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Race To The Altar
Judy Duarte
When race car driver Chase Mayfield found himself recovering from a car accident at our small-town hospital, the last thing he expected was to fall for the local Florence Nightingale.Who would have thought demure nurse Molly Edwards–the complete opposite of a man who lives on the edge–could lose her heart to a famous playboy? But after cautious Molly succumbed to a single night of passion, both she and Chase crashed headlong into a life-changing surprise: she's pregnant!Can Chase convince his favorite nurse that he's a risk well worth taking–for her and their baby? This reporter bets that Chase will soon be carrying his new bride over the finish line!
Surely she wasn’t pregnant.
Unable to help herself, Molly relived each stroke, each caress, each heated kiss until she missed Chase so badly she wanted to tell him she’d been wrong.
But she knew better than that.
With each second that silently tick-tocked through the room, time stretched and strained like a frayed rubber band, tighter and tighter until it was ready to snap.
Finally, a little pink dot formed, mocking every attempt Molly had made to convince herself she hadn’t conceived. She blinked her eyes a couple of times, hoping to clear her vision, hoping to see that the result screen had remained blank.
But that bright pink spot wasn’t going anywhere.
Molly sat on the commode for the longest time, peering at the testing apparatus and hoping for a different outcome until she was forced to accept the truth.
She was pregnant—with Chase Mayfield’s baby.
Dear Reader,
Summer is a perfect time to read. With all the books available to you, I’m glad you chose Race to the Altar, the first story in my BRIGHTON VALLEY MEDICAL CENTER series.
Those who enjoyed reading THE TEXAS HOMECOMING books will get a chance to return to Brighton Valley and experience a medical setting this time around. But don’t worry. You’ll meet a few cowboys and ranchers, too!
I love a good western—whether it’s a book, a movie or a song—and that’s why many of my romances have a Texas setting. So grab a glass of sweet tea—or maybe a sarsaparilla—and escape to Brighton Valley for a guaranteed happy ending.
When you finish Race to the Altar, be sure to visit my Web site, www.JudyDuarte.com, and let me know what you thought of the story and the setting. I’d love to hear from you.
Wishing you romance,
Judy Duarte
Race To The Altar
Judy Duarte
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
JUDY DUARTE
always knew there was a book inside her, but since English was her least favorite subject in school, she never considered herself a writer. An avid reader who enjoyed a happy ending, Judy couldn’t shake the dream of creating a book of her own.
Her dream became a reality in March of 2002, when Silhouette Special Edition released her first book, Cowboy Courage. Since then, her stories have touched the hearts of readers around the world. In July of 2005, Judy won the prestigious Readers’ Choice Award for The Rich Man’s Son.
You can write to Judy c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10237. You can also contact her at JudyDuarte@sbcglobal.net, or through her Web site, www.judyduarte.com.
To the members
of the San Diego chapter of Romance Writers of America
for your friendship and support over the years,
as well as the wealth of knowledge I’ve gleaned
from your awesome workshops. You rock.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
Chapter One
Chase Mayfield left his sponsors in the den of the sprawling ranch house and headed for the front door, his temper just barely under control.
What the hell had that been? Some sort of intervention?
When he’d been summoned to the gentleman’s ranch owned by Texas oilman Gerald Barden, he hadn’t given it a second thought. He’d figured the men wanted to discuss the racing schedule, the competition and what they expected from their driver in the upcoming season, so he’d been surprised when they’d laid down the law about how he would conduct himself off the track from now on.
But Chase didn’t like ultimatums—never had, never would.
Outside, the stars flickered overhead, and like the restless spirit that often swept through him, a warm summer breeze stirred up the leaves on the ground.
He wished he could kick that edgy spirit that had been a part of him since he’d been in diapers and had toddled after his older brothers, but he’d never been able to.
After climbing into the classic ’63 Corvette he’d recently restored, Chase turned the ignition and pumped the gas pedal. When the engine responded with a well-tuned roar, he put the transmission into gear and started the long drive back to Houston, hoping to put some distance between him and his sponsors.
