The Bride Wore Red Boots (9 page)

The room spun slightly and Mia hit her desk chair like a ragdoll tossed by a child. Even when the spinning stopped she couldn't make herself believe.

“Can I answer any questions for you?” McNeil asked.

“Could I have your contact information?” Mia rubbed her eyes. “I'm sure I do have questions, but I can't think of a single one at the moment. May I call you?”

“Of course. I'll send you my contact information in an e-mail. Feel free to talk to Monique. I can get you access to her despite the fact that she's in a secure wing of the hospital.”

“Thank you for calling.”

She should have been more cordial or chatty, but her brain seemed to have frozen. When the line went dead she had to sit for ten long minutes before she had enough strength to compartmentalize her emotions and head for surgery. There were often surprises in the OR, too, but at least she had a modicum of control over that world. It was more than she could say for what had gone on outside the OR these past two days.

I
T WAS ONLY
November second, but the Wyoming air had turned into stinging needles of cold. Despite the arrival of wintery weather Gabe walked the two blocks from Pete's office to the hospital, barely turning up his jacket's fleece collar and lifting his head periodically to peer at the mountains visible from the front of the VA complex. This had to be one of the most beautiful hospital campuses in the country. He'd grown up in central Nebraska, which had its charm, but he'd fallen hard for the Rockies after returning from Iraq six years before and landing the job here. He could no longer imagine leaving. Even on his lowest days the Tetons could awe him.

It was a pretty low morning.

He'd met with Pete to discuss the conduct of his group, and although the guillotine hadn't come down, there were hands poised on the lever waiting to drop the blade.

“If the only thing these guys are going to do is run around covering cars with paper and condiments, they can do that without being under a program we're funding.” Pete was clearly done with their escapades. “The deal for them is this: yesterday's incident will be forgiven and forgotten so long as there's not another. And I mean nothing—no getting fired from a job, no drunk and disorderlies, no plastic wrap under a toilet seat, no college-level protest pranks. One more episode and the plug gets pulled.”

It was too harsh a reaction in Gabe's mind, but he did understand. The program was under scrutiny, and to survive it needed to be clean. The men needed to behave. “Fair enough,” he replied. “They'll get the message.”

“Gabe,” Pete had said. “Be realistic about this. Don't get so invested you can't see what's going on. You can't save everyone.”

Gabe entered the hospital cold and far from calmed. He punched the button for the elevator and knew he had to get a grip before seeing his patients, but it was difficult this morning. He detested it when anybody told him he couldn't save everyone. The trouble with people who spent all their time bean counting was they forgot that everyone
deserved
to be saved.

Everyone who got sent to wage war at their country's behest and who managed to get back still breathing was changed forever. They didn't all have PTSD, not everyone came back with missing limbs or even recurring nightmares. But everyone was changed. And those who did return with the most serious problems deserved every program and experimental program and not-yet-funded-or-conceived-of program that could possibly heal him or her.

Of course he could not literally save everyone. But by heaven he was going to his grave having tried. He owed it to his buddies who hadn't come back, and Jibril and his family, too.

He took the elevator to the fifth floor where Joely Crockett had been in residence for two weeks. For nearly a month before that, she'd been in the intensive care unit. And now it sounded like she might have even more hospital time ahead of her.

He forced the morning's bad energy from his thoughts and rapped on Joely's open door. “Good morning,” he called. “I see you're back from the torture that is physical therapy, and it's not noon yet. Pretty good.”

She smiled, no longer shy with him about the scar traversing the length of her right jawline and across her chin. With other visitors, even her sisters, she tended to draw her hair forward to cover those most visible signs of her accident. Today she had the television on, a rarity, as well as magazine open in her lap.

“Multitasking, I see,” he teased.

“I'm supposed to be giving myself motivation but, really, I'm only depressing myself.” Despite her words, she smiled again. “I shouldn't be watching things about horses.”

“I'm sorry. But maybe it's good you're starting to think about them again.”

Her shrug was that of a sad, weary person. “I miss my girl. I'm working on not feeling guilty.”

“Because?” She didn't answer his prompt so he urged her with his voice. “It wasn't your fault.”

“I know. I know.”

She might never be convinced the accident in which her horse had died truly hadn't been her fault, but he wouldn't give up telling her. “What did they say after your tests this morning?”

“Surgery one week from today. One more week of close monitoring to make sure the hematoma doesn't return. They doubt removing the bone fragments they found will solve the nerve issues in the bad leg, but there's always a slim chance. There's also a chance something could go wrong, and I'll end up with more damage.”

“That's not going to happen. I'd trust Perry Landon with my own spinal cord.”

