I’m taking you to the E.R. at the Brighton Valley Medical Center.”
She wanted to argue, to downplay the pain, but the whole baby experience was new to her, and she had to admit she was a little worried herself.
But was this something that required a visit to the emergency room?
“We could go upstairs and wait to see if it goes away,” she said.
Shane reached for her waist. “Don’t take another step, Jillian. I’m going to carry you down the stairs and put you in the truck.”
She wanted to object, to say that she could walk, but as Shane scooped her into his arms, as she caught a whiff of his musky scent, she let down her defenses for the first time since the night they’d met and let the cowboy have his way.
Shane drove Jillian straight to the Brighton Valley Medical Center and followed the sign to the emergency room.
“How are you feeling now?” he asked, as he pulled into a parking space.
“I’m okay.” She glanced out the window at the white stucco building, then rubbed her belly. “It’s feeling a little better now. It’s probably nothing.”
“Maybe, but it won’t hurt to have you checked out by a doctor.”
After Shane parked, he slid out from behind the wheel, circled the pickup and opened Jillian’s door. Then he took her hand and held it until they entered the E.R. and Jillian was directed to a triage area, where a nurse determined which patients needed to be seen first.
While Jillian explained her pain and the details of her pregnancy, Shane scanned the waiting room, which didn’t appear to be especially busy today, thank goodness.
He couldn’t count the number of times he’d experienced busy E.R.’s in Houston, when he’d brought a perp or a victim in for treatment. And he knew that some patients waited for hours to be seen.
Shane figured it wouldn’t hurt to remind the nurse what was at stake, what could go wrong. “Under the circumstances, since she’s pregnant and might be in premature labor, she’ll see a doctor right away, won’t she?”
“No,” the triage nurse said. “We’ll be sending her up to the obstetrical floor. They’re better equipped to examine and treat her up there. Just give me a minute or two, and we’ll have an orderly take her upstairs in a wheelchair.”
Shane gave Jillian’s hand a gentle squeeze, hoping she felt as relieved as he did at the news.
“In fact,” the nurse added, “why don’t you take a seat in the waiting room for a few minutes? It won’t be long.”
After a clerk from the reception desk took Jillian’s insurance information, they released her to find a chair with the others who waited with hacking coughs, stomachaches and visible wounds.
It seemed like ages, but was probably only a matter of minutes, before a tall, slender nurse with black spiky hair called Jillian’s name. Five minutes later, after an elevator ride and a trip down several corridors, they arrived in the obstetrical unit, where Jillian was assigned to an exam room. After her vitals were taken, she was given a gown and told to undress.
Thinking she would probably want some privacy, Shane said, “I’ll wait outside.”
He’d hoped she might stop him, which would mean that their friendship—or whatever their relationship was—had made a turn of some kind, growing stronger and more intimate than before. Yet she let him leave.
The nurse followed him out, but they didn’t have to wait long. Once Jillian had changed out of her street clothes, he and the nurse returned to the room.
When the two of them were left alone, he asked, “So how are you feeling now?”
“Better. In fact, I’m afraid I might have made a bigger deal out of those pains than I should have.”
“Don’t worry about that. This is just a precaution.”
Moments later, they were introduced to Dr. Selena Ramirez, the resident obstetrician, an attractive woman of average height. She was young—probably only in her late twenties or early thirties, with expressive green eyes and a reassuring smile.
After asking Jillian about the pain she’d had, the doctor had her lie back on the table while she pressed on her stomach to feel the size of her uterus. Then she reached for a pair of gloves, explaining that she would need to give her an internal exam.
“I’ll be right outside,” Shane said, as he stepped into the hall again, leaned against the wall and waited next to the door.
Being on an obstetrical floor—the smell, the sound of a newborn’s cry, the happy smiles of pregnant women or new mothers walking the halls—caused memories of Marcia’s pregnancy to surface.
Shane had been thrilled to learn he was going to be a father. He’d always adored his many nieces and nephews, and had been glad to know that his child would soon be a part of the happy-go-lucky Hollister brood.
He’d also hoped and prayed that having a baby would make his wife happy and more content to stay married. But by the time Joey had taken his first steps, Marcia again asked for a divorce. At that point, Shane had finally been ready to throw in the marital towel, too. The only thing that had torn him up was the fact he wouldn’t see his son on a daily basis.
To make matters worse, Marcia met another man and moved to Arizona with him, taking their son with her.
Of course, Shane had objected, but she’d argued that a baby needed its mother, and that he had no right to stop her from being happy. So he’d reluctantly let her go and poured himself into his work, seeing Joey as often as he could.
“Code Blue—Neonatal Nursery.”
The overhead announcement of an emergency affecting one of the newborns sent a chill through Shane, along with an unexpected wave of fresh grief.
After Joey’s death, as one day stretched into the next, the only thing that had kept him going had been his family and his job. Then, one day, his temper and his grief had gotten the best of him.
He and Sylvia Dominguez, his partner, had been hunting day and night for Lyle Bailey, a suspected child kidnapper who’d killed his latest victim. Knowing the details of the crime had served to make Shane focus on nothing else but prohibiting the perp from hurting another child, destroying another family.
Following a lead, he and his partner had found him holed up in a woodshed behind a house, and when Lyle had tried to run, Shane had tackled him to the ground. He could have held him there, locking on a pair of handcuffs, but for some reason, Shane had snapped and hit the guy a couple of times, something he’d never done before.
It had been the first—and only—time he’d ever felt so out of control.
Bailey’s attorney had filed police brutality charges against the department, and Shane was suspended from duty with pay. Internal Affairs finally let him off with a
