Critical Care (32 page)

"Beckah," Logan said, wishing more and more that he could
get up and leave. Grab his jacket, head outside to the bike. Today
is the wedding.

"You and Beckah loved that little baby boy. . . ." Sarah's voice
faded, her eyes closing.

Logan exhaled, aware now that he'd been holding his breath
and that his stomach had twisted into a knot. He'd been a fool to
mention Beckah's miscarriage; it wasn't anything like what happened to Sarah. Even if Beckah had been far enough along to feel
movement and had held Logan's palm against her swelling abdomen so he could feel it too. Even if she'd already picked a name
from her endless lists of boys' names.

"I was so blessed," Sarah said, opening her eyes again. "I had
Emily for only a few weeks, but I got to hold her, feel her soft skin..."
Her chin trembled. "I wish Beckah could have held her baby."

Ah, no. Don't. Logan's stomach wrenched again, and he reached
out to touch Sarah's arm. Stop her. "Hey, shh. Don't worry. Everybody's okay. Let's get you well now. You need to sleep." He glanced
toward the nurses' station. "And I need to get out of here before I
generate any more rumors."

"Rumors?" Sarah wrinkled her brows.

Logan smiled, feeling a rush of relief that the subject had
changed away from Beckah and babies. "Sure," he said, tipping
his head toward the door. "It's probably already going around that
you and I are involved."

"You? If they only knew you remind me of my father."

Logan frowned, feigning insult. "Hey," he said, watching
Sarah's lids close again, "don't say that to anybody. You'll ruin my
reputation."

She smiled without opening her eyes, burrowing her head against the pillow as best she could with the bulky bandage. A
broken, abandoned doll.

"Your dad owns that body shop, doesn't he? In Pollock Pines?
It's his?"

"Mm-hmm ...... she answered, her voice barely audible.

Logan stepped closer and saw that she was asleep. The morphine was working. Good. He'd grab his jacket and slip out. But
before he could turn, Sarah's hand rose, batting aimlessly at the air
above her head and nearly hitting him. "Easy, kid," he said, grasping her arm gently and lowering it to the bed. "You'll pull on that
IV tubing." He smiled down at her as she opened her eyes. "I'm
going home now, Sarah."

"I . . ." Sarah's heavy-lidded gaze drifted overhead. "I keep
seeing this silver balloon and my father in that bathrobe. It's so
crazy. My father's almost bald, but I keep seeing him with long
hair and ... oh." Her eyes opened wide, even the injured one, like
something amazing had happened. "Logan?"

"I'm here."

"I'm not sure I can do this, but I think I need to. We should ...
pray. For our babies. Will you help me?"

Logan's breath caught. If he left right now, she'd probably forget the whole thing. The morphine was making her see balloons.
With a little luck she'd forget he was even here. That he'd mentioned Beckah and the ... His stomach twisted again, perspiration
rising on his forehead.

"Please?"

He looked at her, considering all she'd been through. And that
much of the reason she was lying here today was due to him. How
could he walk away? How could he tell her he didn't believe in
prayer? "Okay," he said, taking her hand and bowing his head.

Sarah squeezed his fingers. "Jesus, thank you for being here.
For coming on Emily's birthday. Please watch over her and also
over ..." She hesitated. "What was your baby's name?"

His throat closed. "Matthew Logan."

Logan swiped the sleeve of his flannel shirt across his forehead
before sweat could drip into his eyes. Not that he had anything
to show for it. He squinted at the oak stump illuminated by the
headlights of his Jeep, scarred by ax marks, surrounded by woodchips, rooted deeply into the floor of his future bedroom-and
not budging a lousy inch in any direction. Even though he'd been
whacking at it for hours. He rotated his wrist toward the light to
check his watch. It was 5:40 in the morning.

He leaned the ax against the stump and walked through the
darkness toward the overlook. Below him, only a scant few lights
shone near the river. Saturday morning and most of the people in
the houses were still sleeping, no doubt. Sane people who hadn't
been swinging an ax in inky darkness for three solid hours. He'd
never seen anything so blasted stubborn as that stump, except
himself. And God? There it was again. God. Pretty much the pattern since he'd driven up here-chop the stump, think about God,
chop the stump, God again ... chop, God, chop, God. Logan was
nuts. Or suffering from sleep deprivation.

Logan rested against the granite boulders, still warm from yesterday's sunlight, and breathed in the pungent scents of mossy oak
and loam. His land, his home. He'd worked hard to make this come
true, the one promise that filled him with hope, but now ... Logan
thought of Sarah again, about how she'd asked him to pray with her and the look on her face afterward. Peace? Was that what he'd
seen? Peace, after all she'd been through?

How could that be? For years Sarah had known nothing but
pain. And loss. Rejected by her boyfriend and her mother and even
her father for all intents and purposes. Logan clenched his teeth;
the thought still made him angry. Then she'd lost her baby to crib
death, and yesterday morning she'd nearly lost her life. She was
lying in intensive care in horrific pain, with a hole in her chest, yet
she'd bowed her head and thanked Jesus for being there and asked
him to watch over their babies. My baby.

