Small-Town Redemption (6 page)

Ha. Take that, you old biddy.

Dr. Stockdale, clearly not grasping the concept of personal space, didn’t stop until the toes of her ugly brown pumps bumped Char’s sneakers. “Why hasn’t my patient been taken up for a CT scan?”

“And which patient would that be?” Char asked, sounding quite reasonable. Easy enough to do when compared with the doctor’s strident tone.

Dr. Stockdale waved her hand vaguely in the direction of the west hallway. “My patient in room 9.”

“I’m not actually the nurse for that patient,” Char said. “But I’d be happy to find out who is and they can check on the delay for you.”

“Oh, never mind,” Dr. Stockdale snapped, already whirling around, the hem of her mid-calf-length skirt hitting Char’s legs. “I’ll do it myself.” She searched the empty hallway and, despite there being no other people around, bellowed, “Nurse!” as she stormed off.

“I’m not sure which one is worse,” Leo said. “Her or Hamilton.”

Dr. Nathan Hamilton’s resignation from the hospital—due to an icky and completely perverted incident involving a consenting twenty-two-year-old certified nursing assistant, three silk ties and a few chairs from the X-ray wing’s waiting room—had led to Dr. Stockdale being hired.

It still ticked Charlotte off. Not that Hamilton had quit—she thanked God for that. But that, despite the numerous complaints filed against him, he hadn’t been fired.

“You only say that because Dr. Hamilton—” also known as Hands-On Hamilton, as in he-got-his-hands-on-everyone “—didn’t try to grope you on a regular basis,” Charlotte told Leo.

“Don’t be too sure about that.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Oh, really? Do tell.”

“Sorry,” he said as his partner, Forrest Young, stepped up to them. “I don’t spill sordid details with a woman unless she buys me dinner first.”

“You want to know something about this joker?” Forrest asked her, wrapping his arm around Leo’s neck. Forrest, as homely as Leo was handsome, was a favorite among the E.R. staff due to his laid-back disposition and sense of humor. “You just ask me.” He grinned and squeezed Leo’s neck, causing Leo’s head to bob. “I know all his secrets.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she told him as Jocelyn came out of the room. Leo untangled himself from Forrest’s grip and they left with a wave. Char turned to her coworker.

“He’s all yours,” Jocelyn said. “Though I wish I didn’t have to pick up Michael from the sitter’s.” She nodded toward the room. “That is one seriously yummy man.”

As if to make her words more believable, Jocelyn gave an exaggerated shiver of delight that had everything, breasts and ample hips especially, shimmying. Four inches shorter than Char, her friend was curvy with dark hair, red lips and nails, and a penchant for bad boys and one-night stands.

She also had a three-year-old son she adored who wasn’t feeling well, forcing Jocelyn to leave work early.

“You said that about the appendectomy two weeks ago, remember? The one with the porno mustache?”

“I’m telling you, under that furry thing was a handsome man. And did you see his six-pack?”

It would have been unprofessional to point out she’d seen pretty much every inch of him. “I think I’ll stick with clean-shaven men just the same.”

“He—” Jocelyn jerked her thumb at the door behind Char “—has that stubbly thing going on. Plus I saw ink. You know how much I love tattoos on a man. If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll get to see his body art up close and personal.”

“There’s not much personal about helping a patient get undressed or examining them.”

“Please,” Jocelyn said, handing Char the patient’s chart, “it’s the only reason I busted my very cute butt at nursing school.”

Smiling, Char shook her head and knocked on the door as Jocelyn flipped her hair and sauntered off, the very cute butt she was so proud of wiggling.

Char was still smiling as she opened the door, scanning the patient’s chart. Her smile slid away when she read the name at the top of the form, written in Jocelyn’s neat handwriting.

No. It couldn’t be.

“If it isn’t Little Red,” a husky, male voice said. Her head snapped up as Kane’s gaze drifted lazily over her, from the top of her hair to her sensible shoes. She had a feeling if he could have, he would have raised one eyebrow in scorn. As it was, both brows were lowered, probably due to pain. “Cute PJs.”

She strangled the doorknob. Pretended it was his neck. Kept her lips pressed tightly together. It was better than informing him of the difference between sleepwear and her favorite scrubs—purple pants, lighter purple long-sleeved tee under a floral top.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but when she opened them, Kane remained. No figment of her imagination, no hallucination brought on by a strong resemblance and bad lighting. He was here.

