Saving Grace (3 page)

“They weren’t ours,” another agent explained. “They were wanted men.”

She turned around and came face to shoulders with the most intimidating man she’d ever seen, and that was saying something considering the monster chief of surgery she worked under. This man didn’t look anything like him, though. The agent was tall, dark, and scary, with thick black hair and penetrating, steely gray eyes. His firm square jaw was covered with at least one day’s growth of beard, maybe two. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in at least twenty-four hours, a look she knew all too well.

Ellie’s heart skipped a beat. The man could scare the quills off a porcupine. But, oh God, was he sexy! Ellie gave herself a mental slap. An intimidating man who was built like a monument and could melt iron with his menacing glare—
this
was what she was attracted to?

The agent who had been kneeling stepped forward and put out his hand. “I’m Agent Tom Bradley. Sean Goodman’s my partner.” He introduced her to the agent on his left and then to the man in front of her. “Agent Max Daniels.”

She nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get to the OR.” She didn’t wait for permission, but turned and ran back to the hospital.

Thirty minutes later she was dropping the bullet she’d retrieved from Sean’s shoulder into a small metal pan. “Bag it and get it to one of the agents waiting outside. You know the drill.”

Then the real work of repairing the damage began. Ellie had learned over the years that there was no such thing as a simple bullet wound. Bullets had a way of doing considerable damage before settling, but Agent Goodman was lucky. His bullet hadn’t penetrated any major organs or nerves.

Once she’d closed, she followed the patient to recovery, wrote orders, and went to talk to the crowd gathered in the surgical waiting room. A dozen people with worried faces sat waiting for the news. Agent Daniels was standing, leaning against the wall with his arms across his chest. His gaze followed her as she entered the room, and her heart began to race. She knew she looked a mess. She pulled off her cap and threaded her fingers through her hair. Why in heaven’s name she wanted to look good for him was beyond her comprehension, and yet she did.

“The surgeon’s here,” Daniels announced.

A petite young woman jumped up and rushed forward, followed by Agent Bradley and a crowd of worried relatives.

“The surgery went well,” she began and then explained some of what she had repaired, trying not to be too technical. “I expect him to make a full recovery.”

Sara, his fiancée, was crying as she stammered her thank-you. She shook Ellie’s hand and held on to it.

“You can see him in about an hour,” Ellie told her. “He’s heavily sedated and he’s not going to know you’re there,” she warned. “He’ll be in recovery for a while, then they’ll take him to ICU. Once the nurses in ICU have him settled, they’ll send someone to get you. Any questions?”

A frazzled-looking nurse appeared in the doorway. “Dr. Sullivan?”

“Yes?”

“Would you mind looking at Mrs. Klein for us? She’s Edmond’s patient, but he’s in surgery.”

“I’ll be right there.”

She patted Sara’s hand and pulled free. “All right then. It’s all good.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Agent Daniels smile as she turned to leave. She walked down the corridor and had just turned the corner when he caught up with her.

“Hey, Doctor.”

She turned around. Her stupid heart went into overdrive again. “Yes?”

“We’re going to need to talk to you about the shooting. You’ll have to give a statement.”

“When?”

“How about after you check on that patient?”

She couldn’t resist. “Gee, I don’t know. I hate to miss soccer practice.”

She was laughing as she pushed the doors aside and disappeared into ICU.

Max Daniels stood there staring after her, a slight grin crossing his face.

“Damn,” he whispered. “Damn.”

Table of Contents

 

 

DUTTON

 

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Copyright © 1993 by Julie Garwood All rights reserved

 

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Barnslay Monastery, England, 1200

Holy Bishop Hallwick, will you explain to us the hierarchy in heaven and on earth? Who is the most esteemed in God’s eyes?” the student asked.

“Don’t the apostles stand first in God’s good graces?” the second student inquired.

“Nay,” replied the wise bishop. “The archangel Gabriel, protector of women and children, our champion of the innocents, stands first above all others.”

“Who next then?” the first student asked.

“All the other angels, of course,” the bishop answered. “Next stand the apostles, with Peter first among the twelve, and then follow the prophets and miracle workers and those good teachers of God’s word on earth. Last in heaven stand all the other saints.”

“But who is the most important here on earth, Bishop Hallwick? Who is most blessed in God’s eyes here?”

