A DOCTOR'S VOW

by Christine Rimmer

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  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

  Epilogue

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  My first PRESCRIPTION: MARRIAGE book, Dr. Devastating, was so much fun to write. I loved working with Christine Flynn and Susan Mallery, creating the doctors and nurses of Honeygrove Memorial. Naturally I was thrilled when our editors at Silhouette® asked us to do it again.

  Chris, Susan and I started brainstorming. What if, this time around, instead of three doctor heroes, we chose three heroines with MD after their names? We also decided to make our heroes three powerful, determined men, each destined to find love where he least expects it. And then we agreed that our heroes would have more in common than they realised, that this group of stories would be about a family—a family once torn apart by tragedy, reunited at last.

  We hope that in these three new PRESCRIPTION: MARRIAGE stories, we've given you a little bit of everything you look for when you choose Silhouette Special Edition: love, laughter, passion, fulfillment, heroes you can fall in love with—and heroines who face life and relationships with humour, heart and honesty.

  All the best,

  * * *

  Chapter One

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  A bright flash of hard light cut through Ronni's dreams. Then the sound of a drum, a huge drum. Someone pounding on it. Hard.

  With a small, disgruntled moan, Ronni turned over in bed, thinking disjointedly, Lightning, Thunder. A storm coming…

  Another harsh flash. More ominous drumming. Ronni opened her eyes—and saw the figure standing beside her bed.

  A burglar, she thought. There's a burglar in my bedroom.

  A very short burglar.

  All at once, as if a huge hand had ripped a hole in the belly of the sky, the rain began. A downpour. It beat on the roof. A sudden angry gust of wind sent it spraying at the French doors to the small patio beyond the bedroom, making a sound like gravel thrown against the panes.

  More lightning. A blinding burst of it, flooding in through the gauze curtains, casting the bedroom—and the undersized intruder—into sharp relief.

  She thought, not only small, but young—too young to be involved in a life of crime. Eight, maybe. Or nine. In striped pajamas and a dark-colored robe, standing by her bed at—she shot a glance at the clock—one-thirty in the morning.

  Recognition dawned.

  Not a burglar at all.

  Ryan Malone's son, the older one. She'd met him the afternoon before, when she'd stopped by the main house to pick up the keys. "This is Andrew," the boy's grandmother had said. "And this is Lisbeth. And here is Griffin…"

  In the harsh wash of light, the boy's blue eyes widened; he had seen that her eyes were no longer shut.

  Thunder cracked, roared out and faded off beneath the heavy thrumming of the rain. The boy stepped back as the room plunged into shadow once more. He whirled for the French doors.

  "Wait!" Ronni called, the sound a sleep-rough croak.

  The boy froze.

  "Please." She spoke more gently. "It's okay. Stay."

  The boy didn't turn toward her, but he didn't try to run again, either. He remained poised—waiting, no doubt, for what she might do next.

  Very slowly, so as not to send him fleeing, Ronni reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. The boy flinched when she did that, but he stayed where he was.

  "Andrew." Ronni schooled her tone, made it soft, nonthreatening. She pulled herself to a sitting position. "That's your name, isn't it?"

  The boy squared his shoulders, sucked in a breath—and resolutely remained facing away. "My name is Drew," he corrected her, speaking to the French doors. "My dad and my grandma still call me Andrew. I keep telling them I'm Drew now, but they keep forgetting."

  "Drew, then," Ronni said. "I like that. Drew."

  With a deep sigh, the boy turned toward her at last. They studied each other as the rain drummed away and lightning flared again, a boom of thunder following seconds after.

  Ronni asked, "What are you doing here in the middle of the night, Drew?"

  The boy chewed on his upper lip for a moment, then replied gravely, "I couldn't sleep. I had to check and be sure about you."

  Ronni frowned. "Be sure?"

  "Yeah." He was defiant now, the dark head held high. "Be sure. That you're really okay. That you won't … hurt anything. Here in the little house—or at my house, either." He glanced again toward the French doors—and escape.

