Sighs Matter (16 page)

He saw her touch her patient’s arm and obviously say some encouraging words because he shifted his stance, clutching a piece of paper in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other.

Taylor had loved once before, badly. He intended to do it right next time . . .
this
time . . . this woman, if she’d let him. But he needed to find a way past her barriers and that might take some doing. After all, there was nothing he could say, no guarantee he could make to convince her what had happened to her father and brother would not happen to him. Hell, he didn’t know what the future held, but, watching her now, he knew what he wanted it to hold.

She kept her hand on the man’s arm, guiding him to the reception desk as she spoke. The click of computer keys reached him across the room as the receptionist checked the computer to schedule a follow-up.

Catching the patient’s eye, Claire bent her head and explained something to him, reassuring him. She was completely focused on her patient’s needs; at that moment, nobody else existed in the world for her.

Dr. Claire Hunter was good at her job; he should know. When he’d been her patient a year ago, her attention to him and his care had been a hundred and ten percent. He’d not only come to admire her, he’d fallen pretty hard for her. She was attractive, dedicated, sincere, strong. It was one alluring package.

Yet, strong and capable as she was, she’d gotten tears in her eyes at the news her grandpa’s wheelbarrow had been destroyed. Imagine that. Crying over a junky old wheelbarrow.

Any woman who could cry over an ugly-assed wheelbarrow,
and
beat him at basketball, he wanted in his life.

His heart pinched as a smile crept across his lips. Yeah,
this
woman. Forever, if he could manage it.

At the reception desk, the patient nodded once more, and thrust the paper bag he held into her hands. She took it, thanking him.

As the man walked to the exit, Taylor stood. It was then she saw him.

Her expression altered as he moved around the magazine rack to come and stand facing her. The smile she’d given her patient changed into something much brighter, sweeter, much more personal. Her eyes gleamed as she looked at him with a mixture of wariness and anticipation.

She started to say something, but he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her—and he didn’t stop until he heard the receptionist giggle.

He pulled away, but their lips clung. It took another quick kiss to free them.

Grabbing his arm, Claire hurried him out of the room, away from the curious faces of the patients, and down the hall into a cubbyhole office.

When she let him go, he pulled her close and kissed her again.

Squirming, she took a step back. “You’ve got to stop doing that!” she groused, but she had a half grin on her face when she said it.

Instead of responding to her remark, he gestured to the bag. “Urine sample?”

She laughed. “I hope not.” She opened it and peeked inside. “Ooh. Mexican chocolate. Ever had it? It’s delicious in coffee.”

“Your patients give you food?”

She set the bag on her desk. “We occasionally get a patient who has no insurance and no money. Even though we never turn anyone away, they feel obligated to bring us something in exchange for their care. Eggs, jams, homemade bread, produce, whatever they grow or farm. In summer, it’s strawberries or corn; in spring, it’s cherries; apples in the fall.” She blinked and averted her eyes for a moment, then said, “There’s something I want to discuss with you.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“It’s not what you think. It involves a patient.”

“Okay. Let’s hear it.” He took the chair next to Claire’s desk and eased his legs out in front of him, shoving his hands in his pockets.

She sat down and tossed the brown bag of chocolate onto her desk. “The patient claims to have been assaulted. Punched in the abdomen, but he’s afraid to go to the police for fear of repercussions. What’s your advice?”

Taylor mulled this over for a moment. “What kind of repercussions?”

“The man threatened to cut off his dick if he told anybody about it. The kid’s young, and scared to death of this guy.”

“Any witnesses?”

“N-no.” She averted her eyes.

He cocked his head. “Was there a witness or not? What aren’t you telling me?”

She licked her lips and picked up a pen from her desk. Twirling it between her fingers, she said, “Nobody saw the actual assault. However, a witness did notice later that the man’s knuckles were scraped and bruised. He said he’d banged them on a door.”

“When did this happen?”

“A couple of days ago.”

He narrowed one eye on her. “You’re still not telling me the whole story. What are you holding back, Claire?”

Tossing the pen onto the desk, she said, “It’s not my story to tell and unless the patient decides to press charges, I can’t break doctor-patient privilege. I simply wanted to know what his options are.”

“I don’t like grown men who beat up on kids,” he growled. “The boy needs to contact us. We’ll investigate and we’ll protect him. Tell him that.”

