One by one, she addressed the items on her list. Capital equipment. Building repairs, including a new roof and high-efficiency, triple-paned windows. A newer, larger MRI unit. A PACS X-ray diagnostic system. An updated CT scanner.
When she got to the end of her proposal and asked for questions, Leo launched himself to his feet.
“This is ridiculous. Anyone here can tell you that this is totally impossible. Our revenues are declining and we can’t come up with this kind of money. I suggest, young lady, that you take a hard look at where you are. This isn’t New York City.”
A few snickers traveled through the crowd.
Welcoming the chance for rebuttal, she gave him a patient smile. “If the hospital goes under, most of the employees—including nurses, aides, housekeepers, maintenance people, pharmacy, lab and secretarial staff—would need to move elsewhere to find jobs. If that happens, this town will lose families, and declining enrollment could lead to a consolidated school district. Businesses—like yours, Leo—will struggle.”
Leo snorted. “And the option is for the hospital to go too far in the red, and then go bankrupt?”
“No.” She glanced at the board members seated at the front table, then addressed the crowd. “We have volunteers who have already gathered eight thousand signatures supporting the addition of a tax-levy proposal to the ballot in November. We’ve gotten a late start on this, because I just arrived here at the beginning of September. If we don’t make the required number of signatures in time, we’ll work at having a special ballot this spring.”
A burly man in overalls stood up, his face reddened and his jaw working in agitation. “So we’re all going to get hit with higher taxes. Like any of us can afford that!”
“Just a one-and-a-half percent sales tax, for five years. A very small amount, spread county wide, but it will allow us to make all of the major repairs and improvements this building needs. I’ve already applied for a USDA grant for the X-ray system we need, and there are other grants available.”
A buzz of conversation arose at the back. “I assure you, none of these proposals has been made lightly,” Erin continued. “I’ve met with staff from every department and talked to consultants from both the State of Wisconsin Health Department and from the private sector. I look forward to—”
From near the doorway, she saw Grace beckoning to her.
“I…look forward to continuing to work on this project and will have a final report available by the end of this month.” She nodded to the board. “Thanks for your time.”
She made her way back through the crowd, catching both positive and negative comments along the way. When she reached the door, Grace signaled her to step out into the hallway.
“What did you think?” Erin whispered, as she fell into step with the older woman. “I knew there would be some dissenters, but Leo was in unusually good form tonight. I think he was leading the pack.”
“He’s not our only problem tonight,” Grace said in a low voice once they were well out of hearing. “We’ve had another unexpected death. This time, a sixty-eight-year-old man admitted for chest pain last night who was doing well, and was likely going to be discharged in the morning. He ate supper, joked with the staff. Twenty minutes later, one of the aides found him dead.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IGNORING HER ARTHRITIC left hip, Grace hurried down the hall with Erin at her side. “Two of the doctors were here this evening. We’ve tried calling both of them back. I did a quick review of the charting—everything seemed to be appropriate and up-to-date as far as Milton’s meds and cares were concerned. His blood pressure and vital signs were normal, he was eating seventy-five to a hundred percent. Fluid I and 0’s have been fine. Afebrile since he was brought in.”
“And his chest pain?”
“Resolved…possibly a severe bout of indigestion. Epigastric pain can mimic certain heart symptoms and send people running to the hospital, but we’re always glad when patients play it safe. We always do an EKG and run some cardiac enzymes stat, to rule out heart damage.”
They stopped as they neared the deserted lobby.
“We lost Frank Willoughby a month ago—almost to the day,” Erin said quietly. “He was ready to go home the next morning, too.”
“That’s true, poor man.”
“Have you seen any other unexplained deaths over the past few years?” Erin asked.
“Unexplained?” Grace felt herself bristle at the implication. “We give the very best of care—just look at our records. We had two tube-feeders who were both here for over three years, each in a persistent vegetative state. Neither one of them ever developed a single pressure ulcer.”
“A sign of excellent nursing care,” Erin agreed.
“Most people here have known each other since childhood, and I can’t think of a single nurse or nurse’s aide who would hurt a fly, much less harm a patient.”
“I just want to be sure.”
“Many of our elderly admissions have multiple chronic illnesses. Add acute congestive heart failure, pneumonia and strokes, and there’s no getting around the fact that all people die, eventually.” Grace sighed. “Yes, we’ve lost patients—sometimes they take a turn for the worse when you think they’re doing well. But no one has ever accused us of inadequate care.”
Frowning, Erin started for the east-wing nurses’ station. “There will be an autopsy, right?”
“In this county, deaths in a hospital, nursing home or hospice setting aren’t reported to the sheriff’s office, barring unusual circumstances.”
“I’d say this qualifies, unless the doctor has an explanation. Whose patient was he?”
“Dr. Reynolds, I believe.”
Erin’s gait faltered when they reached the station at the end of the hallway and found Reynolds writing in a chart at the desk. When he spun his chair around to greet them, Erin paled…and his mouth hardened into a grim line.
“Mrs. Lang is wondering about an autopsy for Mr. Striker,” Grace said, watching the doctor and the new administrator with interest. “Do you have a cause of death?”
