least not until today.”
“Only because I was on rotation that night and assisted on his initial surgery.” The trauma team had airlifted Brady from the arena and he’d coded once while en route. “I’m still amazed he made it through the first twenty-four hours, let alone is strong enough for release to a rehabilitation facility.” Sheila was glad she’d been wrong. Seeing a patient leave the hospital in remarkably better condition than when they arrived was its own reward.
“And you get to go with him.” Marissa playfully elbowed her.
“I’m hardly going with him. The hippotherapy center is part of my job.” The orthopedic surgeon residency program provided services free of charge to the Dance of Hope Hippotherapy Center located fifteen minutes away in Ramblewood, Texas. The facility, which used horses’ movements to treat a number of conditions, had been a huge incentive when Sheila interviewed for the residency program four years earlier. “Double-check the OR schedule for me and see if there’ve been any changes. I’m scheduled for an arthroscopic rotator-cuff repair this morning.”
“It doesn’t hurt that he’s extremely good-looking.” Marissa logged into the hospital’s electronic medical records system. “You’re still set for nine o’clock.”
Sheila checked her watch. It was six in the morning and she’d already put in two hours. “I didn’t notice his looks.” That wasn’t entirely true. She’d noticed Brady’s handsome features almost immediately. His face was one of the few body parts he hadn’t injured. The same couldn’t be said for his head. After registering only a seven out of fifteen on the Glasgow Coma Scale due to an epidural hematoma, his survival outlook had been grim. It had taken a dozen surgeries to save his life and get him to the point where he could be released to Dance of Hope.
“Lindstrom, I need an assist on an ACL reconstruction.” Dr. Mangone, their attending physician, approached. “It’s your call.”
“I’m certain Dr. Sloane here is up for it. I have a rotator cuff this morning.” Sheila noticed Marissa’s subtle happy dance out of the corner of her eye. Trying not to smile, she focused her attention on Dr. Mangone. “I’m discharging Brady Sawyer this morning.”
“Ah, our resident cowboy. I’ll be glad to see him go. In my thirty-six years of practice, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more—how should I put this—determined patient. I just hope he doesn’t overdo it at Dance of Hope. I’m not a hundred percent comfortable with his therapy taking place on the back of a horse. Especially when he’s so fixated on competing again.”
“I’ve already discussed his condition with the staff,” Sheila said. “But I’ll be sure to reiterate his limitations...and his determination, as you so graciously put it. Not that I think it will stop him.” Brady Sawyer had developed a bit of a reputation around Grace General during his stay. The nurses commonly referred to him as Superman. From the day he awoke from his two-week coma, he’d vowed to get back in the ring and unfailingly pushed himself. Marissa was right—he was one stubborn cowboy.
“You see to it that he doesn’t come back here. I’ve operated on him enough,” Dr. Mangone said. “Sloane, scrub in.”
Sheila proceeded down the hallway toward Brady’s room. It was early, but most patients were already awake since the nurses had begun their rounds. Although she was dying for a caffeine fix, she decided to hold off until after she told him the good news. She hated talking to patients with coffee still lingering on her breath. She hesitated at his door, smoothing the front of her scrubs and inwardly laughed. Despite what Marissa had implied, she did not have a soft spot for the cowboy.
While Brady Sawyer was no stranger to her, she doubted he remembered any of their previous meetings during his two-and-a-half-month hospital stay. Dr. Mangone had been his physician until yesterday when he’d handed her the reins. Sheila pushed open the door to Brady’s room and was surprised to see it empty.
She stopped a nurse in the hallway. “Where’s Mr. Sawyer?”
“Probably in the atrium. He likes to go there and watch the sunrise every morning. Would you like me to get him?”
“No, I don’t mind the walk.” Grace General’s atrium was a favorite with visitors and staff. Located in the center of the hospital, it had five-story glass walls facing east and west along with a glass panel ceiling. Lush green trees grew around the center fountain giving it a parklike appearance. The morning light created an ethereal haze over the area and there Brady sat in his wheelchair staring out the window, a slight smile on his cleanly shaven face. The sun peeked over the horizon, casting golden shadows across the parking lot. Dressed in black sweatpants and a black T-shirt, he looked as if he was ready to go for a morning jog despite being restricted to a wheelchair.
“Do you ever take a moment and just watch the sunrise?” He asked without even looking at her. “I never took the time to really notice it until I came here.”
“Normally, I’m on rounds at this time.” Sheila sat down in the chair next to him. “Enjoy the sunrise, Mr. Sawyer because it will be the last one you ever see here.”
Immediately Sheila noticed Brady’s jaw tense. “This is the one moment of enjoyment I have out of my entire day and you’re going to take that away from me?” Brady faced her. His blue-gray eyes met hers with intensity.
“In a sense, yes I am.” Sheila smiled and held out her hand. “I’m Dr. Lindstrom and I’m releasing you today.”
Brady grasped her hand between both of his. His face lit, exposing tiny creases near his temples. “You really mean it? The other day Dr. Mangone said he wasn’t sure how much longer I’d be here.”
Sheila knew she shouldn’t revel in the feel of his touch, but the fact that he still hadn’t let go of her hand made it next to impossible. The strength and vitality he had compared to the night he was brought in bordered on miraculous. This was the first time she’d seen Brady up close outside of the operating room. The morning sun on his short dark hair brought out hints of gold she hadn’t noticed from afar. Marissa was right again. He was extremely good-looking.
“Mr. Sawyer—”
“Please, call me Brady.”
“Okay, Brady.” Sheila eased her hand from his grip. “Dr. Mangone transferred your case to me and I’ll be monitoring your progress at the Dance of Hope Hippotherapy Center. I understand you’re aware of the program and all it entails. It’s still in-house physical therapy—much like the program you’re in here—only utilizing horses. It’s my understanding a social worker has spoken with you about residing in one of their on-site cottages during rehabilitation. They have an opening and are expecting you today. Can I tell them you’ll take it?”
“Absolutely! I live alone and my father’s farmhouse is two stories. Neither place is exactly wheelchair accessible.” Brady rolled his chair backward and forward anxiously. “Not that I’ll be in this thing much longer.”
Sheila clenched her teeth and forced a smile. “Mr. Sawyer—Brady—while Dance of Hope is an amazing facility, we can’t predict what result the therapy will have. I admire your determination, and believe me when I say it goes a long way, but you need to be realistic with your goals.”
Brady’s face lost all amusement. “My goal is to compete again as soon as possible. One accident won’t stop me.”
Sheila rolled her shoulders. She’d heard the nurses talk about Brady’s desire to get back on a
