Race To The Altar

“Which one?”

“Both, I guess.”

From what she understood, a little girl had dashed outside and into the street, chasing after a cat that ran away. And her brother went after her on his bicycle. “You didn’t hit either of them. The girl is fine, and her brother fell off his bike. He may have broken his wrist, but nothing serious.”

As Molly continued pushing the gurney toward the elevator that would take them to ICU, one of the wheels froze then wobbled.

“Watch it,” he said. “One accident tonight is all I can handle.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be very careful.” And she wasn’t just talking about transporting him through the hospital corridors. Whether she was willing to admit it or not, she found herself drawn to the race car driver whose lifestyle should be a great big turn-off to a woman who didn’t like to take any unnecessary risks. A patient who’d been battered in an automobile wreck and whose cuts and bruises ought to make him completely unattractive.

So what was with the unexpected feminine interest in Chase Mayfield, a man sure to make her life miserable?

Chapter Two

Chase had no idea what time he’d been transported from the ICU to a room on the third floor, but since the sun was pouring through his window, damn near blinding him, he knew it was well after dawn.

He’d had to ask the tall, spindly orderly who’d brought him here to pull the blinds so his head wouldn’t explode.

As soon as the room had been darkened and Chase could see out of his good eye, he searched for the blonde nurse who’d undressed him last night. If she’d worn a name tag, he hadn’t noticed, but he suspected he would recognize her if he saw her again—no matter how lousy his vision was.

As he looked around, he spotted a TV, a tray table and a monitor of some kind, but Blondie was nowhere in sight. Instead, another, rather nondescript nurse came to check on him, pour him water and point out the TV remote and the call button, as if he gave a squat about all that now.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

He didn’t suspect a new head was possible. “No, I’m okay.”

Moments later he dozed off again, only to be awakened by a male nurse who was the size of a Dallas Cowboys linebacker.

Or had there been two of them merging into one?

“Raymond?” one or both of them asked.

“Yeah, that’s me.” Chase blinked and looked again. Okay, it was just one guy, and maybe he wasn’t all that big after all.

“I’ve come to get some blood, Raymond.”

Maybe it was the man’s quest for blood, but Chase could have sworn he’d detected a Bela Lugosi accent and wondered if he ought to have someone bring him some garlic.

No, it had to be the Demerol they’d given him. If Bela started flying through his room or hanging upside down from the ceiling, he’d have to refuse any more shots.

Chase lifted his arm about an inch off the bed, then let it drop to the mattress. “I’d help, but my body isn’t at a hundred percent.”

“No problem.” Bela placed a blue plastic tote box full of lab paraphernalia on the tray table. Next he took a green band of rubber, wrapped it around the top of Chase’s arm and twisted until it pinched. Then he jabbed and poked at a vein a couple of times until he finally struck blood. “There. That wasn’t too bad, was it?”

“Bad enough.” Chase’s head hurt like hell, and every bone in his body felt as though it had been run over by a steamroller. A needle stabbing into his arm just added insult to injury.

If he’d been at all able, he would have busted out of here and gone home to Houston, but as it was he had about as much fight left in him as a baby bunny.

After Bela left, a wave of nausea swept through him, turning his stomach inside out. He wondered if he ought to ring for the nurse. Instead, he decided to wait it out, knowing that he was having a hard time staying awake anyway.

He’d no more than faded off again when someone came in with a tray of food and announced it was lunchtime. It was a teenage girl with her brown hair in a ponytail and wearing a pink-and-white-striped dress. She took the plastic domed lid off a plate, sending a smorgasbord of fumes straight to his nostrils.

“Oh, God,” he said.

“Do you need some help?”

“Yeah. Take it away. Just looking at it makes me feel like I’m going to puke.”

“I’ll tell your nurse. Maybe they can give you something for that.”

Whatever.

The next time Chase heard footsteps he cracked open an eye, the one that actually worked, and caught sight of the pretty blonde nurse who’d worked on him last night.

“Chase?” she asked.

“Call me Raymond. And if you told me your name, I’ve forgotten.”

“I’m Molly, and I’ll be your nurse today. How are you feeling?”

He turned his head toward the lull of her voice, only to feel a sharp pull in his neck. “Like hell. But maybe I’ll recover now that you’re back. That other nurse—Bela or whatever his name is—has it in for me.”

“His name is Eric, and he’s a lab tech.” She neared his bed, took his wrist in her fingers and felt for a pulse. “What makes you think he doesn’t like you?”

“He kept stabbing me with a dull needle.”

“Sometimes the veins are hard to find.”

Chase grimaced, then tried to roll to his side and reach for the bed rail. “Ow. Damn, that hurts.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m going to need help getting to the bathroom.”

“I don’t think Dr. Nielson wants you up yet. I’ll get you a bedpan.”

“Don’t bother. I’d rather hold it until my eyes turn yellow than use one of those again.” Especially with Nurse Molly holding it.

She smiled, and her eyes—green or blue? It was hard to tell with impaired vision—glimmered. “We can try a catheter.”

“Not if you want to live to tell about it.”

She laughed, a melodious lilt that at any other time might have charmed his socks off. But now? Well, the pain and the whole damn situation had done a number on his sense of humor. But he had to admit that the blonde Florence Nightingale beat the heck out of Bela or the candy striper.

“I’ll call one of the male nurses or an orderly to come and help,” she said.

He’d never had what they call a shy bladder, but something told him that might even be worse.