The Passion of Patrick MacNeill (11 page)

She tapped her pen on her clipboard.
"So.
Which Mr. MacNeill can't wait to see me?"

Three dark heads turned. The shortest one dashed forward.

"Dr. Kate!"

A corner of her heart melted at the boy's exuberant greeting.
"Hey, Jack-o.
Are you sick?"

"Nope."

"Pining for you," the younger man offered.

Kate smiled down at the boy's bright face. "I find that difficult to believe."

"Okay," the pirate said agreeably. "Maybe Patrick's the one pining."

The listening nurses goggled. Kate felt her cheeks flame. With gossip breeding in the hospital like bacteria in a wound, she'd always resolved to keep her personal life private. Not that it had been much of an issue. Until recently, she hadn't had a personal life. She swallowed. She still didn't have a personal life. Patrick might want to go to bed with her, but they hadn't even been on a date.

"Sean," Patrick said warningly.

"So it's me. I need a doctor. Take my pulse." He snatched her hand, enclosing the pen with it, and laid it on his muscled chest, just above his heart. "What do you think, Doc?"

Kate lifted her chin, refusing to be flustered. "You feel normal to me."

"Not just a little hot?" His dark eyes were wicked, inviting her to share his joke.

"No. Sorry."

"You don't think maybe I need some bed rest?"

"You don't let go of her hand," Patrick growled, "and you won't be getting up for a week."

"Oops. Big Brother has spoken." Gracefully, he released her hand. "I'm Sean MacNeill."

She smiled, amused in spite of herself. "Kate Sinclair."

"
Dr
. Sinclair." Patrick stressed her title. "And she works here, Sean, so try for a little respect, okay?"

"Right.
Sorry, Doctor."

Patrick's defense of her time and professional dignity won forgiveness and a concession. "It's all right. I've got a few minutes before I start rounds."

Patrick swept Jack's crayon box from the child-sized table, tucking it under his arm. "We wouldn't have bothered you except the Ape Man here wanted to meet you before I left town."

"Well, it's very nice to see you." Finally, she dared to look directly at Patrick, and her breath caught with sexual shock at the heat in his eyes. "All of you."

He smiled, still holding her gaze. "That's good to hear. I didn't want to send you screaming in the opposite direction."

Tension stretched between them like a soft cotton bandage. Kate reminded herself to exhale.

"Not yet."

"Am I missing something?" Sean asked plaintively. Patrick collected himself. He didn't need his mischievous little brother taking notes on his love life and reporting back to their mother. "No. You wanted to meet her, you've met. Say goodbye, Jack."

The boy's eyes crinkled. "Goodbye, Jack," he parroted.

Kate laughed. Damn, she had a sexy laugh, deep and warm. She always looked surprised when it escaped, as if she didn't use it very often.

"Bye, Jack." She offered her small, practical hand to Sean. "It was nice to meet you, Mr. MacNeill."

"Yeah.
A pleasure."

He held on to it a second too long. Patrick's brows flicked together in annoyance.

"Come on. Kate's got rounds. And we've got to go eat."

He jammed his hands into his pockets, resisting the desire to touch her.
To kiss her goodbye.
They had an audience. The simple, limited relationship he'd suggested to her didn't involve her colleagues at the hospital or his family.

"I'll be back next week." And then, because he couldn't help himself, he added, "You think about what I said."

She tilted her head, regarding him with cool challenge. "I'll think about it."

With Sean radiating curiosity, there was nothing more he could say. They left.

Patrick thought, he hoped, that was the end of it. It wasn't until they were seated in the warm, dark restaurant booth, with beers in front of them and a Cherry Coke for Jack, that Sean reopened the topic for discussion.

"Pretty thing," he observed.

Patrick tensed. He hadn't expected Kate's subtle appeal to register with Sean. The thought of his brother's perception made him uncomfortable. What he felt for Kate Sinclair—whatever he felt for Kate Sinclair—was none of his brother's business.

"Pretty enough," he agreed.

Sean sipped his beer, watching him. "Mind if I call her while you're gone?"

Patrick eyed him warily. "Are we talking about backup for Jack here?"

"No."

With a decisive click, Patrick centered his bottle precisely on a wet ring. "Then, yes, I mind. She isn't your type. She's a nice woman.
A good doctor.
And she's too old for you. Lay off."

Sean grinned, helping himself to fries from the red plastic basket in the middle of the table. "She's not your usual type either."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning … she's no Holly."

At the mention of his late wife, Patrick waited for the familiar twist of heart. It didn't come.

"True enough." In spite of his discomfort, he smiled. "The doctor's a damn sight harder to get along with, for one thing."

Sean swirled his beer. "Do you good. I used to wonder if you and Holly hadn't been stuck on each other since high school, if she would have been right for you."

Patrick's eyes narrowed. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Well, it's no secret she thought the sun shone out of your—"

Patrick jerked his head toward Jack, busily
scarfing
down a bite-sized burger.

"Sorry," Sean said. "Hey, what do I know? I was just a kid. It's just she always seemed—I don't know—so soft."

Patrick set down his sandwich, stung by the criticism of his late wife. "She was young."

"Exactly.
You both were. My point is, if you'd both been older when you'd met, would you have married her?"

"Of course I would have married her. I loved her." Too late, Patrick realized he'd used the past tense. He scowled.

Sean spread his hands
appeasingly
. "Hey, I loved her, too. We all did." He grinned, lightening the atmosphere. "Of course, agreeable women are my thing. Good luck with your doctor lady."

