by Radclyffe
“Get it right down the center of the tendon.”
“Okay?” Zebrowski asked tentatively as he edged the needle into the tissue.
“That’s better,” Quinn commented as she watched him place his first stitch. “Now tag it with the hemostat and put in another one just like it.” She looked up to find Honor watching her with a serious expression in her golden brown eyes. Quinn quirked a brow. “What?”
“Nothing.” What Honor had been thinking was that Quinn was not only a fine surgeon, but also a good teacher. She appeared on the surface to be precisely as she had been advertised—an excellent addition to the ER. Except that Honor couldn’t make sense of the picture. Why should someone with Quinn’s skills be working there? All that she could imagine was that there had been some breach in ethics that had cost Quinn her surgical career. That thought bothered her more than a little, because it was difficult not to like the dynamic surgeon.
Quinn divided her attention between watching the resident complete the tendon repair and trying to figure out what she had just seen in Honor’s eyes. Curiosity, confusion, and, oddly, compassion. The mix of emotions was powerful and compelling. She caught her breath, feeling her heart trip unexpectedly. In the next instant, it was steady again, and she ignored the slight flutter of uneasiness. “Do you need me?”
“When you get a chance, I want you to take a look at some films on a twenty-year-old who took a header off his bicycle. I think he’s got a fracture of the mandibular body, but I’m not sure. The x-ray isn’t diagnostic and his exam is equivocal.”
“Okay. As soon as we get a cast on Mr. Garcia, I’ll be right there.”
Honor noticed that Quinn had dark circles under her eyes, and for the first time, she realized that the young surgeon looked exhausted. She knew that Quinn had been working hard—they all worked pretty much nonstop for twelve to fourteen hours—but it hardly seemed likely that the demands of the ER would be that much different than what Quinn had experienced as a surgeon. Once again sensing something amiss, Honor felt a surge of concern. “Take your time.”
Ten minutes later, Quinn leaned with a palm against the wall and studied the film, which had been hung on the light box, of the young man with the possible jaw fracture.
“What do you think?” Honor asked as she walked up beside her.
“He doesn’t seem to be very tender on physical exam, and his bite looks okay. His teeth come together perfectly,” Quinn observed.
“I know. That’s what bothers me. The mechanism of injury is right for a jaw fracture, but his physical findings are unimpressive, to say the least. But then, the x-ray is suggestive.” Honor leaned forward as well, her shoulder brushing Quinn’s as she stared at the x-ray. She reached out to trace a faint line between two of the lower teeth. “Looks like a fracture right there. Maybe it’s an old inj—”
“Honor, I’m sorry to interrupt,” Linda said with an uncharacteristic hint of urgency in her voice. “Robin just called from the car. It doesn’t sound serious, but there’s been an accident.”
“Oh my God.” Honor’s face lost all its color, and for an instant, she swayed. There’s been an accident. We’re sorry to have to tell you...
Quinn felt Honor tremble, saw the panic in her eyes, and without thinking, rested her hand against Honor’s back, supporting her gently. She made small circles with her fingertips, unconsciously hoping to soothe her. She wasn’t entirely certain what was happening, but Honor’s terror was clear. And seeing her suffer made Quinn ache.
“Honor,” Linda said sharply, placing both hands on her friend’s shoulders. “She’s okay. Robin says she’s okay. They’ll be here in just a minute.”
Without even realizing it, Honor leaned into the warmth of Quinn’s body, needing something solid to anchor her while she fought the memories and struggled to stay in the present. Heart pounding, her voice tight with fear, she asked, “What happened?”
“I’m not sure. Something about one ball and two heads.”
“Is she conscious? Is she talking?” Honor tried to think clearly, but she knew her words were rushing together as fear threatened to overwhelm her. There’s been an accident...
“I don’t have the details. I just got a thirty-second phone call.” Linda shook her head in frustration. “But the most important thing is that Robin said it—”
Honor jerked away from Linda’s grasp and ran toward the emergency room entrance. Quinn looked after her and saw a muscular woman in a bloodstained T-shirt and gym shorts carrying a softly crying blond child in her arms. The child’s face and neck were streaked with blood, and a white gauze pad was taped over part of her forehead and left eye.
