The Gift

by Julie Garwood

  The ambulance had just turned around to go in the direction the boys were pointing, but when the gunshots were fired, it changed course. Sirens on, the ambulance crossed over the curb and swerved to miss the hospital emergency entrance sign. It bounded across the park toward the gunshot victim, weaving in and out of the crowd that was scrambling toward the boulevard.

  Ellie jumped to her feet and ran after it. Her mind was racing. Who were the surgeons on call tonight? Edmonds and Walmer, she remembered, and she’d seen both of them in the hospital. Good.

  The target had been a good distance away from the shooter, but he’d taken a direct hit to the torso. Ellie had no idea how bad the wound was, but she thought, if she could stabilize him, he’d make it to the OR.

  The ambulance crossed the grassy area of the park in no time and stopped a few feet away from the downed man. Two paramedics leapt to the ground. Ellie recognized them: Mary Lynn Scott and Russell Probst. Russell opened the back doors and pulled out the gurney while Mary Lynn reached for the large, orange trauma bag and rushed forward, sliding to her knees beside the victim. By the time Ellie reached the scene, armed agents had surrounded him. One knelt on the ground talking to the man, trying to keep him calm, while two others stood over him.

  An agent, taller than the other two and much more muscular through the shoulders, blocked her view. He barely glanced at her as he brusquely ordered, “You don’t need to see this. Go back to your soccer game.”

  Go back to your game? Was he serious? Ellie was about to protest when one of the paramedics looked up, spotted her, and shouted, “Oh, thank God. Dr. Sullivan.”

  All three agents looked at her skeptically and then slowly stepped aside so that she could get past. Mary Lynn tossed her a pair of gloves, and Ellie pulled them on as she knelt down beside the man to assess the injury. Blood saturated the man’s shirt. She gently lifted the compress Mary Lynn had pressed to his shoulder, saw the damage, and immediately sought to stem the bleeding. While she gave orders to Russell and Mary Lynn, she kept her voice steady. The patient was conscious, and she didn’t want him to panic.

  “How bad is it?” he asked.

  She made it a point never to lie to a patient. That didn’t mean she had to be brutally honest, however. “It’s bad, but I’ve seen much worse, much worse.”

  Russell handed her a clamp, and she found the source of the bleeding. The bullet hadn’t gone through but had made quite an entrance.

  Once Mary Lynn had gotten the IV line in, Ellie nodded to her to begin the drip.

  “What’s your name?” she asked as she began packing the wound.

  “Sean . . . Sean . . . ah, hell, I can’t remember my last name.” His eyelids began to flutter as he struggled to stay conscious.

  The agent kneeling behind him said, “Goodman.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Sean said, his voice growing weaker.

  “Can you remember if you’re allergic to anything?” Mary Lynn asked.

  “Just bullets.” Sean stared at Ellie through half-closed eyes. “Are you a doctor?”

  “Yes,” she said, flashing a smile. She finished packing the wound and leaned back on her heels.

  “Dr. Sullivan’s a trauma surgeon,” Russell explained. “If you had to get shot, she’s the one you want operating on you. She’s the best there is.”

  “Okay, he’s stable. You can take him,” Ellie said as she peeled off her gloves and dropped them in the plastic container Mary Lynn opened for her.

  Sean suddenly grabbed her arm, his grip surprisingly strong. “Wait . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I want to marry Sara. Am I going to see her again?”

  She leaned over him. “Yes, you will,” she said. “But first you’re going into the OR to get that bullet out. Now sleep. It’s all good. The surgeon will take care of you.”

  “Who’s on tonight?” Russell asked.

  “Edmonds and Walmer,” Mary Lynn answered.

  Sean tightened his hold on Ellie’s arm. “I want you.” He didn’t give her time to respond but held tight and forced himself to stay awake as he repeated, “He said you’re the best. I want you to operate.”

  She put her hand on top of his and nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  She stood and stepped back to get out of the way so that the paramedics could put Sean into the ambulance but was stopped by something solid. It felt as though she’d just backed into a slab of granite. The agent who had told her to go back to her soccer game was blocking her exit with his warm, hard chest. He put his hands on her shoulders to steady her, then let go. When he still didn’t get out of her way, she stood her ground pressed against him.

  “Dr. Sullivan, do you want to ride with us?” Russell called out.

  “No, go ahead. He’s stable now.”

  Russell swung the doors shut, jumped into the driver’s seat, and the ambulance was on its way.

  Ellie turned to the agent who had been kneeling with Sean. “Was anyone else hurt?”

