The Baby Doctor's Bride

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. “Are you sure?”

“I could do a skin scraping for fungus and send it to the lab, if you’d like, but I’m certain about my diagnosis.”

“Oh, I’m not questioning you,” Molly was quick to reply. “It’s just that I thought it was transmitted from animals, and we don’t have a dog or a cat.”

“That’s often the case,” Ivy agreed, “but sometimes a child will pick up the fungus from the soil.”

Molly exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “He does love to play in the dirt with his trucks,” she said as she fingercombed the little boy’s sandy-colored hair.

“See my truck?” Robbie held the metal vehicle under Ivy’s nose. “It goes fast. Vroooom, vroooom.”

“I see,” Ivy told him. “I’ll bet you’re an excellent driver.”

Focused on his toy, and making the appropriate engine noises, Robbie jumped off his mom’s lap and began pushing it along the linoleum.

“So what do I do?” Molly asked. “Keep him out of the dirt?”

“You can try, but I suspect you’ll fight a losing battle.”

“To put it mildly.”

Ivy wrote on her prescription pad. “Here’s a script for an anti-fungal cream. Apply it to his arm twice daily.”

“For how long?”

“Until the patch disappears, which will take a few weeks.”

“That’s it?”

“You should also sterilize his towels, his bedding, and any clothes that come in contact with the area. You don’t want this to spread to anyone else in your family.”

“OK. Not a problem.”

“If you notice the lesion becomes redder, or oozes pus, come back. Same for if it hasn’t disappeared in three or four weeks. And if by some chance you notice another area developing, start treating it immediately with the cream.”

“Will do. Thanks so much, Doctor.”

Ivy smiled as she escorted Molly to the door of the exam room. “You’re welcome.”

Heather waited outside the cubicle. “You aren’t going to believe this—”

“After today, I can believe anything,” Ivy said dryly. “How many more patients are waiting?”

“None.” The woman grinned. “Robbie was the last one.”

Ivy glanced at the clock. 6:15 p.m. “You’re right. I don’t believe it. I thought we’d be here until seven at least.”

“Same here. I guess we were lucky. And, speaking of lucky, you have a visitor.”

It was too late in the evening for a drug rep to drop in and peddle his wares. “Who is it?”

“I have no idea. He wouldn’t leave his name, but he’s quite a hunk if you ask me.”

“Then it’s no one you know?”

“Nope, which is a shame. He’s the sort who would have women flocking around him if he’d bother to smile. He’s the dark, brooding Heathcliffe type.”

Instantly a picture of Ethan Locke flashed into Ivy’s head, but she dismissed the idea. He wouldn’t have any reason to stop by her office. No doubt he’d rather walk barefoot through a Texas sandburr patch than run into her again.