He was also her patient. Hers to take care of.

Fan-freaking-tastic.

Damn it. She should have known it was him from the way she’d reacted to the sight of his legs. It was as if every time she was around him, her body went haywire. Hot. Then cold. Then hot again.

And that was just from getting a glance at his legs and feet. His feet, for God’s sake.

He shifted. Winced and blew out a breath from between his teeth. “Speechless?”

Maybe it was the pain she saw in his eyes, the way he went white with it. Or maybe it was the decidedly missing mocking tone from his voice. Or, she thought as she took in his appearance, it could be his torn clothes and the many bloody gashes on his person. Whatever it was, she snapped out of her reverie. She had a job to do and she’d lick the bottom of his stupid, scarred boots before she’d let him get to her. Even for a moment.

Besides, it wasn’t as if she could load him off onto another nurse. Well, she could, but she never shirked her duty. And if she asked someone else to take him on, they’d want to know why. She wasn’t prepared to give that answer. Ever.

She crossed to stand next to his bed. “Actually, I was just lamenting about how, of all the ERs in all this great land of ours, you had to walk into mine.” She pursed her lips, somehow knowing he’d hate it if she showed him too much compassion. That he’d mistake any sympathy for pity. “Then again, you didn’t technically walk in.” Because she figured it would annoy him, she added air quotes to the last two words.

Opening her laptop, she cleared her throat. Set the computer on the stand and plugged it in.

“Let’s get some information,” she said, bringing up the file Jocelyn had started. “What happened?”

“Didn’t you talk with those EMT guys?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then you know what happened.”

Couldn’t he cooperate at all? She pushed aside her irritation and glanced up at him. His face was a sickly color now—the pain must be getting to him. She softened a bit. She hated seeing anyone suffer. She’d get him something as soon as possible.

The EMTs had taped a piece of gauze to a cut on the side of his right eye, the flesh around it already turning interesting shades of yellow and green. His hair was disheveled, his shirt wet and torn, his jeans ripped, his right arm bent at an interesting and far-from-natural angle.

“Motorcycle accident,” she said, typing the words into the computer.

He shut his eyes and gingerly laid his head back. “A deer ran out in front of me. It was either lay the bike down or fly over the handlebars.”

“Guess you made the right decision.”

The police department would do whatever it was they did to ascertain if he’d been speeding or driving recklessly.

“Right before the accident,” she said, “were you light-headed or dizzy?”

“No.”

“Sick to your stomach?”

He snorted and she had no idea whether that was an affirmation or not.

“Were you drinking tonight?”

“Just water.”

“What about recreational drugs?”

Now he opened his eyes, pinned her with an unreadable look. “What about them?”

Something told her to tread carefully here. It was always a sensitive subject, but one she needed to address. Too bad most people were less than forthright about their bad habits, especially the ones that were illegal. She kept her voice matter-of-fact, her expression clear and nonjudgmental. “Were you impaired in any way?”

The fingers of his left hand clenched. “I don’t drink. I don’t do drugs.” His mouth thinned, but she wasn’t sure if it was due to physical discomfort or the topic of conversation. “I went for a ride after work. The roads were wet. A deer ran out into the road and I lost control. End of story.”

She picked up the electronic ear thermometer. “The EMTs’ notes said you weren’t wearing a helmet.” Yes, her tone made it clear she was judging him. Bad enough he drove a powerful vehicle that could reach great speeds. The least he could do was protect his head. “You’re lucky you weren’t more seriously injured.”

Or killed.

“Worried about me, Red?”

Taking his temperature, she rolled her eyes, caught herself mid-roll and pretended to be checking out a very interesting speck on the ceiling. “It’s part of my job to be concerned about any and all of my patients.”

“And here I thought I held a special place in your heart. With what happened between us and all.”

His voice was low. Husky. It seemed to vibrate right into her chest.

Neat trick, that.

Straightening slowly, as if her inner voice wasn’t screaming at her to leap back and run like mad, she gave him her haughtiest look, the one she reserved for unruly, rude or pain-in-the-rear patients.

He definitely qualified for the latter.

“Did you injure your left arm?” she asked, her cool tone daring him to make another comment about the night she’d gone to his apartment.

In answer, he held it out. She gently wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his upper arm, unwound the stethoscope from her neck and inserted the ear tips. After taking his blood pressure, she removed the cuff and checked his pulse. Typed all three figures into his file.

“Any allergies to medications?” she asked. He shook his head. “What about tape? Latex? Iodine?”

