The Passion of Patrick MacNeill (13 page)

Enough was enough. The medical stuff she could handle. "Patrick."

"What?"

"I can take care of it."

He laughed briefly, almost embarrassed.
"Yeah.
Okay. I guess you can. Thanks, Kate."

She felt as if he'd cracked a door and let her slip inside. Warmth flooded through her. "You're welcome."

"I'll call you tonight."

This time she had no trouble believing him.

She was hanging up the phone when a shuffle behind her alerted her to Jack's presence. Turning, she saw the boy pausing in the doorway, his bear trailing from one arm, his blue eyes wide and wary.

"Dr. Kate?"

"Hey, Jack." She smiled, but he didn't reward her with his customary grin.

"Where's Uncle Sean?"

Uh-oh.
She should have anticipated the child would be anxious without the reassuring male presence of father or uncle. "He had to go to
Boston
to see your grandparents," she explained gently. "So I came to stay with you for a while."

"Is he okay?"

"He sure is."

Jack scowled, looking so much like his father that her heart squeezed. "Where's Dad?"

"Your daddy's okay, too. He went with Uncle Sean." The child's lower lip protruded further at this news. Obviously, he was picturing a MacNeill Men reunion that didn't include him. Kate decided they needed a diversion.
"How about some breakfast?"

He scuffed forward.
"Pancakes?"

Oh, dear. Cooking was not her specialty.
"How about cereal?"

"But it's Saturday."

Kate nodded. "That's how I could
come
stay with you. I don't have to work again until Monday."

Jack ignored this explanation of her schedule, more concerned with his own routine. "But we always have pancakes on Saturday," he said, artfully earnest. "And watch cartoons."

Kate narrowed her eyes at this pint-size manipulative male in dinosaur pajamas. She'd worked with pediatric patients enough to know when she was being conned. And she truly didn't believe burning down Patrick's kitchen would be an auspicious start to a weekend of mothering his child. On the other hand, she sympathized with Jack. It must be tough to wake up and find your father gone, your uncle flown the coop, and some biddy in charge of your customary breakfast.

Kate nibbled her lip, considering. She'd told Patrick she could take care of things. Maybe her mother had regularly lamented her lack of domestic skills, but Kate was determined not to fail the MacNeills.

"Go get dressed," she said.

Jack balked. "Why?"

"Because we're going out for donuts, and you should have clothes on." She grinned into his brightening face.
"Unless you want to eat in your pajamas."

"No way!"
But he was smiling now, and excited. "I need socks."

She drew a deep breath.
"All right.
Let's find you some socks."

She
would
take care of things until Patrick's return.

* * *

Really, the day hadn't gone too badly, Kate thought, tossing crumpled boy's briefs on the laundry pile in the hall. The donuts had been a success. Jack had cooperated with his therapy. Kate had even had the chance to slog through some paperwork while he watched cartoons.

After lunch, they'd gone for a walk with the dog, and the boy had skipped and shouted and made up silly songs. It wasn't until bedtime that the strain of his father's absence affected Jack's sunny disposition, and then Patrick had called, making everything all right again.

Kate frowned and threw a diminutive pair of jeans on top of the dark load. All right for Jack, anyway.

After giving Kate a medical bulletin from the hospital and instructing her on Jack's bedtime routine, Patrick had spoken exclusively with his son. Kate told herself that Patrick's focus made perfect sense. The child needed his father's reassurance. She was just the baby-sitter. But as she'd coaxed Jack through his bath and another therapy session, as she'd flung dishes into the dishwasher and brewed her evening pot of coffee, Kate was aware of a percolating sense of grievance. Patrick could at least have asked how she was doing.

Scooping up a pile of dirty clothes, she staggered down the stairs to the laundry room off the kitchen. Obviously, Sean hadn't bothered with the wash during his two-day stint as Jack's caregiver, Kate thought virtuously. She found the laundry room as clean and as well-stocked as any operating room, stain stick, detergent and bleach marching with military precision on the shelf above the washing machine.

Maybe there were some advantages to moving in with an ex-Marine, Kate admitted reluctantly, measuring soap into the tub. But Patrick's father-knows-best routine on the phone had nettled her pride and hurt her feelings. Over fourteen years of medical
training,
and he barked at her like she was some recalcitrant recruit.

She stomped back up the stairs with a plastic laundry basket, fighting a yawn. Her scant night's sleep hadn't prepared her for a day in the company of an active almost-five-year-old. Maybe she'd better find an extra bed and turn in.

Easing open the door to Jack's room, she peeked in. In the glow of the night-light, she saw his dark head turned into his pillow, one white foot escaping the warmth of his covers. She was used to seeing children at the hospital, wakeful or sleeping. But there was something precious and particular about this boy sprawled trustingly in the tangle of blankets. Resisting the urge to brush back his hair, to touch his cheek, she tugged the sheet to cover his foot and slipped back into the hall.

She passed the white-and-black tiled bathroom. The next door opened on a bedroom, masculine and strangely impersonal in spite of the towel tossed on the floor and the framed family photos on the wall.
Patrick's room?
Ignoring the flutter in her stomach at the sight of the unmade bed, its pillow still indented from the weight of a man's head, Kate retreated to the hall.

That left one more room to explore. She opened the door at the end of the hall and flipped on the brass-plated switch. Light sprang up in the large room, catching her frozen like an intruder in the doorway. This, she realized, this was Patrick's bedroom.

I've got a perfectly good bed to take you to.

