The Bride Wore Denim (33 page)
Read The Bride Wore Denim Online
Authors: Lizbeth Selvig
Darren, she noted absently. She hadn’t taken the time to look at his nametag.
Rory shook his head and squeezed Mia’s hand again.
“As you can see,” she said, curtly. “The child is still a little traumatized. Perhaps in this case you and I could switch roles? I’ll stay with my patient, and you’ll make a better sleuth?”
Dr. Wilson’s mouth tightened, and he drew his shoulders back as if prepping for a confrontation. In that instant, the sense of recognition she’d had earlier flashed into unexpected clarity.
Gabriel Harrison.
Her stomach flipped crazily. Fiftyish Dr. Fred Wilson didn’t look a bit like the arrogant, self-important, patient advocate she’d met six weeks before at the VA medical center in her old home city of Jackson, Wyoming. In truth, nobody who wasn’t making seven figures as a big-screen heartthrob looked like Gabriel Harrison. The trouble was, just as Dr. Wilson knew he was good, Lieutenant—retired Lieutenant—Harrison knew he was gorgeous. Both men believed they had the only handle on expertise and information.
She’d met Harrison after a car accident in the middle of September had left her mother and one of her sisters seriously injured, and he’d been assigned as liaison between her family, her mother and sister, and the medical staff. He’d made himself charming—like a medicine show snake oil salesman—and her sisters, all five of them, now adored him. Her mother considered him her personal guardian angel. But he’d treated Mia like she’d gotten her degree from a Cracker Jack box.
He was continuing the practice to this day in all their correspondence—which was frequent considering how he loved ignoring her requests for information.
Mia was glad that at her planned trip home for Christmas, her mother and sister would be home and Gabriel Harrison, patient advocate, would be long gone from their lives. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t work quite so easily with Fred Wilson. She was stuck more-or-less permanently with him.
“I want Dr. Mia to stay.”
Rory’s fingers tightened on her hand, and the last vestiges of memories from Wyoming slipped away.
“That settles it in my opinion. At my patient’s request, I will stay with him. Darren, would you be willing to accompany Dr. Wilson upstairs to ask some questions about the food? And maybe you’d be willing on your way to order Mr. Beltane here a glass of juice and maybe some ice?”
“Yes,” Darren said. “Sure.”
Fred Wilson, on the other hand, looked as if he might need the Heimlich maneuver. “If I might have a word with you outside, Dr. Crockett.”
She met his gaze coolly. “Rory, I need to help Dr. Wilson with some things, but I’ll be right back. I promise.”
“No.”
“I promise, honey.” She smoothed the child’s hair back, and he finally nodded.
Dr. Wilson patted Rory on the shoulder a final time. “I’ll see you tomorrow, young man. You may even get to go home. Bet you’d like that.”
Rory gave an anemic shrug.
She slipped out of the room with Fred Wilson behind her, took several steps away from the door, and spun to face him.
“Would you care to explain what this is about?” she demanded.
“Dr. Crockett, I have heard your reputation as the wonder child of this medical community,” Wilson said. “But in my department you have no seniority, and your fast track to the top is not impressive. No matter how good you are technically, nothing can take the place of years of experience. And just because you wear a stethoscope and have been in this physical location longer than I have, doesn’t mean you possess anywhere near the experience I do. You were insubordinate in front of the patient and my staff. I won’t have that.”
She didn’t blink or raise her voice. She put her hands in her lab coat pockets to keep from showing her flexing fingers.
“In point of fact, Dr. Wilson, you treated
me
like a first year intern in there, even though I am the senior medical staff member in this matter. I also have the trust of the patient and you ignored that along with his wishes. I treated you with the respect you commanded. It’s not my style to kiss up to anyone or brown nose a superior to make my way. Good medicine is all I care about. You or one of your hospital staff docs will handle his care in regard to his recent appendectomy. At the moment, because he is still in a little bit of shock, that is secondary to aftercare from the anaphylaxis. I didn’t appreciate you not bowing to my expertise or asking me to debrief you—even if I didn’t just come from Johns Hopkins.”
“You take a pretty surly tone.”
“I apologize.”
For a long moment he assessed her and finally he shook his head. “I don’t like your style, Doctor. But the staff thinks highly of your skill. We’ll let this slide because the child did request your presence.”
