The Bride Wore Red Boots (5 page)

“Now listen here,” Mia said, honestly angry. “Don't you dare call me up and relay a message that basically says ‘get home, your sister needs you,' and then pick and choose what information you give me. We've been through this before. If I'm to help, I need all the facts.”

“And
there's
the Amelia Crockett I grew so fond of during our many meetings in September.” The underlying hint of condescending amusement in his words finally brought up the desire in Mia to throttle him, but he continued, oblivious.

“The fondness is not mutual, Mr. Harrison, but that's beside the point. You're supposed to advocate for and with the entire family.”

“And here I am on the phone doing exactly that. Fulfilling my client's wishes to the letter.”

“Oh, for the love . . . Don't use your smug semantics on me, Buster—” She stopped short, realizing she'd just used the name of the man she'd promised to locate on Rory's behalf. Her anger deflated. Why was she wasting her energy on this stubborn man when she had things to do? “Look, tell me what exactly Joely needs, and I will do it if I can.”

“Her next appointment is in two weeks—Tuesday, the fourteenth of November. If it's not possible for you to be here, she'd like to know if you would be willing to Skype during the appointment.”

Mia's mind scanned mentally through her calendar. She'd taken some time off in August for her father's funeral and then again in September for Joely's accident, but vacation wasn't her problem; she had time to spare. She did, however, have surgeries scheduled in two departments through Thanksgiving. And, in one week she fully expected to have a new job as chief resident. That would put a vise grip to her ability to travel.

“Amelia?”

She refocused. “I may not know until next week if I can get any time off, but of course I'll be happy to speak with her specialist. What's his name?”

“Perry Landon, with twenty-five letters after his name. Look him up. He's one of the best spinal surgeons in the country.”

“Good friend of yours, I presume?” She smirked.

“Never met him before today.”

“Odd. I thought you knew everybody in the VA personally.”

“I don't. But they all know me.” A confident smile in his words turned his voice whiskey smooth.

“Well, then. Thank God for you.”

The laugh he returned, easy and smoky, did something to transform her annoyance into a flutter in her chest. Siccing her anger on the quivery sensation, she snapped at him again. “Is there anything else, Mr. Harrison?”

“There is. And seriously. Call me Gabe.”

F
IFTEEN
MINUTES AFTER
that delightful conversation, Mia received two pages from social workers: one she expected from a woman she'd contacted about trying to find Buster. The other call was from her friend Samantha, who specialized in children's issues. Both worked for New York County social services, but both kept hours twice a week in the hospital's Outreach Clinic.

She dreaded what Sam might have to say, knowing the meeting with Shawna Murray hadn't exactly led to a new BFF, so she sat first in front of Hannah White, watching her scribble on a yellow legal pad.

“I had a little bit of luck, believe it or not,” Hannah said. “I made calls to three different shelters in the area you said your little patient mentioned. The woman I spoke to at one of them, St. Sebastian's Shelter in Brownsville, knows a man everybody calls Buster. His real name is Aaron Sanderson. They didn't know anything about a cat or remember that he ever had a child with him, but he fits the description. The downside is he doesn't show up on any kind of regular schedule.”

“But someone there might be able to find him?”

“I assume you know what that area of Brooklyn is like, Dr. Crockett. If I were you, I'd do my best to handle this by phone.” Hannah tore the piece of paper she'd been writing on from the pad and handed it to Mia. “Here are the name and number of the woman I spoke with. What you might do is ask them to pass on a message to your guy the next time he shows up. Sometimes, if it's an unusual situation, they'll let the shelter guests make a phone call. Buster could get in touch with you.”

“This is very helpful. Thank you so much.”

“This must be pretty important to you.”

Mia wanted to say that it was more an accidental promise than important, but Rory's heartfelt pleas wouldn't leave her mind. He might be sharp as a fox, but his missing cat might be the only family he had for a while.

“Yeah,” she said. “It kind of is.”

She stood to leave and Hannah smiled. “I'll let you know if I get any information from other calls I put out.”

“I can't thank you enough. By the way, do you have any information on animal foster homes or institutions? The boy's foster mother has said he can't keep the cat with him. I'll talk to her, but . . . ”

“I have a few place names, but no real contacts. I'll let you know.”

Mia nodded and headed for Sam's office where, she had a feeling, the news wasn't going to be nearly as positive.

Sam's space was small and tucked into a corner across the hall from Hannah's, but it was a relatively cheerful office, with a large desk and three file cabinets, bright yellow walls and a handful of inspirational posters. Sam grinned when Mia entered.

“Hey you, thanks for taking time to come in before you leave for the day.”

“Anything for you,” Mia said. “I hear you're the goddess of children.”

“I wish. Sit down. I heard you've had a long day.”

