Trauma Plan (27 page)

By 6 p.m., she’d been tempted to walk out, quit, call Riley and say that she’d be putting her packing boxes onto a U-Haul headed for . . . anywhere else. That she’d had it with humidity and scorpions, couldn’t bear to hear another country song on the PA system of one more grocery store. She’d wanted to say that the charm of fireflies and genuinely friendly strangers—even having Riley as a new friend—wasn’t enough to make up for the aching hole in her life. A hole she had been trying and failing to fill for as long as she could remember.

The loneliness of it had made Kate stall for a few seconds before entering Stacy Paulson’s room. She’d sniffed the roses, tried to forget all the red flags—her bad choices—and started to imagine the comfort of . . .

Kate set down the glass and reached for her cell phone. She searched the contact list for the number she’d entered and started to call at least half a dozen times in the past few hours. She told herself she was being polite. No more than that. Then held her breath, hit the Call button. Recognized his voice.

“Griff, it’s Kate Callison.” She took a breath, exhaled slowly. “The flowers are beautiful. And exactly what I needed today.”

21

“Will you tell Bandy that the woman in room 3 could use some sandwich therapy?” Riley asked, spotting Jack in the clinic kitchen. “I’m getting her flu vaccine, but we were talking and she let it slip that she spent the last of her grocery money on her mother’s prescriptions—Alzheimer’s.” She sighed, remembering the worry on the woman’s face. And the weariness. “Between that and taking care of her teenage children, she’s running on fumes. I doubt she had any dinner.”

“I’ll bet you’re right.” Jack refilled his coffee cup. “She said she’s afraid she’ll get the flu, miss work, and lose her job. They’re a single-paycheck family; it would be more than difficult to be looking for work at her age.” He frowned. “Her situation proves it’s not only ‘indigents and drug addicts’ we’re serving here. Not that I can seem to convince that blasted action committee.” His eyes met Riley’s and his expression softened. “Thanks for taking the extra time with her.”

“Sure,” Riley said, heading for the medicine room. “I’m glad I could.”
And I’ll be glad when this shift is over, too.
She’d been praying from the moment she hit the door, reminding God of how important it was to get through the day without any incidents that might change Jack’s mind about writing that recommendation. Surely she could manage to look organized and competent for another ninety minutes.

Riley reached for the flu vaccine, shook her head at the sight of the Band-Aid on her thumb. Barely thirty minutes into the shift she’d managed to stick herself with a needle—fortunately unused, sterile. More fortunate that she’d noticed it and didn’t go dripping blood around the clinic, since it was a numb finger she’d jabbed. Mostly numb.
Some things I can’t help but feel.

Her stomach dipped as she recalled pressing her palms against Jack’s yesterday when he’d tested her injured arm, how close he’d been, that little spot of clown makeup on his face, those incredible eyes, and his strength. His warmth, too. She could feel it even in her injured arm. But mostly Riley kept remembering how Jack instructed her,
“Hold me back. Don’t let me get close.”
He’d been testing her ability to push, assessing the damage to her brachial plexus from the spinal cord trauma and determining her muscle resistance.
With no clue that he was testing my ability to resist
him
?

It was becoming difficult. She’d been so wary about him at first, unnerved by his volatility, at odds with his methods of management, lack of tact, and his dismissive attitude toward faith. But yesterday, seeing Jack with those children—his willingness to put aside all pride and play Patch Adams in order to help them—had amazed her. And when she pressed Jack about God, he responded by sharing his gut-level feelings about his father’s cancer and Abby’s death. That Jack trusted her enough to be so painfully honest had touched Riley’s heart.

“Hold me back. Don’t let me get close.”
She tried to ignore a new, prodding question: what if keeping Jack Travis away wasn’t at all what she wanted?

Riley stuffed some alcohol swabs into her pocket and walked out of the medicine room. Then glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. Six thirty, ticking toward eight.
Please, Lord, no more glitches. Medical or personal.

