Out of the Shadows (10 page)

When Wade rounded the corner, Gus looked quickly away from the door. Did that guilty look mean he’d been spying on them? Or that he’d put two and two together and realized something was developing between his daughter and Wade?

One thing was sure: Gus had no objection to Wade’s involvement in Patrice’s life, and the proof was written all over his smiling face.

“Thanks,” Gus said when Wade handed him the mug. “Where’s Patrice?”

“Putting a bandage on her finger. She had a little runin with a carving knife.”

“Like the farmer’s wife, eh?”

Chuckling, Wade said, “Something like that.” He had to admit, Gus would score fairly well in the father-in-law department.

Patrice walked into the room just then, smiling that smile of hers, big brown eyes twinkling.

“See?” she said, bandaged finger aimed at the ceiling, “all better.”

You’ll make some guy a dynamite wife
was his silent comment.

Some guy? Why not him?

He pocketed both hands, stood a little taller.
Why
not
me?
he wondered.

H
e’d never been much good at small talk. Still, Wade felt he owed it to Patrice to have a go at it. With any luck, it would take her mind off Gus’s pallid complexion—at least while they ate. “So I hear you’re up for another award at the hospital,” he told her.

Gus looked from his dinner guest to his daughter and back again. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Now that you mention it, I’m not sure.” Wade gave it a moment’s thought. “Personnel circulates a newsletter, I could’ve read it there. Either that, or it was tacked to one of the bulletin boards.”

Gus aimed a suspicious glance at Patrice. “Well, it’s news to me.”

Wade couldn’t help but notice that she quickly looked down and busied herself, tidying the napkin on the biscuit basket, rearranging the silverware beside her plate—making sure her hair covered her scar.

“Will there be a presentation?” Gus asked.

Uncertain if the question was intended for him or Patrice, Wade filled the uncomfortable pause with “I’m not
sure.” He leaned forward slightly, dipped his head to catch her eye. “Patrice, do you know if the hospital is planning an awards ceremony?”

In place of an answer, she held a finger in the air and sipped her water. Replacing the goblet on the table, she said, “Who wants more salad?” She started to stand. “There’s plenty more in the kitchen—”

“Relax, Treecie,” Gus said, “we have plenty of rabbit food right here.” He put down his fork and turned to Wade. “So what’s this award for?”

Obviously, there had been other awards Patrice hadn’t told Gus about. Strange, because these two seemed so close.

His attention was quickly diverted by Patrice’s uneasiness at the turn the conversation had taken. If he’d known the simple question would do this to her—though for the life of him, he didn’t understand why it had— Wade never would have asked it. “I’d rather have another pork chop,” he said, grinning as he reached for the meat platter. “How ’bout you, Gus? Care for seconds?”

A look of silent understanding passed between the men, as their eyes met briefly.

Gus harrumphed. “Nah. I’m stuffed.”

“But Dad, you’ve barely had a bite to eat,” she said, nodding toward his still-full plate. “You’re still not feeling well?”

He shoved away from the table. “I’m fine. Just… I didn’t sleep very well last night, is all.” And turning the chair, he headed for the hall. “Think maybe I’ll catch a few winks,” he said, smiling weakly. “Wake me in half an hour or so. Maybe I’ll feel like having a slice of cake with you guys.”

She got to her feet as if to help Gus, but Wade shook
his head and gave the “okay” sign. He’d noticed when he arrived that her dad looked pale and tired. There had seemed to be no sense worrying them over what might be nothing; more than likely, a full belly would put the pink back into Gus’s cheeks.

It had not.

“So what do you think?” she asked, once Gus had left the room.

Wade glanced toward the hall, where shadows crisscrossed through the spokes of Gus’s chair, telling Wade that her father wanted to hear his answer, too. “I think you ought to let me help you get these dishes into the kitchen.”

Patrice followed his gaze. “Okay,” she said, nodding, “but I warn you, it’s a—”

“—dirty job, but somebody’s gotta do it,” he finished.

