Sarah grinned. “Go get ’em, boss. I’ll bet you’ve been blistering that punching bag.”
“Of course. And speaking of battles—” Erin lowered her voice—“don’t worry about your job. If the accident investigation creates problems, we’ll figure out a way to deal with it. And help you with a plan for counseling if you need that, write letters of recommendation. . . . We’ll make it all happen. A team effort. We’re not letting go of you.”
Sarah lifted her chin and met Erin’s gaze. “Don’t bend any rules for me. I want to do the right thing. Finally.”
“I know you do, and I’m going to bounce some ideas around with Logan when he gets back.” She pulled at a strand of her ponytail, her expression troubled.
“Gets back?” Sarah asked.
“It’s a long story.” Erin glanced toward the nurses’ station. “And right now I see a man holding what looks like a big Baskin-Robbins sack.” She pretended to sniff the air. “I think I can smell eggnog—you believe in miracles, girlfriend?”
Sarah smiled, her eyes misting yet again. “I’m starting to.”
+++
Claire finished towel drying her hair and ran a big-tooth comb through it, deciding to let it dry naturally. She had nothing but time today. Accent on nothing.
She frowned at herself in the bathroom mirror. No, she wasn’t going to think that way. She’d wallowed in self-pity all the way back from Kevin’s tree, half-jogging, half-walking . . . mostly crying, and marched straight through the cabin door to the vase of withering daffodils. She’d tossed them out, along with the congealing mound of treats in Smokey’s untouched food dish. Then she’d showered until the hot water—and her tears—finally ran out. Hope. When had that pesky element crept in and become so important?
Claire set the comb down and turned away from the mirror, not wanting to read the answer in her eyes. It all began with Logan. It was time to get back on track. Back to the original plan.
She padded barefoot to the bedroom closet and pulled out a long sweater, tugging it on over her jeans and T-shirt, and slipped into her pink flip-flops. The sweater and a mug of tomato soup would keep her warm while her hair dried and she worked on her lists. In essence, she was right back to where she’d started a few weeks ago and hadn’t really lost anything. “Only God and Logan and my brother’s cat,” Claire muttered. She headed for the living room, telling herself to get a grip.
The point was she’d still be waiting for the announcement of the clinical educator job regardless of what happened in the past few weeks. Even if she hadn’t been blindsided by the ER and its director. She’d hear the official word on Monday, and there was still every reason to believe her original plan would be moving forward. She’d had some distractions, sure. But she would put them aside the same way she’d tossed away the wilted daffodils. It was good, actually. Her mind could be clear now, focused on her future.
The phone rang and Claire’s heart leaped to her throat. Logan—it must be. Oh, thank you, God!
She caught it on the third ring, snatching the cordless phone from its cradle and striding toward the fireplace. “Hello?”
“Claire? It’s Merlene Hibbert.”
“Um . . . oh. Yes.” Claire’s legs weakened, first with disappointment, then with sinking dread. Another disaster in the ER? A complication with Sarah? “Is something wrong?”
There was silence, followed by Merlene’s foreboding sigh.
Claire sank onto the ottoman, her hands beginning to tremble.
“I thought I should tell you before you heard it through the grapevine,” Merlene said. “The board has decided on Renee as clinical educator. I tried to convince them to make it a flex position shared with you, but Renee wants her full-time hours back. I’m sorry.”
Claire stared at the phone, stunned for a moment. “But you mean . . .” She gripped the phone until her knuckles went white, struggling for words. Why was this happening?
Merlene cleared her throat. “Unfortunately, as of Monday we won’t have a position in the ed department for you. Renee may need you to help her for the next couple of weeks, but after that I’m afraid Sierra Mercy can only offer clinical shifts. I know it’s not your first choice, but with Sarah Burke out, we’ll have an opening in the ER. That would have to be approved by Dr. Caldwell, of course.” She sighed. “Although I’ve just learned that he won’t be coming in for his shift tomorrow. Out of character for him, but if he’s back on Monday, I’ll ask—”
“No.” Claire rose, despite a crippling rush of dizziness. Logan’s staying in Carmel? “Don’t. Please don’t ask him. Dr. Caldwell doesn’t want me—I mean, I don’t want . . .” Her voice faltered as she battled tears. “I know you mean well, but please don’t make any plans for me. I need time to figure things out.”
