When Morning Comes (6 page)

“Dr. Collins might have been abrupt, but he's a good internist,” she said. “At least try to slow him down.”

“We will. Do you mind if I have your card?” he said, then added when she hesitated, “In case I think of anything else.”

“Of course.” She pulled out another card. “Good-bye, Mr. Landers.”

Trying boyish charm, he smiled. “Tristan, please.”

She didn't smile back. ”Mr. Landers,” she said, then walked away.

He hadn't thought she would be easy, but he had no doubt about the outcome. He refused to think of the other time he'd been so sure about a woman only to be proven so horribly wrong. Life had bit him on the backside, but he'd finally, thankfully moved on.

Shoving the card into the pocket of his cotton shirt, he went back into Dale's room. “Dale, if you keep going like you have been, none of us are going to be happy with the way things turn out.”

“You ask her out yet?” Dale asked, a sly grin on his thin, grizzly face.

“Did you hear me?” Tristan asked.

“We all gotta go sometime, I might as well go out doing what I want,” he said, crossing his arms across his frail chest.

Tristan threw a glance at Bess. Her arms remained tightly wrapped around her waist. She lowered her head. “What about your family?”

“Bess knows me better than anyone and loves me in spite of it.” He almost smiled. “Now, answer my question. You ask her out yet?”

Aware Dale was going to live his last days the way he wanted, Tristan finally answered his question. “Not yet, but I'm working on a plan.”

Dale chuckled. “About time you moved on.”

“I couldn't agree more,” Tristan said, returning the smile.

 

Four

Less than an hour later Tristan easily located social services on the first floor of the sprawling hospital complex. He saw no reason not to put his plan into motion sooner rather than later. Kara impressed him as a woman who might take a lot of persuasion.

Touching the brim of his Texas Rangers' baseball cap to two passing nurses, he continued down the narrow hallway, looking for Kara's office. The sharp-eyed receptionist said she was in her office. She wasn't impressed with him. He didn't mind, just as long as Kara was.

Locating her door, he knocked.

“Come in.”

Even through the door, he liked the sound of her slightly husky voice. He could well imagine it whispering in his ear, just before biting his earlobe. With that titillating thought on his mind, he opened the door.

She was sitting behind her neat wooden desk, a plain manila folder in front of her. The smile on her beautiful face faded. Slowly, she straightened and leaned back in her chair, her slim fingers clenched around the pen in her hand.

He was right. She was leery of him. Smart woman, but it wouldn't do her any good. This might be your biggest challenge yet, Tristan thought, but he had no thought of not coming out victorious. He closed the door. “Good afternoon, Kara.”

Her eyebrow lifted imperiously. She certainly didn't like him calling her by her first name. He planned that and more. “Mr. Landers.”

Tristan was undaunted by the frost in her voice. He had a feeling the pleasure of getting to know Kara was going to be well worth the effort. “Tristan, please, since, as I said, we're going to be working together to help Dale.”

She closed the folder in front of her and placed her slender hands on top. “I wanted to talk to you about that. Please have a seat.”

She'd sidestepped that nicely. He always liked intelligent women, liked them even better when they had a figure that could make a man drool. Kara had both. Tristan took the straight-back padded chair in front of her desk and removed his cap. “He's a good man who made some mistakes.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Five or six years,” he told her. “He's right about being the best tile man in the business, or at least he once was. He worked for Zachary Holman, owner of Holman Construction Company. He did the tile on the project Zachary did for me.”

“Is Mr. Holman the man who continued to pay the insurance premiums after Mr. Bowler was fired?” she asked.

There was no sense evading the truth. “Yes. Zachary tried every way he could think of to keep Dale, including going by his house every morning to pick him up, direct deposit of his check, taking him to AA meetings. Dale balked at everything. In the end, Zachary had to let Dale go.”

“No one could get him to understand that he has a problem with alcohol?”

