THE PASSION OF PARICK MACNEILL

by Virginia Kantra

  His blue eyes dared her to continue. Amazingly, she scraped together her thoughts and pressed on. "No, I meant… I'm sure they helped you help Jack. A sense of family is terribly important in survival and recovery. No one can replace Jack's mother, of course, but—"

  Patrick pushed the tray away in a contained, violent motion somehow more frightening for its tight control. "No. No one. What's your point?"

  For once, Kate wasn't sure she had a point. Just this terrible, futile ache to help. "I'm just saying you're lucky to have them. Families play an important role in treatment. With Jack facing more therapy—"

  "Don't worry about Jack's therapy, Dr. Sinclair. He and I can handle it. We don't need outside help. We don't need anybody."

  "Well." Kate drew in a deep breath, pulling her professional demeanor around her like a white lab coat to cover her hurt and confusion. "That's clear." She stood. "Jack should be discharged sometime tomorrow. Dr. Swaim will be in in the morning to examine him and go over his postoperative care with you."

  Patrick stood, too, his big body tense, his fists curled at his sides. Kate thought they must resemble a pair of fighters, circling for advantage with the table in between. "Fine. Thanks. Listen, I appreciate what you did for Jack. If you hadn't come by—"

  "Don't give it another thought," she said coolly. "I certainly won't. Thank you for the coffee."

  She made her exit on trembling legs, her head held high.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  «^»

  "But it hurts," Jack whimpered.

  His stitches had come out only five days ago, Patrick reminded himself. This was their third physical therapy session since breakfast. No wonder the boy was near tears. Patrick felt pretty damn frayed himself.

  He made an effort to keep his voice matter-of-fact and light. "I know it's uncomfortable, buddy. But you've got to do the exercises for your hand to get better."

  Jack squirmed on his father's lap, his small face flushed with exertion and temper. "It's not getting better. It's worse."

  "It looks worse," Patrick agreed, "because of the operation." They'd been over this many times. "But you've actually got new skin now so you can spread out your fingers and your thumb. It's going to be fine. But you have to use the hand."

  "I can't use it," Jack insisted, his voice rising dangerously. "I can't do anything with it. I can't even draw!"

  Patrick shared his son's frustration. In the days since Jack's operation, he too had felt hampered by the intrusive routine of therapy. He'd taken a week off, tending to the books while Ray ferried cargo and passengers, but his partner couldn't handle all the flights forever. When Shelby had their baby, Ray would be grounded for a couple of days at least.

  He looked down at Jack's mutinous face, pillowed against his arm, and wanted nothing more than to give in, to give up for the day. Together in the weeks and months following the accident, they'd tackled the grueling labor of recovery many times. Only this time it was harder. This time Jack was older. This time the gains, though important and desirable, seemed less critical in the face of Jack's discouragement and pain.

  But it was Patrick's job to soothe and encourage his son. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—when the telephone rang.

  "You're in luck, kid. Take five." Scooting Jack off his lap, Patrick strode into the kitchen to answer the phone, relieved at the interruption and irritated with himself for his relief. He felt better when he recognized the voice of Jack's physical therapist and then worse after she delivered her news.

  She wouldn't see Jack today, she informed him bluntly. She would see him at his regularly scheduled appointment on Wednesday, because she had other patients and Jack should not become dependent on his therapist.

  Patrick controlled his temper with difficulty. "Fine. Did you ask Dr. Swaim about Jack's splint? Because three hours seems—"

  "Three hours on, one hour off," the therapist interrupted him. Did he imagine he heard reluctance in her voice? "I'm sorry, Mr. MacNeill. But at least it's not as bad as the pressure garments."

  "Jack doesn't remember the pressure garments, thank God. He was too young. Look, let me talk to Swaim."

  "Dr. Swaim isn't available."

  This time Patrick was sure he heard an inflection of doubt. "So who is?"

  "Dr. West," the therapist offered. West was one of the two interns assigned to the burn unit. "Or Dr. Sinclair."

  Patrick gripped the receiver tighter. He had a clear, unwelcome memory of Kate Sinclair's shuttered face the last time he'd seen her, the night he'd lashed out at her in the hospital cafeteria.