“Even with his previous diagnoses and current reason for hospitalization, we couldn’t be sure without an autopsy.” Reynolds raked a hand through his thick, dark hair. “I was just looking for next of kin. There’s no one close, according to the admission sheet.”
“Then you agree that an autopsy is in order?”
“A man of his age and overall condition should’ve walked out of here on his own power.” Reynolds swiveled back to the chart, flipped it open and scrawled a new order inside. “Have the unit nurse call the sheriff’s office, so the county coroner can be notified. I’m just as upset about this as you are, believe me.”
ANOTHER BORING MONDAY. Drew hiked his backpack higher and stomped down the front steps of the school, wishing he could snap his fingers and be back home in Milwaukee…where he could skip school easily as not, and just hang out with his friends on the street.
Here, it was like he was five years old. Haley picked them up at three-thirty sharp. They all went straight home, where they were practically confined to the house and yard. On weekends, Erin was at home all the time—working on office stuff, or cooking or cleaning.
She was cool. The food was good and the beds were soft, and the place was cleaner than any place he’d ever been. But it still wasn’t the same. Then again, if he hadn’t opened his big fat mouth, he’d still be back on the streets, and Tyler…
He scowled, remembering the bruises, and the way his brother had taken to hiding in the back of a closet, behind a pile of dirty clothes. Maybe it was boring here. Maybe he and Tyler didn’t fit in, but at least they were safe.
He took aim and kicked a rock off the sidewalk, his anger building. Maybe Tyler was safe, but now—
At a girlie, high-pitched scream, he looked up and saw a kid from his class crouched low, clutching her knee. Blood seeped between her fingers and tears were already trailing down her pale white skin. Cara—no, Sara wa
s her name, and she glanced up at him with such hurt in her eyes that he felt lower than dirt.
“I—” His apology died on his lips when the bus monitor, a fifth-grade teacher who watched the kids leave at the end of the day, wheeled around from her position out by the street, took one look and came striding up the sidewalk.
Everyone said Miss Pratchett was someone to watch out for. Nearly six feet tall, with long bony fingers and a permanent scowl, she could lift a guy right off the ground with one hand at the back of his neck, and shake him like a puppy, some kids said.
Drew scanned the street for Haley’s car, then edged back into the crowd of kids still coming out of the building. Dread tied his stomach into a cold knot.
Miss Pratchett wasn’t fooled. “Young man—you, with the black backpack. Come here. Now.”
The other kids, sensing a good confrontation, parted to let him pass, then stayed to watch as he grudgingly moved forward.
The teacher dug in her jacket pocket, pulled on a pair of plastic gloves and inspected the wound before looking over her shoulder at him. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
What could he say? She’d already made up her mind about him, just like everyone else always did. From the corner of his eye he saw Lily and Tyler edge forward through the circle of kids surrounding them. “I didn’t mean it. It was an accident, honest.”
“He hauled off and kicked something real hard,” some kid piped up. “It coulda hit her in the face!”
Miss Pratchett’s eyes narrowed. “Name?”
“Drew. Lang,” he added lamely, when she continued to glare at him.
“Have you anything to say to this young lady?”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, looking down at the sidewalk.
The teacher ripped open an adhesive bandage and positioned it over the wound, then gave Sara a pat on the shoulder. “Make sure you take this Band-Aid off when you get home, wash your knee well and have your mother take a look, okay? I’d have you go to the school nurse, but you’d miss your bus.” She turned to look at Drew as she stood up. “Do you think that’s enough, Drew? Just saying ‘sorry’?”
Sara straightened and pulled her backpack over a shoulder, then gave Drew a shy smile. “It was just an accident. He didn’t mean to do it.”
“I think it was more than that.” Pratchett folded her long arms over her chest and looked at them both. “Perhaps he needs to have a little talk with the principal tomorrow, after school.”
“He just…tripped,” Sara insisted. “Honest.”
Two yellow buses pulled up along the sidewalk, and the kids surged forward. Sara joined them, limping just a little.
The teacher didn’t move. “She says it was an accident, but I’ve seen you out here, Drew. Every day after school. You look like a kid who’s just spoiling for a fight. Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
He stared down at his shoes.
“You’re in Miss Vinton’s class. Right?”
Of course she would know. School was like a big spiderweb, where everything connected. Trouble in one grade just got passed up to the next, until everyone knew every last thing you’d ever done wrong—and only expected the worst.
“I think I’ll need to have a little talk with Mrs. Lang.”
Which meant they’d probably tell her to come in for a meeting, and Erin would have a disappointed look on her face that said she’d expected better of him. Again.
Life sucked.
Giving Pratchett the barest nod so she wouldn’t press him any further, he trudged to the sidewalk, and wished he could turn back the clock.
ON THURSDAY AFTERNOON, Connor paced the length of the house once. Twice. Three times, his frustration building with each stride.
