A Lantern in the Window (14 page)

"Has anyone called Thea yet,
Alex?"

She nodded, still resting against him.
"Susan did. Thea's out on a shoot over in West Van somewhere near
the canyon, they weren't sure exactly where. Her agent's gone to
pick her up and bring her here."

Wade had lived with exotic Thea
Calhoun for more than two years now. The dramatic six foot fashion
model wasn't the kind of woman Alex might have chosen for her
younger brother.

Thea struck Alex as somewhat
superficial, obsessed with her job and the intrigues of its milieu.
Alex couldn't help but wonder how she would handle this
calamity.

"What about your parents?" Eleanor and
Bruce Keenan were in San Diego, where Eleanor, a psychotherapist,
was attending a conference.

"Oh, God. I'd better call them right
now." Dread filled her, and again the ever present nausea rose in
her throat, along with a sudden fierce and unreasonable anger at
her parents. They'd always been so critical of Wade. If he died
now, it would be without ever once having heard them say they were
proud of him, proud of anything he'd ever done.

"I'll call them for you," Cameron
said. "They're staying at the Half Moon Inn on Shelter Island,
right?"

Alex nodded, enormously relieved to
have him make the call.

"You come and sit down in the staff
lounge. I'll tell Helen where you are so they can find you as soon
as the operation's over." He loosened his arms, leaving one looped
around her shoulders, walking her down the corridor. "I'll be back
the minute I've talked to your folks."

To Alex's relief, the lounge was
empty. As usual, it smelled of burned coffee and stale egg
sandwiches. Her knees felt weak, and she collapsed on the sagging
brown sofa. She was still shaky, and icy cold now, as well. She
couldn’t control the shivering.

Shock, her medical training
automatically diagnosed.

The last, awful glimpse she'd had of
Wade was vivid in her mind, and now that she was alone, the tears
came. She bent forward, head on her knees, at first fighting the
need to cry and finally succumbing.

"Alex, sweetie." Like a minor
explosion, the lounge door burst open and a small, slender young
woman still in operating room greens, booties on her tiny feet,
hurtled into the room and threw herself onto the sofa, hitting Alex
in the rib with an elbow as she wrapped her arms around her and
hugged her close, the fierce embrace both clumsy and
endearing.

"Oh, God, Alex. How awful for you."
The words were filled with compassion, spoken in a rich, deep
contralto that should have belonged to a Valkyrie instead of this
diminutive, redheaded lady. She was half smothering Alex, pressing
her nose into a shoulder that carried the sharp and distinctive
odor of the delivery room.

"I just this minute heard about your
brother. I'm so sorry. I talked to Cameron in the hall, and he said
they're still operating."

"Hi, Morgan." Alex returned her
friend's embrace, absorbing the love and compassion and caring that
Dr. Morgan Jacobsen exuded like a rare perfume. It was suddenly
easy, held close in this young woman's arms, to let the flood of
words and feelings loose.

"Oh, Morgan, it's so awful, it's—it's
horrible to be a relative, just waiting to hear what's happening,"
she wailed. "I—I didn't even know it was Wade at first. The
ambulance brought him in and I looked down and—and then when I went
into the OR, John Bellamy made me leave. He hollered at me and said
if I didn't go he'd have me carried out, but I wanted to stay. He's
my brother, Morgan." For a second, sobs choked her. "I'm so afraid
he's not going to make it. There were—" Her throat closed at the
memory of the unspeakable damage done to Wade's beautiful young
body, and the tears came with a vengeance, cutting off further
words.

One part of Alex was astonished at the
sounds that came from her throat, high, keening cries and guttural
sobs that she couldn't remember making since she was a very small
child. Her chest hurt and her nose ran, and she laid her head on
her friend's smelly shoulder and cried as if her heart would
break.

"That's it, sweetie, that's it, let it
all out." Morgan patted and hugged and consoled her during the
worst of it, at last absently lifting the hem of her surgical gown
to mop at Alex's face, impervious to the suspicious stains that
covered most of the garment.

