Mending the Doctor's Heart

“Except that my fiancé was in love with your offer, and not with me.”

“You don’t know that,” her father spouted.

“But I do,” she whispered, closing her eyes against the memory and the humiliation.

Hollis opened his mouth to speak and then stopped. For once he was without a sharp retort.

Sara turned and shot a forced glance toward the sky. “I’m going to change my clothes. I want to get a ride in with Rocky before the sun begins to set.”

She strode into the house, stopping in the cool foyer to take several deep breaths. The tall mirror on the wall caught her reflection and Sara paused, assessing herself. Yes, she had inherited her mother’s features, but was she really her mother’s daughter? Her fingers moved to gently touch the trailing scar that ran along her hairline.

Amanda Elliott was an amazing doctor, loved in the community, and she had been a wonderful wife and mother, as well. She could stand up to Hollis, so why couldn’t Sara?

Her mother wouldn’t have run from Paradise. No, her mother never gave up on her dreams. Sara swallowed, fighting back the unexpected and overwhelming emotion. She knew she was long overdue for finding the courage to fight for those same dreams.

Dropping her briefcase in a chair, she took a deep breath and turned just as Malla came from the kitchen with the portable landline in her hand.

“Sara, are you all right?” Malla asked.

“I will be.”

Malla nodded in sympathy. “The phone. It’s for you,” she said.

“Me? Who even knows I’m home?”

“Ben Rogers?” Malla arched a questioning brow.

“Who?”

“Dr. Ben Rogers. He is a friend of yours?”

“Ben?” Sara paused, surprised. “Yes. We work together. Thanks, Malla.” Sara took the phone and moved toward the living room. “Ben. What can I do for you?”

“Sorry to bother you at home. I didn’t have your cell so I thought I’d take a chance on the ranch number. I found it online.”

“Really, it’s all right. What’s wrong?”

He cleared his throat. “I hate to impose. I mean, it is Friday night and I’m sure you have plans...”

“Yes, but Rocky is used to waiting for me. So what’s up?”

“I need your skillful hands.”

“Pardon me?” She blinked at his words.

“I had a little accident. Left triceps. I can’t reach the area, but it looks like at least half a dozen quick sutures will close the site.”

“Ben, we’ve got a level-four trauma center at the Paradise E.R. Not exactly what you’re used to, but they can handle this. Are you bleeding a lot? Maybe I should call 9-1-1.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” His response was emphatic, cutting off further discussion. “Can you just bring your bag and a suture kit?” He took a deep breath. “Please.”

“I’ll be right over.”

“Thank you.” His sigh of relief was audible. “I’m at 1400 Grand Avenue. About five miles outside of town. Just stay south on Main and turn left at the dilapidated barn, then a right at the mailbox that says Miller. Oh, and don’t wear your heels.”

Taking the carpeted stairs two at a time, Sara grabbed her jeans from the chair she’d tossed them on this afternoon.

Despite the reason he’d called, Sara couldn’t help a small frisson of pleasure that she was the one he called.

Was that a good thing? After all, she did have to work with the man for two months, and noticing that his dark eyes changed from milk chocolate to dark chocolate according to his mood or that his lips twitched attractively when he tried not to laugh or that when he said her name a shiver slid over her skin probably wasn’t what Uncle Henry meant when he said they needed to get to know each other.

Besides, hadn’t she learned anything in two years? If someone seemed too good to be true, they probably were. Ben Rogers would certainly prove to be no exception.

* * *

“Ouch.” Ben grit his teeth as the sharp needle combined with the local anesthetic bit.

“Good grief, that was just the lidocaine,” Sara said as she placed the needle on the table.

“Yeah, well, I’m generally on the other side of the injection. Guess I’ll have to rethink the whole this-isn’t-going-to-hurt spiel.”

“If you’re working as the clinic director, odds are you aren’t going to have that much one-on-one patient contact.”

“Okay by me.”

“Is it?” Her questioning gaze met his. “I mean, are you really okay with that? I’m not so sure I am,” she said.

“Sounds to me like you really don’t want the director position. You’re not ready to be a paper pusher. Why don’t you just tell your father?”

Sara froze, her green eyes rounded. “What makes you think my father has anything to do with this?”

He narrowed his eyes but said nothing.

“Oh, I see—apparently you specialize in psychiatry in your spare time.” Her jaw tensed.

