by Nora Roberts
"The girl needs to be swept off her feet," Daniel claimed. "She was always one for fairy tales."
"She needs to stand on her own feet," Anna corrected. "Gwen prides herself on her strength and independence."
"She needs moonlight and roses and wooing."
"She needs integrity, partnership and respect."
Branson blew out a breath. "Well, this is all very helpful." Then he shook his head in confusion as both Anna and Daniel burst into laughter. "Did I miss the joke?"
"You weren't a gleam in your father's eye, nor your father a gleam in his father's," Daniel said, reaching for Anna's hand. "So you've missed it right enough. I told you Gwen took after her grandmother, and so she does. The things we've said Gwen needs are what she needs. Just as lovely Anna Whitfield demanded them sixty years ago from a clumsy Scotsman who fell madly in love the minute he saw her in a rose-colored dress at the Donahues' summer ball."
"And though it took quite a bit of work," she murmured, "I managed to get them all from him. And more. Just be yourself, Branson, and let her be what she is. That's how you start."
Gwen, profoundly grateful that she'd insisted on taking her own car, pulled into her drive at midnight. If she had ever, in the whole of her life, spent a more boring evening, she'd have to have been comatose. She didn't object to hospital functions, she didn't object to Greg. But the combination of the two of them in one endless evening had been a study in tedium.
And if his hand found its way up her leg under the table one more time, the surgeon would have required surgery. She imagined Branson would have made pithy, whispered comments about the pompous speeches. And have made her struggle not to laugh and lose dignity.
He'd have had plenty to say about the lukewarm and rubbery chicken Kiev she'd pretended to eat. And they'd probably have danced, rather than discussed laser surgery for ninety minutes before she finally made her excuses and escaped.
Why was she thinking about Branson? She shook herself, climbed out of the car. She hadn't wanted to be with him, either. What she'd really wanted was to be home, curled up in front of the fire with a nice brandy and a good book. Since it was too late for that, she'd settle for a warm bed and oblivion.
She was almost at the door before she saw the little potted tree sitting on the stoop in the porch light. Baffled, she crouched down, stared at the little stuffed bird attached to a branch from which golden silk pears dripped. Since the attached card carried her name, she tugged it free and ripped it open.
Consider this the first day of Christmas.
Bran
He'd sent her a partridge in a pear tree, Gwen thought, and, pressing the card to her breast, sighed hugely. How incredibly sweet. She skimmed her finger over one of the glossy pears and set it swinging, smiled foolishly at the colorful, plump bird. And realized, with a suddenness that had her sitting down hard beside the silly little tree, that she was in deep and serious trouble.
Chapter 15
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Gwen walked out of OR three rubbing cramps out of her fingers. The surgery had been long and complicated, but she'd been pleased to be allowed to assist. She'd spent the past ten hours on her feet, and figured if she was lucky she could clock out shortly and leave the hospital on a high note.
She saw Branson waiting in the corridor and decided the odds of that high note had just improved.
"They told me you were up here, sewing some guy back together."
"Assisting," she corrected. "But sewing him back together's close. Thirty-six-year-old man who was very, very careless with a chain saw."
"Ouch."
"I think he's going to keep his arm." She rolled her neck as she pushed the button for the elevator. "Dr. Merit is the best in the state. I don't know anyone else who could have done what he did in there. The massive blood loss and trauma, the muscle and nerve damage. And the patient wasn't the best candidate for a long surgery—a good hundred pounds overweight. But he could very well be swinging a chain saw to cut down his Christmas tree next December."
"Did you get yours yet?"
"Our tree?" She stepped out into the ER, relieved that it seemed to be quiet. "This weekend." She took a quick look at the board, saw she wasn't needed. "I'm going to grab some coffee."
"You're off shift, aren't you?"
"In ten minutes." She swung into the lounge, headed straight for the pot. "I didn't think you'd be by today."
"I had a few things to deal with." He pulled a box out of his pocket. "Here's one of them." With the pot in her hand, Gwen stared at the pretty silver box and bow. "Branson, you have to stop this."
"Why?"
"You can't keep giving me presents."
"Why?" He grinned at her. "You liked the others, and I've got a theme going here." The pear tree, she thought, the lovely little brooch of two turtledoves, the silly trio of china hens, and four ridiculous chirping plastic windup birds. She adored all of them. "When your theme hits nine dancing ladies, you're going to be in trouble."