“No.”

“Are you currently taking any medications?”

He shook his head then winced.

She opened a drawer and pulled out tubing. “I’m going to get your IV started, get you something for the pain. Could you straighten your left arm for me?” she asked, pulling on sterile gloves.

She tightly tied a thick rubber band around his forearm just under his elbow, found the vein she wanted to use on the back of his hand, then disinfected the area. While it dried, she peeled open the catheter.

“You ever do this before?” Kane asked, his tone wary enough to make her glance at him.

He was staring at the catheter in her hand with what could only be described as trepidation. What was that about? She’d had plenty of people—young, old and in between—who were terrified of needles, more that weren’t thrilled about them, but could handle a shot or IV being inserted as long as they didn’t watch it piercing their skin. But Kane had tattoos. Several intricate, rather large ones, which would have taken hours upon hours to complete.

That’s when it hit her, the realization swift and producing a giddy sort of triumph. He wasn’t afraid of needles.

He was afraid of her.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Y
OU
LOOK
HAPPY
,” Kane grumbled, not liking the small smile playing on Red’s mouth.

She made a humming sound, pure contentment and satisfaction. “Do I? Must be because I’m loving my job at the moment.”

“Loving that you get to poke at me a few dozen times. Literally. With a very sharp object.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.”

But her grin, just this side of mean, said otherwise.

He shouldn’t think it looked good on her.

He shifted. Pain stabbed his ribs, shot up his side. He held his breath, kept his face expressionless, but that didn’t seem to stop eagle eye from noticing. She didn’t frown—her usual expression around him—but there was no ignoring the concern in her eyes.

“You okay?” she asked.

She was doing her job, and that was all he wanted from her.

He exhaled carefully. Slowly. Inhaled the same way. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Just as he didn’t answer hers.

She noticed but didn’t call him on it.

“What question?” she asked, poking and prodding the back of his hand again with her finger, the sharp point of the needle closer to his skin than he would have liked.

He didn’t mind needles, could handle pain just fine. Though he’d rather avoid it if possible. Mostly he didn’t like the idea of her using him as a pincushion. Not when he was having a hard enough time keeping himself together. Acting calm and collected when all he wanted was to jump off the bed and get as far from this place, with its institutionalized smells and windowless walls, as possible. Before he completely lost it.

“Have you done this before?”

She raised her head, blinked at him as innocently as a newborn babe. “Once or twice. I’m getting really good at it, too.” Leaning forward, she lowered her voice, her blue eyes wide. “With my last patient, it took me only six or seven tries to get it right.”

She was messing with him. She had to be.

He hoped.

Before he could find out, someone knocked at the door, and Charlotte excused herself—like the polite little nurse she probably was with every other patient—to see who was there.

A reprieve. He was smart enough to be thankful.

Then again, the more she stabbed at him, the longer his mind was occupied and he didn’t have to think about anything else. Such as how much it hurt just to breathe. Hell, he’d gladly forgo the process altogether if it wasn’t an instinctual, and necessary, act to remain alive. How pain swamped him with every movement, no matter how slight or how slowly done, making his stomach turn. How the mother of all headaches pounded at the base of his skull, blurring his eyesight and making him want nothing more than to go home, down a few shots of whiskey and slip into a dreamless, painless sleep.

Too bad he’d given up drinking.

But the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the memories.

The familiar sights and sounds of the hospital threatened to drag him back to the past. Reminding him of the accident that had almost cost him his life.

That had almost taken away the most precious thing in his world.

And it had been all his fault.

“Sorry about that,” Red said as she returned to his side. “Okay, here we go.” She bent over his hand and that’s when he realized her hair was different. Short, like a pixie, the red strands loose and waving slightly. “Slight pinch,” she murmured, inserting the needle into his vein.

He barely felt it.

And he’d let her rip off his good arm and beat him over the head with it before he admitted it.

She taped the port to his hand then gave it a gentle pat. “You were very brave,” she told him soberly. But her eyes gleamed. “Want a lollipop?”

She smiled. A real smile, one that reached her eyes and made a dimple in her left cheek form. A sudden, vicious craving swept through him, a hunger for something sweet.

Something like skinny, small-chested Charlotte Ellison.

He must have hit his head harder than he thought.

In answer to her smart-ass question, he scowled. But that only made his head hurt more, so he stopped.

