by Susan Wiggs
“Not like you do. I saw the way you were working with that patient at the hospital.”
“Mrs. Ulrich?” She smiled fondly. “I did her hair, that’s all. She wanted help getting ready for her son’s visit from Des Moines.”
“It was more than that, Twyla.”
They walked together back to the steps. She felt the urge to take his hand—it seemed the most natural thing in the world to do—but she resisted, tucking her hand into her pocket for safety. She took a seat on the porch steps, leaning against the railing.
“What do you mean, it was more than that?”
“The things you do at the hospital—fixing some woman’s hair, bringing her a lipstick, whatever makes her feel better. That’s the essence of healing. It’s something I haven’t thought about in a long time. I should thank you for reminding me what’s important and making me remember why I do what I do.”
“Your field—pathology—is important,” she reminded him.
“It’s easy to lose sight of the human side of medicine when you’re looking at both slides and films all day. You reminded me of that—the human side.”
She felt both pleased and embarrassed by his praise. It was a simple thing, sitting on the porch steps and talking with a man about things that were important. Yet in her life, moments like this weren’t merely rare but unheard-of. It was frightening how much she liked sharing her thoughts with Rob Carter, how much his attention meant to her. Frightening, because it had to end.
With a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, she glanced at her watch, then stood up.
“Didn’t you say you were supposed to meet someone at the Casper airport?” she asked.
He hardly blinked. “Yeah. I guess I did.” He stacked one sawhorse on top of the other and carried them to the shed.
The weekend was over. The reunion was over. The porch was fixed. Dear Lord, her mother was fixed. Dr. Fix-It had blasted like a whirlwind into her world, rearranging everything. Her life, her house, her priorities.
Her heart.
She felt the moment drawing to a close. She wanted to stop everything, to step back and gaze at each moment of the past weekend like a painting in a museum, beautifully lit and roped off from the rest of her life by red velvet cords. It was something that rare, that special.
She wanted to remember the slant of the sun over the mountains and the sound of Brian’s laughter drifting from a distance, the ripple of a breeze across the grassy slope of the yard, the lift of her mother’s apron as she walked along the ridge with her face tilted toward the light.
Most of all, Twyla wanted to remember Rob, who had given her so much more than moral support for her journey home. When she had first met him, she had thought he was intimidatingly handsome, unapproachable. Now she found him startlingly accessible, a man she could trust with every secret she had.
He had been the perfect one-night stand, except that she wanted him for more than one night.
Her breath came in short, nervous puffs because she knew what she had to say. She had to tell him…more than thanks. She had to tell him he had changed her, that because of him she felt herself changing, reaching, becoming someone she never thought she would be again and almost didn’t recognize.
Someone who could love again.
“So,” he said, coming out of the shed, “I guess—”
“Rob.”
The urgent note in her voice must have caught at him, because he stood stock-still for a minute, then took off his hat, running a bandanna over his sweaty brow. “Yeah?”
Lord. Being sweaty only added to his sex appeal.
“I wanted you to know…about this weekend…”
“Yeah?” he asked again, clearly intrigued now.
“I feel—oh, God, this is so hard.” Just say it, Twyla. Say you don’t want it to end, that you’re wondering when you can see him again. She got up and paced the yard, hands stuck in the pockets of her skirt. “This weekend was a big deal for me, Rob.”
“Good. That’s exactly what Mrs. Duckworth and Mrs. Spinelli intended.”
“No, I’m not talking about that. I honestly don’t think their scheme included us winding up in bed.”
His eyelids lowered a notch, and she felt a forbidden spasm of remembered pleasure at that hooded look. “That was a bonus, I guess.”
She tried to smile, but it wouldn’t form. “I can’t joke about this, Rob. Remember last night, when you asked me if I’d thought about what…being with you could mean?”
His gaze shifted from side to side. Her earnestness was making him nervous. She plunged onward, anyway. “What happened meant more to me than a one-night stand. I was wondering what it meant to you.”