“Who is that?” Quinn asked, walking rapidly to keep up with Linda.
“Honor’s daughter.”
Chapter Four
The instant Honor saw the blond head turn toward her and the tremulous smile of recognition on her daughter’s face, her panic began to ebb. She’s awake and alert, no head injury. Oh, thank God. Despite the fact that her stomach still churned with anxiety laced with the aftermath of old terrors, she smiled and kept her voice level and steady as she reached for her child. “Hi, sweetie. Come here and let me hold you a while. Aunt Robin probably needs a rest.”
“I can walk,” the blond child said fretfully, but she extended her arms to Honor nonetheless.
“I know you can, but I want to give you a hug first.”
Carefully, Robin passed the child to Honor, who hitched her daughter onto her hip as if she were two instead of nearly eight. Even as she did so, she searched the one eye she could see for any signs of altered consciousness. “I guess you bumped your head, huh?”
“Jeannie bumped it,” Arly grumbled with a mixture of residual tears and emerging indignation.
Honor glanced at Robin in concern. “Is Jeannie okay?”
“She’s got a goose egg on her forehead, but no other damage.” She reached out and stroked Arly’s hair and looked over at Linda, who stood nearby. “I’ve got to run. The kids are out front in the car, and the security guard is baby-sitting.”
Linda gave Robin a quick hug. “Go ahead, honey. I’ll call you later.”
As Honor walked back to the nearest open examining room, she explained to Arly, “We’re going to have to take that bandage off and see what’s underneath, okay?”
“Will it hurt?”
“Does it hurt now?”
Arly seemed to give this some consideration. “A little. It feels kinda like my knee did when I fell off my skateboard.”
“Well, it might hurt a tiny bit more for a few minutes while we put some medicine on it to clean it up. But not a lot.”
“Will you do it?”
Honor hesitated. She still felt the effects of the swift surge of panic accompanied by the unexpected resurrection of past fears, and she wasn’t certain how steady her hands would be. Before she could answer, Linda spoke up.
“You know what, Arly? I think Mom ought to hold your hand while one of the other doctors fixes you up. What do you say?”
“Who?”
Honor looked past Linda to Quinn walking quietly along beside them, the memory of the reassuring hand against her back comforting still. Deep blue eyes, kind with compassion, met hers. Without a second thought, Honor extended her free hand and Quinn took it, stepping closer. “This is Quinn, Arly. She’s a surgeon, and she’ll take really good care of you, okay?”
“Okay.”
Linda held the curtain to exam room one open, and Honor gently deposited her daughter on the stretcher. Then she pulled a stool close and sat down as Quinn walked to the other side.
“I’m going to take this big Band-Aid off your forehead,” Quinn explained. “There’s some tape that will pull a little bit when I do. You ready?”
Arly held her mother’s hand and nodded.
“So,” Quinn said conversationally, surveying the four-centimeter laceration just above the child’s eyebrow, “baseball, basketball, or soccer?”
; “Soccer,” Arly proclaimed as if anyone should know the answer.
“Neat.” Quinn glanced at Honor, whose eyes were fixed on the wound on her daughter’s forehead. She waited for Honor to look up at her, and then she smiled reassuringly. Honor rewarded her with a swift, if slightly shaky, smile in return. “I’m going to shine a light in your eyes. It’ll be really bright.”
Quinn pulled a small penlight from her chest pocket and checked Arly’s pupils, both of which were equal and briskly reactive to the light stimulus. Then she held her index finger up about twelve inches from Arly’s face. “I’m going to move my finger around, and I want you to watch it. Okay?”
“Why?”
“So I can be sure that your bump on the head isn’t going to make it hard for you to see the ball during the next game.”
Intently, Arly nodded and followed Quinn’s moving hand.
“Does your neck hurt anywhere at all?”
“No.”