  We don't need outside help. We don't need anybody.

  He'd regretted his hasty words the minute they'd left his mouth. Against her white face, her eyes had glittered sharp and brittle as broken glass. He'd never meant to hurt the briskly efficient lady doctor, hadn't imagined he could. But neither could he lay himself open to her intelligent probing and seductive compassion.

  To defend himself, he'd set her at a distance. Now, to protect Jack, he would ask for her help.

  Patrick grimaced, still holding the phone to his ear. He'd be lucky if she didn't tell him to go to hell.

  * * *

  "Telephone, Dr. Sinclair. One of Dr. Swaim's patients."

  Kate closed her eyes against a fresh surge of pain. Her brain wanted coffee. Her stomach did not. Forced to choose between a pounding head and an acid stomach, she'd opted for the headache. She was beginning to regret her decision.

  She handed Sharon Williams the chart of the twelve-year-old boy who'd thrown lighter fluid on a trash fire that morning. Carefully, because of the throbbing in her skull, she nodded to the receptionist. "All right. I'll take it in my office."

  Sinking with relief onto her stubby office chair, she picked up the phone. Three minutes, she bargained with herself. Three minutes' peace and quiet, and then she would go out and explain to the child's anxious mother what it would take for her son to walk again.

  "Kate? This is Patrick MacNeill."

  At the sound of that smooth whiskey-and-peat voice, Kate actually felt dizzy. Caffeine withdrawal, she told herself firmly, and concentrated on the blank blue walls until the dancing black spots went away.

  "What a surprise," she said coolly.

  "Yeah. Yeah, I'm sorry." It wasn't clear what he was apologizing for, and Kate was too much the coward to ask. "Listen, do you have any time free this afternoon?"

  Her heart bounced into her throat. Swallowing, she drawled, "Not really. Are you offering to take me away from all this?"

  "What?"

  Kate sighed. "Never mind. What is it? How's Jack?"

  "Do you want me to?" He sounded genuinely interested.

  "Want you to what?"

  "Take you away. You having a bad day?"

  "No, no more than usual." Don't let it get to you, Katie Sue. "How's Jack?"

  "Actually…"

  She was aware of an irrational disappointment and scolded herself. Stupid. Why else would he call?

  "We're having some problems here."

  Kate straightened, wounded feelings shoved aside in her concern for the little boy. "What kind of problems?"

  He started to tell her. Kate listened, frowned, made notes. When he was done, she stared at her own jottings, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. She could help. She wanted to help. But could she risk interfering with Swaim's treatment of a patient?

  "I'm not sure what you want me to do," she said carefully. "Jack's not my patient."

  "But you could still see him," Patrick pressed.

  "My schedule's full."

  "We could come at the end of the day."

  "My day won't end until eight o'clock as it is."

  Silence. Kate fought a creeping sense of guilt. The last time she'd reached out to this man, he'd slapped her down. She'd have to be crazy to challenge her center director for a macho flyboy who'd spurned her help.

  "All right," Patrick said slowly. "How about this. Why don'
t you stop by our house when you get off? You wouldn't need to see Jack as your patient. You could just watch his therapy and tell me what I'm doing wrong."

  Kate wavered, disarmed by his unexpected humility. "Surgeons don't do house calls."

  "We could give you dinner," Patrick added persuasively.

  She slammed down her instinctive pleasure. Oh, no. She wasn't falling into that trap. She knew better than to imagine his invitation was anything other than an attempt to take advantage of her professional skills. She wasn't going to let him reject her twice.

  "You don't need to pretend a personal interest in me, Mr. MacNeill. Why don't you give me a chance to discuss your concerns with the rest of Jack's medical team, and I'll return your call later this afternoon?"

  "Patrick. And it would be better if you could see him yourself. Please," he coaxed. "Jack needs you. And I want you to come."

  Oh, Lord. How could she resist either one of them? The suggestion of the boy's need and the man's desire tugged sweetly against her hard-won control. But it was her own need and her own desire that undid her.

  "I'll see what I can do," she said crisply. "You can give me directions to your house, but dinner won't be necessary."