She nodded, nibbling on her lip the way she always did when she was thinking. “I’ll see what I can do.” Swiveling in her chair, she said, “Another thing. It’s about Adam.”

Oh. Him
. “What’s Dr. Dingleballs done now?”

She didn’t snap at him as she usually did when he called Thursby names. Curious.

“Well, he came by unexpectedly a while ago, and . . . to make a long story short, our conversation ended badly.”

Sitting straight up, he said, “What does
badly
mean? He didn’t try to hurt you, did he?”

Claire’s brown eyes widened. “Oh, no. Nothing like that. But what he said concerned me very much. He’s divorced and lost custody of his two young children and they seem to be in an unhealthy situation with a reckless mother and potentially dangerous new father.”

“Shit, that’s horrible.”

“I agree.”

“I mean, that pompous dickhead actually found some woman to procreate with?”

Claire’s mouth flattened. “Taylor—”

“I’m not being insensitive,” he rushed to assure her. “It’s just that I can’t stand the guy. But the kids, that’s not cool at all. Where are they?”

Taking out a pen, she picked up a scrap of paper from the desk and wrote down as much information as she knew. Handing it to Taylor, she said, “Could you just do some unofficial checking? If the children are in any kind of danger, the authorities need to be notified.”

He shoved the paper in his pocket, then said, “I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, I’ll be back at five to pick you up.”

“What if I don’t want to be picked up?”

“How’s your little finger?”

She wiggled it at him. “All better.”

“Good,” he said. “I’m demanding a rematch. And this time, I’m going to beat your pants off for real.”

Dyspepsia
Chief competitor of Dyscoke.

As the day wore on, Claire took a break to pour herself some coffee. It was nearly four in the afternoon, but if she didn’t get some stimulation soon, she’d literally drop in her tracks. As she lifted the steaming mug to her mouth, she remembered the Mexican chocolate, and glared at the oily liquid in her cup. The carafe had obviously been simmering away for a while; maybe a little chocolate would turn the bitter to sweet.

Going down the hall to her office, she opened the bag and took out the red-and-yellow metal canister.

Mexican chocolate was strong; a little bit went a long way. She measured about a spoon’s worth into the coffee and mixed it up, adding a generous amount of sugar. The potent mixture smelled delicious.

As she inhaled the aroma, her mind drifted back to Thad Kleinman. His X-rays had been clear; his ribs were sore, but presented no fractures. The kid was tougher than he looked. She’d written him a prescription for pain meds and referred him to a private physician for follow-up. To her disappointment, he’d decided against pressing charges.

Damn. She was riding a fine line here. Thad wasn’t a minor; if he didn’t want to contact the police, there was nothing she could do about it. If she said anything to Adam, he’d know the boy had spoken to her and—difficult as it was for her to believe—might actually seek some kind of revenge on Thad.

And then there was the problem of Adam’s children. If he was capable of harming a waiter over spilled wine, she wondered how he’d interacted with his kids. Maybe the wretched ex-wife wasn’t so wretched after all. Maybe she was protecting her kids from their own father.

What a mess. In any case, she was well rid of him and was thankful she’d never become romantically involved with the man.

Absently, she lifted the coffee mug to her lips.

“Dr. Hunter?” Sally peeked around the doorjamb. “We have a child out here with a lacerated knee. Looks pretty deep. You want to check her out before I suture?”

“Is that who’s screaming?”

Sally’s mouth quirked. “Quite a set of lungs on that one.”

Claire set the cup on her desk. “Sure. Let’s see if we can calm her down.” Glancing longingly at the liquid caffeine, she silently promised to come back soon.

A few minutes later, she returned to her desk. The little girl’s injury had been superficial after all, and a cherry-flavored Tootsie Pop had gone a long way in soothing her hysterics. No muscle tissue or ligaments were affected, so Claire let Sally finish up.

The mug wasn’t quite so steamy as when she’d left it, but that was okay. As she went to take a taste, her desk phone rang. She shifted the cup to her right hand and answered the phone.

“This is Dr. Hunter.”

“So, you are there!” Betsy rushed. Her voice held an undercurrent of relief mixed with worry. “Are you okay? Why didn’t you tell me about your run-in with some road-raging lunatic?”

Claire set the cup on the desk.

