Lone Star Baby. Cathy Thacker Gillen
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you should be involved?”
Chagrined, he dropped his hold on her. “Temporarily. In a very cursory—guardian in legal aspect only—way.” Otherwise, he wasn’t sure he could meet this child’s needs any better than he had his siblings’ in the aftermath of his parents’ tragic death.
She gave him an affronted look. “Well, that’s not my idea of being a guardian.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw several people heading toward them. Figuring this conversation did not need an audience, Gavin cupped Violet’s elbow once again, opened the exit door that led to the stairwell and guided her through.
Abruptly, they were surrounded by concrete—and silence. She swung toward him, shivering slightly, her full lips slanting downward. “You can’t get emotionally attached to this baby, Violet.”
“Actually, I can’t not have feelings for her.”
Watching a shadow cross her face, he wanted to protect her all the more. “You know what I mean.”
Violet folded her arms in front of her, the action pushing up the soft swell of her breasts. She released another long, quavering breath. “You think I should handle the situation the way you do your ER patients?” Clearly aware this situation was becoming far too intimate too fast, she paced away from him. Leaning against the wall, she propped her hands on the railing behind her. “Treat ’em and street ’em?”
Not about to apologize for doing his job, and doing it well, he replied in a low, matter-of-fact voice, “Patients come in. They have a medical problem that needs to be dealt with. I diagnose it, administer the proper care and then wish them well as they head either out the door or to another floor of the hospital.”
“In any case,” she accused, “you don’t have to see them again or get emotionally involved.”
“Actually,” Gavin corrected, matching her high-brow tone, “some of them I do see on a rather regular basis. Anyone with a chronic health problem. Cystic fibrosis, cancer and congestive heart failure patients tend to come into the ER at least once or twice a year, if not more, depending on the situation.”
She moved to sit on the floor and propped her folded arms on her upraised knees. “Okay. I’ll grant you that.”
He sat next to her; so close their legs almost touched. “I never give anyone less than my best. It still doesn’t mean, however, that I’m unnecessarily involved with my patients.” The way, he observed silently, she often seemed to be.
“Well, that’s true.” Violet rubbed at an imaginary spot on her jeans. “You do have a rep for having a barbed-wired heart.”
Her teasing tone did little to allay the sting of the words. He elbowed her playfully. “Actually, Penelope said I didn’t have a romantic bone in my body.”
“What did you do to make her think that?”
Pushing aside the memory of the bitter breakup, he shrugged. “I think it’s more what I refused to do.”
Interest lit her curious eyes. “Which was...?”
“Sugarcoat anything. Life is what it is.” Fate had taught him that. “I’m not going to pretend otherwise.”
Violet pivoted to face him, her bent knee nudging his thigh.
Trying not to think what it would feel like to have the rest of her touching him, in a much more intimate way, he admitted wryly, “I think the consensus is that I’m ‘emotionally unavailable.’ And therefore, profoundly undatable.”
She tilted her head and then rose slowly, dusting off the seat of her pants.
He noticed she didn’t argue the assessment.
“That’s too bad. Everyone should have a great love at least once in their life.” Were they flirting? It seemed as if they were.
He got to his feet, too. Glad to once again be towering over her. “At thirty-two, I hardly think my time has come and gone.”
Violet laughed, suddenly looking a whole lot more relaxed. “True. I suppose there’s still a chance you’ll open up in here.” She tapped his heart.
He quirked a brow. “Or not.”
She was about to say something else when his phone beeped. He read the text message, then said, “I’m needed in the ER.” He paused in surprise as another text followed. “And so are you.”
The paramedics had just finished wheeling the gurney holding eighty-two-year-old Carlson Willoughby into an exam bay when Violet and Gavin walked in.
As usual, Violet noted, his wife, Wanda, was by his side. Both were dressed in tracksuits that zipped up the front. Hers was pink and white; his, a jaunty navy blue.
“Hey, Dr. McCabe.” Carlson lifted a hand weakly in greeting. As always, he was impeccably clean-shaven, but his thinning, snow-white hair was damp with what appeared to be sweat.
Violet grinned at one of her favorite patients. “Back again?”
He grimaced. “Unfortunately.”
The paramedic handed Violet a chart. “He collapsed with pain on his lower right side. Because of his history, we felt it best to bring him in.”
“A lot of fuss over nothing,” Carlson grumbled, glaring at his IV. He winked at his wife. “Although I do enjoy an ambulance ride from time to time.”
“This is no joking matter, Carlson,” Wanda chided.
“Everything is a joking matter,” he returned with an affable grin.
“No fever,” the nurse taking his vitals said. “BP 140 over 100, heart rate 98.”
Gavin stepped in, as attending ER physician, to do the physical exam. “So what else has been going on?” he asked while palpitating the older man’s abdomen.
Violet noted Carlson seemed to be in pain.
“He’s had stomach issues the past few days,” his wife explained.
Carlson waved off the concern. “It was probably my cooking. I tried a new recipe as a surprise on our sixtieth wedding anniversary.”
“Congratulations.” Violet smiled, impressed at the longevity of their relationship.
Wanda told her husband, “Your tendency to overspice everything has nothing to do with this. If it did, you would be sick all the time.”
Carlson guffawed.
“Anything else of note?” Gavin asked, frowning as he checked the lymph nodes.
Carlson was mum.
“He’s had pain,” his wife declared. “I know he has for weeks now. He just won’t admit it.”
“Everyone our age has pain.”
Wanda dabbed her eyes. “I think the cancer has returned.”
Violet hoped that was not the case. She’d become very close to the older couple over the past five years. Too close, she sometimes thought.
“Which was why I asked for you.” Carlson looked pointedly at Violet. “I want you to tell Wanda that’s just not true.”
Violet forced a matter-of-fact smile.
“All this is, is old age and indigestion,” the patient declared stalwartly. “Tell her, Dr. McCabe.”
Violet wished it was that simple. “You know I can’t rule anything out from an oncology perspective until we do a few tests. Which you are about due for, anyway, aren’t you?”
Carlson groaned at the prospect. Defiantly, he attempted to sit