“Dale kept saying he's just living his life the way he wants, so rehab or AA was out,” Tristan explained. “He was showing up late and, when he did get there, the work was shoddy. Zachary didn't have a choice. His reputation was on the line.”

She braced both arms on the chair. “You and Mr. Holman are friends?”

“Yes. We hit it off when we were working together,” he explained, thankful she was relaxing more and more, and that Dale was more than a case number.

“If you don't mind, what type of work are you in?” she asked, then rushed on. “I only ask because you offered to take care of things for Mr. Bowler. They have no financial resources. I assume you meant you'd help them financially.”

“You assumed right. I write for a magazine,” he told her, then laughed at the surprised expression on her face.

“You're a writer?”

“Yep. Believe it or not.” He'd probably never get used to seeing the disbelief on people's faces. His unexpected career had surprised him as well, but it allowed him to do what he wanted when he wanted and enjoy life.

A pensive expression on her beautiful face, she tilted her head to one side to study him. “I wouldn't have pictured you as a writer.”

“Believe me, you aren't the first.”

“I suppose,” she said. “I don't want to invade your privacy, but dialysis is extremely expensive. If I can't get Mr. Bowler into a free program, you could be looking at two thousand a week. I need to know if you can handle that much so I can plan for any eventualities.”

“That much, huh,” he said, rubbing his cheek. “Well, if that's what it takes, we'll come up with the money somehow.”

A frown darted across her dark brow. “We?”

“Zachary and his other friends,” Tristan explained, although he had no problem paying Dale's entire medical bill. “Dale had a lot of friends in the construction business who'd want to be there for him. He's helped a lot of people when he was up. Now it's his turn.”

She opened the folder. “Thank you for helping me to better understand Mr. Bowler. I spoke with his nurse just before you came. He should be discharged within the hour. Pharmacy is on this floor. I'm hoping to have a company lined up soon to pay for his medication. You can pick up his prescriptions on the way back to his room.”

Tristan shook his head and leaned back into his chair. It certainly didn't take long for her to give him the boot. “Since we're finished talking about Dale, I figure we can get on to the second reason I'm here.”

“And that would be?”

“I'd like to take you out.”

“No, thank you.” She came to her feet. “Good-bye, Mr. Landers.”

Good manners dictated he stand. He put his cap back on. “You mind telling me why?”

“I'm not interested.”

He stared at her, his disbelief plain on his face.

She glanced impatiently at her watch. “I have an appointment arriving shortly.”

“Could you answer one last question?” he asked.

“Mr. Landers,” she said, annoyance in her voice.

“What is it about me that you don't trust?” he asked.

Her arresting brown eyes widened. Her full mouth, a dark berry color, gaped.

He liked the idea of taking Kara by surprise. It had been a long time since he'd met a woman whose emotions were so open and honest.

“Good-bye, Mr. Landers.”

“For now.” He turned to leave, trying to come up with his next move and saw the four oil paintings that framed the door. There were vivid slashes of color, power and restraint in the progression of a baby in her mother's arms, to a toddler, next a young man ready to meet the world, and finally to a gray-haired man standing on a moon-draped cliff, the wistfulness in his gaze palpable.

Entranced, Tristan moved to the paintings and looked for the name of the artist. KMS was written in flowing script in the right corner. He whirled to stare at Kara, then looked back at the paintings. It was almost impossible to reconcile the demure woman in a white blouse and prim gray suit with the emotions swirling in the pictures. “You painted those?”

After the briefest hesitation, she said, “Yes.”

He glanced around the room looking for other paintings, and was disappointed to see none. Finally his gaze settled on her. “You're very talented.” She shrugged the tiniest bit. It annoyed the hell out of him, that she had so little faith in herself or him. “Do you think I'm lying to get you to go out with me?”

“You wouldn't be the first.”

“I don't have to lie to get a woman to go out with me,” he told her, his annoyance growing. “Was Collins the first?”

“You were on your way out.”

