wall-mounted flat-screen.

Ian lifted his head up off his folded arms. “How is he?”

“He's sick, but you knew that.” Kendall walked into the kitchen, which bore testament to the Walkers' nothing-but-the-basics lifestyle. Except for dirty dishes from their steak dinner last night, and a cereal box and a bowl and spoon from Ian's breakfast this morning, the sand-colored countertops and white appliances looked untouched. No photos stuck on the fridge with magnets. No pile of mail to be read. Nothing.

She opened the fridge, not surprised it was almost as empty as a display model at Lowe's. A six-pack of Mountain Dew. Several bottles of water. An almost-empty gallon of milk. Some lunch meat and some sliced Cheddar cheese. Half a loaf of bread. She could see a lone onion and green pepper residing in the crisper. The Walkers' favorite words for meals must be
to go.

Ian came up behind her, Sully ambling beside him. Kendall grabbed a bottle of water, stepping aside as the teen reached in for a soda.

“How are you feeling, Ian?”

“Me? I'm fine. No problem.” He popped the top, the soda fizzing. “Why?”

“Just trying to figure out if Griffin might have food poisoning.” She tapped the unopened bottle of water against her leg, the cold seeping through the material of her pants. “What did y'all have for dinner again?”

“Griffin grilled steaks. Baked potatoes. We had Oreo ice cream for dessert.”

“Hmmmm. Let me think on this some more.” She patted Sully on the head and Ian on the back as she exited the kitchen. “Don't worry.”

While she climbed the stairs to Griffin's room, Kendall searched her brain for clues to his illness.

Help me out here, God. Something's wrong and I can't leave Griffin with Ian when I don't know what it is. If he's not going to tell me, then I need you to help me figure it out.

She began running through possible diagnoses as she twisted the plastic top off the water bottle. When she walked back into Griffin's room, he was resting, eyes closed, pain cutting grooves in his forehead and at the corners of his mouth.

“Hey.” She rested the palm of her hand on his forehead, hoping the coolness from the bottle transferred to his skin. “How you feeling?”

“Mostly dead.”

“What? You're a
Princess Bride
fan, too? I may have to still be your friend.” Kendall gave his shoulder a gentle nudge. “I've got your water. Ready to sit up?”

“No. But my mouth feels like somebody dragged it all the way to the top of Pikes Peak and back.” Griffin opened his eyes, which were dulled to the color of her father's faded blue work shirt. Whatever was wrong with the man, he was exhausted.

As he struggled to sit, Kendall grabbed the covers that fell away from his shoulders, positioning them up high around his chest. A thick gold chain hung around his neck and fell to his mid-chest. Two white-gold wedding bands hung suspended from the chain. Now, what was the symbolism of that? First a tattoo of some kind of mysterious, multiheaded beast, and now wedding bands. The man prompted more questions—and no answers.

Focus, Kendall, focus. Be the doctor. Try to remember that Griffin Walker is not noticing you—and don't go noticing him. Except as a patient.

She held the water bottle out to him. “You need help with this?”

“No, as soon as the room stops spinning, I'm good.”

As soon as the room stops spinning.

Vertigo.

Bingo.

When she locked eyes with Griffin, the blank look he gave her confirmed her suspicion. “So, is this your first bout of vertigo?”

As if defying her diagnosis, Griffin sat up and took a gulp of water. Grimaced, as the movement probably caused the room to rock and roll. “This is my first serious flare-up in weeks . . . yes.”

“When were you first diagnosed?” Maybe if she played it nonchalant, he'd answer her questions.

“Eighteen months ago.”

“That's why you're not flying.”

Silence.

That would be a yes.

“Has it been getting better up until now?”

“I thought so.” He tipped the bottle up and drank as if he were in a battle to best the vertigo. When the bottle was empty, he sat back, his face pale. “Do me a favor and grab me a T-shirt, please? Middle drawer.”

Kendall wasn't surprised to discover Griffin folded his clothes with military precision. She selected the first T-shirt on top of the pile, something with a stitched logo. Was that a warthog? Shaking her head at the curious animals in Griffin Walker's life, she handed him the shirt.

“And no, I don't need help.”

“I wasn't going to ask.” She took the empty plastic bottle and tossed it in the wastebasket in the bathroom. Straightened the white cotton towels hanging on the rack. Learned what type of toothpaste and toothbrush Griffin Walker used. Counted to sixty.

“Okay, now I'm decent.”

“I'm a doctor, remember. I've seen worse.”

That didn't come out right. And there was nothing wrong with Griffin Walker's physique. It was obvious from the defined muscles in his arms and torso the man worked out.

She stood at the foot of his bed. “Do you want me to order a prescription for you? Something for the nausea? To help you sleep?”

“No.”

“You are going to make an appointment with your doctor, right?”

“Wrong.”

She stomped her foot. Where were her shoes when she needed them? “Oh, come on, Walker! You need to get looked at—”

“I've been checked out. By a flight doc at my prior station in Arizona. By an ENT. By I don't know how many doctors down at the School of Aerospace Medicine in Texas. They all agree I have vertigo. They all agree there's not much they can do for me, except run some tests that might make the vertigo worse. So, I'm grounded until the vertigo stops—or until a medical board clears me to return to normal flying status.”

Griffin's words were clipped and he refused to make eye contact with her.

“Fine. Is there something I can do—”

“Obviously not.”

Instead of angering her, his verbal stonewalling broke her heart. There was one thing she could do for him. “May I pray for you?”

Griffin looked up, his brow furrowed in pain—or surprise. “What?”

“May I pray for you?”

She knew he'd say no. The man was so private, so independent. He wanted a friend, but one who stayed well outside the emotional boundaries he set up. But her offer, motivated by compassion, slipped past her common sense.

“Sure.”

Kendall almost didn't hear Griffin's whispered response. Yes? He said yes? She stepped around to the side of the bed again, afraid he'd change his mind. Without asking, she slipped her hand into his and rested her other hand on his shoulder before closing her eyes.

“Dear God, thank you that your ears are open to our prayers. Thank you that you love us, sometimes despite ourselves. I bring my friend Griffin to your throne of grace because you promise that we can come to you whenever we need mercy and grace. Griffin's weary of all this vertigo—and this flare-up has really thrown him for a loop.” A soft giggle escaped her lips and she just caught the sound of Griffin's weary chuckle. “Sorry, God, that was a lousy pun. You know doctors don't know everything. You know how frustrating that is because we want to help our patients when they're sick. So far the doctors haven't helped Griffin. It's not about doctors, God. It's always about you. You are Jehovah-Rapha, the God who heals. I ask you to please heal Griffin of this vertigo. Amen.”

As silence filled the room, Kendall continued to stand beside Griffin's bed. She kept her eyes closed, her hand still wrapped around Griffin's larger one. She wanted to keep praying . . . even without words, she
was
still praying for him. For healing. For comfort. For strength.

“Kendall—”

Her eyes flew open. From his position leaning against the headboard, Griffin watched her. “Yes?”

“Thank you . . . for praying.”

“Any better?”

“I'd love to say yes . . . but no. I need to lie down.”

“Then lie down.” She pulled the blankets up over his shoulders, smoothing them out. She resisted the urge to touch his face. His hair. Just to comfort him, of course. “You try to get some sleep. I'll take Ian with me and keep him busy—take him to lunch, make sure he's ready for school on Monday.”