"I've got plans for that. Come on, open it up."
He took the pot from her, handed her the box, then poured two cups himself. She was charmed, and they both knew it. He heard her helpless little sigh as she took off the lid and saw the long chain with five rings intricately braided into it.
"How do you manage this?"
"Patience, determination. Persistence." He set the cups down. "Here, let me put it on for you." He took the necklace out and draped it over her head, where it glowed against her dull green scrubs. "Quite a fashion statement." She ran a hand down the chain. "I shouldn't take it."
"Of course you should. You want it"
"Of course I want it," she said with a hint of exasperation. "It's lovely and it's charming." It made no sense. They barely knew each other. She'd given him no encouragement. He simply wasn't the next step she'd planned for her life. "Why are you doing this?" she demanded.
"Because I've still got that thing for you." He leaned down, brushed his lips to hers, adoring that mix of confusion and annoyance in her eyes. "And it seems to be spreading. Why don't you change into something a little less intimidating, and we'll go out?" He slid his arms around her waist "Try that candlelight dinner this time."
"I'm not dressed for dinner."
"You look wonderful. Lovely. Perfect" He could feel her hesitate, soften, sway toward surrender. "I want to be with you, Gwendolyn. I want to make love with you. I can't remember wanting anything quite so much, and there are a great many things I've wanted." She felt herself sliding into the kiss, into him, before she could stop herself. "I've barely had time to catch my breath since you walked into my life."
"Don't catch it," he said, suddenly, fiercely, impatient. "Let it go. And come with me." His mouth demanded now, possessed, severing any thought of protest. The thrill whipped through her as he dragged her into the heat, under the dark. "For God's sake, Gwendolyn, let me touch you."
"I want—" She had her hands on his face, threaded her fingers through his dark blond hair, fisted them. "I want you. I'm not being coy or playing games." She eased back so that she could meet his eyes. It was vital to her to be honest, and to be logical. "I haven't wanted anyone else, enough to let them touch me."
It took a moment for his head to separate itself from the storm rising in his body. A moment to cool the mind and understand what she was telling him.
Untouched. Innocent. She was the fairy princess after all.
Instinctively he gentled his hold. "You can't possibly know how much that means. I don't want to hurt you."
"I'm not afraid of that." She stepped back, pushed a hand through her hair. "I'm a doctor, I—" Her eyes narrowed when he chuckled.
"What are you laughing at?"
"Some matters may have to do with the anatomy, Dr. Dish, but nothing at all to do with medicine."
"Doctor what?"
"You heard me." Lord, but it was a pleasure in itself to shock her. "And believe me, you won't be thinking like a doctor when I make love w
ith you."
"I haven't said you will yet," she told him evenly. The cocksure grin and all-male ego irritated her enough to have her regain some balance. "And if you continue to find my lack of experience in this particular area so amusing—"
"I don't find your lack of experience in this area amusing at all. I find it erotic. Unspeakably erotic. And I'd like to exchange the dinner for a late supper. Very late. I want to spend a great deal of time giving you—" he reached out, closed his hand over the chain and tugged her closer "—all manner of experiences in this particular area."
"I haven't decided," she began, and felt a gush of relief as her beeper sounded. "Excuse me." She stepped back, angled the beeper she wore on her hip so that she could read the code. Turning, she pushed through the doors and hunted up the chief resident on duty.
"Good, Blade, I saw you hadn't clocked out. We've got a drive-by. Gunshot wounds, chest and abdomen. Twelve-year-old male. ETA two minutes."
Branson watched her transform in front of his eyes from an aroused and irritated woman to cold and sturdy steel. She moved fast, heading for the heavy double doors even as the sound of sirens punched through the quiet. The paramedics hustled the boy in on a gurney, with Gwen rushing beside them, filing away the shouted information on vital signs and treatment that they snapped out at her. She yanked on gloves and gown while a nurse strapped goggles over her eyes. In seconds her hands were covered in blood.
The kid wore a Bruins' line jacket, Branson noted, black high-tops. A man and woman rushed into the room behind the gurney, both of them crying, both of them shouting demands, pleas, questions.
"You can't be in here," Gwen snapped out as she slid the endotracheal tube into place. "We have to help him now. Wallace," she ordered, jerking her head at an orderly. "Get me six units of O-neg, stat. He needs whole blood."
"He'll be all right. Won't he be all right?" The woman fought against the orderly on the way to the door. "He was just walking home from a friend's. He was just walking home. My baby. Scotty."