As if sensing she’d won the point, she tossed the packaging from the IV into the trash. “I’m going to let you rest. If you need anything before I get back, just press your call button.”

She was leaving. He should be glad. Was glad. He could use some quiet. Some peace.

But the quiet gave him too much time to think. To remember. And peace had always been beyond his reach.

“You cut your hair.”

He winced at how accusing he sounded. As if he gave a shit about it. She could shave it all off and it wouldn’t matter to him.

Turning to face him, she lifted a hand toward her head only to curl her fingers into her palm and slowly lower it. “Months ago,” she said as if this was old, old news and he had no reason to be bringing it up.

“Months, huh? Well, I haven’t seen you at O’Riley’s for a while,” he said. “Must be how I missed it.”

She raised both eyebrows. “I hadn’t realized you’d been looking for me.”

He hadn’t. But he had thought of her once or twice. Dreamed of her more often than he’d liked.

And that pissed him off but good.

“Just noticed after your little visit to my apartment you’ve kept your distance,” he said. “No need to be embarrassed, Red. You’re far from the first woman to throw herself at me. You weren’t even the last.”

She flushed, color washing over her cheeks, a pretty pink that made her look flustered and as tasty as the lollipop she’d offered him. “How comforting. Now I can sleep peacefully as I’ve thought of nothing but you and that night since it happened.”

It was as if she didn’t really mean it. “You don’t have to avoid O’Riley’s. No need to hide from me, Red.”

“I’m not hiding,” she said, humor lacing her tone. “I’ve been a tad too busy to hang out at bars.”

“Getting your hair cut.”

She gave him that grin again, the one that had her dimple winking. “Yes. Along with a few other things, such as working, moving into and decorating my new house. And of course, working some more to pay for said house.”

“Aren’t you a little young to buy a house?”

“That seems to be the consensus. But please—” she held a hand out in the universal stop sign “—spare me the wisdom of your advanced years—”

“Advanced years?” he muttered, his eyes narrowing.

“I’ve already heard it all from my parents, Sadie, coworkers and friends. Even the loan manager at the bank acted like she wanted to pat me on the head when I signed the papers for what promised to be a long and healthy mortgage. So you see,” she continued with that same grin, that same amused tone, “as much as it may shock you—and bruise what appears to be your very big ego—I haven’t been avoiding you. I haven’t, actually, given you much thought at all.”

Obviously knowing the strength of getting the last word, she walked out of the room leaving him with his thoughts, his memories and his past sins.

* * *

K
ANE
JERKED
AWAKE
, his body lurching to a sitting position. His heart raced, his chest throbbed, a cold sweat coated his skin. The remnants of his nightmare clung to his consciousness, blurring the lines between dream and reality. His throat was dry, sore, as if he’d been yelling. Screaming, like in the dream.

He covered his face with his good hand, gulped in air. The IV tugged sharply. His lungs burned, the stabbing pain almost doubling him over. Bringing with it a slow, dawning awareness. Relief.

He wasn’t a terrified twenty-year-old being wheeled into St. Luke’s hospital in Houston, a neck brace holding him immobile, his own injuries forcing him to lie still, leaving him to stare up at the bright lights as they raced him down the hall.

He was a grown man in a dimly lit room at Shady Grove Memorial, his arm in a sling. An hour ago they’d reset and casted his arm. They’d cut off his shirt, stripped him of his pants and checked every square inch of his person for injuries, then put him in a pair of lime-green scrubs. He’d been poked and prodded, had his blood drawn and his chest and arm X-rayed. He’d answered questions about his medical history and given his statement to the cop taking the accident report.

The panic, the fear, the coppery taste of blood filling his mouth, the frantic screams, were all part of a dream. A memory.

One he relived, over and over again.

As he should. After all, the memories deserved to be kept alive, nurtured so they didn’t fade. What better way to pay homage to the moment that had, in the weird, circular way karma had of doing things, saved his life?

Made him a better man.

Someone knocked twice on the door. “Good news,” Charlotte said cheerily as she walked into the room like a freaking ray of sunshine. “Dr. Louk is on his way.”

“What?” Kane asked, his voice hoarse.

She glanced at him, her eyebrows raised. “Dr. Louk. The attending physician who did your initial exam? He’s on his way to do your sutures. You’ll be out of here soon.”

Kane lifted his good hand, touched trembling fingers to the bandage on his forehead, then scrubbed his palm over his face. He reached for the cup of water on the table next to his bed, but misjudged the distance, knocking it over.