“Very well, but I want you to know I tried my best to get you hired. Your effort on behalf of the ER staff during the day care incident was a godsend, and I have to wonder if you hadn’t been there for Sarah Burke, well . . . you were clearly an answer to prayer.”
Answer to prayer. “Oh, I . . .” Claire shut her eyes for moment, trying to think of something to say, then turned toward a sound in the kitchen. A scratching and a plaintive, hoarse . . . meow? Was that a meow? “Oh . . . oh!” Claire’s voice cracked with emotion as she caught sight of Smokey at the pet door. “I have to go now. My cat was lost, and he just came home!”
Twenty minutes later, after a can of tuna and a leisurely sniffing tour of the cabin, Smokey was curled up in his favorite spot on the back of the couch, dozing. Claire felt like she’d run a Denver marathon. She was too exhausted for tears of happiness or disappointment. She was numb . . . mostly just numb. She gingerly stroked Smokey’s back. Despite his matted tail, some missing fur on the top of his head, and a scabbing wound on his remaining ear, her cat looked like a survivor.
A lump rose in Claire’s throat. “You did it, boy. Who’d have thought . . . ?” She gazed toward the fireplace, then rose slowly and quietly so she wouldn’t disturb Smokey and walked over to stand in front of the mantel.
She touched the frame of Kevin’s photo, the one of him in the silly Superman shirt, and shook her head. “He did it, Kev. Smokey finally faced his raccoons. He went out there and squared off with the one thing that scared him most in the entire world.” She nodded. “Trust me, I know exactly how that feels, and—”
I do know. She stared at Smokey, her thoughts swirling aloud. “My cat and his raccoons. Me and the ER—we both did it. We did what we had to do, and it was okay. More than okay.” I helped save Sarah’s life.
“We’re winners, Kev. We’re . . . champs!” She grinned at her brother’s picture, noticing for the first time how happy he looked in the photo. Completely full of joy. And then she noticed that her chest didn’t feel hollow anymore. For the first time since Kevin’s death, she was thinking of him and remembering him and not . . . hurting. How could that be?
Claire’s gaze moved along the line of photos—Kevin; she and Kevin with their parents; and the snapshot with Gayle in Mexico, the one draped in the leather-strung cross she’d worn that first day in urgent care. Crazy as it seemed, it was true; looking at the photos wasn’t painful. In fact, it made her happy and strangely peaceful and warm. Clear down to her soul . . . like that sensation she’d been missing after running. Only better. Much better.
Goose bumps rose as she realized it went further than that. Because the fact that she’d lost the job didn’t feel all that bad now either. Even knowing that her carefully crafted plans for her future . . . Claire’s breath caught as her gaze lingered on the last frame in the row on the mantel. Gayle’s hand-embroidered linen. Her engagement gift to Kevin, his favorite Scripture.
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
Jeremiah 29:11
Claire reread the words she’d lived with for two years, the same verse carved by her brother’s hand on
the oak tree in Gold Bug Park. She held her breath, the words leaping out at her like she was seeing them for the very first time: To give you hope. And a future. I have plans.
His plan. Claire raised her hands to her mouth, tears stinging her eyes. Hope. By God’s plan. The answer had been there all along. Had been inches above her this morning when she’d cried out, asking God, “Where are you?” God’s plan, not Claire’s plan. And he had answered her prayer. Heal my heart. Move me forward. He’d moved her forward by sending her back to the ER to face her fears.
“Oh, Father.” Claire sank to her knees beside the hearth and bowed her head, tears spilling down her face. “You had a plan for me, and I got in the way. All I had to do was trust you. You are my hope. I see that now. Thank you, Lord.”