Mouthing a silent
thank you,
she began stacking plates, chattering as she worked from her side of the table. “I can’t believe how much I have to do tomorrow. I have to escort some corporate types around in the hopes of getting a donation to the Child Services Center, then there’s a party in the Harriet Lane Clinic—all before ten.” Looking up, she met his eyes. “How ’bout you?”

She looked afraid, troubled, sad, all at the same time. He remembered what she’d told him about Gus’s accident. If she still felt responsible for his being in a wheelchair, she probably also blamed herself for every cough and sneeze and minuscule rise in temperature the man suffered. Wade wanted to take her in his arms, say something reassuring, something comforting. But he didn’t, because if he hadn’t learned anything else, his years as a cardiologist had taught him that even the most well-
intended, carefully chosen words could be woefully inadequate.

“I have back-to-back surgeries in the morning,” he said, grabbing the silverware, “then rounds in the afternoon.” He picked up the napkins. “Why? You thinking of inviting me to lunch?” When all else fails, he thought, resort to absurdity.

She met his eyes. “Do I look like the type of girl who makes a habit of asking men out on dates?”

“No,” he said, returning her smile, “but there’s a first time for everything.”

In the instant of silence that followed, the unmistakable
tick-a-tick-a-tick
of Gus’s wheelchair told them he’d moved farther down the hall.

Patrice released an audible sigh of relief, then carried her load into the kitchen. Wade followed close behind. “I don’t want you to worry,” he said softly. “Remember what I said last night.”

Plunking the dishes onto the counter, she turned on the hot water. “That it’s probably nothing a little extra iron in his diet won’t cure.” Staring out the window above the sink, she added, “I hope and pray you’re right.”

Wade put the forks and knives next to the plates and stood close beside her. “We’ll get to the bottom of it, whatever it is. I promise.”

She looked up at him and smiled sadly. And when she leaned her head on his shoulder, his arm automatically went around her waist. Just a simple, unromantic gesture, really, one shared countless times by friends and family around the globe, probably since the dawn of Man.

If it was so unassuming, he wondered, why had his heart started beating faster? Stranger still, where were
the usual warning bells that sounded when he got too close to a woman, too soon?

She sighed, a musical sound that, despite its whisper-softness, filtered into his head and reverberated there, like the strains of a sonata. And he realized that with Patrice, there was no such thing as “too close.”

The admission spooked him. “I’m gonna check on your dad, okay?”

“Okay, Slick.”

He faced her. “Slick?”

“I never figured you for one of those guys who’d resort to trickery to get out of doing the dishes.”

Chuckling, he said, “One of the perks of my profession.” Hands on her shoulders, he kissed her forehead. “Seriously, I won’t be long. If you can wait a couple minutes—”

Patrice grabbed his hand and led him to the wide, arched doorway. “Don’t be silly. I’ll have this mess cleaned up before you can say ‘open wide.”’

A sudden urge to bundle her in his arms and kiss her came over him. This time, he didn’t resist. Several seconds into it, he opened one eye a slit.

Cheeks pink and eyes closed that way, she reminded him of the angel that had once topped his boyhood Christmas tree—sweet, innocent…and trusting. Every fiber in him yearned to protect her from heartache.

Without warning or reason, that night at the railroad tracks burst into his mind: flashing lights, sirens, the
whap-whap-whap
of helicopter blades as it airlifted a dying family man to University Hospital because of that reckless, ridiculous prank.

Once again he couldn’t help but wonder who would protect her from
him?

Straightening, Wade drove a hand through his hair and
gave a sideways nod. “I, uh, guess I’d better get in there, see how ol’ Gus is doing.”

It seemed she felt the chill, too, when they parted, for Patrice shivered slightly. “Well,” she said, crossing both arms over her chest, “you know where to find me when you’re finished.”

He licked his lips…still tingling from their kiss, and watched her walk back to the sink.
So much for staying an arm’s length away,
he chided himself. Wade knew where to find her, all right; she’d permeated his being, and he doubted he’d ever draw a breath again without thinking of her.

