Courting His Favourite Nurse

Truth was, Portland felt more like home these days, she just didn’t have the nerve to tell her mother that.

A shrill siren grew closer, soon coming to an abrupt halt outside the rear of the emergency department.

A frazzled looking nurse appeared at their cubicle with dark smudges beneath her eyes, some form of updo gone askew and a wheelchair. “Ready to go?”

Doors flew open at the back of the E.R. and a group of firemen wheeled in a couple people on gurneys. The nurse shot a quick glance over her shoulder, then pushed the wheelchair inside, back to business as usual. Out of reflex from her old E.R. days Anne tensed, but reminded herself she was a clinic nurse now, and that today she was on the patient side of the hospital equation. It felt so different, and yet her curiosity about the latest intake wouldn’t back down.

Anne took a quick look at her mother’s fingers, pressed the nail beds to make sure the capillaries blanched and pinked right back up. “Can you move your fingers?” she asked over the ruckus.

“Annie, this feels a hundred times better than the last cast.”

“Okay then, we’re ready to go.” Anne gave an assuring smile to the nurse.

She helped her mother into the chair and, after signing the discharge papers, began to roll her toward the exit.

“Keep that cast elevated,” the nurse said as she rushed off toward the new patients on the gurneys. So much for patient discharge education.

Across the department a male figure caught Anne’s eye. He stood, legs planted in a wide stance, arms folded, just apart from the health care workers and firemen team huddle.

“There’s my hero,” her mother called out. Then to Anne she said, “Jack was the first on scene Sunday at the accident.”

Jack? As in Jackson Lightfoot?

In a whiplash response, Anne turned toward the man just as he noticed her. A thousand crazy thoughts barged into her head as she peered at an apparition. What in the world was he doing here? She blinked as the ghost of heartbreak past came into full view.

Except he looked so much better than that high school jock she’d remembered. As if that were possible. He wore the standard fireman navy blue T-shirt and slacks—without the yellow rubber pants and suspenders—shiny work boots and a serious expression. His blond hair was shorter and darker, and all traces of boyish features were gone. It’d been twelve years, and he still set off a spark in her chest—a feeling so foreign, it felt more like anxiety.

“Mrs. Grady, what are you doing back here?” he said to her mother, though his gaze had found and stuck to Anne.

“Annie said I needed a new cast.” She attempted to lift the heavy, hot pink, fiberglass-covered arm.

Anne wished she could disappear behind the nearest cubicle curtain, but Jack stared at her and offered a tentative smile, the kind that only lifted half of his mouth.

“Anne.”

She nodded, fighting off the rush of feelings blindsiding her. Nerves zinged, blood rushed to her face and her legs, perfectly stable and strong a moment before, felt unsteady. She was thirty but had taken the fast track back to high school insecurity. “Hey, Jack. Hi.” At a loss for what to do or say, and trying desperately to act composed, she went for inane. “Are you a fireman?”

“I volunteer a couple times a week.”

His chest had broadened and bulked up since she’d last seen him, and his voice had dropped half a scale. He’d definitely turned into the man that swaggering eighteen-year-old had hinted at.

He bent and hugged her mother. “How’s the old man doing?”

“Fine, thanks to you and your quick thinking. The doctor told Annie, he’ll be home in a couple days, come and see him.”

“I will.” Jack glanced back at Anne, and before she could prepare herself, he hugged her. Granted it was nothing more than one of those awkward pat-the-back deals, but it still rattled her. Even though she’d stiffened up, warm fuzzies hopped along her skin and she wanted to swat at them and yell, stop it, stop it!

Well what do you know, he still uses Irish Spring.

She leaned back and noticed a lingering fluster in his eyes that she assumed mirrored her own, and a warm, welcoming expression on his face. Man, he still had a great smile, except now it had parentheses around it, and his eyes, those fern green eyes she could never forget, had the beginning of fan lines at the corners making him all the more enticing.

No. Stop it right now. We already know how this story plays out, and it has a sucky ending.

“Well, looks like they need some help. It’s good to see you, Anne. Beverly, you take care of yourself. I’ll visit Kieran tomorrow after school.”

