a glance. “El.”
She sat across from him, stretched her legs, took a long pull on the water and jutted her chin at the pages. “What’s up?”
“More crap from the state medical board. They’re claiming we’re unethical in our methods, that we’re focusing too much on coddling—their word—patients and not enough on speed of recovery and effectiveness of treatment.” He gathered the pages into the big brown folder marked Dr. P. Wilder, Chief of Staff. The word confidential had been typed above his name.
“Should you be telling me this?” she asked, hoping he would say no. She had no time or interest in crazy allegations, especially when they alluded to a political agenda. Having already heard the rumors and innuendos, she simply tried to focus on her work.
Undoubtedly some of those rumors had evolved from the tug-of-war between Peter and his fiancée, Bethany Holloway—before they’d fallen in love. As a newcomer to Walnut River and the hospital board, Bethany had initially advocated Northeastern HealthCare’s takeover of Walnut River General. Until Peter convinced her NHC’s financial “support” would disintegrate the heart of the hospital.
Now, he shrugged his big shoulders. “You know the most of it already,” he said.
“I don’t want to,” Ella said honestly. “I was never any good at political science.”
He gave her a smile. “Aw, El. You were the brains of the family. We all knew that the minute you turned two and told Mom she’d made an extra cookie for Anna.”
Their sister who had estranged herself from the family almost ten years ago. Ella rubbed her forehead. “I wish…”
“What?”
“That Anna believed in our love.”
“She’s got to work it out herself, Ella.”
Momentarily they remained silent, the hospital’s sounds drifting through the open door: a medicine cart’s squeaky wheels in the hallway, the beep of someone’s pager, the jingle of a maintenance staffer’s keys. Sounds that had soothed Ella since she’d first toddled down the wide, polished corridors with her daddy, Dr. James Wilder.
Oh! Sometimes missing him would hit her so hard she had to catch her breath.
She thought of the man whose knee she’d repaired. Of course she’d recognized him last night. J. D. Sumner, executive of Northeastern HealthCare had arrived two days ago from New York City to woo the hospital board. A man with an agenda that, according to Peter, would uproot her father’s legacy and the principles of Walnut River General.
A man who had the greenest eyes—like moss on a forest tree….
Moss on a tree? Sheesh, Ella. Have you lost it?
Shoving the silly analogy aside, she said, “Sumner’s surgery went well, although he’ll be using crutches for a few days.” Her lips twitched. “I wouldn’t put it past him to show up in the boardroom with his butt hanging out of a hospital gown.”
Peter flashed a grin. “I’ll tell Beth. She’s doing some digging on who’s feeding the wolves.” He tapped the folder.
“Speaking of which, I need to check the one in my recovery.”
With a last gulp of water, she deposited the empty bottle into the recycle bin and headed down the hallway. She still couldn’t believe she’d given Sumner that tidbit about her age and experience. Thank goodness, she hadn’t blurted out anything else—such as I have confidence issues in the O.R. and am seeing a psychologist in Springfield.
God forbid.
Walking into recovery, she saw that consciousness wove through her patient’s mind, a sunbeam eliminating shadows.
“Hey, Doc,” he mumbled, those green eyes braving the light before drifting closed again.
Wolf or not, J. D. Sumner was a patient whose knee had been carved into by her scalpel. Her compassionate heart—the same one Peter had inherited—softened.
She laid a cool hand across Sumner’s forehead; found his pulse on the big freckled wrist resting on the blanket. Good—regular and strong. Skin a little warm but that was expected fresh out of the O.R.
Thank God. Another win.
Stop thinking like an intern! Focus on your patient.
She did. And saw he was a big man, long and lean and honed in all the muscled regions. She knew the human anatomy inside and out. Eleven years of school, orthopedic studies and her residency had garnered her that knowledge. Sumner was the epitome of health.
“The surgery was a success,” she told him quietly, her hand slipping upward to stroke back his hair.
He had wonderfully thick hair, McDreamy-shaggy and a dark auburn hue she’d sell a kidney for. Rich was all she could think. The color was rich as a forest of oaks in autumn.
Forests again. What was the matter with her? She wasn’t even an outdoor kind of gal.
“Feels good, Doc.” His words came less slurred; his eyes slowly zeroed on her. “Your fingers are nice and cool.”
God, what was she doing? She snatched back her hand, but not before his lips curved in a slight smile and a current landed in her abdomen. “The nurses will take you to your room in about fifteen minutes,” she told him. “You’ll need to wear the knee brace for a few days to keep the leg straight. I also want you to use crutches until you can put pressure on the leg without pain.”
He was having trouble keeping his eyes open. “Can I have some water? Mouth feels dry as Arizona.”
“The recovery nurse will give you a few sips.” For anyone else she would have complied. But there was something about J. D. Sumner that confused her, sent tingles up her arms wherever she touched him. The moment he’d come into the E.R., snow-covered and biting his lip, she had felt that electricity. Thankfully, during surgery her focus had been too intense.
“No, you,” he said. “I want you to—”
“Yolanda can—”
“Please.” He caught her hand in a shocked move. “You.”
“Mr. Sumner, I have other patients.”
“J.D. It’s…J.D.”
In his eyes she saw that same flicker of apprehension she’d noticed before the operation. For some reason NHC’s top man was afraid. But of what—hospitals in general? Was that why he hadn’t had his knee fixed years ago? Oh, yes, she’d noted the old damage, the ‘jumper’s knee.’ Why had he ignored the problem so long?
Again, her heart responded. While fear often accompanied patients and families into the hospital, Ella worked hard to ease their situations. J. D. Sumner was no different.
“All right,” she said and nodded to the nurse tucking a warming blanket around his feet. Within seconds, Yolanda handed Ella a plastic water bottle and straw.
Gently she slid her hand beneath his head—fingers automatically weaving through the density of his hair—and lifted him to the flexible straw. His lips were well-shaped, though dehydrated from the anesthetic. Dark whiskers covered his top lip and obstinate jaw, and flowed down his neck to his Adam’s apple.
As a kid he would’ve had freckles across his cheeks.
Sipping slowly, he watched her watch him and again she felt that prickle in her belly. Gold dusted his irises, but most surprising were his lashes: black and long, curvy as a seashell. To achieve what he grew naturally, she’d need extra-lash mascara.
“Thank you,” he said hoarsely.
She slipped her hand free of his head, set the bottle on the rolling tray. “You’re welcome. Yolanda will look after you now.”
“Will