+++
Erin leaned back in her computer chair and checked her watch. Still too early. She was meeting Brad at the park for a picnic, and he said he’d pick up some deli sandwiches. But she wanted far more than pastrami and dill pickles today. She wasn’t settling for anything less than the truth. About the Little Nugget Victim Fund envelope and what he’d done with the money. Gambling? Had he taken it to Tahoe the night he’d left her behind? He’d brought a pizza over the evening before—after Erin put the envelope in her tote bag. Was that when he stole it?
Were there any more lies? betrayals? Erin’s stomach churned. After all those years with her father, she already knew much more than she wanted to about dishonesty. Today when Sarah talked about making mistakes, Erin almost repeated something she’d heard over and over from her mother: “We can’t out-sin God’s ability to forgive.” Well, regardless, Erin doubted she had what it took to forgive Brad. She’d wanted to try. She’d prayed about it countless times since she’d found those torn checks, but . . .
But now she still had twenty minutes to kill. She’d do a bit more work on her grandmother’s credit card mess. Over a thousand dollars to a Nevada horse farm. How could they make a mistake like that? Ridiculous. Erin smiled, thinking of Iris Quinn. Redheaded like Erin, tall and willowy, and Kate Hepburn feisty. Or was, until the exhaustion of caring for her sick husband took its toll. Followed by the unrelenting stress from a mountain of medical bills left in the wake of his death. Erin hated seeing the spark dwindle in Nana’s eyes, and if she could do battle with the credit card company . . . ding-ding, round one!
Erin reached into her desk and pulled out an envelope neatly labeled, “Credit Card Statements, Iris Quinn.” Then typed in the name of the creditor, Betcher Horses, and clicked to start the Internet search. She grinned, relishing the thought of explaining that the only livestock her seventy-six-year-old grandmother owned was a goldfish named Elmer Fudd and the last time she’d been on a horse was on the carousel at the Santa Cruz boardwalk.
Her eyes widened. Wait. What? She double-checked the spelling on the credit card statement and the Web site URL. Betcher Horses was a horse-racing Web site? Online betting? How could that be possible?
Erin picked up the statement showing the disputed balance and the Web site URL. Printed, of course, with Iris Quinn’s name and credit card number. Similar to many other statements Erin had stored in her desk for at least a year. Her grandmother didn’t gamble. But if someone had managed to get ahold of her credit card number . . .
Oh no. Erin closed the Web site and propped her elbows on the desk, pressing her face into her palms. No. It couldn’t be. But her roommate didn’t gamble, and as far as Erin knew, her roommate’s fiancé didn’t either. And the only other person who’d had access to this desk—to Iris Quinn’s credit card information—was Brad.
Betcher Horses? Erin growled, her hands balling into fists. Betcher sweet backside, I’m going to . . . try to stop short of killing him.
+++
Claire poked at the logs in the woodstove, closed the glass door, and latched it. The afternoon had turned rainy, and the oak-scented fire, along with the sweater, mug of soup, and her cat’s safe return, warmed her inside and out despite the day’s turmoil.
She glanced up toward the sound of raindrops pelting against the steep metal roof of her cabin and smiled at her thoughts. My cabin. My cat. It was the first time since Kevin’s death she’d thought of them that way. She’d surprised herself earlier when she’d said those words to Merlene on the phone: “My cat was lost.” It always seemed like she was a kind of caretaker here, preserving all that had been her brother’s—his house, his cat, his SUV, his firehouse sweatshirt, his running trails.
Maybe because she’d felt too guilty to let him go and too terrified to face her fears head-on. So she’d jogged her brother’s trails, run from the ER, turned away from her friends and her church, and printed off spreadsheet after spreadsheet of painstaking plans for her future. Doing everything she thought would protect her heart. And then expected God to put those plans into effect. Claire shook her head. She’d been a stubborn fool.
She peered out the rain-streaked window to see the pines moving in the wind and the sky still dark with clouds and then rejoined Smokey on the couch. Her Bible lay open on the table next to a lone daffodil petal that had dropped when she dumped the vase. Hope. She’d reread Jeremiah 29:11 and her study Bible’s explanation of the verse: “. . . as long as God, who knows the future, provides our agenda . . . we can have boundless hope. Not that we will be spared pain, suffering, or hardship, but that God will see us through to a glorious conclusion.”