“It’s been hard to take a breath,” she said. “I wanted to call you, but it’s just been one thing after another.”

“You’re all right, though.”

“I’m good.”

“I hear you’re working closely with Taylor.”

“Yes.”

“How closely?” Betsy said in a low, sultry voice.

Claire chuckled. “Not
that
closely, you pervert.”

“Damn.” Betsy let out a long, weary sigh. “And I’m not a pervert. If anything, I’m a voyeur, except I wouldn’t be voyeuring anything but simply using my imagination while you describe your encounter in explicit detail.”

“There is no encounter to describe.”

Betsy snorted. “It’s just a matter of time. He’ll wear you down. I have faith in the McKennitt charm. Hey, tell me about the investigation.”

As briefly as she could, Claire explained about the truck incident and break-in, Aunt Sadie and Mort, the barn fire, and how lucky they were the only casualty had been Grandpa’s dear old wheelbarrow.

“Now that I’ve brought you up to speed, how are you feeling, very pregnant lady?”

“I’m tired all the time,” Betsy grumbled. “The baby’s good, though. I’ll be glad when this phase of our little production is over. Soldier looks at me like I’m a hot air balloon loose in a cactus farm and am going to explode any second. And I want my old bladder back. And I want my husband’s arms to go all the way around me, like before, instead of his fingertips barely touching at my spine.”

Claire picked up her coffee. The mug was cool in her hand. “I’m still planning on taking next week off to help you finish up the baby’s room,” she said. “Did you see? Harbisson’s is having a big sale on newborn stuff.”

Betsy chattered on about the baby, the supplies she still needed, the cute little pink booties her mother had bought. As Claire listened, enraptured by her friend’s delight, she brought the mug to her lips. Tepid. Well, what the hell, she thought. Scalding or Siberian, caffeine was caffeine. With a little smile, she took a swallow.

Taylor closed his laptop and shoved it into its case. Finally, they were making some headway.
Some
. Not
lots
, but you took your leads where you found them.

They knew the SUV that had run Claire off the road was black. And Sadie had seen one when she was with Mortimer. As luck would have it, the tire tread Taylor picked up after the barn fire was standard on late-model Excursions. However, while Mortimer owned a Caddy and two other vehicles, none of them was an SUV.

It was enough, however, for Taylor to connect the dots and form one big squiggle. The picture itself would come later, but it would come; he was sure of it.

He set the laptop case behind the seat of his truck and glanced at his watch. Almost time to pick up Claire at the hospital, but first he had to make a quick stop at the art supply store. Leaning across the seat, he reached into the glove compartment and retrieved the photograph he’d gotten from Sadie that morning. Just looking at the damn thing made him smile. He studied it, making a mental note of the colors he needed, then slipped it into his laptop case.

Twenty-five minutes later, tossing the plastic bag from Art’s Art Mart next to his laptop, he checked his watch. Almost five. Perfect.

Entering the hospital through the sliding double doors, he stopped at the reception desk and asked for Claire. The woman behind the computer screen lifted her head and blushed.

“I remember you from this morning,” she said, her smile toothy and white. “I suspect she’s down in her office just waiting on you.” Then she snickered.

He nodded his thanks and headed down the hall.

The door was slightly ajar, so he tapped on it and pushed it open. Claire sat hunched over her desk, her back to him, her head down. One hand was extended as though she was trying to reach the phone but didn’t have the strength to pick it up.

“Claire?” he said, moving into the room, alarm rushing through him like a cold tide. “Claire? Are you sick?”

Turning her head, she lifted her eyes to his, but before she could speak, she brought up the wastebasket gripped in her other hand and buried her face in it. He slid his arm around her shoulders, steadying her. She felt fragile, as though a stiff breeze could topple her.

When she’d finished, he let go of her for a moment, rushed to the open door, and yelled into the hallway. “Hey! I need a nurse in here. Now!”

Returning to Claire, he crouched beside her chair. “Try to take it easy. Got some towels coming.”

“Thanks,” she choked.

Her voice was weak, her balance unsteady. How in God’s name had she gone from perfectly healthy six hours ago to this?

A nurse appeared in the doorway. “Is something—”

“Wet towels, please,” he ordered. “And use
warm
water.”

The nurse took one look at Claire, nodded, and scurried away.

Turning back to Claire, he said softly, “Is there some kind of virus going around?”