“Man,” came the immediate reply. “And the highest and most important among men is our holy pope.”

The two students nodded acceptance of that dictate. Thomas, the elder of the two young men, leaned forward on his perch atop the stone wall outside the sanctuary. His brow was wrinkled with concentration. “Next in God’s love stand the cardinals and then the other ordained men of God,” he interjected.

“That is so,” the bishop agreed, pleased with his student’s guess.

“But who stands next in importance?” the second student asked.

“Why the rulers of kingdoms here on earth,” the bishop explained. He sat down in the center of the wooden bench, spread his ornately decorated black robes, and then added, “Those leaders who fatten the church’s treasury are more loved by God, of course, than those who hoard gold for their own pleasure.”

Three more young men walked over to listen to their holy leader’s lecture. They settled themselves in a half circle at the bishop’s feet.

“Do married and then unmarried men stand next?” Thomas asked.

“Aye,” the bishop replied. “And they are of the same position as the merchants and the sheriffs but just above the serfs chained to the land.”

“Who next, Bishop?” the second student asked.

“The animals, starting with the most loyal, man’s dog,” the bishop answered, “and ending with the dull-witted oxen. There, I believe I have given you the full hierarchy to repeat to your students once you have taken your vows and are ordained men of God.”

Thomas shook his head. “You’ve forgotten women, Bishop Hallwick. Where do they stand in God’s love?”

The bishop rubbed his brow while he considered the question. “I have not forgotten women,” he finally said. “They are last in God’s love.”

“Below dull-witted oxen?” the second student asked.

“Aye, below oxen.”

The three young men seated on the ground immediately nodded their agreement.

“Bishop?” Thomas asked.

“What is it, my son?”

“Have you given us God’s hierarchy or the church’s?”

The bishop was appalled by the question. It smelled blasphemous to him. “They are the same, are they not?”

A great number of men who lived in the early centuries did believe that God’s views were always accurately interpreted by the church.

Some women knew better. This is a story about one of them.

England, 1206

The news was going to destroy her.

Kelmet, her faithful steward and senior in charge since Baron Raulf Williamson’s hasty departure from England on the king’s personal business, was given the responsibility of telling his mistress the god-awful news. The servant didn’t put off the dreaded task, for he guessed Lady Johanna would wish to question the two messengers before they returned to London, if his mistress could speak to anyone after she’d heard about her beloved husband.

Aye, he needed to tell the gentle lady as soon as possible. Kelmet understood his duty well enough, and though he believed he was anxious to get it done, his feet still dragged as though mired in knee-deep mud as he made his way to the newly built chapel where Lady Johanna was in afternoon prayers.

Father Peter MacKechnie, a visiting cleric from the Maclaurin holding in the Highlands, was making his way up the steep incline from the lower bailey when Kelmet happened to spot him. The steward let out a quick sigh of relief before shouting a summons to the dour-faced priest.

“I’ve need of your services, MacKechnie,” Kelmet bellowed over the rising wind.

The priest nodded, then scowled. He still hadn’t forgiven the steward for his insulting behavior of two days past.

“Are you wanting me to hear your confession?” the priest shouted back, a hint of mockery in his thick brogue.

“Nay, Father.”

MacKechnie shook his head. “You’ve got yourself a black soul, Kelmet.”

The steward made no response to the barb but patiently waited until the dark-haired Scot had gained his side. He could see the amusement in the priest’s eyes and knew then he was jesting with him.

“There is another matter more important than my confession,” Kelmet began. “I’ve just received word . . .”

The priest wouldn’t let him finish his explanation. “Today’s Good Friday.” he interrupted. “Nothing could be more important than that. You won’t be getting communion from me come Easter morning unless you confess your sins today and beg God’s forgiveness. You might begin with the distasteful sin of rudeness, Kelmet. Aye, that would be a proper start.”

Kelmet held his patience. “I gave you my apology, Father, but I see that you still haven’t forgiven me.”

“ ’Tis the truth I haven’t.”

The steward frowned. “As I explained yesterday and the day before, I would not allow you entrance into the keep because I was given specific orders by Baron Raulf not to let anyone inside while he was away. I was told even to deny Lady Johanna’s brother, Nicholas, entry should he come calling. Father, try to understand. I’m the third steward here in less than one year’s time, and I try only to hold onto my position longer than all the others.”