“I'm not worried.”

“You're lying. Because if you truly aren't worried, you aren't normal.”

She put down the magazine and lowered her eyes. “I really hate that you make me be honest. Can't you take off your therapist's hat once in a while?”

“It just comes right back on.”

“No wonder my sister finds you so annoying.”

His stomach gave a cheerful flip. The sister she referred to did indeed find him annoying, and he'd likely ticked her off as usual this morning with the flippant voice message he'd left, but he couldn't help it. Getting a rise out of Amelia Crockett was solid fun. She always gave him a spirited run for his money, and he'd grown to appreciate the firecracker in her personality.

“I'm happy to annoy any of you Crockett sisters, anytime. Now tell me why you're depressing yourself with horses.”

She gestured toward the television. “This is a special about the Wyoming Mustang Makeover. It's a competition where trainers take an untrained, adopted mustang and work with it for three months. Then they're all judged against each other. My sisters and I did it three times, and I'd always planned on doing it again. Now . . .?”

“You're all horse trainers, too?”

“In the amateur division. It takes a lot of time and commitment, but it taught us a ton of patience.”

He gave a rueful laugh. “Sounds like something I could use. I have eight men who are definitely testing my patience.”

“Yes, your big experiment. Well, give the guys in your program mustangs—they won't have time to test anyone's patience.”

He laughed. “Eight retired veterans with wild horses. I'd fear for the mustangs—they'd wind up painted like zebras and sent to mill around in someone's office.”

“Or the mustangs would kick the guys' butts and teach them to respect animals and people.”

“Tell you what, Miss Joely. Let's work on tossing off that depression of yours. I prescribe that you get good and riled up about this program and use the energy to heal fast. I think I'd like to see you train a mustang.”

“You know who made a surprisingly good trainer was Amelia. She's great with animals. It's like she sees straight into their hearts, even though she doesn't take any guff.”

No, he thought. I'll bet she doesn't. “I think I'd like to see that, too.”

S
AMANTHA
E
VANS BUZZED
Mia's security intercom Friday evening, and Mia's stomach danced in anticipation as it had been doing since that morning when she'd learned Rory was leaving Shawna Murray's foster home.

“Good evening, Dr. Mia,” Sam said through the speaker. “I have the world's biggest cat lover with me, and he needs a place to chill for the weekend. Is it true you have an actual cat up there? ”

“It's true, indeed. A very lonely cat. Come on up.”

The process of finding Rory a new foster family had begun. Meanwhile Mia had been allowed to take him for the weekend, and she felt as if she'd been prepping for a date. She had no illusions, however, that for Rory the date was with Jack. After two months of separation from his cat, he didn't care two hoots about Dr. Mia.

Sure enough, when she opened her apartment door to a smiling Sam, Rory made no pretense of a cordial greeting. He said hello and his eyes darted around the room. When they lit on his pet he yelped just as he had in the hospital.

“Jack!”

He pounced on the cat the way it would have done to a mouse, and if Mia had doubted for a moment the two were bonded, her doubts vanished. The cat rolled over like a small dog and meowed in answer to the boy's cry. Mia swore, as Rory scooped Jack up and buried his face in the long buff hair, that she saw a glistening in his eyes. After watching that one minute of reunion, she knew the weekend was already a success.

“Thank you for letting me take him.” Mia turned to Sam, who set a huge box and a suitcase on the floor next to the door.

“Hey, you followed up to find the cat. That's above and beyond.”

“No. It was just me getting mad and stubborn as usual. I went to see Buster as much to tick Shawna Murray off as anything.”

“Keep telling yourself that. You wear such a tough shell, but you can't fool me. This was all about the kid.” She held up a hand to stop Mia's protest. “I'm sorry this first foster family was a bad match for Rory. When that happens, it gives the child a bad taste for the system and makes it harder to place him in the future.”

“I think you did right by him, though. He'll remember that people listened when he said he was unhappy. A child getting his concerns met immediately doesn't happen often.”

“Sadly, you're right. Options are limited, and great foster homes aren't plentiful enough.”

“So, do I have to watch my back with Mrs. Murray now? Is she furious?”

“I think the appropriate word would be relieved. This was not a legal action per se. We told her a complaint had been lodged and asked if she felt maybe her match with Rory wasn't the best for either of them. She jumped at the chance to let us find him a new foster family.”

“Maybe she's not as crazy as I thought.” Mia laughed. “I'm so happy Rory didn't have to go back. The rest will fall into place one way or another.”

