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Which left the chest wound to him. It shouldn’t come as such a surprise—after all, that was how they always worked, but it did. He looked at the gaping hole in the kid’s chest, and wished for his old dexterity. For his ability to get in there and stitch things up.
So great was the longing that he almost walked away, had actually taken a step back when Amanda looked up and pinned him with silver eyes made steely with determination. “Do you think he cares about your hand, Jack?” she snapped at him. “Get in there, get the bleeding stopped enough that the ambulance can transport him to County for surgery or he’s going to die. I’ve got a mess down here. If I try to leave it, he’s going to bleed out.”
Her words, and the absolute lack of doubt she conveyed, snapped him out of it. Had him moving forward despite his fear and anger, barking out orders to the resident and two nurses standing next to him.
The next twenty minutes passed in a blur of concentration and pain as he forced his stiff hand into positions it hadn’t attempted in two very long months. Amanda worked beside him, dealing with the wounds on the kid’s lower body as he struggled to stop the bleeding in his chest long enough for the paramedics to be able to take over.
In the old days, he would have said to hell with it and started stitching the boy up, but he didn’t have the small motor skills necessary to do that anymore. So he concentrated on basic emergency triage, doing what any other family practitioner or internist would do in the same situation. It wasn’t clean, and it wasn’t pretty, but eventually the patient was stable enough to be rushed to the nearest O.R.
Before he knew it, paramedics were at the door. Stepping back, he gestured for them to take over. He and Amanda had done all they could.
Stripping off his gloves, he looked down at himself. He was covered in blood, as neither he nor Amanda had taken time to gown up. Which was fine for her, as she probably kept a spare set of clothes around here somewhere, but he looked like he’d just gotten out of a war zone. Not the best look for someone who had to walk through a hotel lobby before getting to his room to clean up.
“We have a few pairs of scrubs in the back that will probably fit you,” Amanda told him, having read his mind. “You and Lucas are about the same size.”
“Lucas?” he asked.
“My boss. Our boss, if you decide to take the job. This clinic is his baby.”
“Oh. Right.” This wasn’t Amanda’s clinic. Wouldn’t be his clinic if he decided to take a chance on Atlanta, to take a chance on this job. Which was one more strike against the idea, in his opinion. He hadn’t had to answer to anyone in a long time. After running clinics in some of the most remote places on earth for almost his entire career, the idea that he would have to step back and let someone else be in charge, grated. Big time. If he was being honest, he wasn’t sure he could work that way.
He didn’t give voice to any of his doubts, but then he didn’t have to. He and Amanda had known each other a long time.
“You’ll be fine,” she told him. “Lucas is great to work for. Even a big, bad surgeon like yourself won’t have any complaints.”
He wasn’t so sure. But instead of trying to explain himself, he simply said, “I’m not a surgeon anymore. I couldn’t even sew that kid up.” He jerked his chin toward their unconscious patient, who the paramedics were prepping for travel.
Amanda didn’t flinch, didn’t make excuses. Met his eyes straight on and said, “So what?”
He goggled at her. “Excuse me?”
“So you couldn’t sew him up. So you can’t do everything. So you’re not as damn perfect as you want to be. So what? You’re still a damn good doctor, one of the best I’ve ever seen.” Her voice was strong, firm, passionate. And pitched low enough that no one else in the room could hear what she was saying. “You saved that kid’s life.”
“He’s not safe yet. There’s a lot more work to be done on him.”
She made a sound of frustration in the back of her throat. “You know what I mean.”
“I know that if I could still use my hand properly, that kid would have a much better chance of survival than he currently does.”
“Yeah, and if you hadn’t been here, he would already be dead. I’m a damn good doctor, but I couldn’t have dealt with the chest and pelvis at the same time. So take what you can from that and move on. You did your best.”
“What if my best isn’t good enough?” he asked, hating that he sounded like a whiny little boy, but unable to stop the words from tumbling out.
Amanda sighed, then grabbed his arm and yanked him out of the room. For a long time, they didn’t say anything. They squared off in the hallway in a stare down of epic proportions.
Amanda blinked first. “What if it is good enough?” she asked. “You’ve got a gift, Jack. Surgeon or not, you can do things, see things, that no one else can.”