Chase had always lived life in the fast lane, both on and off the track. Hell, he didn’t know how to live any other way; he didn’t even want to.
Besides, he’d had his fill of people bossing him around while he was growing up. By the time he hit his teen years, he’d decided not to put up with it anymore.
For that reason alone, he was tempted to flip open his cell phone, call Gerald Barden back at the ranch and tell him and his cronies what they could do with their money. But he figured it was best to let things ride for a while. After all, Chase didn’t have any other burning interests that left him many options.
Of course, settling down wasn’t much of an option, either. Marriage certainly hadn’t tamed the restlessness that plagued him, and neither had racing. Divorce might have ended his marriage, but racing and competition were in his blood.
Once on the open highway, Chase again pondered the ultimatum he’d been given.
“You’re going to have to stay out of trouble and bars,” Gerald had said. “We don’t like the press you’ve been getting, son. If you don’t fly under the media radar, you can kiss our money goodbye.”
He’d wanted to remind Gerald and the others that he’d been racking up points and bringing them the kind of success they’d been hoping for. But over the years he’d gotten to know Gerald better than the man might even know himself—and he’d learned when to push his point and when to keep his mouth shut.
And this had clearly been a keep-your-mouth-shut night.
“Family’s important to us,” Gerald had tossed in for good measure.
It was important to Chase, too, but he doubted if anyone believed him. He hadn’t been back home in ages. But he hadn’t been up for an argument with the men who signed the checks. Not tonight.
About thirty-five minutes into his drive, he noticed a sign that said Now Entering Brighton Valley.
That wasn’t right. Had he made a wrong turn? Where the hell was the county road?
A block ahead, a nearly burned-out neon bulb in a streetlight flickered, limiting his vision. He caught sight of several trash cans sitting curbside.
Chase glanced farther up the road, noting a big rig coming down the opposite side of the street.
Just as he realized he would need to make a U-turn so he could get back on the route to Houston, a small animal—a cat or a dog maybe?—darted out in the street, followed by a larger blur of pink. A child?
Chase had always been ready for the unexpected, especially on the road, but at this time of night he hadn’t expected to see a kid playing outside. He hit the brakes, all the while watching the blonde pixie caught in the high beam of his headlights freeze, her eyes wide, her mouth gaped, her pink nightgown billowing and revealing bare feet.
His first reaction had been to pull to the right, but when another child on a bicycle whizzed into his path, the only choice he had was to turn sharply to the left, hoping to broadside the semi rather than hit it head-on.
He gripped the steering wheel as adrenaline pumped through him and threw his mind into slow-motion mode.
With no air bags, no roll bar and only a fiberglass car body, this crash wasn’t going to be as easy to walk away from as the others had been.
Upon impact, pain exploded in his head, and then everything went black.
Molly Edwards sat at the nurses’ desk in the emergency room at Brighton Valley Medical Center, hoping Karen Wylie would arrive and relieve her soon. Normally, Molly didn’t work in the E.R.—or work the night shift, for that matter—but Karen had called in with some kind of family emergency, saying she’d be a couple of hours late.
Since the new hospital was struggling to stay afloat financially, there’d been a hiring freeze and the staff was stretched to the limit. So here Molly was, covering for Karen and holding down the E.R. fort.
There was one good thing about working in emergency, though. It was usually busy, and time flew by. But so far this evening had been fairly quiet.
Earlier, a couple of cowboys had come in after a friendly card game devolved into a brawl. None of the men had been injured seriously in the fight, but one had suffered chest pains and was now on the second floor, where he was being treated by the resident cardiologist.
A toddler who’d had a febrile seizure was in one of the pediatric beds, but he would be going home soon. Dr. Betsy Bramblett—or rather, Nielson—had tried to assure the worried parents that a sudden spike in temperature could cause convulsions in a small child, and that this particular type of seizure wasn’t as dangerous as it might seem.