I
T TOOK
R
ORY
until the next morning to stop treating Jack as if he were about to disappear without warning or break like glass. Mia had straightened up her second bedroom and ensconced Rory in his own space. He slept the whole night without a peep and with his cat curled beside him. It was Mia who couldn't sleep. She awoke twice and tiptoed through the dark to check on him. Both times Jack raised his head and meowed as if to say thank you.

She finally fell asleep for the last time at 4:00 a.m. and didn't awaken until she felt the now-familiar kneading of paws on her head at seven. Bleary-eyed, she removed the cat from her face and tried to tuck him under her arm.

“I think he's hungry.”

She started at the voice and sat up, then grinned at Rory who stood in her doorway, clad in Iron Man pajamas. “Good morning,” she said. “I'm sure you're right about Jack, but he's pretty easy to feed. It's you I'm worried about. I'm not sure I have the right kind of breakfast for a young human. You might have to eat cat food, too.”

“What do
you
eat?”

“Grown-up food. Like waffles or muffins.”

“Waffles?”

“Sometimes. Have you ever tried them? They're a pretty acquired taste.”

“A what? A choir taste?”

She giggled. “Acquired. It means it takes time to get used to something.”

“I don't have to get used to waffles. Everybody likes waffles.”

“That can't be true.”

“It is.”

“Just for that I'll have to make them. I'm pretty sure you won't like them.”

“I will.”

He helped her, and although he was unskilled in most kitchen tasks, he was a willing pupil. When he poured the first scoop of batter into the waffle iron, he beamed as if he'd spun straw into gold. When she set the first round, golden Belgian waffle in front of him, he stared as if he'd frame it if he could.

“I don't have the kind of syrup you probably like, either,” she said. “I have real maple syrup.”

“I'll like it.” He insisted again.

After he'd inhaled two waffles, Mia sat beside him at the small kitchen table and shook her head. “You must be half grown-up,” she said. “I really didn't think you'd like them.”

“I've never had waffles like these. I've had really flat ones. These are the best.”

“That is a great compliment. Thank you, Master Beltane.”

Since Rory was only six days out from his appendectomy, Mia had planned to spend most of the weekend at home, but she did give him a choice of several easygoing outings for that afternoon. They all made him bug-eyed with disbelief and anticipation. It shouldn't have surprised her that he'd seen very little of New York. He'd never seen the Statue of Liberty. He'd never been to Central Park.

They ended up at the Central Park Zoo and taking a carriage ride through the park itself. She tried to make sure he rode more than walked, but the child was a dynamo. Keeping him still was like containing a squirrel. When they arrived home at eight o'clock that night, far later than Mia had ever intended, Rory went straight for his cat, only allowing him out of his hold to take a bath. He chattered about the animals they'd seen at the zoo and the black horse named Sheila who'd pulled their carriage. When he finally talked himself out, Mia left him in front of a movie and went to prepare the hot cocoa she'd promised him as a treat before bed.

“So maybe we'll have a quieter day tomor—” She stopped next to the couch with two steaming mugs and smiled down at the scene. Rory had collapsed onto his back, his head lolled backward, his mouth open, and his pretty features completely relaxed. Jack lay on his young master's stomach, equally relaxed, but he lifted his head and meowed at Mia.

She set Rory's cocoa on the coffee table and took a seat on the end of the sofa nearest his feet. Pulling her grandmother's afghan from the sofa back, she spread it over the boy's legs. A moment later, Jack stepped across it and eased into her lap. Purring loudly he curled up like a little husky, and she buried one hand in his soft, thick hair. For the first time since Rory's arrival she allowed the subject of Monique's will to surface and remain in her conscious mind. It was the only cloud in a rare weekend of fun.

She rarely thought about the future beyond her career goals. She'd always imagined having children one day. Her biological clock functioned as well as any woman's did, and she loved family. However, she'd never quite been able to reconcile her insane schedule and work plans with a home, a marriage, a husband. There wasn't much future in the field of domestic bliss for a surgeon with goals like hers. She'd never let herself love anyone enough to change those goals.

But this . . . She stroked Rory's leg through the blanket. This was nice. If disaster struck could she make it as the parent of a half-grown child?

She hadn't told anyone about the lawyer's call. She wouldn't. She put all her energy into praying she'd never need to think about it. Monique would recover.

She and Rory got through Sunday with movies, grilled cheese sandwiches, and multiple games of Go Fish, War, and poker, which Mia wasn't sure she should teach a ten-year-old but did anyway. She enjoyed the process of showing Rory how to bid matchsticks and watching him rake in winnings as he grew more proficient. She talked to Joely and managed to convince her that the surgery was worth the risk. Even though it wasn't possible to get back to Wyoming for it, Mia promised to follow it every step of the way. The day passed too quickly in a blur of fantasy and reality.

