Race To The Altar

“How long have I been in this room?” he asked. “It feels like a week.”

Molly looked at her wristwatch, a no-nonsense type with a leather band. “About forty-five minutes.”

She walked to a whiteboard on the wall, pulled out a black marker and wrote her first name, followed by a phone number. “This is my pager number. The call button will bring anyone at the nurses’ desk. But if you need me, give me a call, and I’ll come as soon as I can.”

That seemed easy enough.

“I know that you wanted to ‘fly under the radar,’” she said, “but are you sure there isn’t someone we should tell that you’re here? Parents, sister, girlfriend, neighbor?”

“Not unless I’m dying.”

“No pets at the house that need to be fed?” she asked.

“Nope.” He turned his head toward her, even though it hurt his neck to do so. “Are you just a soft-hearted nurse? Or are you trying to ask in a subtle way if I’m attached?”

“Actually, you’re not all that attractive right now. And any sign of personality or charm is nonexistent. So, no, I wasn’t quizzing you for personal reasons.”

“Too bad.” He tossed her a painfully crooked grin, sorry that he wasn’t at his best and wondering what she saw when she looked at him.

Molly studied her battered patient, trying to imagine the photo on the ID she’d seen last night—dark, curly hair that hadn’t been matted from bed rest, expressive blue eyes that actually opened and blinked.

If she knew what was good for her, she’d be a lot more focused on what he looked like now. A nurse had no business being attracted to her patient. And Molly, especially, didn’t need to be intrigued by a race car driver who’d probably had more than his share of women.

Yet she couldn’t help getting involved in a little flirtatious banter. “So what’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?”

“Are you trying to hit on me?” There was the hint of a grin on his face.

Molly laughed. “Sorry. I’m not into the footloose, reckless type. I was just trying to make conversation.”

“Too bad,” he said. “It would be nice to have my own private duty nurse, especially a pretty blonde.”

“Something tells me, with your occupation, you probably ought to have your own mobile medical unit.”

“Actually, I’m a very good driver.”

She crossed her arms, a smile stealing across her face. “Those lumps and cuts and bruises suggest otherwise.”

“It could have been worse.”

A lot worse. He could have died—or one of the children could have.

As though reading her thoughts, he asked, “So how’s that kid doing? The one who was riding the bike?”

“I’m sure he’s okay.”

“Did he have to stay in the hospital?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Can you find out for me? I need to know.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He obviously cared about the kid. After all, he’d avoided the children and had chosen to slam into the semi instead. And his follow-up interest in the boy was touching.

She couldn’t help thinking of him as a hero, the reckless and rebellious sort, like Han Solo in the first set of Star Wars movies.

So what made this guy tick?

She walked around the bed and opened the blinds, only to get an immediate complaint.

“Hey, what are you doing? Trying to kill me? The glare hurts my head.”

“Sorry.”

“They were closed for a reason.”

She twisted the control rod, darkening the room again. “Do you need something for pain? I’ll check the chart, and if it’s time for more, I’ll bring it in.”

“I don’t want whatever they’ve been shooting into my IV. It’s messing with my mind. I hear people talking around my bed, but when I look, there’s no one there. So I’d rather suck it up.”

A tough guy, she thought, rebellious and surly, but with a tender heart. “There’s other medication we can give you that isn’t as strong. So there’s no need for you to suffer.”

“Right now I’d feel better if I could just sleep it off.”

With the extent of his injuries and the seriousness of the concussion, she didn’t think he’d wake up feeling any better. “All right, I’ll leave you alone for a while so you can go back to sleep. I’ll come in to check on you later.”

She glanced at his monitor, noting the numbers were within normal range, and checked his IV drip. Everything was as it should be, so she headed for the door. But before leaving his room, she took one last look at her patient.

And for the second time in minutes, she wondered who the real Chase Mayfield was.

Shaking off her curiosity, she stepped out the door and returned to the third-floor nurses’ desk, where Dr. Nielson sat, jotting down notes in a patient’s chart.

Just last year, when Betsy took over Doc Graham’s practice in Brighton Valley, Molly had been the first nurse she’d hired. They’d worked together only one day before the two became friends.

“How’s Mr. Mayfield doing?” Betsy asked.

“He’s complaining about the effects of the Demerol. Can we switch him to something else?”

“Sure, if that’s what he wants. I’ll write up an order for some Vicodin.”

“By the way,” Molly said, “he was wondering about the boy’s condition. I didn’t stick around the E.R. last night to find out, but I suspected that he’d been treated and released.”

“Tommy Haines? Yes, he broke his wrist and knocked the growth plate out of whack, so I called in Dr. Jessup from orthopedics.”

“Other than that, I take it there weren’t any other complications and he went home?”

“No, that was it.” Betsy closed the chart she’d been working on and turned to Molly. “No other physical complications.”