“I’m going to poke around a bit, and you tell me if it’s sore.” As she spoke, Quinn slipped her fingers behind Arly’s head and palpated each of her cervical vertebrae, one after the other. She elicited no tenderness. Then she felt the bones around her eyes, cheeks, nose, and jaws. All fine. Looking in Honor’s direction, she murmured, “I don’t see any need for x-rays.”
“All right.” Honor’s throat was dry, and her voice came out husky. With each passing moment, she felt better and, unexpectedly, found herself soothed by Quinn’s calm voice and gentle compassion.
“Okay, Arly, here’s the deal.” Quinn leaned over so that the child could see her face. “You’ve got a cut on your forehead, and it’s going to need some stitches. Do you know what stitches are?”
“They’re little tiny threads to help the cut get better faster.” Arly looked in her mother’s direction uncertainly. “Do I have to?” For the first time since she had arrived, the child looked as if she might cry.
“That’s what we use when Band-Aids aren’t strong enough, honey.” Honor smiled reassuringly.
“Yeah, but they don’t work on magical cuts, so maybe they won’t work on me either.” The child’s tone was dubious.
Quinn raised an eyebrow. “Magical?”
“Mr. Weasley,” Honor stated, as if that would explain things.
“Huh?”
“In Harry Potter!” Arly clarified. “Ron’s father is a wizard and he needed stitches, but Muggle medicine doesn’t work on wizards.”
“Ah. I see.” Quinn nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense. I’m sure they’ll work on you though—unless you’re a wizard, too?”
“I don’t think so.” Arly shook her head seriously. “Are you going to put them in?”
“Yep. But first, I’m going to make it so you don’t feel it when I do.” As she spoke, Quinn pulled on gloves and Linda opened an instrument tray. Turning her back slightly so that the child would not see her draw up the lidocaine into the syringe from the bottle that Linda held out to her, she said, “Soccer, huh? So what position do you play?”
“Wing.”
“Midfielder? You must be a really good passer.”
“Most of the time.” Stitches forgotten, Arly asked excitedly, “Do you play soccer?”
“I used to, when I was in college.” Quinn gently wiped Betadine around the edges of the laceration.
“What position did you play?”
“Offense.”
“Were you good?”
Quinn laughed and glanced at Honor, who merely shook her head and grinned.
“Uh—well, not bad.”
Quinn stepped slightly out of Arly’s line of vision and leaned down with the syringe. “I’m going to put in some medicine now that will feel a little bit like a big mosquito bite. You ready?”
“Okay.”
Softly stroking her daughter’s arm, Honor watched as Quinn slowly and carefully injected the local anesthetic. The secret, she knew, to minimizing the pain of the injection was to do it extraordinarily slowly, but most surgeons lacked the patience. Quinn, however, couldn’t have been gentler. Her hands were steady and sure, and Honor realized as she watched her child lying quietly during the procedure how truly gifted Quinn was. Who are you, really, Quinn Maguire?
When the injection was completed, Quinn glanced at Honor. She’d seen parents, even seasoned medical people, faint when their children were injured. Parents could handle anything, apparently, except their own child’s suffering. Gently, she asked, “You okay?”
This time Honor’s smile was sure and strong. “Fine. You’re very good.”
Quinn blushed, her heart racing. “Arly’s the star.”
In ten minutes, the wound was cleaned, irrigated, and sutured. Throughout the process, Arly and Quinn kept up a running conversation regarding the virtues of various soccer positions and strategies as if nothing were happening. By the time Quinn had applied Steri-Strips in lieu of a bandage, the girl seemed to have forgotten completely about her injury.
“So, can you come to one of my games?” Arly asked eagerly as she sat up, her eyes fixed attentively on Quinn’s face.
For the second time, Honor’s daughter caught Quinn off guard, and she found herself at a loss for words. Helplessly, she looked at Honor. “Uh...”
“Quinn just moved here, honey,” Honor said gently. “She’s awfully busy right now.”
“Maybe someday, though, right?”
“Maybe,” Quinn said awkwardly.
“Thanks,” Honor said softly as she lifted Arly down from the stretcher.
Quinn smiled into Honor’s eyes, warmed by the tenderness in her voice. “Sure.”