The smell of grief and terror hung in the air, overriding even the blood.
"Scotty's in good hands now," Wallace said as he urged the parents away from the door. "Dr. Blade's the best. You have to let her do her job."
Her hands moved quickly, her mind remained cold. A stream of blood shot out, striking her across the breasts. "We've got a pumper. Clamp."
"BP's dropping. I'm losing the pulse."
She ordered IVs, tests, a type and crossmatch on the victim's blood. Her words punched the air even as her hands fought to heal. But in her mind, in the cold, clear logic of it, she already knew it was useless.
"Irrigate this, I can't see what the hell—I found the exit wound. Somebody get out and push for the pictures. I want to know how many bullets went into this boy. Come on, Scotty, come on, stay with me."
She fought for him, sweat sliding down her back unnoticed. Her eyes were fierce and warrior-bright. Sometimes, she knew, death could be beaten. Or, if not beaten, cheated.
So much damage in such a small body. But she didn't allow herself to think of that, only to focus on each step, each need, each answer.
Time sped by with gowned staff rushing in and out of the doors.
When he coded, she never broke rhythm. "Let's zap him. Now!" She snatched the pediatric paddles, waited for the tone. "Clear." His body jerked, but his heart didn't respond. "Again. Come on, damn it, come on." With the second shock, the monitor registered the beat.
"Slow sinus rhythm."
"Get him a bolus of epi. That's the way." It was only the two of them now in her mind, just the two of them challenging the inevitable.
"Just a little longer. Is OR ready for him?"
"Standing by."
"BP dropping. No pulse."
She swore now and hitched herself onto the table to straddle him. "Bag him. Hurry up," she ordered as she began CPR. "We're losing him."
His hair was glossy black curls, he had the face of a sleeping angel. Gwen ordered herself not to notice, not to think, just to act. "I need another two units of blood. Get it in him. Let's go, move, let's get him upstairs."
They shoved the gurney through the doors with Gwen still atop it, working the boy's chest. Even as the parents rushed up, tried to cling to the gurney, she never took her eyes off the boy's face.
The last glimpse Branson had was of the fierce determination in her eyes before the elevator doors closed. And when they opened more than two hours later, he saw her eyes again, and the boy's death in them.
"Gwendolyn—"
She only shook her head. She walked past him to the lobby desk. Very deliberately, she picked up her charts, completed her notations and clocked out. She said nothing, simply walked into the lounge and to her locker.
"I'm sorry," Branson said from behind her.
"It happens. He was gone when they brought him in. He was gone when the bullet cut into his heart." She pulled off her scrubs, took out a wool blazer. "You shouldn't have waited, Branson. I'm too tired to socialize tonight. I'm going home."
"I'll take you."
"I've got my car." She took out her coat, her purse.
"I'm not leaving you alone when you're churned up this way."
"I'm not churned up. This is hardly the first patient I've lost, or the last I will lose." She shrugged into her coat, found her gloves in the pocket where she had tucked them hours before. "We did everything we could. We used all of the skills available to us. That's all we can do." Her fingers were numb and stiff as she pushed open the door.
He waited until they were outside, until the light snow whirled around them and clung to her hair. "I'm driving you home."
"Leave me alone." She shoved his hand from her arm, rounded on him. The pressure in her chest was hideous, unbearable. "I'm perfectly capable of driving myself anywhere I want to go. I don't want you, I don't need you. I don't—" Appalled at herself, she stopped, pressed her fingers to her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. No, please." She shook her head quickly before he could touch her again. "I need to walk."
He slipped his hands into his pockets. "Then we'll walk."
Chapter 16
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The breeze was brisk, the snow a whirl of white flakes. In silence, they walked toward the river with the sound of traffic a steady whoosh. Streetlights gleamed, Christmas bulbs glowed. On the near corner, a streetside Santa rang his bell monotonously as pedestrians hustled by.
Christmas, Gwen thought, was a time for children's laughter, for family, for secrets and for joys. But to fate—if one believed in it—one day, one season, was the same as the next.
"You can't let it inside you," Gwen said at length. Her hands were so cold and so tired. She tucked them in her pockets instead of taking the effort to pull on her gloves. "If you do, you lose your edge, you start to doubt yourself, your instincts, your abilities. Then, the next time, the next patient, you're not focused. You can't let it in. I know that."