Under the joking tone, Patrick heard Sean's genuine affection. He felt a sharp, unmistakable tug of gratitude for his youngest brother. Almost nine years separated them. Yet the family ties were strong, the links of blood, of love, of shared experiences and commitments. John and Bridget MacNeill had raised their sons to stand back-to-back-to-back.

Patrick knew his isolation after Holly's death had worried his whole family. He'd felt the weight of their concern in his mother's looks and his father's silence, endured it in his brothers' teasing. But much as he hated to burst Sean's bubble, he couldn't let his brother take home the wrong idea about his relationship with Kate Sinclair.

He and Jack
were
a unit. The bonds forged in blood and pain wouldn't dissolve to admit anyone else.

"Look, I'll admit I'm working on getting her into—" His hand closed around the cool, sweaty bottle as he glanced at Jack. "—
Getting
to know her better," he finished lamely. "But that's as far as it goes. That's as far as it can go. She's got her job, and I've got Jack."

Sean's eyes danced.
"Whatever you say, Big Brother.
Whatever you want.
Hey, I admire your taste. Welcome back to the land of the living."

Patrick frowned into his beer. "Shut up and eat your burger."

* * *

Kate went through afternoon rounds with a curious double focus. Not distracted. She would not tolerate distraction, in herself or her team or the students that trailed them from room to room. But Patrick MacNeill's visit scraped delicately at her customary protective coating, exposing her nerves, heightening her physical and emotional awareness. She felt almost like one of her patients, with the sensitivity of an open wound.

And so, in spite of the fact that nineteen of the unit's twenty-one beds were full, and the residents dragged, and the occupational therapist grumbled, she took her time on rounds. She rubbed the feet of the patient in Room 811, the only part of him unburned after a trailer truck collided with his pickup. She talked to Janet Heller for almost ten minutes, knowing that the woman was depressed by the decreasing frequency of her family's visits. She promised the nine-year-old in 816 a visit to play therapy if he'd take his meds for Nurse Williams.

She dealt with routine, too, checking fluids, dressings and pain meds, questioning residents, therapists and nurses, and reassuring anxious family. Exiting the room of an eighteen-year-old firefighter, she paused briefly by an intern retching in the hall.

Schooling her sympathy from her face, she repeated the hard-learned lessons of her own first year. "Don't let it get to you. You're no good to anyone if you can't keep your concentration."

He muttered into the basin as she passed.
Calling her a name, probably.
She shrugged. Maybe he wasn't finished throwing up yet. But it was good advice. She was struggling to follow it herself.

Patrick's blue eyes burned in the back of her mind.
You think about what I said.

She couldn't forget it.

Sharon Williams followed her back to her office. "Got a minute?"

Kate straightened her shoulders. "Sure."

But whatever had driven
Sharon
to seek her out, she was in no hurry to discuss it. She hovered in the doorway. "You had a nice touch tonight.
With the patients."

Kate smiled, appreciating the veteran nurse's compliment. "Our occupational therapist didn't think so."

Sharon
shrugged, coming forward into the room. "Her? Oh, she doesn't like anything that keeps her from her dinner. She's as bad as a doctor that way."

Kate regarded her coolly, unsure if she'd just been insulted.
Sharon
grinned.

"I guess so," Kate said, relaxing. "You want to sit down?"

"
Naw
.
Once I'm down I'll never get up." The big woman propped one hip on the corner of Kate's desk and sighed.
"Cute picture."

Kate followed her gaze to the drawing of eagles taped over the filing cabinet. Her heart lightened, the way it did every time she looked at the darn thing. "Jack MacNeill drew that."

"Little Iron Man?
Really?
He's good. My kid is almost seven, and he draws birds like this."
Sharon
's finger traced a check mark in the air.

Kate nodded, waiting. She was pretty sure
Sharon
hadn't tracked her to her office to talk about kindergarten art.

"We sure have been seeing a lot of them lately.
The MacNeills."

Kate's stomach flared.
Uh-oh.
She should have known Sean MacNeill's prodigal good looks and extravagant behavior wouldn't escape comment. Just what had the nurses in the waiting room seen? How much had they heard? And what were they saying?

"That's not surprising," she said noncommittally. "Isn't Peg still seeing Jack?"

"Every Wednesday.
With his stitches out, he should be off the splint real soon."

So Swaim had removed the rest of Jack's sutures, and no one had even told her. Kate reminded herself she didn't want to interfere between her director and his patients, but she couldn't help her protective, proprietary interest in Jack.

"That's good. That's great. Um, how did it go?"

"Fine.
Dr. Swaim kept all of his clinic appointments yesterday."

"Good," Kate said again, too heartily.

Sharon
wandered over to the corner and began pinching at her yellowing philodendron. "He was asking about you."

Kate swallowed.
"Swaim?"

"Mm.
He wanted to know how often you'd seen the MacNeill boy."

"Just twice, I think."
If she didn't count the surgery.
Or the late night call to his room.
Or her visit to his house or his jaunt to her sister's.
"Why?"

"Apparently Mr. MacNeill questioned whether Dr. Swaim should do that surgery on the boy's face and ear or not."

Kate rubbed a spot under her ribs where tension was beginning to burn. She was glad for Jack's sake that Patrick had listened to her. She was pleased that he trusted her judgment that much. But they weren't out of the woods yet.
"And?"

"And the Great White Doctor sounded pretty miffed that somebody was impugning his judgment."
Sharon
flashed a look over her shoulder. "That's a quote."