“There are a lot of great doctors out there, Amanda.” He gestured to her. “And in here. We know that kid would have been better off with a surgeon who had full use of his hands, too. We can debate this all day. In fact, why don’t—”
Amanda held up a hand, stopping him mid-breath. “Is working here the same as doing surgery in some fancy Boston hospital? No, of course not. But it’s still good work. Still necessary work. You never wanted that life, anyway. Driving a silver Ferrari and doing weekends on Martha’s Vineyard. That’s no more you, than it is me.”
“No, that wasn’t where I was headed in my life and it wasn’t what I miss. I was happy in Africa, doing surgery for For the Children. Was it frustrating? Yes. Were there times I wanted to quit? Absolutely. But it was good work. Important work. You’re damn right I miss it.”
“And as soon as you heal, you can go back. I know you want to, even though the rest of us would rather you didn’t. The fact of the matter is, you could so easily have died in that clinic in Somalia, Jack. You—”
“I know that.”
“Do you, really? Because I think you and your God complex have somehow managed to forget it. Another man, a weaker man, would have given in to the pain and the blood loss and those bastards who wanted you dead. But you didn’t. You’re still here. Are you hurt? Absolutely. Has your life taken a twist you weren’t ready for? No doubt. Welcome to the world of being human, Jack. That’s what happens. It’s messy and it hurts and rarely goes according to plan. But that’s okay, because it means you’re still alive. And you are, Jack, whether you wish you’d given up back there or not. So isn’t it time you started acting like it?”
He didn’t answer her. He was afraid that if he did he’d lash out at her with words no one needed to hear, let alone Amanda. It wasn’t that long ago that she’d been an emotional wreck, a couple short steps from working herself to death because she couldn’t deal with the loss of her only child.
He’d been the one lecturing her then and the fact that things had changed so completely made him feel worse. In the space of two months, his whole world had turned upside down and he didn’t know what to do about it. Every time he tried to imagine his future without surgery, every time he tried to picture himself in six months or a year or five years, he drew nothing but a blank. If he wasn’t a surgeon, if he wasn’t a doctor for For the Children, then what the hell was he?
The answer came back to him the same as it always did these days. He was nothing. Working at some low-income clinic in Atlanta wasn’t going to change all that.
Panic overwhelmed him and he started to tremble. He was on the verge of shaking apart, the emotional pain of his loss combining with the pain in his hand and leg, spreading through his whole body until he couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. The specter of everything he’d lost rose up inside him, paralyzing him.
On top of that, he was afraid he couldn’t hide it, especially from someone who knew him as well as Amanda. If she noticed, however, it didn’t matter, because she wasn’t letting up. “We need you, Jack.” She stepped forward and put one soft hand on his forearm. “We really need you.” What she didn’t say, but what hung in the air between them, was the fact that he needed this clinic, needed her, at least as much as it needed him.
Sensing his weakness, she pressed her advantage. “Come on, give us a month. What’s the worst that can happen?”
His heart was beating too fast and he swore he felt a panic attack coming on for the first time in his life. He tamped down on it even as her question circled around and around in his head. What was the worst that could happen? How about complete and total humiliation? Or him losing even more faith in himself and his skills?
Or, God forbid, him killing someone who could have been saved because his damn hand wouldn’t work right?
The possibilities were endless and he started to tell Amanda so, to list the number of really terrible things that could happen. But one look at her face told him she wouldn’t listen. Her mind was made up. Besides, it wasn’t like he wanted to shout out his deepest insecurities for the world—or his best friend—to hear. That had never been his style.
Instead, he looked down at his bloodstained clothes and thought of the boy they had saved. Then glanced back into the room at the ripped-up clothes and blood-soaked gauze, and at the patient who was even now being strapped to a gurney to be transported to the hospital.
Yes, he was afraid—desperately afraid—of not being able to do what needed to be done here. But he was even more afraid that if he went back home to Boston he’d end up selling out. Giving in. Becoming the kind of doctor his parents had always wanted him to be—the kind he’d always despised.
And then he knew. Even with everything that could go wrong, with all the mistakes he could make, he would still rather be here, doing something truly helpful, than sitting at home, selling out and feeling sorry for himself.