“Certainly an eventful one.” Mia rubbed her aching temples.

“You saw Rory. Small world, huh?”

“I was shocked to hear about Monique. I'm worried about her. And about Rory ending up in the system after all this.”

“I know. Which brings me to the point. There's been a complaint filed, and I'd like to ask a couple of questions. You had a chance to meet Shawna Murray today, didn't you?”

Here it comes
.

“I did. I'm sorry, Sam. I admit to being astounded by Mrs. Murray's cavalier attitude about some issues related to her foster son. I said some things in haste—”

“Wait, Mia, no. The complaint wasn't against you. It was against Mrs. Murray by another member of our staff.”

For a moment Mia sat stunned. She'd been told several times today that she needed a less brusque way of dealing with adults. She'd simply assumed Shawna Murray had joined the Dr.-Crockett-had-no-bedside-manner Club.

“Oh! What was the complaint?”

“That while she might be well-intentioned as a foster parent, she doesn't seem to be providing the safest environment. Evidently Rory spent four or five days severely ill at home before he was brought into emergency with a ruptured appendix. Rather than have his symptoms checked, Mrs. Murray relied on the opinion of her live-in boyfriend, a man who wasn't in her life when she was approved as a foster parent.”

“I just learned that this afternoon,” Mia said.

Sam nodded. “The second complaint is that Mrs. Murray used peanut oil in cooking for the child even with full knowledge that he has a severe peanut allergy.”

“I did speak with her about that. She was not deliberately negligent, according to her story. I do believe she didn't have any idea what she'd done was dangerous. I'll be honest, though, Sam. I did criticize her actions—perhaps a bit strongly.”

Mia wasn't sure what, exactly, made her defend the woman, but as much as she wasn't Shawna Murray's biggest fan, it
was
her job to be as objective and honest as she could.

“The complaint definitely says that Mrs. Murray's motives are not being questioned, nor are there allegations of any abuse. There was simply concern expressed that this home might not be the best fit for this child.”

“I hadn't heard the appendectomy part of the story.”

“I was wondering if you could add anything to this issue from your perspective.”

“I have a few opinions,” Mia said slowly. “A lot of them are subjective, though. I don't believe the woman has an uncaring heart.”

“Caring and safety aren't necessarily the same thing,” Sam said. “My concern is whether the child is safe.”

“I can tell you what Rory told me. He doesn't like the boyfriend, but it doesn't seem to be because he feels unsafe. He made the boyfriend seem like a mere presence, not any kind of hands-on parent.”

She related the rest of her interactions with Rory and Shawna as factually as she could, but she didn't really feel as if she'd contributed much damning evidence. She allowed one personal opinion, however, at the end of the conversation.

“I know a situation like Rory's is stressful for a parent, especially a foster parent. My worry is that I didn't think Mrs. Murray showed the right amount of concern for what happened. She treated it like an unlucky accident. A ‘stuff happens' kind of thing. I may be off base, but if it were my decision, I'd at least make another home visit.”

Sam nodded. “That's actually helpful.”

“Is there a chance Rory will be moved to a different home?”

“A chance. Sometimes we just have to try several places in order to find a good match.”

“Can you keep me in the loop? I'd like to be able to find him.”

“Of course. Goes without saying.”

T
HE AFTERNOON
'
S EVENTS
should have elated her. Buster semilocated. Social services looking into Rory's well-being. Instead, her head pounded with concerns she really didn't want on her plate. Hunting down a homeless cat. Monique's health. Half-worrying about Brooke's prediction that she'd overstepped her bounds with Dr. Wilson. Finding time to help her sister. Knowing she'd have to speak again with the annoying Gabriel Harrison . . .

Wondering why her stomach insisted on flipping cartwheels every time his name and the memory of his low, smoky voice ran through her brain.

She reached her office and gratefully closed the door. She had no more rounds today and no more meetings. More than ready to leave, she gathered her coat, her purse, and her laptop. And yet, a weird, internal nagging feeling that she needed to follow up on Buster wouldn't let her walk out. With a sigh, she sat at her desk and unfolded the yellow sheet of paper from Hannah White. Picking up her office landline phone, she dialed the number for St. Sebastian's Shelter.

The woman she spoke to remembered the earlier call about Buster. Mia identified herself and her reason for wanting to find the homeless man.

“I'm not looking for him as such,” she said. “I am only after any information he has about my patient's cat. Even if he can tell me no such animal exists.”

“I will be glad to have Aaron—Buster—contact you if I see him again,” the woman said. “I haven't seen him in nearly two weeks, however, so I can't promise you when that might be.”

“That's all I can I ask,” Mia said. “Thank you for your help.”

“I wish you good luck,” the woman said. “I hate hearing about lost pets and sick kids. I hope you can reunite the boy with the cat.”