Square against the wall, tall between two wide, high windows, stood his bed. Solid posts and a
bevelled
top board framed thick, long slabs of golden oak, the burnished grain lustrous against the creamy walls. A crisp navy bedspread made it look neat; a twelve-inch mattress made it look soft. Kate had never seen a piece of furniture as inviting, or as intimidating, as Patrick MacNeill's bed. She was backing out cautiously when the bedside phone rang.

Kate jumped as if she'd heard a Code. No time to go downstairs, she thought. And then, scolding herself for her foolish reluctance to trespass, she hurried across the deep plush carpeting and answered the phone.

"MacNeills."

"You sound out of breath," Patrick said. "Is this a bad time?"

Kate sank
nervelessly
on to the wide, soft mattress. "No." She cleared her throat. "No, it's fine."

"Jack asleep?"

"Yes. Sorry." Mindful of his detailed instructions, she added, "He had a bath and brushed his teeth with the green toothpaste, and we read
Where the Wild Things Are
, and Finn MacCool made all the monster noises. I'll tell him you called, though."

"Why?"

Kate blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I already talked to my son, Kate. I'm calling to talk to you."

She was absurdly pleased. "Oh."

"Are you settling in okay? I suppose it's too much to hope Sean remembered to make up the bed in the guest room."

Disappointment pricked her. Patrick was being a good
host, that
was all, worrying over the comfort of his unexpected guest.

"How did you guess?" she asked wryly.

"I grew up with him, remember?"

"Well, don't worry about it." To prevent more of his directions, she added, "I'm sure I can find the linen closet. I even know bow to make hospital corners."

"Not necessary. Take my bed. I put clean sheets on before I left."

Her hands stroked the navy coverlet. "I couldn't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because."
Oh, heavens. "It's your bed."

His voice was deep and wicked. "But I like the idea of you sleeping in my bed."

Kate fought for a note of dry humor. "This isn't going to turn into one of those naughty phone calls, is it?"

"Do you want it to?" He sounded amused.

She put up her chin, forgetting he couldn't see.
"Of course not."

"Because I don't have any experience with that kind of thing, but I could give it a shot."

Kate was embarrassed to realize that her heart was beating faster. "Don't be silly."

"I can't help it. I haven't done this before. So, what are you wearing?"

She bit her lip to control her smile. "Oh, please."

"Isn't that how I'm supposed to start?" Patrick asked in mock innocence. "Come on, help me out here."

Kate tried to ignore her racing pulse.
"Jeans and a shirt.
Hardly seductive."

"Honey, I've seen you in jeans. They'll do. Believe me, they'll do. Is the shirt buttoned?"

Involuntarily, her hand flew to her throat. "It's a T-shirt."

"Damn," he said, and there was so much genuine regret in his voice that she laughed. "What color?"

Her fingers stroked the soft cotton below her neckline.
"Teal."

"What is that?
Green?
Blue?"

"Sort of a
greeny
blue, I guess."

"Uh-huh.
And underneath?"

Against her sensible cotton bra, her nipples drew taut. Her face was hot.
"Underwear."

He laughed softly. "That's real descriptive, honey. Guess I'll have to wait to find out in person.

She felt compelled to object. "I haven't said—"

"No, you haven't," he said roughly. "I just didn't figure that when I finally got you into bed I wouldn't be there."

There was an unexpected weariness in his voice, a fissure in his iron control. Instinctively, Kate responded to it, settling back against the headboard, drawing her legs up under her.

"How are things going, Patrick?" she asked gently.

"Fine."

"You sound tired."

"Yeah."

"How's your mother?"

"She's … okay."

Kate tapped her knee in frustration. "You know, getting you to talk about your feelings is like trying to make me describe my underwear. Can you tell me what's really going on, please?"

"I'd rather talk about your underwear."

She waited.

His breath blew out.
"Fine.
Things are a little tense up here. Mom wasn't expecting this, and she's upset."

"Are your brothers both there?"

"Yeah.
Sean is flirting with the nurses, and Con is arguing with the doctors."

"Oh, that's productive."

She could almost see his shrug. "It's distracting, anyway."

"Is there something I can do to help? Talk to your father's doctors, anything?"

"No. Mom's pretty much got the medical angle covered. She works here, remember. Hospitals take good care of their own."

Kate nodded. "Well, if you think of anything…"

"Thanks. You're already doing more than enough. It helps knowing Jack is with you. It helps talking with you."

His confidence honored and scared her at the same time. Protected by the distance that stretched between them, they were drawing closer in ways she'd never anticipated. She took another cautious step forward. "How are you doing?"

"Fine.
Like I told you, Dad's stabilized. There's not much to do at this point but wait for the surgery."

And Patrick was good at that, she thought with a tear at her heart. He'd had to be. Like an eagle forced from the sky, he'd trained his fierce, passionate spirit to withstand the confines of hospital waiting rooms. She could imagine how they all relied on him as the eldest. Silent, tempered Patrick would be an anchor for his worried mother, a rock for his shaken brothers,
a
stand-in for their stricken patriarch.

"The surgery's on Monday?"

"Yeah."
He hesitated. "I know it's a lot, asking you to stay on another couple days. I could fly home tomorrow, pick up Jack."

"No," she said firmly. "Stay there. We're doing fine."

"What about your work?"

Kate pressed two fingers between her brows, rubbing away her worry. She'd have to juggle to cover Monday. "It's taken care of."