And then she remembered what Erin had said this morning at coffee when they’d talked about Logan: “His will be done.” That’s what Claire should have been praying all along. She knew that now. God had a plan, and she had to trust it for her career, for her life, for . . . Logan Caldwell? Claire’s throat tightened. Was it God’s plan that Logan go back to Beckah?
She sank into the couch, remembering the look on Logan’s face this morning and the urgency in his eyes when he’d told her about praying with Sarah and talking with God on that oak stump. Praying. A man who’d once been a brokenhearted boy clutching a picture of Jesus and praying for his mother to come home. A man who’d lost a baby, a wife . . . and now found his faith again. Tears rose in Claire’s eyes. “Your will be done,” she whispered, her voice blending with the steady drumming of rain.
The truth was that despite Claire throwing out every roadblock she could, God had gifted her with a number of blessings these past weeks. He’d called her back to the ER to provide the very counseling she needed herself. He’d given friendship—and vital missing fellowship—with Erin and the Faith QD ministry and presented that beautiful, healing moment with her patient Jada Williams. Then he’d stood beside her to save Sarah’s life and in the process restored Claire’s trust in her skills. And he’d sent Logan. To show me my heart is healed enough to love again. That was good, so good, to know.
Claire hugged herself, aware of that achy-good sensation in her chest, the same feeling that started when she’d begun to realize she was falling in love with Logan. “Plans to give you hope and a future.” God had brought Logan into Claire’s life so she could feel hope again. As for her future . . . she’d have to have faith. If it didn’t include working at Sierra Mercy, she’d be okay with that. If that future didn’t include Logan Caldwell, then she’d somehow have to accept that too. Because as much as it hurt to lose him, she believed now that God intended to see her “through to a glorious conclusion.” Meanwhile, she still had Erin and Smokey and—
Claire sat up suddenly, not sure if the insistent pounding sound was rain or thunder or . . . the door? She listened again. Yes, knocking. She crossed the room, afraid to breathe. Then prayed as she turned the doorknob. Your will be done. Your will be done.
Her knees barely held her when she saw him.
Logan’s hair was wet; whether from a shower or the rain Claire couldn’t be sure. He’d changed from wood-sprinkled flannel to a fresh white shirt and khakis but hadn’t shaved. And that simple ruggedness, combined with his obvious fatigue, made him look as raw and vulnerable as her wayward cat
. His blue eyes caught hers and Claire’s heart stalled.
“Hi,” he said softly. “I’m back.”
Chapter Twenty
“Logan,” Claire managed, “come in. You’re getting soaked.”
He glanced through the rain toward his Jeep, and for one awful—awful—moment, Claire’s stomach sank. He’s going to say Beckah’s with him.
“Great. Thank you.” Logan smiled. “But I left the Jeep running because I didn’t know if you’d be here. My cell phone battery died, and—stay there. Don’t move an inch. I’ll be right back.”
That’s why he didn’t call. Claire’s heart soared as she watched Logan jog to the Jeep, but she reminded herself not to press him with questions. She’d let him say what he came to say. Your will be done.
In mere moments, Logan returned and stepped through the front door. He took Claire’s hand and led her toward the couch, declining her offer of coffee. His voice, despite his obvious fatigue, took on the timbre of urgency it had early this morning. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be here,” he said, tugging her forward. “I need to talk to you about—” He stopped as he spied the bedraggled black cat asleep on the couch. A grin lit his face. “Hey, Smokey’s back!” Logan turned and gave her hand a squeeze. “That’s so great. He’s okay?”
“A few nicks here and there, but it looks like the one-eared cat versus raccoon came out just fine.” She smiled, that sense of amazement washing over her once again. Smokey and his raccoons, me and the ER. Now Logan. What had Logan battled today? And who won?
“Good,” Logan said, sitting and drawing Claire down beside him. He continued to hold her hand, his gaze on her face. “Plenty of good things today, then.” He glanced down for a moment. “And I . . .”
Critical Care: 1 (Mercy Hospital) Page 23