  She waited for him to protest, to tell her the attraction between them was real, that she had something to offer a man besides her surgeon's knowledge and her overdeveloped sense of responsibility.

  "Around nine, then," he said, accepting her decision. "Thanks."

  She didn't want his thanks, Kate realized as she wrote down the directions. She wanted his… Cutting that thought off abruptly, she said goodbye. But her hand lingered on the receiver even after she'd hung up, as if the warm plastic could still provide a connection with dangerously handsome Patrick MacNeill. How stupid.

  "Dr. Sinclair?" Sharon Williams stuck her head into the office. "Mrs. Johnson is waiting to see you."

  Kate's headache surged back. "I'll be right there."

  * * *

  In spite of Patrick's clear directions, his place wasn't easy to find. Kate was twenty minutes from the hospital and three miles off the highway. Evening air poured through the open car windows, cool and moist, smelling of red clay and damp asphalt. Dark pines speared a deepening blue sky. Her headlights illuminated the signs for half a dozen new subdivisions and, once, the eyes of a possum at the side of the road. Finally, they flashed on a green-and-white street sign: MONTROSE. Kate checked the directions clutched against the steering wheel and turned.

  She counted four rural mailboxes by the side of the road until she came to the MacNeills'. Her ancient Honda crunched and bumped down the graveled drive. If she'd really wanted to spend the night wandering the back roads of North Carolina, Kate thought sourly, she could have visited her sister.

  And then she passed a tangle of shrub roses under a hundred-year-old oak tree, and the road dipped, and the land lifted, and a white two-story farmhouse gleamed in the evening light.

  It looked like welcome. It looked like home, if your name was Walton and you lived in a television world of family warmth. Even in the blue dusk, she could see the basketball hoop mounted over the gray bar. A tire swung from another ancient tree, and a trampoline occupied a corner of the fenced backyard. A large dog, pale-coated in the fading light, padded to the rails to investigate, wagging its tail in mild greeting.

  Her head throbbed. She didn't belong here. And she was uneasily aware that the man waiting for her arrival was no John Boy. She pulled the car in front of the long covered porch and cut the engine, wishing briefly that she wore something more appealing than crumpled khaki slacks and a white camp shirt. Not that her wardrobe ran to man-attracting clothes. She'd never looked good in the flowing floral skirts that Amy favored, and she hesitated to try anything bright and tight. It wouldn't be professional. She dressed mostly by catalog these days, selecting upscale separates worn by models in flat shoes who looked like they summered at Nags Head.

  The hell with it. It didn't make a bit of difference what she wore. Patrick MacNeill was totally focused on his son and probably still in love with his dead wife.

  Kate got out of the car.

  The dog barked. Before she could climb the low wooden steps, the front door opened. Patrick's tall, broad body was silhouetted against the rectangle of yellow light. His dark hair, longer on top, looked as if he'd raked his fingers through it, and his smile was quick and potent.

  Kate's lungs emptied of air as apprehension punched her chest. Outside the confines of the hospital, he looked even bigger, more relaxed and more dangerous. She couldn't relate to him as a doctor here. She could only respond to him as a woman. She tightened her grip on her purse.

  The screen door banged shut behind him. "You're here. Hush, Silkie. I thought maybe you'd given up on us."

  "No." She hated the sound of her voice, breathless and uncertain. As if she didn't have the muscle to make it up the front steps. As if her knees would give out at the sight of him. "I don't give up."

  He came out on the porch, all lean male grace and hard male muscle, and she felt a little wobbly. Maybe her knees weren't going to make it after all.

  A gleam appeared in those deep-set eyes as he registered her reaction. He didn't comment on it, though, saying simply, "Well, praise God for that. We've got a bit of a problem inside."

  Kate stiffened her spine and tried to ignore that the top of her head barely reached his chin. She was not a weak woman. "Lead me to it."

  He stepped back politely to let her in the open door. She crossed the threshold, conscious of him falling in behind her.