There was no point in coming back here to relax after a long day. Every waking minute he heard the echoes of Drew and Tyler’s voices when they’d played outside in the snow. Of Lily’s voice, nearly breathless with anticipation, when she’d invited him downstairs for the pancakes she’d helped prepare.
They were all good kids. Friendlier, after he’d started taking the time to stop in at their place now and then. He missed the laughter and the boisterous horseplay…and he missed Lily’s fragile, childish beauty, and her soft, sweet voice.
He’d missed too much, dammit—eight years of his daughter’s life, thanks to Stephanie’s secrecy. Eight years that he could never take back.
And now…what should he do now?
The letter from his lawyer lay open on the counter. He’d been denied his rights—no kidding—and had valid grounds for contesting the adoption. Numerous cases before this had set a strong precedent for winning full custody, if he chose.
But what was best? His selfish need to never miss another day of Lily’s life? The prospect of a home with no siblings, without a mother who would know how to tie ribbons in her hair and give her home-cooked meals?
Or was there some value in growing up with her father—her own flesh and blood—who would simply love her more than anyone else possibly could?
In the past twelve days, he’d agonized over what was best for her. Longed to stop at Erin’s place where he could just sweep Lily up into his arms and tell her who he was—and how he’d instantly, irrevocably fallen in love with her.
But always, his more practical side warned him what that could do to her. She’d had uncounted changes in her young life. Long hospitalizations, foster homes. There’d been no one person in her life who’d loved and cared for her every day—until Erin adopted her.
Surely the child had bonded so thoroughly with Erin that to wrench her away would be an unpardonable sin. Yet there could be shared custody…visitation rights….
The unfairness of it all burned at his soul. Stephanie surely should have known that he would have welcomed their baby in an instant. Yet she’d stolen that opportunity from him, and had left their child in the uncertain and changeable world of foster care, where the home Lily had one day might not be available six months later. What kind of mother would do that?
And Erin Lang had kept her secret.
As Connor paced the room several more times, Maisie lifted her head from her paws and watched with mild interest, flapping her silky tail against the floor whenever he drew near.
Uttering a soft curse, he wheeled around, grabbed his keys and whistled to her. “Come on, girl…want to go visit that pup? It’s time we went for a little ride—and it may be the last time we’re welcome.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
CONNOR DROVE SLOWLY DOWN the lane from his house and stopped briefly at the turnoff to Erin’s. Her babysitter’s rust bucket of a Mustang was still there, so he took Maisie back home, gave her some dog treats as consolation, and then continued into town.
He’d skipped the weekly breakfast at Ollie’s this morning, not wanting to risk an awkward encounter with Erin in front of so many prying eyes. Still, he’d driven past the diner on his way to the clinic, and her minivan hadn’t been parked in its usual place. Had she decided to avoid him?
Surely she had to be nervous, wondering when he would make a move regarding Lily. He’d practically threatened her with that prospect, though he hadn’t meant to come on quite so strong. But now…
The hospital staff parking lot was half-full, since most of the office workers left at five. He parked next to her Windstar and strode in the front door—and nearly collided with the elderly housekeeper who usually worked nights.
She jerked her scrub bucket out of the way. “Sorry, sir,” she mumbled, taking a step back in obvious deference.
“My fault. I wasn’t paying attention.” He nodded to her and headed for the open door of Erin’s office, his shoes squeaking on the damp floor.
The noise didn’t jar Erin out of her concentration.
There had to be twenty old charts piled high on her desk, thick ones and thin, each enclosed in a manila folder and held with a rubber band. She chewed on the end of her pen, then jotted a few notes on the yellow legal pad by her phone.
She jerked her head up in surprise, then her eyes widened. Her hand flew to the neckline of her pale blue sweater. “Connor.”
“I drove past your house, but your car wasn’t there. I should have guessed that you’d be here.”
She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Not for much longer. Barring an occasional late meeting, I’m always home in time to make supper.”
There was a defensive note in her voice that he hadn’t heard before—a reminder that everything had changed between them, and not for the better. “Maybe I should stop at your house later this evening?”
“No…this is okay.” Only the flutter of her fingertips at her throat gave away her tension as she met his eyes. “Is there something you need?”
“I need to talk to you about Lily.” He dropped a document from the Wisconsin Regional Genetics Lab on her desk. “I…got this back today.”
“Already?” She blinked and shook her head as she looked at the report. “We just sent it off last Friday.”
“I paid nearly double to have it done stat, and express mailed. I figured it was best to know for sure where we stood.” He’d thought he might feel a sense of victory, but looking at her pale face and trembling fingers, he felt only a wave of regret over how this would change her life. “DNA tests are better than 99.9% accurate, and they say she is mine.”
“But h-her adoption was legal. She finally has a stable, loving home, with brothers and a mom who loves her. Would you try to take away the only real family she’s ever known?”
He walked into the room and dropped into one of the chairs in front of her desk. “The adoption actually wasn’t legal. Stephanie made false statements regarding Lily’s parentage, and continued to keep the child a secret from me despite countless opportunities to reveal the truth. My lawyer also discovered that my rights were improperly terminated. But,” he added gently, “I’m not here to argue or lay blame.”
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