“I don’t love your style either.” She smiled. “But I’ve heard the staff thinks highly of your bedside manner. I hope we can continue to understand each other better as we are required to work together.”
“I hope that’s so.” He nodded curtly and left.
Why were older doctors so prejudiced when it came to believing surgeons knew their stuff? Mia was tired of dealing with the game playing and politics of staff. What was wrong with being a damn good physician?
She returned to Rory, and he smiled with relief. “How are you, kiddo?” she asked. “Do your stitches or anything inside your tummy hurt?”
“No.”
“You didn’t want Dr. Wilson to stay and examine you. Do you not like him?”
“He’s nice.”
That stymied her. “Then why—?”
“He didn’t have nothin’ to do with making me better.” Rory interrupted. “Only you and Dr. Thomas who took out my appendix. And . . . you . . . ” His huge, dark eyes brimmed with tears that clung to his lashes like diamonds but didn’t spill.
“I what, Rory?”
“You saved me. And I want you to save Jack.”
“Jack?” A slice of new panic dove through her stomach. She knew Jack. “Your cat?”
“Yeah.”
“Why does Jack need saving?”
“Buster has him,” he said. “But Mrs. Murray, the foster lady, she said I couldn’t bring him with me ’cause she’s allergic to cats. And Buster said he’d keep him for a while, but he can’t keep him forever because mostly the shelters won’t let him have a cat neither.”
A slight dizziness started her head spinning. “Who’s Buster?”
“I lived with him a while after my mama got taken away.”
“Where does Buster live?”
“Everywhere,” he said, and Mia’s stomach slowly started to sink. “He’s my best friend. Sometimes he goes to the shelter by the church in Upper Manhattan. Sometimes he lives under the bridge by the East River. Sometimes he stays in the camp with his friends.”
“Rory? Is Buster a homeless man?”
“Buster says he doesn’t want a normal house. He says he owns the whole city of New York, and he should ’cause he fought for it. But Jack does need a house ’cause it’s going to snow pretty soon, and he’ll freeze. So . . . will you save him like you saved me?”
“Oh, I don’t know if . . . ”
She thought about all the animals she’d had growing up on one of the biggest cattle ranches in Wyoming. Until leaving for college she’d never imagined that some kids might not have pets. No dogs, no cats, no horses.
“Please? Jack’s the only one left who really loves me.”
“That’s so not true, Rory. I know it’s not true.” She sighed and sat next to him on the mattress. “I love you. I’m your friend, right? And your mom loves you so much.”
“Mrs. Murray the foster lady said she was too sick to be a good mother. ’Cause she’s in the hospital, too.”
“Again?” Mia stared at him, heartbroken. “Rory, since when? What happened?”
“I don’t know when. Before I came here. I tried to call her to tell her I was sick, but she wasn’t at the jail.”
For the past three months, Monique Beltane had resided in a women’s prison in upstate New York where she was serving one year for theft and possession of a narcotic. She was also living through treatment for breast cancer.
“That’s not true, Rory. Your mom will never be too sick to love you. And she’s a good mom, too. She’s just been sick for such a long time.
Mia knew Monique’s story well. She’d become addicted to prescription opioids after botched hernia surgery four years before. Almost a year after that operation, Mia had been the one to operate again, and had managed to relieve some of Monique’s chronic pain. During the three years that had followed, she’d kept in touch with Monique and her son Rory, even seeing them socially. She liked the woman, plain and simple. Monique wanted to get well. She was just weak when it came to pain. Still, she’d gotten herself clean, and Mia believed she might have made a success of it. Then, six months ago, she’d been diagnosed with breast cancer.
She’d managed the chemo, but the mastectomy and the oxycodone to which she was so highly addicted had pushed her back over the edge. Three months ago, she’d purchased oxycodone from an undercover agent and that had been the end.
But she’d just gone back into the hospital. Mia didn’t know yet what was wrong, but her intuition didn’t offer much hope. At this stage in her recovery, no illness boded well. She had a mental note made to track down Monique’s physician.
And now here was Rory.
You couldn’t make crap like this up.
“But even if Mom gets better she’s in jail for a long time. All I got is Jack.”
“But if Jack can’t stay with you at the Murrays, where would he go if we find him?”