“Any first-year med student could figure this out, Sara,” Ben said.

She rolled back the torn edge of his starched, pinpoint-cotton dress shirt and glared at him. “Lift your arm higher.”

Whoa. He’d definitely pushed a button, and she was not happy. Probably not a good idea to tick her off before she picked up a suture needle.

Ben raised his arm.

“Higher.” She pulled out the suture kit, ripped open the cover and dumped the contents onto the sterile field. “Tell me again why you didn’t go to the E.R. with this laceration?” Sara asked as she reassessed his arm.

“I couldn’t see myself applying pressure to the site and driving at the same time.”

“Hmm,” was her only response.

Ben released his breath. He’d neatly side-tepped that one. No way would he step into the E.R. and then break out in a cold phobic sweat in public. His credibility would be shot to pieces, on top of the humiliation of falling and cutting his arm.

“I’m going to assume your tetanus is up-to-date.”

Ben nodded.

She glanced around. “Do you have bandage scissors? Mine seem to have disappeared.”

“In my bag on the couch.”

Tearing off her gloves, Sara opened his satchel, then re-gloved. “Can you feel that?” she asked as she prodded his upper arm.

“Not a thing.”

“Too bad,” she murmured.

He nearly laughed out loud. “Doctor Elliott. What happened to primum non nocere?”

“Do no harm.” Her lips curved into a begrudging smile, her humor apparently restored. “I’m sure Hippocrates would understand if he met you.”

Ben’s lips twitched. Sara Elliott was a worthy opponent. Smart, witty and beautiful. A dangerous combination under any circumstance.

Her dark lashes were lowered as she worked, and he found himself absently counting the light freckles scattered over her sun-kissed cheeks and trailing across her small upturned nose.

Minutes later she pulled off her latex gloves, and their gazes met. Sara paused, her bright eyes startled.

“What are you looking at?” she asked.

“Sixteen freckles.”

“Please. Don’t remind me.” Annoyance laced her voice. “Those have been generously passed down from my mother’s side of the family.”

Ben’s mind began to backtrack to Henry Rhoades’s office as the light bulb slowly illuminated his thoughts. “The picture on your uncle’s desk. It’s you.”

“Yes.” The word was a soft murmur before she averted her gaze to efficiently wrap sterile gauze around his arm, trim the excess and tape the edges.

“And the woman in the picture?”

“That would be my mother, the other Dr. Elliott.”

Ben swallowed, the epiphany becoming even clearer. “Your mother is Dr. Rhoades’s sister.”

“Correct.”

All the bits of information began to fit together. “Amanda Rhoades.”

“Yes. Amanda Rhoades-Elliott. You know who my mother is?”

“My parents spoke of her often. She was quite well known for her work in rural medicine.”

“My mother was an incredible woman. Period.”

“And the accident?”

“She died, and my uncle was paralyzed.”

Ben stood still.

Eyes hooded, Sara began to clean up the area, carefully folding the edges of the sterile field inward until she had a neat package.

Only then did she raise her head, allowing Ben a view of the faint silvery line running close to her hairline and nearly hidden by her long hair.

“How did you get that scar?” he asked.

When she sucked in a breath and turned away, Ben’s gut clenched. Why hadn’t he realized it sooner?

“You were in that accident.”

Sara nodded.

Suddenly things became all too clear. Her mother died, her uncle was paralyzed and she was left with a scar to remind her of the accident for the rest of her life. Air whooshed from his lungs.

“The clinic means more than just a lot to you, Sara.”

“Don’t go all sentimental on me, Doc. I like you better when you’re prickly.” She shoved the refuse into a biohazard bag as efficiently as she had changed the subject.

Ben straightened. “I’m not prickly.”

“Oh, please. I may have my issues, but so do you. You’re more defensive than a momma cow.” Clearing her throat, Sara glanced at his arm. “The laceration should heal nicely. Edges are well approximated. And you know the drill. Keep it clean and dry for the next forty-eight hours.”

Ben nodded.

“Do you have any antibiotic ointment on hand?”

“I do.”

“Great. Then you’re all set.” She looked around the dingy little kitchen. “Mind if I wash my hands?”

“Please.” He gestured toward the old-fashioned porcelain single-basin sink.

“Tell me you called your landlord about those broken porch planks.”

“Not yet. I figure we can do a little trade of services.”

Sara raised her brows, blatant skepticism on her face.