  "Did something make you think I might not be okay?"

  "No. I don't know. I'm the oldest, that's all. I should be watching out. But I guess it was a bad idea."

  He was way too far away, in the shadows. "Drew, I can hardly see you." His shoulders tightened, his body tensed. She thought again that he would bolt. But no. He was caught and he knew it. "Won't you come here?"

  He took three reluctant steps in her direction. "What?"

  She pushed back the covers and swung her feet to the floor. "I'm a doctor, did you know that?"

  He answered with a careful nod. "I've seen you. At Dr. Heber's office. He's my doctor."

  "Yes." She dared to stand, to reach for her robe at the end of the bed. "And did you also know that when you're a doctor, you take a solemn vow?"

  His eyes narrowed. "A solemn vow?"

  Quickly, she stuck her arms in the sleeves of the robe, flipped her thick braid out from under the collar and tied the belt. "Do you know what that means—a solemn vow?"

  His black brows drew together. "Solemn. That's like … very serious, and vow means like a promise you can never, ever break."

  "Exactly. A serious, unbreakable promise to 'First, do no harm.' That means, more important than trying to help someone get well, is not to harm them. Not to hurt them."

  Was he buying? She couldn't be sure. And right then, even her five feet two inches felt a little too tall. She sat again and gave a small pat to the edge of the bed.

  He looked at the space she'd patted, mauled his upper lip some more—and then gave in. He came and sat beside her—but not too close, nearer the end of the bed than to her.

  "Do you see what I mean, Drew?"

  "Yeah, but you don't need to help me get well, because I'm not sick."

  "I can see you're not. And what I'm saying is, that as a doctor, I've taken an oath not to hurt people no matter what."

  "An oath?"

  "An oath is the same thing as a vow."

  He peered at her closely, gauging the truth of her words. At last he conceded, "Well. Okay. Since you made a solemn vow like that, I guess you have to keep it."

  "I do. It's a promise I will never break."

  He went on staring at her. He looked so … dignified. So young to be so old.

  She longed to reach out and put her arm around him, to comfort with a touch. But she sensed a deep reserve in him. And a desire to be considered mature. A hug would be too much—too forward, and too patronizing.

  All right, she thought, if hugs are out, what next?

  In the silence, the rain sounded even louder and harder than before. Lightning flashed twice, and thunder rumbled in the distance. It would be a wet walk back across the big yard to the main house.

  "Drew, how did you get in here?"

  He squirmed a little, as if the edge of the bed had suddenly become an uncomfortable place to sit. Then he admitted, "My mom always kept a key under the flowerpot outside there." He pointed toward the French doors. "I put it back where I found it." Another sigh, a gusty one. "But you're gonna say I shouldn't have used it, huh?"

  "That's right. You shouldn't have."

  He sniffed, and pulled his shoulders square once more. "Well, I'm sorry. I won't do it again." He stood. "And I'll just go back to my own house now."


  Nice try, kid, she thought. She rose to stand beside him. "Fine. Let's go." As she said that, she thought of the boy's father, her temporary landlord, Ryan Malone. Chief administrator of Honeygrove Memorial Hospital, Ryan Malone was an imposing man, a man who wore designer suits and came across as both cordial and aloof at the same time.

  Ronni had only really talked to him once—at a fund-raising dinner about two weeks before. Marty Heber, Drew's doctor and one of the two other pediatricians in her practice, had made the introductions. Somehow the talk had gotten around to her new condo, which wouldn't be ready before her apartment lease was up.

  "I have a guest house. You're welcome to use it," Ryan Malone had said. He'd pulled out a gold-embossed business card. "Call my secretary at Memorial. She'll handle the details with you."

  She hadn't spoken to Ryan Malone since. She'd called the number on the card. His secretary had described the little house to her and told her no rent would be required. Ryan Malone's mother-in-law had shown her around a week ago and turned over the key just yesterday.

  And now here she was, about to wake a virtual stranger in the middle of the night to return his wandering son to him. The idea did not thrill her. But what else could she do?