He shrugged, and his eyes filled with water. Mia sighed. This was so
not
in her job description. How did one even begin to try looking for a homeless cat in New York City?
“Please, Dr. Mia.”
She smoothed his thick curls. She’d never find one cat in a city that must have a billion. “All right, listen to me, okay? I will see what I can find out, but you’re practically a young man and you’re smart. You know I might not have any luck. You promise you won’t be angry with me if I don’t find him?”
He smiled a watery but genuine true, toothy, ten-year-old’s grin. “You will.”
LIZBETH SELVIG
lives in Minnesota with her best friend (aka her husband) and a gray Arabian gelding named Jedi. After working as a newspaper journalist and magazine editor, and raising an equine veterinarian daughter and a talented musician son, Lizbeth won RWA’s prestigious Golden Heart Contest® in 2010 with her contemporary romance,
The Rancher and the Rock Star
, and was a 2014 nominee for RWA’s RITA
®
Award with her second published novel,
Rescued by a Stranger.
In her spare time, she loves to hike, quilt, read, horseback ride, and spend time with her new granddaughter. She also has many four-legged grandchildren—more than twenty—including a wallaby, two alpacas, a donkey, a pig, a sugar glider, and many dogs, cats, and horses (pics of all appear on her website
www.lizbethselvig.com
). She loves connecting with readers—contact her any time!
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O
ne dance with him and Jillian was pulling herself out of his arms and getting back into the car. She could dance with him and not get emotional about it. He was just another guy. She was not going to let herself get stupid over someone who was clearly only interested in her as a friend.
His hold on her was gentle. He smelled good. She saw the flash of his smile when she peeked up at him. She’d felt shy with Carlos because she didn’t know him. She didn’t have that problem with Seth. She wanted to move closer, but she shouldn’t.
She tried to remind herself of the fact that Seth probably had more than a few friends with benefits, even if he was between girlfriends at the time. He was a guy. He probably wasn’t celibate, and they weren’t romantic with each other. There was also the tiny fact that anything that happened between them was not going to end well.
She was in more trouble than she knew how to get out of.
A
t first, Jillian rested her head against his cheek. A minute or so later, she laid her head on his chest. They swayed together, feet barely moving, and he realized his heart was pounding. He’d never experienced anything as romantic as dancing late at night in a deserted city park to a song playing on his car’s sound system. The darkness wrapped them in the softest cocoon. He glanced down at her as he felt her slowly relaxing against him.
It
’s not the pale moon that excites me
That thrills and delights me
Oh, no
It’s just the nearness of you
He took a deep breath of the vanilla scent he’d recognize anywhere as hers. His fingers stroked the small of her back, and he heard her sigh. Slow dancing was even better than he remembered. Then again, he wasn’t in junior high anymore, and he held a woman in his arms, not a teenage girl. There was a lot to be said for delayed gratification. Dancing with Jillian was all about the smallest movements, and letting things build. He laid his cheek against hers.
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” she whispered.
“Why not?” he whispered back.
“It’s not a good idea.”
“We’re just dancing, Jill.”
And if things got any hotter between them, they’d be naked. She didn’t try to step away from him. If she’d resisted him at all, if she’d shown reluctance or fear or hesitation, he would have let her go, and he would walk away. Her fingers tangled in his hair.
They were just friends. He didn’t think he had those kinds of feelings for this woman: the sexual, amorous, bow-chicka-bow-bow feelings, despite the fact his pulse was racing, his fingers itched to touch her, and he knew he should let go of her. It didn’t matter that he was still having hotter-than-the-invention-of-fire dreams about Jillian most nights, either. He wasn’t going to consider what kind of tricks his subconscious played on him. Instead, he pulled her a fraction of an inch closer. He slid one hand up her back, feeling her long, silky-soft blonde hair cascading over his fingers, and she trembled. He cupped her cheek in his hand. He couldn’t take his eyes off her mouth. Just a couple of inches more and he’d kiss her. He moved slowly, but purposefully.
He watched her eyelids flutter closed. He felt her quick intake of breath. He wondered how she tasted. He’d know in a few seconds.
“I want to kiss you,” he breathed against her mouth.
The silence was broken by the screaming guitars of Guns n’ Roses.
That would teach him to use the “shuffle” function.