Monday morning came with depressing inevitability. Sam arrived early to pick Rory up. Since he had to take one more week off of school, arrangements had been made for a temporary foster home, but with luck, social services would have a permanent foster family by that evening.

Mia surprised herself with how sad she was to let him go.

“Can't I just stay with you?” he asked. For the first time all weekend, he gave her a hug. Small, short, but meaningful.

“You know I'd like that,” she replied. “But it would be really hard because I work so much, and couldn't be here with you. Plus, you never know, they might not want me to keep you. I could be a bad guy in disguise.”

“You're not a bad guy.” His little brows formed a disgusted line. “Who should I tell?”

Mia and Sam laughed. “He's like that,” Mia said. “Ten going on thirty.”

“Didn't I call it?” Sam tousled Rory's hair. “Clever as a fox.”

He put his jacket on and found Jack for one last hug. “Be good,” he said.

He followed Sam out the door into the bright hallway and turned back. “Good luck with your job today.”

That nearly undid her. When they'd had a discussion about what he wanted to be someday, she'd told him briefly about the job she was planning to get. He'd remembered.

“Thanks, you,” she replied. “I'll let you know.”

T
WO SURGERIES THAT
morning, the announcement of the job decision, two surgeries in the afternoon, and hospital rounds awaited her at work. Mondays were notoriously full. Today, however, she entered the hospital with as near a bounce in her step as she ever did. Despite the secret of Monique's will, the weekend had rejuvenated her.

Her first surgery, a digestive tract blockage in a five-year-old, went smoothly. Her second, a simple tonsillectomy, went equally well. She finished talking to the parents of the child and was back stripping from her scrubs when she got the page from Dr. Thomas, the hospital's chief of surgery, to meet in his office half an hour later. Suddenly her fingers didn't work, her breath came too quickly, and her professionalism deserted her completely in her excitement. She didn't have any reason to worry—she got what she went after, and she'd covered all her bases for this job. Still, this was the culmination of a lot of work, and excitement climbed quickly into nervousness.

She finished dressing, made sure her make-up was perfect but subtle, and took the elevator to Dr. Thomas's office on the sixth floor. With a deep breath she knocked, found his secretary waiting, and was ushered immediately in to see her mentor. Mason Thomas had taken her under his wing and given her pediatric experience she might have never received without his help. He'd encouraged her in this pursuit and believed in her skill. His warm smile as she sat in front of his desk calmed her and brought perspective back to her jitters.

“Thanks for coming so quickly, Amelia,” he said. “I know you just got out of surgery.”

“It's my pleasure,” she replied. “I've been looking forward to today, and the surgeries went well so I had no trouble getting here.”

“You've been logging a lot of hours.” He smiled. “I understand you've made yourself available for extra on-call shifts, and you're the go-to girl for anyone with a schedule conflict.”

“I took time off in August and September for my father's funeral and my sister's accident. I'd like to make up for some of the help I got during that time.”

“You haven't come close to using up your vacation time. And you know you aren't required to make sacrifices all the time. We do have residents for that.” He winked.

“I know. I simply wanted to make it clear I consider myself worthy of this position and will do all it takes.”

At that Mason leaned back and studied her with unreadable eyes. Finally he smiled.

“I'm not going to prolong this,” he said. “Amelia, you know you're an asset to this hospital, one of whom we're inordinately proud. The youngest board certified general surgeon in our history, three grant proposals accepted, four studies published in JAMA. That's an amazing resume.”

“Thank you. I've been very lucky with my opportunities. I try to make the most of all of them.”

He released a long breath. “Amelia, we did not award you the chief resident's position this time.”

The words made no sense at first. They tumbled into a void of buzzing white noise and she stared at him almost as if he were static on a radio that needed tuning to the right frequency.

“A leadership position like this requires more than extraordinary surgical skills. It's about managing your team of colleagues. In all honesty, that's an area you need some more time to develop.”

“I . . . I don't understand.”

“You haven't gotten high marks on getting along with your fellow docs. I know that's blunt, and I'm sorry. Interactions with other physicians are so important when it comes to scheduling, to department morale, to case discussions. If your staff doesn't trust and respect you, you start behind the eight ball. As recently as last week—”

“Is this coming from Fred Wilson? He and I had a small run-in over a patient, but it wasn't anything major.”

“It's not just Fred. And this is not permanent, Amelia. This is just a postponement so you can perfect your skills. You are phenomenal with the young patients. Let's put some of that into practice with your colleagues.”