  Evidently, Drew's thoughts mirrored hers. "My dad won't like this. I think it's better if I just go back alone."

  "Drew. You know I can't let you do that."

  "Yes, you can. Nobody has to know I was here. And I promise I'll never do it again."

  Ronni gave the boy a long, patient look. Drew stared back, his eyes pleading. Ronni kept her expression firm.

  Finally, the boy muttered, "Oh, all right."

  She granted him a smile, then instructed, "Give me a minute. I'll see if I can dig up some coats and an umbrella."

  He slumped to the edge of the bed again as Ronni hurried out to the small front closet, where she got the trench coat and the boots she'd put there just the evening before. She'd thought she'd left her umbrella there, too, but now it was nowhere in sight.

  The coat and the boots would have to do. She rushed back to the bedroom with them, half-afraid that Drew might have taken advantage of her absence to make an escape.

  But no. He was still there, perched on the side of her bed, looking grim. She went to the small stack of boxes in the corner, found the one with Outerwear scrawled on it and got him her old hooded anorak. "Here. Put this on."

  He rose and trudged to her side. She handed him the anorak. He tugged it over his head as she yanked on her boots and donned her trench coat. "I don't know what to do about your feet," she said, shaking her head at his slippers.

  "It's okay. Let's just go." He was peering up at her. He had to tip his head way back to see, since the hood of the anorak covered all but the tip of his nose. She had to hide her smile at how cute he looked.

  He demanded, "I look ridiculous, don't I?"

  You look adorable, she thought, knowing that if she said that aloud, it would thoroughly insult him. "You look fine." She marched over and got her flashlight from the bed stand drawer. "Let's go."

  Outside, the wind had died. The lightning and thunder seemed to have stopped. But the rain was a cold curtain of water, coming down so hard and thick it poured off the branches of the pines and the hawthorns in relentless small streams. From the back porch of the main house, lights showed on either side of the patio, bright enough to light their way.

  Tucking her unneeded flashlight beneath her arm, Ronni flipped up her coat collar and hunched her shoulders. "Let's run for it."

  They bolted across the patio, through the small back gate and down the long driveway that ran between the guest cottage and the gracious two-story brick colonial where Ryan Malone and his family lived. At the back of the main house, they went through another gate, across a now-soaked stretch of lawn, to the back door. Ronni reached for the door handle.

  "Wait," Drew said. "It's locked." He lifted the hem of the anorak, dug in the pocket of his robe and produced a key.

  The door opened onto a large service porch. Drew, shoved the anorak's hood back off his head as he closed and locked the door behind them. Ronni flipped her collar down and brushed at her wet hair. Through the darkness, she could see tall pantry doors on one wall and the big, square shapes of a washer and dryer. A small light shone on a panel of buttons right next to the door: the alarm system.

  Drew saw where she was looking. "It's okay," he whispered. "I turned it off when I went out."

  She whispered back, "You can work that thing yourself?"

  He gave a small snort. "Ronni. I'm nine years old." He seemed to think that explained everything. And maybe it did. For "the oldest" in the family, a bright, too-responsible boy who had lost his mother—when? About two years ago, Ronni thought Marty Heber had said.

  Sympathy moved through Ronni, bittersweet and tender. She did understand this boy. She had spent most of her childhood feeling like a miniature adult, herself.

  "Okay." Drew's whisper had turned bleak. "What are we gonna do now?"

  Good question, Ronni thought as they stood there dripping water on the service porch floor. Whatever they did would be awkward at best. She probably should have led Drew around to the front door. Ringing the doorbell and giving the dignified Mr. Malone a chance to throw on a robe and come down to answer would be marginally less awkward than having to seek him out in his bed.

  But they were already inside and it was pouring out there. Her hair was drenched and poor Drew's house shoes were soaked through. Neither of them needed to get any wetter.

  "Well?" Drew demanded, his whisper edged with impatience now. Clearly he thought that if she wanted to run things, she ought to know what she planned to do next.

  An idea came to her. "Show me to the front door."

  "What for?"