A sense of relief washed over him. His heartbeat slowed and he could breathe again. Panic subsided into a calm clarity. Working at this clinic with Amanda wouldn’t be forever—he couldn’t afford to let it be—but for now it was a million times better than the alternative.
He wadded up the gloves he was still holding and—using his good hand—lobbed them at the trash can. They soared into the center of the basket in a perfect three pointer.
Then he turned to Amanda with the closest thing to a smile he could manage. “You’re right. It’s better than Boston. Looks like you’ve got yourself a doctor.”
CHAPTER THREE
CLIMBING THE FRONT steps that led to the small house he’d rented in the same upper-middle class area of Atlanta that Amanda lived in, Jack couldn’t believe how tired he was. In Africa, he regularly worked sixteen or eighteen hour days in an effort to keep up with the never-ending patient load, while today he’d only put in half a shift—five hours—yet he was completely exhausted.
Admittedly, it was his first day on the job. And it had come after a ten-day whirlwind in which he’d packed up his necessities in Boston, moved them all to Atlanta, found a place to rent, visited various medical specialists Lucas had recommended, and started an intense, three-day-a-week course of physical therapy.
But still, he’d figured he was in better shape than this. How had two and a half months off the job turned him into such a wimp? He ignored the voice in his head that told him his weakness had a lot more to do with two bullets and three surgeries than it did the time he’d been forced to take off work.
He loosened his tie and headed into the kitchen for a glass of iced tea. Grimacing as he took a sip of the too-sweet liquid, he tried to appreciate the drink that was a hallmark of his newly adopted city. It was difficult, though, especially considering he much preferred a cold beer at the end of a long day. But, ostensibly, he was still on pain medication. The little white pills he’d been prescribed did not react well with alcohol.
Not that he was actually taking them regularly anymore. Though his doctor, his physical therapist and his own medical training all told him that he needed to keep a steady supply of the anti-inflammatory and pain medication in his bloodstream if he expected it to do its job, he couldn’t force himself to keep up with them anymore. It was stupid, he knew, but he hated the crutch. Hated the need to depend on something else—even a pill—to make himself feel better. He’d gotten through his entire adult life without having to rely on anyone or anything and damn it, he would get through this, too. Even if it killed him.
Which it wouldn’t, he assured himself as he took another long swallow of the sweet tea. After all, he didn’t completely ignore his doctor’ orders. He took the pills when he really needed them—mainly on nights when insomnia struck, because if there was one thing he hated more than depending on the medication, it was lying in bed and staring at the still unfamiliar ceiling, wondering how in the hell he had gotten himself here, to this point.
Opening the fridge, he tried to drum up some enthusiasm as he stared at the fresh produce filling nearly all the available shelves. Amanda had come over the other day, loaded down with bags from her garden and the local farmer’s market, and stocked him up. Which he appreciated. He really did. He hadn’t been very hungry lately.
Grabbing an apple, he made his way slowly through the house to the back porch. It was what had sold him on the place to begin with. Most of the house was pretty non-descript—typical rental property—except for the backyard. There was a huge porch that ran the length of the house and looked out over a garden that would fit better at a country estate than a small, city property.
Lush plants and flowers took up nearly every square inch, their eminent domain broken only by small walking paths that twisted and turned throughout the backyard. He’d explored them all his first couple of days in the house, had found a rose garden with a bench and the remnants of a vegetable garden. Maybe, if his hand came back enough, he’d start his own vegetable garden this spring.
If he was still here, that was. He might be long gone by then. Back to Boston, maybe. Or more likely, back to Somalia. Or some other war-torn country that was in such desperate need of doctors that they didn’t mind broken ones.
Uneasiness twisted in his stomach at the idea of going back to For the Children, back to another war zone where anything could happen. But Jack ignored it and settled himself on the big, comfy swing. He didn’t need to think about that now, or about anything, really. He could just sit here and relax for a while. Eat his apple and contemplate nothing more difficult than what vegetables he would plant if he was still around in a few months. Maybe some carrots. Tomatoes. He liked red peppers—
A steady stream of water came out of nowhere, hitting him square in the face before dropping a foot to scatter across his blue T-shirt, as well. It stopped for a moment, than a second stream hit him, followed so closely by a third and fourth that he was soaked before he had time to react. Jumping to his feet, he glanced around, trying to figure out where the attack was coming from. Had his sprinkler system gone insane? Was he sitting directly under a rain gutter?