"But if you don't let any of it inside you, you lose your humanity, what makes you care enough to fight the next time, for the next patient."
"It's a difficult line," Gwen murmured in response. "No matter how straight you try to walk it, you end up teetering over one side or the other at any point." She stopped to look out over the water.
She loved this place, this city, with its insane traffic, its lovely old buildings, its graceful waterways. She loved its history and its pride. But just now she found no comfort in it. It was part of a world that could be cold and cruel to the defenseless.
"I didn't want to lose him. In my head I knew 1 would, the minute I saw how badly he was damaged. But sometimes you get a miracle. And sometimes you don't."
She closed her eyes, grateful that Branson said nothing, that he understood she needed to get it out. "I can take it. I can take the hours, the stress, the pressure. I wanted it. I trained for it. I can take the paperwork, the bureaucracy. The rude patients, the drug addicts and the self-abusers. I can take the w
asted lives. You see so many of them, you almost stop noticing. And then, suddenly…" Her voice shuddered, and she pressed her fingers to her eyes. "He was only twelve years old." He spoke now, saying the only thing there was to say. "You did everything you could do."
"That doesn't seem to matter when it's not enough."
"You know better than that" He turned her to face him, could think of nothing but her as he watched a tear spill out of those soft lavender eyes. "How many lives did you save today, this week, this year?"
"I know when I see people in pain or distress that I can fix it, most of the time—I can fix it, or at least help."
"And you do," he said quietly. "Whatever it takes out of you, that's what you do."
"That's what I need to do. And I know that sometimes, no matter what you do, or how hard a team works, you'll lose. That's rational, that's real, and still pan of me just can't accept it. I know that only this morning, that little boy got out of bed, ate his breakfast. Maybe he ran for the school bus and daydreamed in class. Then, because he walked down the wrong street at the wrong moment, his life is over. Everything he might have done won't be done."
She turned to walk again. "I had to call it," she continued. "He was my patient, and I had to call it. You have to decide to accept the moment when there's nothing else to be done. You look at the clock and note the time. Then it's over. I had to go out and tell his parents."
"Gwendolyn, what you do is courageous. It's miraculous." He took her hands, rubbing and warming them instinctively. "What you feel is courageous. And miraculous." He brought her hands to his lips. "It takes my breath away." With a sigh, she let herself be gathered close, let her head rest on his chest. "I'm sorry I snapped at you before."
"Shh." He lowered his lips to her hair.
Here, she thought, was comfort. A man to lean on. Needing him, she lifted her head, found his mouth with hers and soothed herself. The warmth he gave back eased the ache, smoothed the raw edges.
"Branson." She tried to smile when he brushed tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. "If you want me, I'll come with you now." His stomach muscles knotted tight. The hand on her cheek stilled, and with an effort, he made it slide down to stroke her shoulder. "Of course I want you. But I can't ask you to come with me now."
"But—" She closed her eyes when he pressed his lips to her brow.
"You inspire me to play by certain rules. You're shaky and you're vulnerable. It would be easy to convince myself I'd be comforting you, taking your mind off things."
"Wouldn't you be?"
"I'd also be taking advantage of the moment. I won't do that with you." Couldn't do that with her, he realized, because he wanted much more than just the moment with her.
"I don't understand you. I thought you'd prefer having the advantage."
"Not this way. Our first time together isn't going to happen because you're unhappy, or feeling grateful because I listened. When I touch you, when you let me, it won't have anything to do with anything but the two of us."
"If you're being careful because I haven't been with a man before…"
"I'm being careful because it's you. You matter, Gwendolyn." He touched his lips to hers again. "You very much matter. That's why I'm going to see that you have dinner, then I'm taking you home and, if necessary, I'll tuck you into bed myself to make sure you sleep." Now she did smile. "I don't need to be taken care of, Branson."
"I know. That's what makes taking care of you so appealing. Tonight I'm not going to give you any choice in the matter. You're cold," he added, and slipped an arm around her shoulder before walking back toward the hospital.
"I appreciate the gesture, but I'm all right now. And I do have my own car, so—"
"You need to eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"You'll eat," he said simply, just as he caught sight of the little restaurant a half block from the hospital. "Right here is just what you need. Solid, simple, American food."
"The service is surly here, and the food quality spotty."
"Good. That'll add a bit of adventure into it." His hair glinted gold in the dark as he swung her toward the door. "Dr. Blade, I believe we're about to have our first date."