He fiddled with his watch, though he didn’t look at it. She felt guilty, delaying him, but she had to know his thoughts on this.
When he caught her staring at his hands, he sat on the steps and rested his wrists easily on his knees, linking his fingers. “To be honest, Twyla, I didn’t want to have anything to do with this weekend, or the whole bachelor auction thing, for that matter. I felt obligated to Lost Springs. When I met you and the quilt ladies, I felt obligated all over again.”
“The quilt ladies are sometimes known as the ‘guilt’ ladies,” she said.
Standing up with a restless movement, he propped his hip against the new railing, testing its strength. “At some point, everything changed. I started to like what we were doing. I liked being with you.” The hooded, sexy look shadowed his face again. “I liked making love to you.” Then he took a deep breath that expanded his chest, and suddenly there was nothing sexy at all in his expression. “And I shouldn’t have.”
Twyla folded her arms across her middle, bracing herself. Now she started to sweat, and she felt sure she didn’t look nearly so attractive as Rob. She couldn’t meet his eyes, so she looked behind the house to the slope. Brian raced around, eagerly showing his grandmother all his favorite climbing trees and hiding places in the woods. “Shouldn’t have made love, or shouldn’t have liked it?” Twyla asked.
“Both, I guess.” He pushed away from the railing and started to pace. “I never meant to mislead you, Twyla, but I never told you the whole truth, either.”
Oh, God, here it comes, she thought. He was married, or there was a bet riding on scoring with her, or—She shut off her thoughts. “What’s the whole truth?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Lies are always complicated.” She was so busy trying to understand what he was saying that she almost didn’t hear the crunch of tires on gravel.
Shep did, barking madly at Reilly’s old flatbed truck as it pulled to the side of the road. The passenger door opened.
Rob muttered something under his breath, something she didn’t hear. His manner became that of a stranger as he walked toward the car. Twyla shooed the dog away and hurried after him, stunned to see a tall blonde woman get out and wave to Reilly, thanking him for the ride. Then she turned to Rob and kissed him on the mouth.
For a long time.
Rob stepped back, a polite smile on his face. “Lauren,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“I got an earlier flight.” The woman called Lauren wrinkled her dainty nose and took her hands away from him. “Heavens, what have you been doing? You’re covered with horrid sweat.”
Twyla didn’t think his sweat was horrid. It was all she was capable of thinking as she walked down the drive toward them.
“How did you find me?” Rob asked.
“Were you hiding?” Lauren had a melodious voice and a classy accent, like a trained 1940s actress. She tilted her head back, laughing as she held out a hand to Twyla. “I’m Lauren DeVane.”
Twyla took her slim, elegant hand. Killer manicure. “Hi. Twyla McCabe.”
“Mr. Reilly was nice enough to give me a lift out here. Are you ready?” Lauren asked Rob. Her smile was as dazzling as a toothpaste ad. “If we leave now, we can be in Chugwater in time for cocktail hour.” She turned to Twyla. �
��We’re meeting friends there,” she explained.
Something about the statement made Twyla feel entirely excluded. She was pretty sure it was meant to sound that way.
“I’ll get my keys.” Rob spoke like a dead man. Or a doomed one, at least.
Which he was, Twyla thought, wondering if the steam coming out of her ears was visible. She heard nothing but guilt in the tone of his voice. So this was the “whole truth” he had been talking about earlier.
She found her voice somewhere in the shocked reaches of her throat. “Would you like a glass of lemonade, or maybe white wine?” I have a nice jug of rat poison for Rob in the basement.
Lauren’s faultlessly polite gaze flicked to the house, then to Rob. “You know, I truly would love to visit. I’m dying to hear all about your bachelor auction weekend. I want to know every single detail. A high school reunion is just too cute.”
Rob stiffened with a sudden movement that seemed to jolt him out of his inertia. Twyla felt him looking at her, but she refused to meet his gaze, refused to diffuse the discomfort of the moment.
