Harlequin Heartwarming May 2016 Box Set (63 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Q
UIET
SQUEAKS
AND
the scent of honeysuckle floated by, both gone as quickly as they'd materialized.

“Mornin', sleepyhead.”

Sam...

Oh, how she loved waking up in his arms!

Eyes shut tight against the early-morning glare, Finn hid her face in the crook of his neck. “Forgot to draw the blinds last night, did you?”

“I, ah...what?”

Fully awake now, Finn opened one eye, saw the glare of fluorescent ceiling lights and heard the thick triple-ping that signaled an upcoming announcement from the hospital PA system: “Dr. Radajii,” said a velvet-voiced nurse, “Dr. Radajii, pick up line two-oh-two. Dr. Radajii, a call on two-oh-two...”

Later, she'd dig out her old psych textbook, see what the experts had to say about her dream of being Mrs. Sam Marshall. Right now, she needed to unravel the confusion swirling in her head. Things had happened fast: a trip upstairs for scans and X-rays, then straight to the OR. Last she heard, Connor was resting in a semiprivate room, but she needed to find out about his condition, too.

She sat up and worked the kinks out of her neck, instantly aware of the chill left behind now that his strong, warm body had separated from hers. But...how had she ended up sound asleep and entangled in his arms in the first place!

“How long was I out?”

“Couple of minutes.”

There were creases on his handsome face, put there by the headband she'd donned to keep her bangs out of her eyes. Things like that didn't happen in a couple of minutes. And neither did achy shoulders and stiff muscles. Sam sat up, too, and did his best not to wince when he stretched his injured leg.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

“For turning you into a human pretzel for...for God only knows how long.” She got to her feet. “Did you get any sleep?”

“No, but—”

Mark interrupted with “That's only because you were doing the best chain saw imitation I ever heard. How's a li'l pip-squeak like you make that much noise?”

Ciara was the only person who'd ever heard her snore. Until now. But what was
Mark
doing here?

“Plus,” he continued, “this guy was too busy watching you sleep to catch any z's himself.”

Sam shot him a dirty look, and he added, “Good thing we're in a hospital, 'cause if looks could kill...”

Sam's cell phone buzzed, and he stood to answer it.

“It's about time you called. What's going on up there?”

He paced between Finn's chair and Mark's, then moved farther down the hall. It didn't take a mastermind to figure out that he was talking to his friend in Radiology. “He'd better not keep any details from me,” she mumbled.

Mark glanced up from his magazine. “What's that?”

“Oh, nothing.” She walked toward Sam. “Just talking to myself.”

He winked and tossed the dog-eared issue of
Time
on to the side table. “Talking to yourself. My mom used to say that's one way to make sure somebody's listening.”

She stopped just short of his chair. “I'm sure there are a thousand things waiting for you back at the club, so if you need to leave...”

He feigned confusion, then nodded. “Oh. I get it. You think I'm here to support
you.
”

Finn felt like a self-centered brat. The man barely knew her and Ciara. Of course he'd come to support his friend and business partner. Would Sam remain a partner once he went on tour?

“Truth is,” Mark whispered, “I'm here hiding out from those things, so if anybody asks where I am...” He gave the zipped-lip signal and grabbed a tattered issue of
Sports Illustrated.

Finn caught up with Sam just as he was ending the call. One hand on the back of his neck, he shook his head and frowned at the floor. Maybe she didn't want the whole, unvarnished truth after all...

“Is Connor all right? Can I see him yet?”

“Mel says he's holding his own. She wants to keep an eye on him for another couple hours. Soon as we get word that Ciara is okay, we'll head up to Radiology and check on things for ourselves.”

She looked in the direction of the surgical suite, too. “I wonder how often the staff has to deal with worried family members barging in there, demanding updates.”

“I'm sure they understand.” He scrolled through his phone's contacts. “Let me see what I can find out about what's going on in the OR.”

“I had no idea firefighters had so many hospital connections.”

He put the phone to his ear. “Connections?”

“Radiology, the OR... One phone call here, another there... You're like Information Central.”

“You'd be surprised how many interesting individuals you meet when you put broken, battered, burned patients into their hands...and check in later to see how they're doing.”

Finn had no trouble believing he'd followed up with the people he'd helped.

“I thought there was some kind of rule that said first responders had to keep a safe emotional distance from—”

He held up a finger and gave her an apologetic smile, indicating the person he'd called had picked up. Finn tidied a stack of magazines on a nearby table while Sam and his contact engaged in a short catch-up conversation. Then he chuckled and said, “Yeah, yeah, but the phone works both ways, y'know.”

Why hadn't she thought to grab her purse before following him over here? At least then she could use her cell phone to check email or play a game of solitaire to distract her from his side of the call.

“Sounds good,” she heard him say. “You're right. It's been too long. Shoot me a text with your new address, and we'll work something out.” He cleared his throat. “So, anyway, the reason I called... Think you could check your computer real quick, see if you can get me an update on a patient? Name's Leary. Ciara Leary. Dr. Peterson's patient. She's been in the OR for a couple of hours, and...”

Finn watched as he drove his big hand through his hair, then scrubbed it across his bristled chin. She'd known him long enough to recognize it as a “stay calm, be patient” tactic, and hoped he wouldn't have too hard a time prying some information from his friend.

“Right. Yes, that's the one.” He exhaled a relieved breath. “Great. Excellent. We'll get right back over there. Thanks, Bob. I owe you one.”

He began making his way to the surgical suite. “Catch you back at the club,” he said to Mark. “Thanks for being here.”

“Yes, we appreciate it,” Finn agreed.

Mark's left eyebrow rose. “You'll be onstage tonight, then?”

“Probably.”

The club owner snapped off a jaunty salute and headed for the elevators as Sam and Finn went in the opposite direction.