* * *

Kate waited at the table while Griff paid for the coffee. He’d chosen the St. Mary’s Street bistro because it was a comfortable distance from the Fiesta crowds on River Walk. And because, in addition to coffee, it boasted wine, appetizers, live music, and “sinful” desserts. Kate grimaced; she could have done without that particular adjective. It only underlined her queasy feeling that this was a huge mistake. Still, he’d been polite and charming on the phone last night, with no undercurrent of the volatility she thought she’d glimpsed during their interaction in the ER exam room. Plus, she’d been so curious to discover if . . .

Yes.
Kate looked up as deep masculine laughter rumbled in the distance. The flushed and completely delighted expression on the barista’s face seconded Kate’s answer to the question that prompted her to accept this invitation: was Griff Payton as gorgeous as she’d remembered? Jade-green eyes, memorable mane of hair—stylishly cut despite its thickness and length. Shoulders even broader under a striped Ralph Lauren shirt worn with faded jeans and full-quill ostrich boots. He seemed impossibly taller now that he was standing fully upright.
Because he has no need to fake back pain to secure narcotics?
Suspicion pricked at the giddy balloon that had too often dragged Kate to breakneck heights. Still . . .

She smiled as Griff turned toward her, raising two steaming cups of coffee aloft. He wove his way through an influx of happy hour arrivals, and Kate reminded herself that she had questions to ask before she even considered trusting this man. Then, with a sinking feeling, remembered that her father had asked questions, too. When she’d finally returned home after that ugly, wasted year.
And oh, how I lied.

“Coffee for California Kate,” he said, settling into the chair opposite her. “Though I’d hoped you could stay long enough to eat dinner. They have these incredible salmon quesadillas, with black salsa and this sort of . . . cilantro and sour cream dip.” He raised his brows, green eyes fixed on hers. “Can’t I tempt you?”

“Not this time,” Kate said over the brim of her cup, then realized her answer implied there would be another time. “I promised to stop by a clinic where I volunteer sometimes, to see if I can help them out next week.” She reminded herself to keep her tone casual. “That free clinic down the street from The Bluffs development?”

“Ah.” Griff was quiet for a moment. He took a sip of his coffee and Kate noticed, once again, the scars on his hand. From the same explosion that injured his back, most likely. Then Griff spoke, meeting Kate’s gaze directly. “You’re wondering if you should date a man who’s associated with a movement to shut that good and charitable effort down.” He tilted his head, his expression hardening just a bit. “And maybe you’re extrapolating that thought into . . . if I’m mean-spirited enough to deny poor people health care, then maybe I also park in handicap spaces and pick the wings off butterflies and—”

“Are you?” Kate interrupted.

“An insect abuser?”

“No.” Kate couldn’t help but smile. Griff Payton, contractor, had hit the nail on the head; he knew she was checking him out. Fine, then she could be direct. “Are you associated with the action committee that’s trying to close the clinic?” She raised her voice to be heard over the musicians warming up a few yards away. “Is that what you want?”

“Two separate questions,” Griff acknowledged. “And I don’t have a problem answering either of them. First of all, no. I’m not associated with The Bluffs’ action committee. I have no issues with the work that’s done at the clinic. I honestly don’t know much about it.” His smile came back, charming again. “But if you volunteer there, I have no doubt that it’s valuable.”

“Your father’s company plans to bid on the property.”

“Yes. It’s adjacent to The Bluffs—his development, my parents’ neighborhood—so it makes sense. Convenient and close to his heart. He’d envisioned condos there years ago but the property was never available.”

“Still isn’t,” Kate said, imagining Jack in this conversation. Wearing Army boots.