  The granite wall behind her answered. “Not hurt, dead.” He was very matter-of-fact.

  “They weren’t ours,” another agent explained. “They were wanted men.”

  She turned around and came face to shoulders with the most intimidating man she’d ever seen, and that was saying something considering the monster chief of surgery she worked under. This man didn’t look anything like him, though. The agent was tall, dark, and scary, with thick black hair and penetrating, steely gray eyes. His firm square jaw was covered with at least one day’s growth of beard, maybe two. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in at least twenty-four hours, a look she knew all too well.

  Ellie’s heart skipped a beat. The man could scare the quills off a porcupine. But, oh God, was he sexy! Ellie gave herself a mental slap. An intimidating man who was built like a monument and could melt iron with his menacing glare—this was what she was attracted to?

  The agent who had been kneeling stepped forward and put out his hand. “I’m Agent Tom Bradley. Sean Goodman’s my partner.” He introduced her to the agent on his left and then to the man in front of her. “Agent Max Daniels.”

  She nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get to the OR.” She didn’t wait for permission, but turned and ran back to the hospital.

  Thirty minutes later she was dropping the bullet she’d retrieved from Sean’s shoulder into a small metal pan. “Bag it and get it to one of the agents waiting outside. You know the drill.”

  Then the real work of repairing the damage began. Ellie had learned over the years that there was no such thing as a simple bullet wound. Bullets had a way of doing considerable damage before settling, but Agent Goodman was lucky. His bullet hadn’t penetrated any major organs or nerves.

  Once she’d closed, she followed the patient to recovery, wrote orders, and went to talk to the crowd gathered in the surgical waiting room. A dozen people with worried faces sat waiting for the news. Agent Daniels was standing, leaning against the wall with his arms across his chest. His gaze followed her as she entered the room, and her heart began to race. She knew she looked a mess. She pulled off her cap and threaded her fingers through her hair. Why in heaven’s name she wanted to look good for him was beyond her comprehension, and yet she did.

  “The surgeon’s here,” Daniels announced.

  A petite young woman jumped up and rushed forward, followed by Agent Bradley and a crowd of worried relatives.

  “The surgery went well,” she began and then explained some of what she had repaired, trying not to be too technical. “I expect him to make a full recovery.”

  Sara, his fiancée, was crying as she stammered her thank-you. She shook Ellie’s hand and held on to it.

  “You can see him in about an hour,” Ellie told her. “He’s heavily sedated and he’s not going to know you’re there,” she warned. “He’ll be in recovery for a while, then they’ll take him to ICU. Once the nurses in ICU have him settled, they’ll send someone to get you. Any
questions?”

  A frazzled-looking nurse appeared in the doorway. “Dr. Sullivan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you mind looking at Mrs. Klein for us? She’s Edmond’s patient, but he’s in surgery.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  She patted Sara’s hand and pulled free. “All right then. It’s all good.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Agent Daniels smile as she turned to leave. She walked down the corridor and had just turned the corner when he caught up with her.

  “Hey, Doctor.”

  She turned around. Her stupid heart went into overdrive again. “Yes?”

  “We’re going to need to talk to you about the shooting. You’ll have to give a statement.”

  “When?”

  “How about after you check on that patient?”

  She couldn’t resist. “Gee, I don’t know. I hate to miss soccer practice.”

  She was laughing as she pushed the doors aside and disappeared into ICU.

  Max Daniels stood there staring after her, a slight grin crossing his face.

  “Damn,” he whispered. “Damn.”

  Table of Contents

  Teaser chapter

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  DUTTON

  Published by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.); Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England; Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd); Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd); Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India; Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd); Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

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  Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © 1991 by Julie Garwood

  All rights reserved

  eISBN : 978-1-101-53315-4

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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  Prologue

  England, 1802

  It was only a matter of time before the wedding guests killed one another.

  Baron Oliver Lawrence had taken every precaution, of course, for it was his castle King George had chosen for the ceremony. He was acting as host until the king of England arrived, a duty he embraced with as much joy as he would a three-day flogging; but the order had come from the king himself. and Lawrence, ever loyal and obedient, had immediately complied. Both the Winchester family and the St. James rebels had protested his selection most vehemently. Their noise was all for naught, however, for the king was determined to have his way. Baron Lawrence understood the reason behind the decree. Unfortunately, he was the only man in England still on speaking terms with both the bride’s and the groom’s families.

