Critical Care (15 page)

Erin sighed. She'd glove up and go a few rounds with the vinyl
speed bag hanging from the ceiling-get her heart rate up, sweat a
little. That would help.

As Erin crumpled Brad's note and pitched it into the plaid
wastebasket beside her computer desk, she tried to forget his mollifying offer to donate his Tahoe winnings. To the Little Nugget
Victim Fund. Jamie and his mother. She reached for her checkbook,
ran her finger down its balance column, and gritted her teeth. She
could do it. Barely. The cash donations had been $407.46. If she
waited until next month to buy new tires for the Subaru, canceled
her next two hair appointments, and stayed well beyond sniffing
distance from Starbucks ... yes, doable. She'd already swallowed
her pride and called the people who'd written checks. She'd reimburse their stop payment fees, put her own check into the Victim
Fund account at the bank, and then everything would be square
again for the money that had been lost.

Or stolen? The question hissed in her head. How could she have
lost that envelope? She didn't lose things; she hadn't even lost her
front teeth until she was eight years old, for goodness' sake. But
then, the only other explanation was making her completely crazy.
Causing her to look at the hospital staff differently and wonder
about that newly hired janitor; did he get paid enough to afford the
sports shoes she'd seen him wearing yesterday? Hadn't that elderly volunteer with the batwing eyebrows been watching soap operas
in the nurses' lounge last week?

But worst of all-so unforgivably bad-was when suspicion
reared its ugly head this morning, presenting those very same
words of doubt. At Faith QD. She'd joined hands with Inez to pray,
then suddenly began trying to remember who had been there the
day she'd had the envelope in her purse. Lost or stolen?

No. Erin closed her checkbook. She was putting the money
back where it belonged. Any further questions regarding the howwho-why were in God's hands. Besides, Erin had plenty of other
things on her plate. Like scheduling interviews to replace the latest
nurse Logan managed to drive off. She doubted Claire would agree
to work in urgent care much longer, especially after that episode
with Jamie's asthma.

Erin tugged at her lower lip, remembering the look in Claire's
eyes. She'd done everything fine, skillwise. But that look .. .
Merlene Hibbert said Claire had plenty of ER experience. Why had
she seemed so anxious?

Logan managed to get a fire burning in the old copper fire pit after
scouting around and producing paper, kindling, and matches like
a lumberjack magician. He'd pulled a bench near so Claire could
warm herself.

She was grateful because, though the unexpected tears were
gone, going back inside the cabin-her brother's house-felt too
raw. Too exposed. She couldn't believe she'd told Logan about
Kevin's death. She hadn't talked about it to anyone in two years.
Not family, not friends, not even her pastor. But then it could have
been far worse; she could have confessed her panic during that horrible day and every shift afterward. Proving she was exactly what
Logan hated most. A weak link. Then suddenly she'd felt his arms
around her. Only for a few seconds, but it was so comforting.

"Warm enough now?" he asked, poking at the fire one last time
before sitting beside her.

"I'm good," she said, meaning it. She inhaled slowly, taking
in the crisp night air scented with woodsmoke and pine. She was
good as long as they didn't have to talk about-

"So," Logan said, turning toward her, "after your brother ...
you decided to go into nursing education?"

"Yes," Claire answered, reminding herself that this subject,
like her checklists marked with red ink, were familiar and safe.
She met Logan's eyes. "I've already interviewed for the full-time
clinical educator position. Cross fingers, I'll hear something
soon." She chuckled. "Beware of a woman with a spreadsheet
and a master plan."

"You sound like Erin. She's always coming up with these new
ideas for rallying the staff, like an ER softball team and sponsoring
that therapy dog." He shook his head. "And now this prayer thing
in the chapel."

This prayer thing?

"You mean the God huddle?" Claire asked, hearing a hint of
accusation in her voice. Same cynical guy. Don't forget that.

Logan laughed. "Oh, you heard. Okay, I'll confess; I teased her.
Hey, I can understand how trotting a Labrador retriever through
the nursing home might be viewed as therapy. And I'll tell anyone
that Erin is the best charge nurse I've worked with. But asking the
staff to come in early, just to hold hands in the chapel-"

"You don't believe in God?" Claire interrupted. She watched
him react to the bluntness of her question and felt a quiver of anxiety, not sure if it was because she'd made Logan uncomfortable ... or because his answer was so incredibly important to her.

Logan felt sucker punched. Where did that question come from? He
should've stayed home and hacked at the oak stump. He opened his
mouth to speak, and his mind went blank. But for only a merciful
second, only until Beckah's face intruded in memory. Along with
her tearful voice: "Logan, where's your faith?"