“He’ll be glad to see you,” Beverly said.

And he was off to assist the other firemen with the patient transfers from their gurneys to E.R. beds.

She knew he was a teacher at Whispering Oaks, but when had he gotten so chummy with her parents?

Bursts of memories hijacked Anne’s thoughts as she rolled her mother to the car. How after Jack had been her friend first, she’d introduced him to her best friend and lost him. Soon being relegated to the third-wheel buddy role, she’d been forced to watch their budding romance bloom and keep her feelings to herself. And later, how the three of them had gone through the toughest time of their lives together. How he’d become her secret hero, the one she had loved with all her heart … but could never have … unless she betrayed her best friend. The details tangled in a knot between her brows.

“Jack teaches with your father at the high school, you know,” Beverly said, while transferring from wheelchair to car. “English and basic mathematics.”

“Yes, you have mentioned that a time or two, Mom.” How many times had he counted down the days until he’d graduate high school? Now, apparently, he went back on a daily basis.

Beverly went quiet, and Anne understood why. Though Anne had never discussed her heartache with her mother, it would have been impossible for Beverly not to sense the pain back then. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who had caused it. She closed the car door and pushed the wheelchair to a collection center then got into the driver’s seat.

Shortly after Anne had left Whispering Oaks behind, Jack had, too. Occasionally he’d send a postcard from somewhere around the world, a weak attempt at staying in touch. If he’d felt the way he’d sworn he did—you’re the one, Anne—why hadn’t he ever come after her? Eventually, the cards quit coming altogether.

How many times would she drive herself crazy trying to figure it all out? She started the engine, eager to get away from the hospital with the huge yellow fire rescue vehicle parked in front.

Jackson Lightfoot had been the reason she’d left home, and was the last person on earth she wanted to see now that she was back.

The next afternoon at school, dubbed Sleepless Wednesdays by his students thanks to his Tuesday night volunteer status, Jack nodded off. His chin rebounded off his chest and snapped his head against the chair. The students’ tittering dashed any hope that no one had noticed.

“Okay, anyone ready to read their essay out loud?”

That brought the sudden and needed silence he’d hoped for. Maybe he should have refilled his Best Teacher in the World mug with more coffee after lunch.

As everyone went back to work, he tapped the eraser end of a pencil on his desk and thought about Anne. He couldn’t help himself. Heck, a toddler could have pushed him over using a pinky finger when he’d first seen her last night.

She’d challenged him to be better from the very first time she’d met him, and in the E.R., he could still see the summons there in her eyes. Those brown eyes the exact shade of her shoulder-length hair. He was glad she hadn’t fiddled with the color like so many women did these days. He’d always liked the natural sheen and what he could only describe as the nutmeg color. She’d matured … in a good way. In high school she’d been a little too bony for his type. Now she’d added a few pounds and had smoothed out all the angles.

He laughed inwardly. Her bod wasn’t what had always attracted him to her. It was her straightforward approach. Her honesty. He scrubbed his face and remembered the day she’d first spoken to him at track practice in eleventh grade.

“You’re full of it, Lightfoot,” she’d said. “You’ve been letting everyone think you’re part Native American, but you’re name’s either English or German. I looked it up.”

No girl had ever challenged him before. He’d swaggered up to her and glared right into her face. From her unwavering stare, he knew she’d seen through his bravado.

Though Lightfoot made a great name for Whispering Oaks’ top league hurdler, and having people think he had Native American ancestors made it even cooler, he was as white bread as they came, and she’d called him out on the prevarication.

“I’ll pay you ten bucks to keep that to yourself.”

“I don’t take bribes, but I’m good with secrets.”

Boy was she ever good with secrets. A week to the day before Brianna, his girlfriend and Anne’s best friend, had been diagnosed with leukemia, he’d let slip a huge secret to Anne—how he felt about her. And to make matters worse, he’d kissed her. They’d been horsing around after watching a Star Trek DVD one Saturday night at her house. Bri hadn’t been feeling well and he’d taken her home early. Looking back he should have realized Bri hadn’t been feeling well for a few weeks, but he’d been oblivious, even looked forward to spending some time alone with Anne. What a jerk he’d been.