  The baron wouldn’t be able to boast about that fact much longer. He believed his time on the sweet earth could well be measured in heartbeats. Because the ceremony was to take place on neutral ground, the king actually believed the gathering would behave. Lawrence knew better.

  The men surrounding him were in a killing mood. One word given in the wrong tone of voice, one action perceived to be the least bit threatening could well become the spark needed to ignite the bloodbath. God only knew they were itching to get at one another. The looks on their faces said as much.

  The bishop, dressed in ceremonial whites, sat in a highbacked chair between the two feuding families. He looked neither to the left, where the Winchesters were sequestered, nor to the right, where the St. James warriors were stationed, but stared straight ahead. To pass the time the clergyman drummed his fingertips on the wooden arm of his chair. He looked as though he’d just eaten a fair portion of sour fish. He let out a high-pitched sigh every now and then, a sound the baron thought was remarkably like the whinny of a cranky old horse, then let the damning silence envelop the great hall again.

  Lawrence shook his head in despair. He knew he wouldn’t get any help from the bishop when the real trouble broke out. Both the bride and the groom waited in separate chambers above the stairs. Only after the king had arrived would they be led, or dragged, into the hall. God help the two of them then, for all hell would surely break loose.

  It was a sorry day indeed. Lawrence had actually had to post his own contingent of guards betwixt the king’s knights along the perimeter of the hall just as an added deterrent. Such an action at a wedding was unheard of, yet it was just as unheard of for the guests to come to the ceremony armed for battle. The Winchesters were so loaded down with weapons they could barely move about. Their insolence was shameful, their loyalty more than suspect. Still, Lawrence was hard put to condemn the men completely. It was true that even he found it a challenge to blindly obey his leader. The king was, after all, as daft as a duck.

  Everyone in England knew he had lost his mind, yet no one dared speak the fact aloud. They’d lose their tongues, or worse, for daring to tell the truth. The marriage about to take place was more than ample testimony to any doubting Thomases left in the ton that their leader had gone around the bend. The king had told Lawrence he was determined to have everyone in his kingdom get along. The baron didn’t have an easy answer to that childlike expectation.

  But for all of his madness, George was their king, and damn it all, thought Lawrence, the wedding guests should show a little respect. Their outrageous conduct shouldn’t be tolerated. Why, two of the seasoned Winchester uncles were blatantly fondling the hilts of their swords in obvious anticipation of the bloodletting. The St. James warriors immediately noticed and retaliated by taking a unified step forward. They didn’t touch their weapons, though, and in truth most of the St. James’s men weren’t even armed. They smiled instead. Lawrence thought that action was just as telling.

  The Winchesters outnumbered the St. James clan six to one. That didn’t give them the advantage, however. The St. James men were a much meaner lot. The stories about their escapades were legendary. They were known to tear a man’s eyes out just for squinting; they liked to kick an opponent in his groin fo
r the fun of hearing him howl; and God only knew what they did to their enemies. The possibilities were simply too appalling to think about.

  A commotion coming from the courtyard turned Lawrence’s attention. The king’s personal assistant, a dourfaced man by the name of Sir Roland Hugo, rushed up the steps. He was dressed in festive garb, but the colorful red hose and white tunic made his imposing bulk all the more rotund-looking. Lawrence thought Hugo resembled a plump rooster. Because he was his good friend, he kept that unkind opinion to himself.

  The two men quickly embraced. Then Hugo took a step back. In a hushed tone he said, “I rode ahead the last league. The king will be here in just a few more minutes.”

  “Thank God for that,” Lawrence replied, his relief visible. He mopped at the beads of sweat on his brow with his linen handkerchief.

  Hugo glanced over Lawrence’s shoulder, then shook his head. “It’s as quiet as a tomb in your hall,” he whispered. “Have you had a time of it keeping the wedding guests amused?”

  Lawrence looked incredulous. “Amused? Hugo, nothing short of a human sacrifice could keep those barbarians amused.”

  “I can see your sense of humor has helped you through this atrocity,” his friend replied.

  “I’m not jesting,” the baron snapped. “You’ll quit your smile, too, Hugo, when you realize how volatile the situation has become. The Winchesters didn’t come bearing gifts, my friend. They’re armed for battle. Yes, they are,” he rushed on when his friend shook his head in apparent disbelief. “I tried to persuade them to leave their arsenal outside, but they wouldn’t hear of it. They aren’t in an accommodating mood.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Hugo muttered. “The soldiers riding escort with our king will disarm them in little time. I’ll be damned if I allow our overlord to walk into such a threatening arena. This is a wedding, not a battlefield.”