  His furniture, unpretentious, masculine and inviting, matched the rest of the house, Kate thought, trying to ignore his guiding hand on her elbow. She didn't like being crowded. He steered her over the old plank floor, their footsteps echoing uncomfortably close. The braided rug in front of the fireplace picked up the colors of the navy couch and battered red recliner. As he escorted her through to the dining room, she got a quick impression of wrought iron lamps glowing on maple end tables and a framed photo of some very scary modern aircraft that flew over the mantel.

  Under the old farm table, knees drawn protectively to his chest, hunched Jack MacNeill.

  In spite of her pounding head and her awareness of the man behind her, Kate's heart twisted. "Hey, Jack," she drawled.

  Turning his head on his knees, the boy regarded her warily through a fortress of chair legs.

  "Come out and say hello to Dr. Sinclair," Patrick commanded.

  Jack shook his head, arms wrapped around his legs. "Won't."

  "All right," Kate said swiftly, before Patrick could intervene. "How about I come see you?"

  She dropped her purse on the floor and got down on her hands and knees. She wouldn't let herself think what kind of a view she was providing for Patrick, behind her. Crawling forward, she poked her head through the chairs.

  "Is there room in there?"

  Jack giggled. "Sure."

  He scooted over. Kate wiggled in and flopped to a sitting position.

  "Cozy," she remarked, looking out at Patrick's shoes. At least size twelves, she estimated. White cross trainers, with frayed laces. She craned her neck to study the boy beside her. "How are you doing, Jack?"

  "Okay."

  "Sure," she said. "The Code of the Macho MacNeills. Never speak under torture."

  Outside the perimeter of chairs, Patrick's feet shifted and were still. Jack smiled wanly.

  "I brought you something," Kate volunteered.

  "What?"

  "Putty." Leaning forward, she snagged the strap of her purse and dragged it under the table. "I had a talk with Peg, your occupational therapist, today. She thought you might be able to use this." Pulling out the small plastic container of exercise putty, Kate handed it to Jack.

  "It's purple," he said.

  "The purple is for tough guys. Wimps get yellow."

  "Really?"

  "Sort of. Yellow is softer, anyway. But they both make your hand stronger. Want to
see how it works?"

  Please, God, don't let him say no, she thought. She released her breath when he nodded.

  "Great." She hoped she didn't sound too desperately enthusiastic. Pulling out a gob of putty, she started to demonstrate the simplest extension exercises she could think of.

  Jack watched with interest as she wrapped a strand around her thumb and then straightened it. "It's like thumb wrestling."

  "Oh, it's much harder than thumb wrestling," Kate said as coolly as she could. "You can only do this if you're really strong. You want to try?"

  Jack regarded her from under thick, dark lashes like his father's. "Here?"

  Kate looked to the shoes for help, but Patrick was silent. She was going to have to go with her gut on this one. "Maybe not here. Everybody should have a safe place, a place where they don't have to do stuff that bothers them. Why don't I crawl out and visit with your dad, and then when you're ready to play with the putty you can come find us. Okay?"

  "‘Kay."

  She navigated the chairs on all fours to find Patrick regarding her with an admiration that made her blush.

  "How did you do that?"

  She shrugged to hide her pleasure. "It's my job."

  He helped her to her feet, his large hand cupping her elbow. "Not just your job. It's you. Thank you."

  His open appreciation warmed and discomfited her. She wasn't used to masculine approval. Bending, she brushed at the knees of her slacks. "Is there some place we can go to talk?"

  "The kitchen."

  The kitchen was another revelation, immaculately clean, with old wood cabinets and an intimidating modern range. Both the solid quality furniture and the gleaming high-tech appliances were as far outside the orbit of Blue Moon Trailer Park as Saturn.

  "Sit down," Patrick invited.

  She sat at the round oak table, trying to resist the pull of the room and the tug of attraction. He poured her a glass of ice water and started to assemble various refrigerator items by the stove. Puttering, she supposed, except he was far too efficient in his movements for the word to apply.

  "Well." She took a sip of water, trying to ignore the pangs in her stomach. When was the last time she'd eaten? She couldn't remember. "I spoke with the other members of Jack's medical team after I talked to you. Peg thinks we can reduce his splint time to two-and-two, two hours on and two hours off."