He investigated the roof of the porch, then the empty blue sky above, then looked carefully around his yard.
But there was nothing, no one.
Dropping his apple core on the table next to the swing, he started to jump off the porch but then remembered his bum leg. More annoyed by that than by the fact that he was soaked, he took the steps two at a time instead. Then headed in the direction the water had come from.
He heard them before he saw them, two young voices laughing and whispering and hushing each other even as they rustled the hedge that separated his yard from his next-door neighbor’s. “Hey!” he called, making a beeline for the bushes. “Can I help you?”
At that moment, two towheaded little boys peeked their heads out of the foliage, their expressions steely and determined. It was a look reinforced by the huge water guns in their hands, though the bright colors of the guns tempered the effect. “We don’t need help from the enemy,” one told him in a tough guy voice that matched his soldier act.
“Yeah,” said the other, who was clearly younger by a few years, “We’re special forces and we’ve come to bring you in.” As he spoke, the first one leveled his water gun straight at Jack’s chest.
“The way I see it,” the boy continued. “We can do this two ways.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jack cocked an eyebrow, and decided what the hell. He could play along. Better than sitting around whining to himself about his pathetic excuse for a life. “And which two ways are those?” he asked in his own tough-guy voice. He even added a little sneer, to keep things interesting.
The boys’ eyes grew round with delight and they exchanged a quick look of triumph. But it only took the older one a second to regain his composure and add a snarl of his own to the mix. “Easy. My way or the highway.”
“Our way,” the younger one corrected him.
“Right. Our way.”
Jack grinned. He couldn’t help himself. They were adorable. Plus, it was nice to see two healthy, happy, well-nourished kids. So much better than the children he was used to interacting with. And these two were loaded with confidence, especially the older one. Jack liked it.
“You think this is funny, Punk?” the oldest one demanded, obviously taking his role seriously.
“No. Not at all.” Jack forced the smile from his face—and his voice. “I do have a question, though.”
His two assailants looked at each other, wide-eyed. Obviously, their plan hadn’t included the hostage engaging them in conversation.
It took a minute, but the younger one finally spoke. “Spit it out, scumbag. It can be your last request.”
“Well,” he said slowly, as if considering his options, even as he geared up for the fight of his life. “Can I have a few minutes? I’d like to say goodbye.” He pulled out his cell phone. “It won’t take long.”
“Geez, mister.” The older one looked disgusted as he stepped closer, gesturing emphatically with his gun. “What kind of hostage situation do you think this is? Get moving!”
“The kind where the hostage doesn’t go willingly.” Jack spun on his good leg, made a mad dash for cover at the closest tree. Then made a beeline for the water tap at the side of the house, regretting bitterly the fact that he hadn’t gotten around to buying a hose yet. But at least there was a bucket beneath it.
Using the house for cover, he twisted the tap with his good hand and waited impatiently for the bucket to fill up. When the two little dictators whipped around the corner, he was going to have a surprise waiting for them. One that, hopefully, got them as wet as they had gotten him.
* * *
HER SONS’ SHRIEKS split the air as Sophie Connors yanked the last weed out of the vegetable garden she and the boys had planted a few months before. It was doing nicely, she thought, as she sat back on her heels and surveyed the neat rows of greenery beginning to peek out of the dirt. In a couple more months they’d have a pretty good harvest to show for all the hours of planning and planting, watering and fertilizing, discussing and dreaming, that had already gone into it.
Which meant it was time for her to get a new project to work on. Nothing sprang to mind, but she knew one would come eventually. Maybe she could redecorate the boys’ rooms—they’d been obsessed with airplanes for weeks now. Or she could try those cooking classes she kept thinking about. This could totally be the year she branched out and learned how to make more than five dishes with any kind of confidence.
More little boy shrieks sounded behind her, and she rose unhurriedly to her feet. Better to let Noah and Kyle get the energy out now, before dinner and bath time, than end up chasing two naked and slippery little boys around the house right as they should be getting ready for bed.