Her attitude sent the first warmth in four hours through Mia's body. She wouldn't do the woman's job on a dare. Surgery was a snap compared to figuring out how to shelter and feed the homeless and hungry.

By the time she reached her building in the Upper East Side an hour later, her headache had peaked into the kind of pounding pain that made climbing the steps to her third floor apartment excruciating. Not that the pain was unfamiliar. Lately headaches had become all too commonplace—so much so, she had a routine to deal with them.

She flipped her low-heeled pumps straight from her feet into their corner of her bedroom and stripped every stitch of clothing, from her red-and-white pinstriped blouse to her navy pencil skirt, bra, and underpants, off her body and set them into the laundry hamper. Gratefully and gloriously, she replaced them with her loosest, ugliest gray sweatpants and a fairly hideous multicolor striped, polar fleece pullover that, strictly by virtue of its coziness against her skin, eased her impending migraine by a fraction.

One glass of ice-cold water and the full adult dose of eight hundred powerful milligrams of ibuprofen later, she shuffled into the kitchen, popped a K-Cup of hot chocolate into her trendy new single-serve coffee maker and slipped her favorite mug into place.
Surgeons Do It on the Table
, it said.

“If only,” she said out loud.

While the chocolate brewed she opened the refrigerator and searched fruitlessly for anything that sounded or looked good. This, too, was part of the headache routine, and as usual she closed the fridge door without choosing anything. There wasn't even a lack of choice—she kept a well-stocked kitchen—but cooking sounded far too painful, and fresh anything sounded far too healthy. Finally, when her cocoa was ready, she grabbed a package of graham crackers from the cupboard and carried the nonnutritious comfort food into the living room.

She loved her condo. It truly was her one haven away from the world of relative insanity she inhabited eighty percent of the time. She'd chosen that chaotic, high-pressure world, and she loved it, too, but here—headache or no—she could leave the hospital behind if she chose.

She retrieved her laptop from her briefcase in the foyer and flipped on her gas fireplace on her way back to the couch. On the mantle her array of family photos smiled out from various rustic frames collected at flea markets and antique shops over the years. A group picture of her and her five sisters from twenty years before always made her smile. She'd been twelve, Harper ten and Joely seven. Each had held one of the triplets, not quite four, and each was dressed in jean shorts, a western-yoked shirt, and her favorite pair of cowboy boots. Mia's had been red. Back then she'd never let any of her sisters copy her red boots—they were her symbol, her favorite thing even now. The triplets could wear pink; that was as close as she allowed. The others were at the mercy of brown, black, or blue.

They still teased her even though she'd lifted the ban long ago. The sisters had recreated the picture just two months ago at their father's funeral. Now six grown women smiled out from that image—
successful
women all. They still looked darn good in cut-offs and cowboy boots. Mia's boots were still red. But they weren't any of them nearly as carefree as they'd been in the original photo.

She touched the picture of her father, the pang of loss always stronger after a tough day. Sam Crockett, tough, proud, handsome—a Wyoming cattleman to the depths of his heart. He'd inherited, expanded, and run one of the largest, wealthiest ranches in the state. And he'd died at age sixty-eight leaving Paradise Ranch to his wife and six daughters. None of whom had possessed the slightest interest in running it.

Mia had been the only one groomed for the job, and her father had expected to take over until the day she'd left for college.

She turned away, settled into the deep, heavenly cushions of her burgundy leather sofa and pulled a thick afghan, knitted by her beloved Grandmother Sadie back in Wyoming, over her legs. She'd broken her father's heart the day she'd turned her back on the ranch. Or so he'd claimed—if not in those exact un-masculine words. It had been more like, “This isn't what I hoped for, darlin'. I've got nobody who can take my place. You were it.”

She'd never understood how, out of six children, he'd only picked one to groom. But it had been true. The burden had been hers, and she'd never quite lived up to the task of carrying it. No matter how many As in school, or awards in science fairs or Future Farmers of America competitions or letters in chess she'd received, there was always improvement to be made.

She looked again at the mantle and picked out the picture of her sister Harper with her soon-to-be husband. Harper wouldn't have been second or even third choice as heir, stuck as her head had always been in painting rather than cattle and the management of fifty thousand acres. And Cole standing beside her had once been Mia's beau. She should be bitter, but she was grateful. She and Cole had never belonged together, for so many reasons. And they'd never been as deliriously happy as he and Harper were today.

And she'd never in ten lifetimes have agreed to run Paradise Ranch with him the way Harper had.

“Daddy, I hope you see how right it is that I'm still here and your crazy little artist is running the place,” she said to the picture, and flushed at the sound of her voice in the quiet room. She glanced around the serene space with its neutral color scheme—rich browns and taupes with touches of burgundy and sage green.