Dawn McGregor, the nurse who’d answered the phone moments ago, was sitting to the right of Molly, jotting down notes. When she ended her communication with paramedics en route to the hospital, she got to her feet. “Get ready for another accident victim. A guy driving a sports car collided with a semi truck. The trucker’s fine, just a little shook up. He declined treatment, but the sports car driver has a head injury, lacerations and possible fractures.”
Molly couldn’t help but wince. She hated dealing with the aftermath of a car accident, especially in a triage setting. Twelve years ago, when she was seventeen, she’d lost her parents and her brother in a head-on collision.
After a high school football game, they’d left San Antonio and were headed to Brighton Valley to visit her grandparents. Along the way, a reckless driver had run a red light and careened into the family minivan. Her father had died upon impact, and her mother had been DOA. Jimmy, her younger brother, had clung to life for nearly two days before he died from his injuries, leaving Molly as the only survivor.
She’d been injured, of course, but not seriously. For some inexplicable reason the corner of the backseat where she’d been dozing with her favorite pillow had been spared the brunt of the impact. Most people had called it a miracle, but she tended to see it as a weird twist of fate that had spared her rather than the others.
For the longest time she’d felt guilty—for insisting they leave when they did, for sleeping through it, for practically walking away from it. She’d also been devastated by the loss, but she’d eventually worked through the grief, thanks to the love and support of her grandparents.
Two years later, when Gramps suffered a heart attack, which—thank God—hadn’t been fatal, the hospital experience had had a positive effect on Molly. She’d gained a real appreciation for healthcare professionals during her visits to him, and soon after he was discharged she’d decided to pursue a nursing degree, hoping to be able to help people in pain and to comfort families who were suffering. It gave her a purpose, a reason to be alive.
While she no longer let her own personal tragedy drag her down, she had to admit it was the main reason she didn’t work in the E.R. on a regular basis—too many feelings of dеj? vu.
Molly closed the chart she’d been working on and scanned the room to see if Karen had clocked in yet. She hoped so, because she was eager to go home and get some sleep before returning to the hospital to start her shift at 6:00 a.m. But Karen was nowhere in sight, which meant Molly would be called upon to help with the incoming accident victim.
Oh, well. It was all in a day’s work.
“What’s the victim’s ETA?” Molly asked Dawn.
“Three minutes, maybe less.”
“Thanks. I’ll give Dr. Nielson a heads-up.”
Dawn handed Molly the slip of paper on which she’d written the patient’s vitals, including blood pressure, respiration, pulse rate and other pertinent details.
Molly took note of it all as she headed toward the toddler’s bed. She glanced up in time to see Betsy Nielson draw aside the blue privacy curtain and leave the child’s bedside.
“Doctor,” Molly said, “we have a car accident victim coming in—a male, twenty-nine years old and unconscious. He has lacerations, possible fractures and a head injury. The ETA is approximately two minutes.”
“All right. Only one victim?”
“Yes, the driver of a Corvette. The trucker wasn’t hurt.”
The doctor and nurse made their way to the triage area, and moments later the automatic door swung open. Two EMTs rushed in with the patient on a gurney, and the E.R. staff kicked into high gear.
Molly had been expecting the worst, and she’d been right. The driver of the sports car was still unconscious. His eyes were bruised and swollen, and blood from a laceration over his left brow covered most of his face.
Since Karen would be relieving her soon, she stepped back to allow Dawn to join the doctor, then worked with the paramedics as they recited their findings and their treatment en route.
Dr. Nielson, whom Molly referred to as Betsy when they weren’t working, listened intently while she made a methodical assessment of the man’s injuries.
“Cut off his clothes,” Betsy told Dawn, as the two continued to examine the patient.
When the transfer of information was complete, Molly turned to the E.R. drama unfolding and watched Dr. Nielson work. Even with the blood cleaned from his battered face, it was difficult to imagine what he’d looked like before the collision. Handsome, she suspected. And she couldn’t quell her curiosity about him.
Joe Villa, the ambulance driver, handed Molly a plastic bag holding the man’s wallet. “His ID says his name is Chase Mayfield. I wonder if he’s the race car driver.”