He studied her a long time. He should walk, but he knew he wouldn't. He'd already decided Kara was worth the extra effort. “Are they for sale?”

“Three thousand dollars.”

She'd tossed out the number carelessly, obviously thinking to get rid of him. He pulled out his billfold and removed a check. She'd learn he didn't bluff. “Who shall I make it out to?”

“No!” she said, catching his arm when he started for her desk.

“Then you didn't paint them?” he asked, disappointed.

“Of course I did, but they aren't for sale. They're of my late father,” she explained, glancing at the last painting, her face softening despite the sorrow he glimpsed in her eyes.

“You thought I was trying to con you?” he asked, and when she didn't answer, he continued. “Some men can be trusted.”

“The trouble is finding them,” she said.

“No, the trouble is misjudging them when you find them.” He replaced the check and pulled a card from his billfold. “Call me if you ever want to discuss paintings or honest men.” Placing the card on the desk, he left.

He'd give her a week and then he was coming back. Kara was proving more interesting by the minute. He wanted to see, to feel, the passion beneath her cool exterior. One day, he promised himself, he would.

*   *   *

Kara picked up the ecru card with neat black lettering.
TRISTAN LANDERS—FREELANCE WRITER.
The words were elegant and simple. She looked at the blank backside. No free cards for him.

Kara lifted her gaze to the paintings she had done of her father the year before he died. She had come home from New Jersey for the weekend. That night after her mother had gone to bed, she and her father sat outside on the porch steps talking.

He'd looked so wistful talking about his dreams to own a big rig and travel the country, but he'd never done it. He said he'd never had the courage. Kara had understood he had courage in abundance; he'd sacrificed his dream to ensure that his wife and child were cared for.

After seeing the paintings she'd done to honor him, there had been tears in his eyes. He'd hugged her and then left her to go work his second job as a night watchman at a warehouse. As long as she could remember, her father had worked two or three jobs to give his wife all the things she said she needed to be happy.

Kara was unaware her hand had closed over the card until she felt the edge of the paper dig into her palm. Her fingers uncurled and she stared down at the rumpled card.

Tristan Landers was trouble in designer blue jeans. Sexy, incredibly handsome with mesmerizing green eyes and café au lait complexion, he was tall with a trim, muscular build. He was dangerous to any woman breathing.

She'd known that the second she'd laid eyes on him. He was the kind of man that made a woman forget caution, the kind of man that, when it was over and it would be, made it impossible for a woman to forget.

She dropped the card in the wastebasket. She'd been down that road twice before. Never again.

No matter that she had been ridiculously pleased that he seemed so taken with her paintings. Tristan Landers was off-limits professionally and socially.

*   *   *

Friday afternoon, Cade worked his shoulders, lifted his hands over his head as he tried to get his stiff muscles to relax. The two-hour surgery he'd planned had turned out to be almost four. The tumor had been evasive and tenacious. He pushed open the door to the OR waiting room.

Mrs. Ward's family rushed toward him. He didn't realize he'd expected to see Sabrina until disappointment hit him when she wasn't there.

“Is Ann all right?” Mr. Ward asked, his family surrounding him as if to give him support. At times like these, Cade occasionally let himself wonder what it would feel like to have a family, for someone to care about him for purely unselfish reasons. Patients and their families needed him, but when that need was past, he ceased to be important to them.

“Dr. Mathis?”

“She's resting comfortably in the recovery room,” he told them. “She's still a bit groggy from all the anesthesia, but coherent and all neuro signs are good.”

Mr. Ward blew out a relieved, shaky breath. “When can I see her?”

“The nurse will let you know. I'll see her again before I leave.” Cade looked at his watch. “I have another surgery. Good-bye.” He turned to leave and felt a hand on his arm, and glanced around.

Mr. Ward extended his hand. “Thank you.”

“We're not out of the woods yet,” Cade said. Above all he was honest with his patients and their families.

The hand remained steady. “You told us about the risks, but you also gave us hope. No other doctor did that.”