less than five pounds, so he usually only took a small portion of his bottle at each feeding.
“You’re a natural,” Dr. Ryan said in a low tone.
The longing to have a baby of her own stabbed deeply, but she pushed it away with an effort. Her cheeks warmed and she cursed herself for responding to every little thing Dr. Ryan said. He had no way of knowing that she’d miscarried twice before her marriage had shattered into irreparable pieces. “Thanks.”
Abruptly he turned and walked toward the unit clerk’s desk. She overheard him requesting the respiratory therapist on duty to be paged for vent setting changes.
Little Barton took another ounce before thrusting the nipple out of his mouth, indicating he wasn’t interested in any more. She mentally calculated the total, pleased that he’d taken a half-ounce more at this feeding.
As she returned Barton to his bassinet and cranked on the mobile that hung over his head, she noticed Dr. Ryan was standing over Emma’s warmer. She assumed that he was checking the baby’s vital signs but as she approached she noticed that her little pink knit hat was off and he was softly stroking his thumb over Emma’s downy head, murmuring softly.
“You’re going to be fine, pretty girl. You’ll see.”
His words made tears prick her eyes and she subtly wiped them away. Dr. Ryan had called her a natural, but right now she was thinking the same about him. He was gazing down at Emma as if the baby was important on a personal level, rather than just another patient.
She hesitated, wondering if she was intruding, but he must have sensed her presence. He glanced at her and gently tugged the pink knit cap over Emma’s head. “Do you need to get in here?” he asked.
“Yes, I need to check her vitals again,” she said, trying to deal with her bizarre reaction to him. “But I can wait until you’re finished.”
“No, go ahead,” he said, stepping back to give her plenty of room.
She avoided his gaze and tucked the buds of her stethoscope into her ears, taking her time to listen to Emma’s heart, lungs and abdomen. When she straightened and pulled off the stethoscope, she caught Dr. Ryan’s intense gaze resting on her once again.
She grappled for something intelligent to say. “Everything sounds good, but her bowel sounds are still hyperactive.”
“I know. I’m reluctant to begin feeding her until we know for sure she won’t start having seizures,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “But if things continue to go well, I’ll insert a feeding tube for bolus feedings.”
“Sounds like a plan,” she agreed. Since he was still logged on to the computer, she gestured toward it. “Do you need the computer?”
“Not at all.” He leaned over to log off with quick keystrokes and she caught a whiff of his woodsy aftershave, the heady scent wreaking havoc with her senses. He stepped back, giving her room to sit, but he was still far too close for comfort.
Cassie tried to concentrate on documenting Emma’s assessment, but it wasn’t easy. She made several spelling mistakes, requiring her to backspace several times to fix them.
Why wouldn’t he leave? Was he reading her charting, double-checking her work? Surely he had better things to do. Better places to be other than here.
Validating vital signs was easier, merely requiring a point and click, and she was nearly finished when she heard him say her name in that deep, husky voice of his.
“Cassandra.”
She couldn’t seem to untie her tongue enough to tell him he could call her Cassie. After all, he insisted everyone call him by his first name, even though most continued to use his formal title, too. She glanced up, only to find his gaze glued to Emma.
Immediately, she rose to her feet. “What’s wrong?”
“Get me point two milligrams of midazolam and a half milligram of phenobarbital. Emma is having a seizure.”
Cassie’s heart plunged to the pit of her stomach as she rushed over to the medication dispensing machine to get the medication.
She dashed back to Emma’s warmer, holding each of the syringes up for him to see. “Point two milligrams of midazolam,” she said. “And a half milligram of phenobarb.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
She gently injected the medications into Emma’s IV then watched the baby’s heart rate on the monitor.
She couldn’t prevent an overwhelming sense of dread. Seizures were a bad sign. If they continued, there was a chance that Emma might suffer permanent brain damage.
The little girl could even die.
She has us. We care about her.
Cassie strengthened her resolve to do everything possible to make sure Emma had the best chance to survive.
Ryan shoved his hands in the pockets of his lab coat, hating every moment of feeling helpless.
This poor baby might not make it to her first birthday, all because her mother hadn’t sought help for her addiction.
Anger was useless, so he did his best to breathe it away, keeping an eye on his patient instead. The medication worked and, thankfully, Emma’s jerky movements stopped.
“I’m going to order the phenobarb to be given every six hours,” he told Cassie. “And an EEG, too.”
Cassie looked as upset as he felt, obviously already growing attached to their safe-haven baby. The same way he was. That moment in the elevator, when Cassie had mentioned the baby didn’t have anyone to care about her, had tugged at his heart.
In the three years since losing Victoria and his son, he’d been able to keep a certain emotional distance from his tiny patients. Easy enough to do, as most of the time the babies got better and went home with their parents and families.
But knowing Emma was alone in the world made him feel differently towards her. He knew he was becoming emotionally involved with their safe-haven baby. And not just because she was sick enough to require his focused attention.
Because almost from the first moment he’d seen her, the little girl had found a way to break through the barriers surrounding what Shana had described as his stone-cold heart.
“Oh, Emma,” Cassie murmured, stroking the baby’s cheek. “You’ve got to fight this, sweetpea. We’re going to help you fight this.”
His heart squeezed at the tears shimmering in Cassie’s eyes. From the first day she’d started working here—had it just been a few months ago?—he’d noticed her creamy skin, heart-shaped face, bright brown eyes and long dark hair that she always drew back in a ponytail at work, not to mention her curvy figure, mostly hidden beneath her baggy scrubs. What man wouldn’t?
Look, but don’t touch. That was his motto. Especially since the Shana debacle.
Yet for some reason, seeing Cassie cooing over the babies, especially Emma, hit him right in the center of his solar plexus.
He was irresistibly drawn to her. Had been from the moment they’d begun to work together. Resisting her was becoming more and more difficult. Maybe because she was the complete opposite in every way from Victoria. He’d never told anyone his deepest fear, that Victoria wouldn’t have made a very good mother. Not the way Cassie would. She clearly loved her tiny patients.
Victoria had loved being a doctor’s wife. Had loved entertaining guests and spending his money. He wasn’t sure how she’d managed to keep herself busy every day, working out at the gym and then lunching with her friends.
When she’d blown out her Achilles tendon after a spin class, he’d supported her through surgery, impressed at how determined she’d been to get back to her normal routine. Even after she discovered she was pregnant, she didn’t cut back on her exercise regimen.