“Oops,” Charlotte said, pulling several paper towels from the dispenser on the wall above the sink.

She lightly brushed his hand away when he went to straighten the cup. Mopping up the mess with one hand, she poured more water with the other. Tossed the towels into the trash and gave him the cup.

His hand shook. Water sloshed over the edge, splattered his arm and the leg of his jeans.

Without a word, Charlotte covered his hand with hers, helped him lift the cup to his mouth. He drank deeply.

“Thanks.” His voice was gruff, and warmth crawled up the back of his neck.

She shrugged. “The meds leave some people unsteady. No big deal.”

Meds they’d given him through his IV. He didn’t want to take them, didn’t want to need them, but he knew he did.

He hated that she was seeing him so vulnerable. So out of sorts and messed up.

She laid a sterile pad on a rolling metal tray. “I know it’s been a long night. How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine.”

Standing close enough so her sweet scent—the same scent that had lingered in his apartment for days after her failed seduction attempt—wrapped around him like a cloud, she studied him. Trying to see inside his head, no doubt. Gauging his mood, his words, to see if they were the truth.

“You don’t look fine.” Her voice gentled, and he hated that almost as much as the sympathy in her eyes. She set her hand on his shoulder, her touch light, her fingers warm. “Are you having pain?”

He wanted, more than he could admit even to himself, for her to keep her hand there. To reach up and link his fingers with hers, to hold on to something real. Something to ground him in the here and now, to yank him out of his past.

In the guise of sitting up, he shifted and her hand dropped back to her side. “I’ve had worse.”

“Oh. Well, good. Not good you’ve had worse pain,” she rushed on, a blush staining her cheeks. “But that it’s not that bad now.”

He’d embarrassed her. Flustered her. He hadn’t meant to. He didn’t care about the pain, he just wanted out of the hospital.

Before he lost what little control he had left.

The medicine they were pumping into him made his head heavy, his thoughts blurry—like when he’d spent most of his time wasted, wanting nothing more than the next high. The room, the sights and smells of the hospital, the sound of doctors being paged, of codes being called, tortured him with memories.

The only time he could breathe, could forget for a few minutes where he was, could pretend his past wasn’t pressing down on him, was when Red came in the room.

She was a distraction, he assured himself. That was all. A way for him to forget the pain. Yes, she was interesting and intelligent and, he supposed, attractive in a unique way. But that wasn’t why she occupied his thoughts. Focusing on her was a way to keep his control.

She looked so naive. Innocent. It was partly the freckles, he thought, taking in her profile as she laid out the instruments needed for his stitches. Hard to come across as mature and tough when it looked as if God himself had sprinkled cuteness across your nose and upper cheeks. Or maybe it was her hair. No adult should have hair that bright.

But, he had to admit, the particular shade of orangey-red suited her, went with the pale creaminess of her skin, the new super-short cut accentuating the sharp angle of her jaw, the shape of her eyes.

She was in her element here, surrounded by the sick and injured, the constant noise and odd smells. Gone was the awkward, slightly gawky girl he’d first met at his bar when he’d pissed her off by asking to see her ID. There was no sign of the angry woman who, a few weeks later, had accused her older sister of stealing her one true love, or the nervous, desperate woman who’d come to his apartment. Here she was confident and in control. In charge.

It suited her.

Someone knocked and the doctor, the one who looked like some actor Kane couldn’t quite put a name to, came in.

“How are we doing, Mr. Bartasavich?” Dr. Movie-Star asked in nasally, flat tones that should be illegal in the good old U.S. of A.

“If I had to guess,” Kane said, tired enough to let out his own accent, “I’d say you’re doing a hell of a lot better than me at the moment.”

Washing his hands, the doctor grinned at Kane over his shoulder. “I’d have to agree with you.”

Charlotte took the bandage off Kane’s cut and cleaned the cut, then the doctor gave him a shot to numb the area. Kane almost asked to forgo that step. The sting would give him something else to focus on, something other than the panic trying to wash over him.

But he wasn’t a masochist. Just completely messed up.

“We’ll give it a few minutes to work,” the doctor said while Char cleaned up once again.

They left. He almost called Char back, almost said something else like his inane comment about her hair to keep her in the room with him. It was easier when she was with him, all bright and capable and whip-smart. But once she left, it was as if she took all the air in the room with her. His heart rate increased. The memories threatened, there, at the edge of his mind, pushing, pushing, pushing to be let loose.