“I thought you were in a hurry to get to Chugwater,” he said to Lauren.
“Yes, I suppose I was.” She smiled apologetically at Twyla. “Maybe another time.”
“Of course,” Twyla replied, matching her lie for lie. She forced herself to address Rob. “I’ll tell Brian and my mother you said goodbye.”
He nodded. “Do that.” He stuck out his hand and she took it, feeling the weight of Lauren’s gaze on them and battling a swift, vivid memory of that warm, clever hand on her bare shoulder, then drifting down to her breast—
“’Bye,” she said, choking off the memory. “Thanks again…for fixing the porch.”
She felt like a tree, rooted in place as they drove away. And she was proud of herself, really, because she forced herself to turn and walk with measured paces into the house, to climb the stairs and shut the door to her room before she broke down.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“DR. CARTER. PAGING DR. CARTER.”
Kneading away a crick in his neck, Rob saved a file on his laptop and went to answer the page. He had been working on a case involving a two-day-old term infant who had been rushed to the newborn intensive care unit in respiratory distress. The page was probably the coagulation studies he’d ordered.
As he took to the elevated walkway to the unit, the double doors at the end of the hall opened and a woman carrying an enormous bouquet of flowers came through. Colorful bursts of blossoms obscured her face, but he noticed immediately that she was wearing red shoes. A bright curl of red hair draped over her shoulder.
Before logic could take over, his heart leaped almost painfully in his chest and his mouth formed her name.
“Twyla?”
“Excuse me.” Veering to one side, the woman with the flowers passed by, leaving a cloying hothouse fragrance behind.
He caught a glimpse of a pleasant face—not Twyla’s.
“You’re losing your mind, pal,” he muttered under his breath, and continued down the hall to the nurses’ station. He had to concentrate on the case, nothing but the case.
In the unit, he passed through a gauntlet of visitors, personnel in scrubs, drug sales reps. One of his techs waited at the desk, a sheaf of documents in hand and a look of triumph on his face.
“You were right,” he said. “The coagulation results are consistent with your hunch. Too much heparin either in a line or the child.”
“Thanks,” said Rob, glad to have the problem isolated but not looking forward to sharing the results with the intensive care unit team. He grabbed the chart. “Did you page the baby’s doctor?”
“He’s with the team now. In C-Wing.”
Tying on a surgical mask, Rob found the physicians and nurses clustered around a clear bassinet. The chart identified the child as “Baby Girl Gardner.” Outside, the anxious parents paced, watching through the slatted blinds.
Rob and his team had worked overtime trying to figure out what the baby’s symptoms added up to, and at last he’d figured it out. He regarded the small, struggling infant, trapped like a fly in a web of tubing and monitor wire.
The others stopped talking and waited expectantly.
“This infant,” Rob said, “has been given an overdose of heparin.”
“I beg your pardon,” a nurse said, her voice hard with the iron of indignation. “This child has not been in the same room with a bottle of heparin.”
Rob flipped to a page in his chart. “I figured someone would say that, so I ordered a heparin assay.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” A neonatologist Rob knew vaguely instantly ordered fresh frozen plasma. “We’ll take it from here.”
“Sorry,” Rob said, trying to be polite. “That won’t correct it. The infused plasma will only be contaminated with circulating heparin. That’s your problem to begin with.”
“So what do we do?”
“Protamine sulfate will reverse the overdose.”
The neonatologist took the file from Rob. “Thanks a million. Good work.”
“Just doing my job.” Rob left the unit in a hurry, brushing past the nervous parents. His job was done. He’d just saved a baby’s life. Yet part of him wanted to stay and see the little girl recover, blink her eyes and cry, respond to her mother’s touch. That was what was missing from his practice, that vital connection.
It wasn’t merely ego. He had asked himself that. He didn’t crave the godlike adulation a primary-care physician got from his patients. It was the connection he wanted.