“Hey, I’m handy enough around power tools. Built plenty of churches and clinics in my time. I told you my parents were medical missionaries.”

Eyes narrowed, she gave him a slow assessment. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t exactly look like a power tool kind of guy.”

Ben paused, more curious than insulted. “I don’t? What kind of guy do I look like?”

“Let’s just say a little more Brooks Brothers than Home Depot.”

He shook his head at her assumption. “You’re way off target.”

Turning on the faucet, Sara’s glance moved to inspect the rest of the small log cabin. “Am I? Well, by the looks of this place, that can only be a good thing.”

“The Realtor called it rustic.”

“Rustic?” Sara released a short laugh as she scrubbed her hands. “I’d say she saw you coming a mile away.”

“Maybe so, but I don’t mind. It just needs a little work.”

“Good to be optimistic.” She dried her hands on a paper towel.

Ben worked hard to hold back a grin as Sara continued her feisty tirade.

“I have to tell you, your three-hundred-dollar coffee machine looks a little nervous on the counter next to that kerosene lamp.” She looked around again. “So what’s the real reason you’re out here in the middle of nowhere?”

When her probing gaze met his, he said nothing.

“Well, I suppose working with your hands is good therapy,” she mused.

“You’re implying I need therapy?”

“I was raised on a ranch.” She shrugged. “I’ve been around wounded animals enough to recognize one.”

“Now who’s doing analysis?” he muttered.

“As you said, any first-year med student could figure it out.”

“Good to know you can give as well as you get, since we’ll be working together.”

She snapped shut the brass latch on her leather medical bag and grabbed the handles. “And on that note, I’ll be going.”

“Sorry to take you away from your date.”

A bright grin lit up her face. “Rocky? He’s the faithful type. Always there waiting when I get home.”

Ben frowned, surprised that he found himself envious. “So this is a serious relationship.”

Sara laughed. “You could say that. Rocky is my horse.”

“Your horse.”

She only smiled.

His phone buzzed, and he pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the screen. His parents. Clamping his jaw, he took a deep breath.

“Everything okay?” Sara asked.

“Yeah. Fine.”

The phone kept ringing, demanding his attention.

“Go ahead and take that,” she said. “I can see myself out.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “They’ll call back. Let me walk you to your car.”

“No need. I’ve got it.” She stepped back, distancing herself from him, moving toward the door.

“Sara.”

She turned.

“Thanks for coming all the way out here.”

“No problem. Professional courtesy.”

Professional courtesy? He supposed he deserved that, and yet he couldn’t resist another question. “Have you considered the possibility that we could be friends?”

“Friends?” Sara cocked her head. “Are you sure? You seemed pretty adamant about the job this afternoon.”

“Oh, I am adamant, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”

“Okay, friend. So do you want me to write a script for pain medication?”

“You were going to let me suffer?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it as her cheeks flushed with color.

“I’m just giving you a hard time,” he said. “I’ll be fine with a little acetaminophen.”

“Then I guess I’ll see you Monday.”

Ben nodded. Monday.

Right now Monday couldn’t come soon enough. He needed to stay busy.

His phone buzzed again, just as she pushed open the rickety screen door, and he froze.

“Ben, are you sure everything is okay?”

“Yeah. Sure. It’s all good.” He nodded toward the porch. “Careful where you step.”

Sara tiptoed around the broken planks and down the stairs.

When the door closed with a gentle bang, Ben slumped against the counter, unable to move as the cell phone’s persistent sounds beckoned him.

Not today, Lord.

Tomorrow he’d call them. Tomorrow.

The phone kept ringing, and he continued to ignore the plea, unable to answer and hear the pain in their voices, knowing he had put it there.

His sister had gone in for a simple tonsillectomy. They’d all laughed because she’d be the oldest kid on the unit.

He’d assured his parents they didn’t have to come home. Of course he’d take care of things. Except he was called away on an emergency, and when he arrived at the hospital and walked down the hall toward her room, something was very wrong.

The flurry of activity.

A code in process.

He began to run. Slamming through her doorway in time to hear the code called.

Time of death: 3:45 p.m.

Carolyn.

Ben closed his eyes tightly.

Oh, Carolyn. He’d let her down. Let them all down.

Sorry. So very sorry.

Not his fault. That’s what his parents had said over and over again. But how could anyone forgive him when he couldn’t forgive himself?

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