games.
“I’m working on a chart, Renae. Who is it? Do they need medical attention?”
“No. He—looks pretty healthy to me.” There was a pause on the phone, and when Renae’s voice returned, Ileana could barely hear her whisper. “Get down here now, Doc. If you don’t, I’m not sure I can keep him out of Ms. Cantrell’s room!”
“I’ll be right there.”
Dropping the phone back in its cradle, Ileana grabbed a white lab coat from the back of her chair and left the little cubicle she used as an office while making her hospital rounds.
From the internal medicine wing of the building, Ileana had to walk down a long, wide corridor, then make a left turn and walk half that distance again to reach the nurse’s station.
Along the way, she met several of the more mobile patients walking the hallway. They all spoke to her, and she gave each one an encouraging smile and a thumbs-up on their progress. One of the perks of working in a smaller town, she thought, was knowing most everyone who walked through the hospital doors.
But the moment Ileana turned the corner and peered toward the nurse’s station, she definitely didn’t recognize the tall man standing at the counter. Even though it was exceptionally cold outside, he was without a jacket, making it possible for her to see that he was dressed all in blue denim. A chocolate-brown cowboy hat was slanted low over his forehead and covered hair a shade darker than the felt. And in spite of the lengthy distance, she could see he was a walking mass of lean, hard muscle.
He must have heard the hurried click of her heels on the shiny tile, because he suddenly turned in her direction, and for one brief moment, Ileana felt her breath catch, her heart jump. His features were chiseled perfection, his skin burned brown by the sun. Authority was stamped all over him, and she knew, without being told, that he was a stranger to Ruidoso. There was a subtle edginess about him that was different from the locals.
Instinctively, Ileana’s steps slowed as she tried to regain her composure, while to her left, Renae swiftly walked from behind the counter to intercept her.
“Dr. Sanders, this is Mr. McCleod. He’s traveled all the way from Texas to see Ms. Cantrell.”
His dark brown eyes were sliding over Ileana with a lazy interest that left her uncomfortably hot beneath her lab coat; yet she did her best to appear cool and collected as she stepped up to the man and thrust out her hand.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. McCleod,” she said with a faint smile.
His big hand closed around hers, and Ileana was acutely aware of warm, calloused skin and firm pressure from his fingers.
“Call me Mac,” he said. “Are you Ms. Cantrell’s attending physician?”
The easy smile on his face was a tad sexy and a whole lot charming. As Ileana drew in a deep breath, she realized she’d never met this man. Because he was clearly unforgettable.
Inclining her head, she hoped she didn’t look as awed as she felt. Which was really a quite ridiculous reaction on her part. She’d lived on the Bar M Ranch all her life. She’d been around rugged men throughout her thirty-eight years, and some of them had been darn good-looking with plenty of rough sex appeal. Yet none of them had grabbed her attention like this one. This was one striking cowboy.
“Yes, I’m Ms. Cantrell’s doctor. Are you a friend of hers?”
Beneath his dark tan, she watched a hint of red color work its way up his throat and over his face. His embarrassed reaction wasn’t the norm, but Ileana had certainly contended with worse. Everyone reacted differently when a friend or loved one became ill. Some got downright angry, quick to blame the doctor, even God, for the misfortune. She’d learned to take it all in stride.
The aim of his brown gaze landed somewhere near her feet rather than on her face, making her curiosity about the man go up another notch.
“Uh—not exactly,” he said.
His face lifted, and Ileana couldn’t help but notice the faint, challenging thrust of his chin, the resolution in his eyes. She shivered inwardly. For all his smooth manners, she instinctively sensed Mac McCleod had a very tough side to him.
“Nurse Walker tells me you’re not allowing Ms. Cantrell to have visitors right now.”
“That’s right,” she said, then feeling she needed to keep their conversation private, Ileana touched a hand to his arm and gestured to a waiting area several feet away from the nurse’s station. “Why don’t we step over here, and I’ll explain.”
He didn’t say anything as he followed her over to a small grouping of armchairs and couches covered in green and red fabric, but once they stood facing each other, he didn’t wait for her to speak.
“Look, Dr. Sanders, I’ve traveled a considerable distance to see Ms. Cantrell. At the Chaparral Ranch, I was told by a maid who answered the door that she was hospitalized, so I drove straight here. All I’m asking is a few short minutes with the woman. Surely that couldn’t hurt,” he added with a persuasive little smile.
Even though he seemed pleasant enough, there was something about the way he said “the woman” that left Ileana uneasy. Besides sounding a bit disrespectful, there was no warmth, no fondness inflected in the words. Had he and Frankie had a falling-out over something? Did he actually know her?
“I’m very sorry, Mr. McCleod. Perhaps you should have called before you made the long drive. Ms. Cantrell isn’t up for visits. Presently, her condition is very fragile. The only people I’m allowing into her room are her son, daughter and father-in-law.”
For one brief moment his jaw hardened, but just as quickly a smile transformed his face, and Ileana felt certain he was deliberately trying to charm her into letting him enter Frankie’s room. The idea was very odd and even more worrisome.
“What about her husband?” he asked.
This brought Ileana’s brows up. Clearly he wasn’t a close acquaintance of Frankie’s. Otherwise, he would have known that Lewis, her husband, had passed away a little more than a year ago.
“I’m sorry if you didn’t know. Ms. Cantrell is a widow now. Lewis died about a year ago.”
His expression suddenly turned uncomfortable, and Ileana was relieved to see that the man did have a streak of compassion in him.
“Uh—sorry. No, I didn’t know.”
“Have you spoken with Quint or Alexa, Ms. Cantrell’s children? Perhaps they can help you,” she said.
Quint and Alexa. Mac mulled the two names over in his mind. If Frankie Cantrell was Mac’s missing mother, and from every indication it appeared that she was, that would make Quint and Alexa his half siblings. The idea knocked him for a loop. For some reason all these years, he’d never considered the idea of Frankie having more children. A stupid, infantile idea to cling to, he supposed. But if she’d not wanted to be a mother to Mac and Ripp, why would she have had more children?
“No. I’ve not spoken to either of them,” he told her. “I—I’m not sure there were any family members at home when I visited the ranch.”
“Well, both of Frankie’s children have their