“It was nice of him to keep you company. But really, you didn't have to stay,” Finn said.

“Yes. I did.” He frowned over at her and shook his head. “They're moving her to Recovery.”

“How do
you
know? I thought there were rules about sharing patient information.”

“There are. Unless you have friends in the know.” He looked around to ensure no one was listening. “Happens all the time among first responders and hospital staff.”

“Because...”

“Because despite popular belief, we
do
get emotionally involved sometimes.” Sam shrugged. “Mostly, people are helpful because they know it relieves the stress of wondering how the folks we deliver here are doing.”

She had to half run to keep up, and she wondered how much faster he'd walk on
two
healthy legs.

“Did your friend say how things went?”

“No, but he did say that Peterson is getting cleaned up, so he can bring you up to speed.”

“All that information is from Bob's computer?”

Sam laughed quietly. “No, took him a few quick phone calls, too.”

“What'll this favor cost you?”

“Dinner at his house. He wants me to see his new house, meet the wife and kids. And a dog named Boo.”

“How long has it been since you talked to him?”

“A year. Three.” He shrugged.

Finn had no idea what to say next. She'd never been any good at small talk, but “What's going on with Ciara?” was beginning to sound like a mantra, and it beat repeating “When will we know something about Connor?”

But as it turned out, she didn't need conversation material because the doors to the OR suite opened and Dr. Peterson stepped out.

“Let's talk over here,” he said, leading her to the chairs against the wall.

Finn's knees nearly buckled. Was the news really so bad that he thought she needed to hear it sitting down?

“Don't look so worried,” the doctor said. “She's doing fine.”

“Then, why did the operation take so long?”

“There was a blood clot, and it caused a small stroke.”

Finn hugged herself. “A stroke?”

“Hard to believe, I know, but even little kids have 'em...if they've suffered severe head injury, like Ciara has.” He took her hands. “Her vitals are strong, and thanks to your pampering, she's healthy.”

If I did such a great job, why did she have a stroke?

The doctor pulled back as if she'd shouted the question.

“Her vital organs are strong,” he repeated.

“Why do I sense you're about to say
but
...?”

“But the area of her brain that sustained the impact of that crash isn't.”

“Wasn't, you mean.” She withdrew her hands.

Peterson looked confused, but
Sam
understood her perfectly. “You had her on the table for what, five hours? Six?” he said, sitting in the chair beside hers. “Enough time to fix whatever was wrong, right?”

Peterson's glance flicked from Finn's face to Sam's and back again, as if questioning this stranger's right to involve himself in private medical matters.

Finn said, “Sam is...a friend.”

A nurse hurried past, crepe-soled shoes squeaking on the linoleum, and Finn recognized it as the sound that had ended her beautiful dream. “A very dear and trusted friend.”

The comment must have pleased Sam, if his smile was any indicator.

The surgeon winked. “High time you allowed yourself a...
friend
.”

Mark, Torry, Connor and now Dr. Peterson. It seemed everyone but Sam knew how she felt about him.
Felt
, past tense. How long, she wondered, before he'd leave Nashville to pursue his dream?

“Let me explain what we found and what we did.” Peterson removed his blue surgical cap. “Ciara experienced a cerebral hemorrhage—a small blood clot hidden behind a clump of residual scar tissue.”

“All these years after the accident?” she asked.

He nodded. “It isn't all that unusual. Things built up, created just enough pressure to cause the TIA.”

Finn heard herself gasp and felt Sam's hand on her shoulder.

“That's the downside. The upside is that it moved enough to enable us to see it.”

The only thing preventing her from climbing into Sam's lap and bawling like a baby was the arm of the chair. That, and concern about Ciara's condition, and maybe a tinge of stubborn pride.

“So you're saying the clot is still there?”

“We drilled a dime-size hole in her skull directly above it,” he explained. “Then we inserted a catheter and gave it a shot of tPA—a clot-busting drug—and watched its size reduce significantly.”

“So...is the clot gone, or isn't it?”

“It's shrinking. We've left the catheter in place, so we can dose her with more tPA until it reduces to the point that it's no longer a threat.”

But Ciara hated being in the hospital. “How long before I can take her home?”

“No way to predict that for sure, but since we were able to get this far without the injurious side effects normally associated with craniotomy, there's every reason to expect positive results in a couple of days.”

Injurious side effects. Craniotomy. tPA. Finn's mind buzzed with information. And questions.

“And then?” Sam wanted to know. “More scans to ensure the clot is gone?”

Peterson frowned. “Yes.”

“I know you guys hate hearing stuff like this, but I was a firefighter.”

“You're still a firefighter,” Finn corrected. She met the doctor's eyes. “He was injured on the job and teaches at the academy now.”

Peterson still appeared dubious, but he nodded. “I see.”

“So what should we look for,” Sam continued, “once she's home again? Paralysis of facial muscles? Changes in vision? Memory problems? Dizziness?”

“Again, no way to know for sure, but I don't anticipate any of that. Like I said, she's young and strong, so I expect a full recovery.”

Finn pressed fingertips to her temples, hoping it might ease her light-headedness. “When can I see her?”

“Right now.”

She was on her feet in an instant. “Sam, too?”

Peterson smiled again. “Ciara mentioned him a couple of times, so, yeah, I think it'll be all right.”

As the surgeon led the way to the recovery room, Sam leaned near Finn's ear to whisper, “I realize I overstepped my bounds back there. You know, asking questions, making statements about something that really isn't any of my business. It's just, well, you seemed a little overwhelmed. I thought maybe if I tossed a few things out there—”

She stopped walking and faced him. “Maybe I'm still dreaming.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Come again?”

“Are you apologizing?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

He looked nervous—not “how is Ciara” concerned, but “what's Finn going to say now” worried.