But then the shrieks were followed by war whoops, and not all of them were in her sons’ young voices. In fact, a few of the whoops sounded distinctly masculine—deep and rumbly. Since they were followed by a bunch of laughter—and loud cries of “no surrender” from her sons, she figured she’d better go investigate. Hopefully her children hadn’t made enemies of the new neighbor quite yet. Usually it took them a week or two.
Although, judging from the sound of it, this one had a pretty decent sense of humor. Which would be a nice change of pace from the last tenant. He had had nothing but contempt for Sophie’s boys and though she’d done her best to keep them away from him, she hadn’t always succeeded. She tried to keep them in the backyard most of the time, but every once in a while they’d burst into the front. Inevitably, their escape to the front yard had always coincided with Reece’s trip to get his newspaper or take out the trash or go for his daily jog.
More shrieks sounded, these ones louder and more high-pitched than the ones that had come before. Sophie broke into a run.
By the time she got to the high hedge that separated her yard from her neighbor’s, the boys shrieks had turned to giggles. It soothed the panic that had raced through her at the sound of their distress, but still, she wasn’t going to be happy until she saw them.
Scooting through the hedge, she ignored the way the branches ripped at her old gardening T-shirt and scanned her neighbor’s yard for her sons. She didn’t see them at first and her fear roared back, but then they came flying around the house, their water guns held in clear attack mode, even as they retreated.
Amused, she watched as they dove behind a huge tree. They were small and skinny enough that she could only see their bright red-and-blue weapons. Water guns that were supposed to be in the pool bag and not in use in her neighbor’s yard.
Seconds later, the new neighbor came around the corner of the house after them. He wasn’t moving as fast as they were, but he was still booking it. In his hands was a large bucket, obviously filled with water. And it looked like he wasn’t afraid to use it.
Perhaps Noah and Kyle had finally met their match.
And what a beautiful match he was. The wet, clinging material of his blue T-shirt revealed a heavily muscled chest. His dark hair was shaggy in that way that only a really expensive hair stylist could manage and his jeans, though ripped at the knees, fit his long, muscular thighs like a second skin. She couldn’t see what color his eyes were from this distance, but she was betting they were the same blue as his shirt. And his broad smile was lighting up his entire face.
Deep inside, she responded to that smile. Even as she told her hormones to settle down and behave, that she wanted no part of this man or any other, a strange, unfamiliar heat burned deep in her stomach. Try as she did to ignore it—as she tended to do with most unwelcome things—Sophie couldn’t help wondering if a guy who looked like that, and who obviously had a decent sense of humor, was still single.
Before she could tell herself it was none of her business, the battle started up with renewed energy. Spotting her sons across the yard, the man ran toward them and was hit, full face, with double streams of water. Instead of getting angry, he laughed and continued his pursuit. But the bucket in his hands was sloshing and spilling a little bit with each uneven step.
So he was injured, or he had been. Either way, he was limping and she couldn’t help wondering how it had happened. Was he a veteran like her husband had been? And like Jeff, had he been injured in the war?
The thought made her guard drop even more, as did the way he handled it when her children leaped out from behind the tree and let him have it, lock, stock and barrel. Instead of getting mad like most people would—even when Noah nailed him in the eye—he just took the soaking. Then, when his opportunity came, he sent the water in the bucket soaring straight at them. Kyle was quicker than his older brother and managed to get out of the soak zone in time, but Noah took the water head on.
She barely suppressed a laugh at Kyle’s smirk of satisfaction and Noah’s whoop of shock—and glee—as the cold water hit him. He took off running, squishing with every step, and she knew the war was far from done.
Deciding she wanted in on the action, Sophie hurried back to her own house and turned on the hose. Then, stealthily creeping through the hedge, she snuck across the yard straight toward her boys, who were too busy taunting the neighbor to notice.
He must have seen her coming, but gave nothing away, so that when she pressed the valve on the hose nozzle and opened fire on her kids from behind, they were completely shocked.
Shrieks of delight filled the air as they whirled on her, slamming her with stream after stream of water. But they were no match for her mighty hose—or the neighbor’s refilled bucket—and soon the sounds of their surrender rang through the yard.
With a laugh, she reached forward and brushed a hand over Kyle’s sodden hair before doing the same to Noah.