“That’s right. It will be up to the city council to decide what happens with that property. I accept that, absolutely. But you also asked if shutting down the clinic is what I
want
.” Griff met her gaze. “I’m going to be honest with you, Kate. I’ve been waiting for a project like this. Obviously because it would help my career. But also—” he swallowed—“because working alongside my father could go a long way toward fixing some things between us. I don’t know if you can understand that. But I’ve disappointed my father in the past. Now I’m back, and I just want a chance to—”

“Make him proud,” Kate murmured. She’d felt the same way when she’d returned home after running away.

“Yes. Exactly.” Griff nodded. “I guess that sounds corny.”

“It doesn’t.” Kate released the breath she’d been holding and wondered if she’d jumped to the wrong conclusions about this man. He wanted his father’s approval. There was nothing wrong with that. Maybe beneath Griff Payton’s handsome exterior and arrogant charm, there was a decent, good-hearted man.
Now that would be a first.
But there was still that other question. The red flag waving furiously since he’d refused the shot in the ER.

“So,” Kate began casually after glancing toward the musicians. Several couples had moved to the small dance floor. “How’s your back? Pain medication helping?”

Griff laughed, raised a palm. “No disrespect to the hospitals, but I’ll take a good chiropractor over a pill pusher any day. Snap, crackle, pop—fixed.”

“Fixed?” Kate asked, surprised at how much she wanted to believe him.

“Not enough to heft cement sacks. But . . .” Griff rose from his chair, extending his hand toward her. “I’m definitely healthy enough for a slow dance.” He chuckled at the look on her face. “I think we’ve established that I don’t pick the wings off butterflies, and I promise not to step on your toes.”

“Okay,” she said, her face warming. “One dance.”

You’ve tempted me after all.

* * *

“Se cayó?”
Riley asked her patient, pulling the stethoscope from her ears. She turned toward the man’s son, trying to understand. “He fell on the stairs?”

“Uh . . . right.” The boy, about fifteen and dressed in dusty work clothes, glanced toward his mother before continuing. “At home.” His father moaned with pain, and anxiety flooded into the boy’s dark eyes. “The doctor’s coming?”

“Yes.” Riley’s gaze moved to the monitoring equipment. Blood pressure 94 over 32. Pulse 102. Oxygen saturation 95. A fit thirty-six-year-old man, somewhat pale despite his olive complexion and guarding his breathing because of pain in his left lower ribs. “Will you please help him get undressed? Everything off but his undershorts. Here’s a gown.”

Riley patted her patient’s arm and noted with concern that he’d begun to perspire. “
Vamos a ayudarle
, Hector.”
We’re going to help you.
She glanced up at the clock, thinking with a sudden foreboding that the last half hour of her shift was headed in the wrong direction. She hoped she was wrong about that.

In moments Riley returned to the exam room with Jack. She pushed the buttons on the automatic blood pressure cuff as he introduced himself to Hector and his family. Despite her hopes, the man looked even paler stretched out on the exam table; he grunted softly with each breath. The Velcro crackled as the blood pressure cuff inflated, and she watched the digital display as the machine attempted to locate a systolic pressure. It reinflated, tried again. Not a good sign. Riley’s pulse kicked up a notch.

“Breathe in . . .
Respire, por favor
,” Jack repeated in Spanish, attempting to listen to Hector’s lungs.

“Blood pressure is 87 over 46,” Riley reported. “Pulse 112.”

Jack glanced at the oxygen saturation display, then turned to Hector’s son. “Do you know if he lost consciousness, or—?” Hector groaned as Jack palpated his abdomen. “Were you there when he fell?”

Riley saw panicky confusion on the son’s face and then fear on his mother’s as she gave a terse shake of her head, lips forming the word
no
.

“I didn’t see . . . ,” the boy said, chewing his lip. His face was nearly as pale as his father’s.

Riley set the blood pressure monitor to take readings every five minutes.

“Belly’s distended,” Jack said, turning to her. “He’s guarding in the left upper quadrant. I don’t like—” He stopped short as he spotted something on the floor beside the exam table. “What are these? Roofing nails? Did these come from his pocket?” He stared at the son, forehead wrinkling. “Was your father on a roof?”