too. The nursery was ready, she’d scheduled a long maternity leave, and she had never felt more complete in her life.
It was winter, and on her way home from work she drove the busy, slippery northern Virginia route with extra caution. When the truck careened over the median, headed directly for her, there was nowhere to go and nothing she could do.
Hours later she had awakened in the hospital. She remembered touching her stomach waiting for the kick of her baby inside her. She remembered how the anesthesia couldn’t dull the slice of fear and pain. Grasshopper. She must have cried out. The nurse and doctor came to her side, and she heard the fateful words. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hershey. We did everything we could, but we couldn’t save your baby. He was too young and lost too much blood.”
Jill had never felt so empty in her life. She cried like a child. She wanted to run home, to run away from her pain, but she had been too seriously injured, she was told. She had lost too much blood and had almost died, too. There were more than a few moments she’d wished she had died.
Her husband was remote. Jill blamed herself. She suspected her husband blamed her, too. If only she had left five minutes earlier. Or five minutes later. If only.
Jill felt the salty moisture from her eyes stream down her cheeks. She slid her hands down to her flat belly and remembered Grasshopper’s kick. The memory and the pain were different than she’d expected, perhaps sweeter because of the passing of time. Jill took a deep breath. Maybe the anticipation had been worse than the reality.
But fainting? She swiped her cheeks and rolled her eyes. She hadn’t fared well on her first test here in Fort Worth. She smiled wryly thinking, in that case, she had nowhere to go but up.
The following morning Jill took her sound machine and kava tea with her to the hospital. The goal was to surround herself with comfort to encourage creativity and peace.
Trina looked at her, perplexed. “Are you sure you don’t want a honey bun and some good strong coffee? Dr. Logan told me to make sure you get plenty of food today.”
Jill smiled. “Thank you. I already ate cereal.”
“But a midmorning snack—”
“Okay,” she said, sensing surrender would work better than protest. “I’ll eat a honey bun.” Comfort food, she told herself.
Trina sighed in relief. “Good. I don’t want Dr. Logan mad at me. Have you ever seen a doctor with a better backside?”
“I can’t say I’ve noticed his backside,” Jill said wryly, which wasn’t exactly true. She’d been up close and personal with Tyler’s legs and backside when she’d ridden home on his motorcycle.
“Well, it’s pretty darn terrific,” Trina said. “And if he smiles and squints his eyes at the same time, he gets a little dimple right here,” she said, pointing to the hollow of her jaw.
Jill tapped her pencil on her desk. If she heard much more about how wonderful Tyler was, she might be too nauseated to finish the honey bun. In Trina’s eyes, the man was nearly a god, certainly a hero. That thought stopped her, then her mind tumbled through a half-dozen scenarios.
“I’m bugging you, aren’t I?”
“No. You might be helping,” Jill said. “I’m just thinking of ways to get the wing.” She pinched a piece off the honey bun and put it in her mouth. “Maybe…” She closed her eyes, then opened them and smiled at her idea. “I’ve got it. An ad campaign featuring Tyler. We could take pictures in his scrubs and in his white jacket and invite people to donate funds to become members of Tyler’s heart menders’ posse.”
“Bumper stickers,” Trina said.
“Yes. Great,” Jill said. “I’d like you to call the on-site PR coordinator so I can bounce this off her as soon as possible and arrange for a photographer.”
Trina nodded. “And do you want me to call Dr. Logan, too?”
Jill shook her head. “Not until I take care of the groundwork.”
“But what if he won’t do it?” Trina asked. “Some men, even good-looking men are funny about getting their picture taken.”
Jill chuckled. Tyler’s picture wasn’t just going to be taken. If she had her way, the campaign would be plastered across all the local media along with a few billboards. “I don’t think we’ll have a problem with Tyler.” She thought about his Texas-size ego. “He’ll like this.”
“I don’t like this,” Tyler said late that afternoon when Jill told him her plan.
She did a double take. “Why? You’re handsome and appealing. I’m sure the camera will love you as will everyone who sees your pictures. We’ll get the funding for the wing in no time and you’ll probably get a few hundred decent and indecent proposals, too. You’ll be a hometown hero.”
He supposed he could feel flattered that Jill thought he was handsome. He wouldn’t mind her stroking more than his ego. At the moment, however, he felt more like a prize bull being readied for a parade around the stockyard. Uneasy, Tyler shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m not celebrity material.”
She cocked her head to one side, her eyes glinting with a curiosity that grabbed at his gut and shimmied down. “Don’t sell yourself short. Besides, this will be temporary.”
“Five minutes?” he asked dryly.
She smiled gently. “Two weeks intensive, two more weeks of follow-up.”
Tyler stifled an oath. “Don’t you have any other ideas?”
Her face puzzled, Jill stood. “Yes, but this one is the best.”
“This sounds an awful lot like that stupid bachelor calendar the Daughters of Texas put together every year,” he grumbled. “I hear most of the guys don’t wear much more than briefs and oil.”
Jill chuckled, then bit her lip as if she sensed he wasn’t amused. “You’ll be wearing the clothes you wear to work. I must confess oil had not entered my mind.”
He scratched his jaw. “I like my privacy. I’m not cut out to be a poster boy. All I want is to do my surgery, take care of my patients and lead my life the way I want. If I’d wanted a lot of attention, I would’ve chosen the rodeo.”
Jill shook her head. “I would have sworn you would do just about anything for this wing.”
He thought about the wing: how important it was to him and how important it would be to the patients. “I would,” he said slowly, the words torn from him. “If it’s absolutely necessary,” he added. “I’m surprised you want me to do the media. I’m not the most politically correct guy in the corral. Have you talked with Clarence?”
“No, but you don’t need to be totally politically correct. You’re passionate about what you do. With very little coaching, that passion will come through.”
Feeling trapped, Tyler swiped his hand over his face. “My brother will never let me live this down. What in hell made you come up with this idea?”
Her smooth, composed expression faltered, and her cheeks bloomed with color.