As he had so frequently over the long, hot summer, he pictured Twyla at the county hospital, combing out a patient’s hair, those hands touching, stroking, healing as she listened.
Seeing her like that had made him question the choices he’d made. Knowing her, even for a brief time, had transformed him profoundly. She’d made him remember so many other facets of medicine. Yes, the pathology was vital, and his work in the field had been important. But in the process of being brilliant in the lab, was he losing his humanity?
Maybe it was time to try something else. Maybe the next step for him was to move out from behind the microscope. Sure, it got rough when you encountered a patient who didn’t recover or wouldn’t cooperate, but that came with the territory. He had been avoiding it for years.
Back in his suite in the hospital annex, he let the tech know everything had worked out but declined the offer of going for a beer to celebrate. Closing the door to his office, he took off his lab coat, sat down at his desk and loosened his tie.
His paperweight was the horseshoe Twyla had given him. The one her father had declared a symbol of good luck. Rob didn’t know why he kept it. The thing was a constant reminder of that weekend, and how Twyla had come to mean everything to him.
He picked up the horseshoe. “Okay, work, damn it. It’s about time my luck came around.”
The phone mocked him, a silent witness to his troubles over the summer. Prior to the bachelor auction, he’d thought his relationship with Lauren was fine—but knowing Twyla had made Rob aware of a gaping lack of true intimacy and understanding between him and Lauren.
After driving away from Twyla’s house that day, he’d taken Lauren to see Lost Springs to show her where he came from.
“I don’t want to get into the deep psychological implications of your returning here,” she’d said, clearly uncomfortable as she’d fiddled with the latch of her designer purse. “You’ve triumphed over your circumstances. That’s all that matters.”
He used to believe that, but he knew better now. It wasn’t all that mattered.
It had taken a hairdresser from Hell Creek, Wyoming, to make him realize that.
Lauren had cried when he’d told her it was over, but she hadn’t tried to convince him to stay with her. She was no fool—she had probably seen the truth even before he had. She’d probably seen it the moment she’d walked up Twyla’s drive that day.
Now September set the aspens aflame
with bright golden color, and he still hadn’t been in touch with Twyla. He’d tried calling, but she’d hung up. A hundred times more he had picked up that phone. But when he did, he wondered what he could possibly say to her that would convince her that, in one weekend, he had fallen completely in love with her, that knowing her had changed his life.
He knew damned well what she thought of him. Her face had said it all at their parting. He had betrayed her by not telling her about Lauren. Why should she trust him again?
A week after the reunion, a package had arrived. Rob’s hopes had soared when he saw the postmark, then plummeted when he discovered the heavily insured contents: the ruby necklace he had given her, and the picture Gwen had taken of them before their weekend together. No note, no explanation. She really didn’t need to explain. She had swept her life clean of him.
He knew he could go to her house, knock at her door, demand to be heard. But he wasn’t ready to do that, not yet. He couldn’t until he knew exactly what he had to offer her.
He turned the horseshoe over and over in his hands. He’d had all summer to think, to plan, to wonder, but when all was said and done, plans could take him only so far.
He glanced over at the fax machine to see that a message had come in while he was gone. Still holding the horseshoe, he looked at it—and his face broke into a huge smile. “Hot damn,” he said. “It’s about time.”
Holding both his good-luck talisman and the letter, he experienced a strange lightness in his chest. Up until this moment, his life had been all about goal-setting and planning. Now he was about to take a blind plunge into a future he almost couldn’t imagine. He was about to follow his instincts rather than his intellect. It was either the biggest mistake of his life…or the best move he could make.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE BELL OVER the shop door of Twyla’s Tease ‘n’ Tweeze jangled as Gwen McCabe came in, bringing a fresh eddy of autumn air with her.
“Look what the wind blew in,” Mrs. Duckworth declared, turning her head carefully under its covering of lavender-blue dye. “How’s every little thing, hon?”