“I’m going to need to take off early today so I can get her home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Nodding, Quinn watched mother and daughter disappear with Linda, leaving her in the empty room with the discarded dressings and used instruments. She suddenly felt as abandoned as the space around her. That was often the case after the intense high of dealing with an emergency, but this time she missed more than the adrenaline rush. She missed the heat of Honor’s gaze upon her face.
She was checking the tray to be sure that all the needles had been deposited in the sharps bin for disposal when Linda returned.
“Nice job, Doc.”
“Great kid,” Quinn observed. “How old is she? Eight?”
Linda had to stop and think, putting her two kids and Arly in order. “Almost. She was born right at the end of Honor’s fourth year in medical school.”
“She looks like she was cloned. She’s got Honor’s eyes and just about everything else, too.”
“She does,” Linda agreed, intrigued by Quinn’s pensive expression.
Quinn cleared her throat. “Uh, what does Honor’s husband do?”
“Honor doesn’t have a husband.” Linda delivered the statement calmly as she wrapped up the instruments, sneaking a quick peek in Quinn’s direction to judge its effect. She smiled when she saw the quick look of pleasure followed by consternation cross the attractive surgeon’s face. Uh-huh, yes, she’s interested.
“Oh.” Quinn leaned her shoulder against the door frame, considering the possibilities. Separated? That would explain the wedding ring still. Divorced? No, she wouldn’t still be wearing his ring, would she? Gay? Maybe, because Linda sure is, considering the hug she gave the redhead in the ER earlier. Quinn gave herself a mental shake. Regardless of the answer, it didn’t concern her, because that ring spelled unavailable. “I’d better get back out there. Are the charts piling up?”
“The usual. Listen, we’re having a barbecue at my place on Saturday afternoon. Most of the ER staff and some people from the neighborhood will be there. One o’clock.”
Quinn’s immediate reaction was to make an excuse and beg off. She didn’t particularly like social situations in which she didn’t know anyone. On the other hand, Honor would be there. Yeah, like that makes any difference. To her surprise, she found herself saying, “Sure. Thanks. Can I bring something?”
�
��How about wine? We never think to buy any.”
“No problem.”
“Excellent. It’ll be fun.”
“Thanks again.”
Linda stared after Quinn as she disappeared through the curtain, thinking of the way Honor had looked at Quinn as she had taken care of Arly. Appreciatively, which was understandable. But there had been more than gratitude in Honor’s face; there had been something that she hadn’t seen in her good friend’s face in years. Something that looked a lot like attraction. That brought up the image of Quinn’s expression as she had asked about Honor’s husband. Curious and hopeful. Oh yes, plenty of interest all the way around.
At a little before 7:00 p.m., Quinn looked up from the nurses’ station where she was completing the follow-up instructions for a seventeen-year-old with a badly sprained right ankle to see Honor, in blue jeans and a faded red polo shirt, coming down the hall. The red of the shirt echoed the highlights in her hair, and her dark eyes shimmered with warmth and the promise of laughter. For an instant, Quinn allowed herself to simply enjoy the sight of her. Then she realized that Honor was regarding her quizzically and that she had been staring at the emergency room chief, very possibly with her mouth hanging open. For the second time in the same day, Quinn blushed.
“Everything okay?” Quinn asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but feeling her heart race.
Honor nodded, aware of Quinn’s gaze and, despite her misgivings, enjoying it. “I left in such a hurry earlier, I forgot to finish some paperwork that’s already late.”
“How’s our patient?”
“At the moment, she’s ensconced in front of the television with an enormous ice pack on her eye and her grandmother fussing over her.” Honor smiled softly. “She’s fine. She’s actually very tough, and she’s already asking me if she’s going to be able to go to soccer practice tomorrow afternoon.”
“Good.” Quinn sat on one of the rolling stools a foot away from Honor, her face at about the level of the other woman’s breasts. She tried very hard to cast her gaze elsewhere, but nothing could prevent her from sensing the heat of Honor’s body so near. She could smell her sweet fragrance, a lush earthy scent. Never in her memory could she recall being so affected by the mere presence of a woman.