  She sent him a put-upon glance as she turned on her flashlight. "Drew. Please. I'm doing the best I can, all right?"

  He looked at her sideways for a moment. "Why are we whispering?"

  And why did kids always ask so many questions? "I don't know. We can stop."

  He thought about that. "No. We can whisper, it's okay. And I guess if we turn on the lights, it will only scare everyone."

  "That's pretty much what I was thinking."

  "Actually, Ronni, you could just go on back to the little house now, if you wanted, and I could—"

  She gave him a look similar to the one she'd given him when he'd suggested coming back here alone.

  He stared at her stubbornly for a moment, then complained, "But if we have to wake them up, anyway, why can't we just…" He must have read her expression correctly, because he let the sentence fade away unfinished. He decided to try bargaining. "At least give me the flashlight, since I have to go first."

  Oh, right, she thought. Great idea. Give a flashlight to a nine-year-old. He'd be shining it everywhere but in front of them.

  Still, he did have to take the lead. She handed it over.

  Drew's slippers made soft squishing sounds as he led her through a huge kitchen and a dining room with a big cherry table and a gleaming parquet floor, into an expansive living room with Oriental rugs on the floors and artfully draped curtains framing the windows. The whole way, Drew never once sent the flashlight's beam anywhere it didn't need to be. Again, Ronni found herself feeling tenderly toward him—so young to be so grown-up.

  Finally, they reached the spacious front foyer, where a curving staircase led up to the second floor. The front porch light glowed softly through the beveled glass windows on either side of the big door.

  "Okay, we're here." Drew turned the flashlight on her, shining it right in her face, proving himself to be a bona fide nine-year-old, after all. "What do we do now?"

  "Give me that." She took the thing from him and turned it off.

  "Well? What do we do now?"

  "Just wait."

  "For what?"

  "Until I can see again. You blinded me."

  "Oh. Sorry."

  "Right." By then, her
eyes had adjusted somewhat. She tiptoed to the door, where she disengaged the dead bolt and pulled the door open.

  The bell, tucked into the door frame, had a little light inside it. She pushed it. A melodic, startlingly loud series of chimes rang out. Both Ronni and Drew winced at the sound. When the chimes faded, Ronni rang once more for good measure, then shut and locked the door and went back to stand beside Drew.

  "He's not gonna like this," Drew warned, still whispering. "He works really hard and he needs his sleep."

  "You should have thought of that a little earlier."

  Drew was silent for a moment. Then he muttered, "Well, you weren't supposed to wake up."

  She muttered right back, "That's no excuse for sneaking into a person's house in the middle of the night—and I think you know it, too."

  "I said I was sorry." Now he actually did sound contrite. "And I meant what I said, Ronni. I'll never do it again."

  "I'm glad to hear that. And I'm sure your father will be, too."

  Right then, a light burst on at the top of the stairs. Ronni and Drew gasped in unison and looked up.

  Ryan Malone stood on the landing above, his hand on the light switch, wearing a robe very similar to his son's. His thick dark hair was mussed and his eyes drooped a little, still heavy with sleep. But even startled from his bed in the middle of the night, he looked terribly commanding. A man who took charge, a man to be reckoned with, even in his pajamas.

  He started down the stairs.

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  « ^ »

  At the foot of the stairs, Ryan Malone paused.

  He had no idea yet what was going on here, but he could see it had something to do with Andrew—who, it appeared, had been out wandering around in a rainstorm after midnight.

  The little redheaded pediatrician, who was using his guest house for the next month or so, smiled at Ryan gamely. "Drew decided to come over and check me out."

  The woman clutched a flashlight in her left hand. Her trench coat was rain-dark on the shoulders. Flowered pajama bottoms showed beneath the coat, tucked into a pair of calf-high rain boots. Beads of water gleamed in her hair—that hard-to-tame Raggedy Ann kind of hair. She had it tied into a single braid down her back, but little bits of it had burst free, to curl in a damp halo of corkscrews around a face that belonged on a pixie—or maybe an elf.