She shook her head. “Don’t . . . think so.”

“Can you walk okay? I’ll take you home.”

He was becoming more worried by the minute. She looked like hell. Her skin was pasty and her hands trembled. Her lovely brown eyes were rimmed with red and she held her stomach as though she’d been stabbed. Oh, God. She was going to retch again. This time, he held the wastebasket for her.

“Not . . . home,” she managed. “Get ER doc for me, pl-please.”

She looked up at him, and he saw it then for what it was. The light in her eyes, normally so bright and lively, was weak and dull, gone sleepy and glazed, almost as though it was on the verge of going out.

She was in pain. It didn’t seem possible a person could be the picture of health in the morning and deathly ill in the afternoon. This couldn’t be an ordinary virus.

The nurse returned, bearing a handful of wet cotton towels. She tried to move past Taylor to help Claire, but he grabbed one from her hands, slipped his arm around Claire’s shoulders, and gently wiped her swollen mouth, tossing the towel on the floor when he was done. With a clean cloth, he stroked her forehead, trying to soothe away the pain.

“If I got you some water, could you keep it down?”

In his arms, she felt so fragile. His heart tightened in fear. Had she been exposed to some virulent strain of the flu? Was this some kind of food pois—

His brain stopped functioning. Words and images clicked into place. “Did you drink that Mexican chocolate?”

She nodded weakly as two more nurses rushed into the room and began tugging at him, trying to force him away from her. But he held his ground.

Whispering, she begged, “Don’t . . . let anybody else . . . Toxic . . .”

“Where is it now? Claire? Hang with me, baby.
Where is the chocolate?
”

She swallowed and pointed to her desk drawer. “Ingested . . . hour ago . . . only a teaspoon . . .”

Too weak to finish her sentence, she collapsed into his arms.

“Hey,” said a warm voice in the dark.
Him
.
Him
.
Yes, always him
.
Only him . . .

Claire rolled her head in his direction. “Hey, yourself,” she rasped.

“How you feeling?”

She blinked up at Taylor, working him into focus. Even shrouded in fuzzy fog, he was beautiful.

“Alive,” she chuckled softly.

As she shifted a little to get more comfortable, she became aware he was holding her hand. The fit was so perfect, she hadn’t realized they were touching.

Palm to palm, they were connected, the circuit complete. His warmth, energy, his passion for life coursed through his body and into hers, reviving her, giving her strength. His thumb circled the back of her hand in soft, lazy circles.

Leaning forward, with his free hand, he smoothed her brow. The caress was familiar, intimate, reassuring. He smiled into her eyes, and she felt her resistance dwindle like rainfall after a summer storm.

Curling her fingers around his, she gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

He bent and placed a kiss on her mouth.

When he finished, she put her fingers to her lips. “I’m sorry. I must have stinky breath.”

“I don’t care.” He slipped a lock of her hair over her ear, then settled back into the chair. His eyes went serious.

“It was morphine, in the chocolate,” he said. “Narcotine to be exact. Another couple of hours, and the antidote wouldn’t have worked. You’re going to be okay, Claire.”

“My knight in shining armor, yet again,” she whispered.

“Bad habit. I know how youse broads like to save yourselves these days.”

“I won’t hold it against you, Detective.”

She scooted up a little and he handed her a plastic cup. Taking a few sips of water, she let the cool liquid ease down her parched throat.

“Did you get any prints off the container?”

“No such luck. He’d wiped it. There were none on it but yours.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Not really,” he grinned. “Criminals are stupid. He wiped the container, but he forgot about the paper bag. Ramon Sierra, real name Paul Fuentes, has been a very bad boy. He has a sheet a mile long, including a sealed juvie record. I’ve got a warrant out on him. The next time he comes out of his hidey-hole, we’ve got him.”

She took another sip of water. “But why would he poison me? He doesn’t even know me.”

Taylor brought his chair closer to her bed and slipped his arm across her stomach. She liked the weight of it, the heat. She felt secure, protected, and, all things considered, it was a very good feeling to have.

“Three reasons,” Taylor said. “One, he’s weird. Two, somebody put him up to it. Three, both. My guess, it’s our SUV guy. And it appears our SUV guy has access to morphine, and knows what dose to administer to obtain the desired results.” He rubbed his chin with his free hand. “Have you pissed off any medical professionals lately?”