you slept?”
Ivy thought back. “I got a few hours last night.” Those had come between two-year-old Erica Weyland’s asthma attack and five-year-old Tabitha Jones’s sprained wrist after she’d fallen out of her new canopy twin bed.
“And when did you eat last?”
Ivy tried to remember. Breakfast seemed like such a long time ago. “I grabbed a cinnamon roll from the hospital cafeteria this morning.”
“Then it’s a good thing your dad sent over a take-out order of his meatloaf special. It’s in the lounge with your name on it.”
Ivy’s mouth watered, but her wristwatch told her it would have to wait. “I’ll eat later.”
“You’ll eat it now,” Heather ordered. “The kids can wait ten more minutes to see you, especially if it means their doctor won’t collapse from hunger. So go, put up your feet for a few minutes, and don’t come back until you’ve cleaned your plate.”
Ivy didn’t argue. “Yes, Mother,” she said, grateful that her father, once again, had come to her rescue.
At least there were some good men in this world, she thought uncharitably as a mental picture of Ethan Locke appeared. It probably was a good thing he’d turned her down, because he might be handsome and he might be talented, but he clearly didn’t have a heart.
Ethan slumped onto the sofa and stared at the blank television screen, wishing the bottle in his hand held something more bracing than water.
When he’d first laid eyes on his surprise guest, he’d been dazzled. The easy way she moved, the apparent softness of her skin, the shine to her shoulder-length auburn hair, the impish smile on her beautiful face had made him feel as if the sun had reappeared in his life after months of cloudy days.
And for the first time in a long time he’d also been curious. During the few weeks he’d been living here no one, not even the mail carrier, had wandered down his lane. For a man who’d been content to mark the days by the number of soda pop bottles he emptied, curiosity was a novel experience.
Then she’d started asking questions, discussing things he didn’t want to discuss. One visit that could have held some promise and make him feel “normal” had suddenly ruined his day. Hell, she’d ruined his entire week!
Almost six months ago he’d left his life behind in St. Louis. After severing the few ties he had in the Gateway City, he’d packed the belongings he couldn’t live without in his car and stored the rest. He’d headed west on I-70 without any clear-cut destination in mind other than a desire to find a quiet location to settle until he refocused his life.
His criteria had been simple. He’d wanted a place where he would be as average as the next guy, a place where no one would expect more from him than he was willing to give, a place where he could sort out his life and find peace. A place where he could forget….
Surprisingly enough, a place meeting his specifications had been more difficult to find than he’d expected, but after detouring off one interstate onto another that headed south, he’d stumbled across Danton, a southern Kansas town of about five thousand, which provided enough retail businesses and services to satisfy its residents. Healthcare was limited to a doctor and a ten-bed hospital that was equipped to deal with emergencies and provide nursing care for anyone needing round-the-clock attention they couldn’t receive at home. Thanks to a conversation with the loose-lipped Lew, who’d obviously found the doctor’s parking permit Ethan had yanked off the rearview mirror and shoved under the driver’s seat, he’d hunted down the owner of this cabin, signed a lease and moved in for the summer.
He’d taken to his new surroundings without any problem, and knew he’d made the right choice to leave his old life. After nearly six months of drifting, he didn’t miss the phones ringing, his pager buzzing, the monitors beeping, the gentle whoosh of respirators, or babies that fit in the palm of his hand. More importantly, he didn’t miss the worry, the tears, or the sense of failure.
Allowing each minute, each hour, to pass by quietly and without plan or purpose seemed therapeutic, although he didn’t expect to be healed of what ailed him.
How did one recover from disillusionment, especially when you were disillusioned with yourself?
I need your help.
She might need help, but she didn’t need his, he thought sourly. He was the last doctor she’d want treating her precious patients, although she didn’t know that. Better for her to think he was a selfish bastard, that he had no heart, than for her to know the truth.
Actually, knowing she hung at the end of her emotional rope bothered him more than he cared to admit—mainly because he’d been there, done that. If only she’d stayed away; if only Lew hadn’t discovered Ethan was a doctor; if only he had chosen today to pack a lunch and explore the acres and acres surrounding the cabin. Then he could have remained in ignorant isolation.
But she hadn’t left him in peace. In a few short minutes she’d done what his colleagues in St. Louis hadn’t been able to accomplish in months.
She’d made him feel guilty.
Feeling guilty was a step up from feeling like a failure, which was how he’d felt in the weeks before he left St. Louis. Like Dr. Harris, his colleagues had tried to convince him to reconsider, but he’d been adamant about pulling up stakes and they’d finally accepted his decision. A week later they’d found a replacement, who’d stepped into his shoes without the smallest hiccup, and life went on.
It would for Ivy Harris, too. Besides, she’d seemed resourceful enough to locate someone to do what he could not.
But what if she didn’t?
She’d manage. Managing was what doctors did best, especially under the most difficult of circumstances.
You don’t have any children, do you, Dr. Locke?
Ivy’s voice echoed in his head and he steeled himself against the pain. She’d definitely played hardball with her remark, but he hadn’t been inclined to explain how every one of his tiny, tiny patients had been “his” kid. And he certainly hadn’t been about to admit that he’d fathered one of his own, because it would have prompted an entirely new set of questions; questions that would only lead to him reliving what still lay so heavily on his heart.
In spite of his expertise, in spite of the advances in modern medicine, he hadn’t been able to save his own son.
“How long has Robbie had this patch on his arm?” she asked Molly Owens.
Molly shrugged. “Several weeks. At first I thought it was just part of his allergies, so I used an over-the-counter cortisone cream. But the area is getting larger, so I thought it was time to try something else.” The thirty-year-old grinned. “Unless you’re going to tell me I haven’t given the cream enough time to work?”
The lesion was about the size of a silver dollar, red and flat, and the center was scaly looking. A textbook picture if she ever saw one.
“Not a chance,” Ivy said with a smile. “Your cream won’t help. Robbie has ringworm. It’s a fungus infection and requires special medication.”
“Ringworm?” Molly was aghast.