The action, so typical of Morgan,
who'd never once in her life had a tissue when she needed it,
finally brought a watery smile to Alex's swollen face. "God,
Morgan, get that away from my nose. You know, you've got blood on
your face. And is that amniotic fluid all over you?"

Morgan glanced down at herself,
totally unconcerned. "Probably. I just delivered the most beautiful
little girl you've ever seen."

Alex sniffled and wiped at her nose.
"You say that about every single kid you deliver,
Morgan."

"Well, it's the truth, every single
time." Pleased at having made her friend smile, Morgan's all
encompassing grin lit up her pleasant features. "Now, is there
anything at all I can do, people you want me to call, anything you
need to be picked up or delivered or paid?"

Alex shook her head. "Cam's gone to
call Mom and Dad in San Diego. Someone's gone for Thea."

"Well, if you need me to meet your
parents at the airport or take that cat of yours home with me or
phone aunties in Alaska or anything, just let me know."

"I don't have aunties in Alaska, you
nutcase." Alex took Morgan's small, chapped hand in her own and
squeezed it. "And Pavarotti would get you evicted. But thanks,
pal." They smiled at each other, all the years of their friendship
a strong bond between them.

The door opened again, and this time
it was the tall, stoop-shouldered figure of surgeon John Bellamy
who entered the room.

Morgan's grasp on Alex's hand
tightened, and they both stood up. Alex's eyes flew to Bellamy's
face, knowing from personal experience that good or bad news is
always signaled first by body language, the lack of expression on a
carefully neutral face, the tired smile that telegraphed
success.

Bellamy was smiling.

"He's come through the operation with
flying colors. He's a tough young man. I don't have to tell you
that the next day or so is crucial, Alex, but I think he's going to
make it. I'd bet money on it, in fact. I called in Ben Halsey to
take a look at what plastic surgery needs to be done on his hands
and face, he'll start the procedures as soon as your brother's
strong enough." He sobered and cleared his throat. "Now, about his
spine..."

Alex felt her heart begin to hammer,
and dread seeped through her all over again. Was her brother, her
beautiful, tall, strong brother with his athlete's body, doomed to
never walk again?

End of Excerpt

How Not To Run A B&B

A Legal Affair

Full Recovery

The Baby Doctor

Grady’s Kids

Every Move You Make

Follow A Wild Heart

Bobby Hutchinson was born in a small
town in interior British Columbia in 1940. Her father was an
underground coal miner, her mother a housewife, and both were
storytellers. Learning to read was the most significant event in
her early life.

She married young and had three sons.
Her middle son was deaf, and he taught her patience. She divorced
and worked at various odd jobs, directing traffic around
construction sites, day caring challenged children, selling fabric
by the pound at a remnant store.

She mortgaged her house and bought the
store, took her sewing machine to work, and began to sew a dress a
day. The dresses sold. The fabric didn’t, so she hired four
seamstresses and turned the store into a handmade clothing
boutique.

After twelve successful years, she
sold the business and decided to run a marathon. Training was a
huge bore, so she made up a story as she ran, about Pheiddipedes,
the first marathoner. She copied it down and sent it to the
Chatelaine short story contest, won first prize, finished the
Vancouver marathon, and became a writer. It was a hell of a lot
easier than running.

She married again and divorced again,
writing all the while, mostly romances, (which she obviously needs
to learn a lot about,) and now has more than fifty-five published
books.

She decided she needed something to do
in the morning in her spare time, so she opened her first B&B,
Blue Collar, in Vancouver, B.C. After five successful years, she
moved home to the small coal mining town of Sparwood, where she now
operates the reincarnated version of the Blue Collar.

She's currently working on three or
four or eight more books. She has six enchanting grandchildren. She
lives alone, apart from guests, meditates, bikes, reads
incessantly, and writes.

She likes a quote by Dolly Parton:
“Decide who you are, and then do it on purpose.”

Bobby loves to connect with her
readers. Visit her online at her:

Website

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