What Sarah said about carrying her daughter under her heart,
about being blessed to have had a chance to hold her even for a
few short weeks and how she wished Beckah could have had that
too-it shook Logan to the core. It brought back images of Beckah
after the miscarriage, her pale skin and the tragic look in her eyes,
and his failed efforts to console her. His failure all around. He kept
thinking of Sarah pressing her hand over her heart and saying,
"She's still here," the same way Jamie had touched Logan's chest
and talked about Jesus. Jamie, who was three years old. The same
age that ... Ah, no. No.

Logan closed his eyes against the unfamiliar sting of tears as
he remembered holding Sarah's hand in prayer. And the question
that stunned him: "What was your baby's name?"

Stunned him because it was a truth he'd never allowed himself
to feel. Beckah hadn't only had a miscarriage; she'd lost a baby.
My son, Matthew Logan Caldwell. Who would be nearly three years
old now. Logan had failed to help Beckah, failed everyone since.
Sarah and Claire too. He'd worked his whole life to single-handedly
fix everything and he'd accomplished nothing. Failed like he'd failed with that stump. That blasted stump that refused to move.
Stubborn as he was, immovable as ...

Logan raised his gaze to the sky. Dawn was coming, light
piercing what had felt like unending darkness. He ran his fingers
through his sweat-dampened hair, walked slowly back to the Jeep,
and turned the headlights off. Then he sat down on the oak stump
and bowed his head. Tears slid from his eyes.

"You've been chasing me for a long time, Lord. Well, I've
stopped running. The truth is, I can't do this by myself anymore.
I need you."

Claire raised the collar of her fleece pullover, then lifted her cup
and scooted back into the deck chair. She sighed, her breath mingling with steam rising from the hazelnut coffee. Kevin's weatherstation thermometer beside the kitchen door read barely forty-two
degrees, a chilly Gold Country dawn. A Saturday meant for snuggling under a down comforter, sleeping in. Except that Claire was
missing Smokey ... and Logan.

She looked over at the cat's blue enamel food dish, now topped
with crumbled bacon and chunks of cheddar cheese. Irresistible,
hopefully, for a cat who escaped the clutches of monster raccoons.
But as for Dr. Caldwell, it was obvious Claire offered no such temptation. He hadn't returned her call.

It seemed impossible that yesterday's dawn found her filled
with hope and the discovery she might be falling in love with
Logan. Now all that joy was gone. Like a burst balloon, candles
extinguished before a wish was made. What would she have
wished? Easy. That her master plan would succeed, providing the
well-orchestrated answer to her constant prayer. She'd made it simple for God, done all the legwork and left him only the official stamp of approval. Monday the hospital would announce the
choice for clinical educator, and Merlene's endorsement boded well
for Claire's chances.

There was one more thing she was wishing for. Something outside that carefully checkmarked spreadsheet. I wish Logan could be
part of my future. But there were too many obstacles. Not the least
of which was her tirade against him yesterday. And the fact that it
was unlikely he'd ever share her faith.

It kept coming back to that. Dr. Logan Caldwell was as apt to
pray as Smokey the cat was to purr. Foreign acts to both of them.
The cat's quirk she could work around, but a man who wouldn't
trust in God ... Claire's chest constricted. Then she leaned forward
in the deck chair, tipping her head to hear. The doorbell? She set
her coffee down, sifted her fingers through her hair, and walked
through the cabin to the front door.

Logan stood on the doorstep, unshaven and rumpled, with
woodchips clinging to his flannel shirt-and a look of undeniable
urgency in his eyes.

Claire stepped back so he could come in, battling a wave of deja
vu. Logan Caldwell on her porch at sunrise. But this time there was
no deli bag and coffee, no eager smile. Today felt different. Scary
different. Her stomach knotted.

"I'm sorry," he said, brushing at his shirt. "It's early and I'm a
mess."

"It's okay. Come in." Claire waved Logan toward the couch
and went to get coffee, rehearsing all the while what she would
say. Why is he here? It wasn't due to a problem with Sarah; she'd
checked with the hospital this morning and Sarah's condition was
still stable. So it had to be her voice mail. What had she said? "I
don't feel good about how things ended with us today." Ended. There it
was again. Claire's fingers trembled as she lifted the coffeepot. Was
Logan here to make that ending a reality?

By the time she returned to the living room, her mouth was dry
with dread. She set his cup on the coffee table next to the vase of
daffodils and sat near him on the couch. He asked about Smokey,
and she told him she'd had no luck finding him.

There was a stretch of awkward silence; then they both spoke
at the same instant.

"Claire, I ..."

"About yesterday ..."

Claire managed a weak laugh. "Go ahead." She watched Logan
search for words, her heart thudding dully in her chest. Go ahead
and tell me it's not going to work out. That it's best we end this now.
You're sorry, but ...

"I'm sorry. You were right about me. I'm an idiot." He exhaled,
his lips curving in a tentative smile. "You're not going to faint,
are you?"