"Yes. I mean, no. I believe in God, sure. It's just that. . ." Logan
hesitated, recalling the photos on Claire's mantel, the metal cross
draped over the picture of her brother. And the Scripture neatly
stitched on fabric inside that other frame. She was religious. Another
reason to be careful. Land mines everywhere. He shrugged. "It's just
that I don't hold much stock in prayers. I'll be honest; I'm not convinced God even hears them, let alone answers them."

Claire glanced toward the fire and was silent, and Logan sensed
that though they sat side by side, the gap between them had
stretched miles beyond that too-brief moment he'd held her close.
He knew the answer he'd just given Claire-gave Beckah, too-was
generic, pat, and evasive.

Logan picked up the fireplace poker, listened to the flames
crackle for a few seconds, and cleared his throat. Even so, his voice
emerged husky and halting. "I ... used to pray." He leaned forward
to prod a log with the poker. The motion released sparks that glittered in the darkness and then quickly disappeared. "When I was
a kid, I was always praying. You know, `Bless Daddy, my two little
brothers, and that old lady on the next block who gives out Hershey bars for trick or treat.' But mostly I prayed about my mother.
That she'd stop drinking so much, wouldn't fight with my dad, that she'd come to parents' night at school . . . and stop sitting
outside in the dark in men's cars."

He tried to swallow an age-old lump. Out of the corner of his
eye, he saw Claire watching him. "After she left us-when I was
twelve-I prayed every day she'd come back. When she didn't,
I prayed every weekend that she'd call. I moved on to praying
before I checked the mailbox on everybody's birthday." He swallowed again. "I tore this picture of Jesus holding a lamb out of a
library book at school, smuggled it home in my lunch box, and hid
it under my pillow. Kept it there until the lamb wore away from
holding on to it. I asked Jesus to help my dad stop crying, to help
me make my brothers believe she was coming back. . . " He turned
to Claire. "Finally I stopped praying."

It occurred to Logan to shut up, but for some reason he couldn't.
He saw Claire's brows draw together and felt her lean closer as she
listened. His voice lowered to a near whisper. "A week before my fifteenth birthday, my dad and I drove to Las Vegas to identify a Jane
Doe at the coroner's office. At the last minute, my father couldn't
look. So I did." Logan's jaw tensed, and he closed his eyes for a second to buffer the memory. "They estimated my mother was doing
ninety miles an hour when she hit a highway abutment."

When his gaze met Claire's, he saw that her eyes were glistening with tears. He struggled against a rush of guilt. Why didn't I
stop? After all she'd been through, the last thing she needed was to
hear him recite a list of childhood miseries. Then Logan's breath
caught as Claire flung her arms around his neck, burrowing her
head against his chest. She was warm and smelled faintly of coffee
and coconut cookies.

"Logan." Her soft lips moved against the hollow of his neck as
she whispered, "I'm so, so sorry."

"Hey, hey. It's okay." He nestled his face against her hair,
breathing in the sweet scent of it, aware once more of that incredible sense of rightness and peace that came with having her in his
arms. "And I'm the one who's sorry. I shouldn't have brought all
that up. It was a long time ago, and-" He stopped as she leaned
away, letting her arms slip from his neck. She looked at him, the
firelight reflecting gold against the gray of her eyes. Her expression
made his heart ache.

"I'm saying I understand. That I care." She leaned forward and
brushed her lips against his cheek.

Before Claire could move away again, Logan tipped his head
and gently kissed her.

Sarah set the alarm beside her bed, synchronizing it with the one
on her watch. Four thirty would give her plenty of time. She could
wash her hair, iron her angel scrubs, grab a PowerBar, and be on
the road to the hospital by five fifteen. She frowned. Five thirty
if she decided she needed to scrub that wine stain on the kitchen
tile one more time. It still seemed kind of pink; she'd be able to
tell for sure in the daylight. But the point was, Sarah would be at
the ER ahead of Erin-that wasn't easy. The charge nurse put in
plenty of hours beyond the time clock herself. But she knew Sarah
liked to get there in plenty of time to make sure the department
was properly stocked and the resuscitation equipment ready to go.
Bad things happened in the blink of an eye. Little Jamie came to
urgent care for a simple bandage change and ended up fighting for
his life. What if they hadn't been prepared? A mother could have
lost her child.

No. There was no room for error, no excuse for mistakes. Logan would be the first to agree with that. And since they were still relying on temporary nurses, he would be depending on Sarah more
than ever. She wasn't going to disappoint him. Sarah shut her eyes,
willing the painful, intruding memory to pass. "You're a disappointment, Sarah Lynne."

If she took the other half of that pill, maybe she'd sleep. After
Emily's birthday, she wouldn't need them anymore. She would
find a measure of peace again.

Meanwhile, there was her work.