“You think maybe you can take his temperature and talk him into seeing his doctor tomorrow?” she said, then peeked over one shoulder.

He met her wide, hopeful eyes. “I’ll give it all I’ve got,” he promised.

“Thanks,” she said, “’cause he’s all
I’ve
got.”

Her simple statement sliced through him like a knife, because he’d give anything to be able to say
That’s where you’re wrong, Patrice—you’ve got me.

“I know the signs,” Gus said, one hand in the air. “Every year about this time, I get bronchitis or pneumonia.” He gave a noncommittal nod. “SOP in my condition, or so they tell me.”

“Standard Operating Procedure?” Wade echoed. “Who fed you that line of bunk?”

A one-shouldered shrug this time. “My doctor, for one.”

Wade hated to disagree with a peer, even one he’d never met. But it had always made him angry when medical professionals spouted inaccurate diagnoses and prognoses. “Lemme put it to you this way, Gus. That’s
malarkey. There’s absolutely no reason to believe lung ailments should be part and parcel of being wheelchair-bound.”

Gus’s dark brows rose slightly. “Really?”

Wade dismissed the suspicion in the man’s voice; it wasn’t at all unexpected for Gus to defend his doctor. Most patients were loyal to their physicians—sometimes to the death…. “You eat healthy meals, you live in a wholesome environment.” He dragged the desk chair closer to Gus’s bed. “Tell me, what kind of exercise do you get?”

Chuckling, Gus flexed his biceps. “How’s a hundred chin-ups in a row sound?”

“Sounds great. Anything else?”

“Molly does stuff to my legs and feet every day.”

“Stuff’?”

“Yeah, y’know…lifts ’em and flexes ’em—stuff like that.”

“Molly’s a physical therapist?”

“Nah, but she’s read up on all the latest, as it relates to paraplegia, that is.”

There was a note of personal pride in Gus’s voice when he described his nurse. “How long have you two been together?”

Gus planted both palms on the mattress, shoved himself into a seated position. “Years and years. She was a friend of the family before—” He cleared his throat, ran his tongue over his top teeth. “Her husband walked out on her, oh, about twenty years ago, when she lived across the street. Molly and my wife…”

His voice trailed off, and this time, a frown creased his brow before he continued. “They were like this,” he said, forefinger crossing index finger. “Molly had to
move away, sell the house after that bum ran off and left her.”

The words hit hard, right in the pit of Wade’s stomach. Men who left their families were hard to like. What would jovial, accepting Gus McKenzie say if he knew Wade’s father had done the same thing?

“She got herself an apartment,” Gus was saying, “went to night school, got her nursing degree. She didn’t come around as much, what with having to work two jobs to support herself, but we stayed in touch.”

Gus grabbed the tumbler from his nightstand, took a long swallow of water. “Good thing, too, ’cause when this happened,” he said, slapping his thigh, “we sure did need her.” He met Wade’s eyes to add, “Did you know she stays with me all day, then works the second shift at Howard County General?”

Wade shook his head. “No. I didn’t. Sounds like a great gal and a good friend.”

A look came over Gus’s face just then, one that made Wade suspect Molly was more than a friend. Much more. Almost immediately, he dismissed the idea. They’d been together for years; if Gus and Molly had feelings for one another that were more than nurse–patient, why hadn’t they—?

“So, you gonna take my temperature? Do an exam? Draw blood?”

Gus’s question put Wade on his feet. “I told Patrice I’d check things out. I can do a more thorough job if you’d agree to come to my office tomorrow.”

“What for? I already have a doctor.”

“When was the last time your doctor did an EKG?”

He leaned against the pillows. “Can’t say that I recall.” His head popped up again and he asked, “Why?”

Skepticism rang loud in his question—not that Wade
blamed him. Wade was, after all, a virtual stranger…with a hunch that Gus’s recurring illnesses were connected, somehow, to a malfunctioning heart. But to know anything for sure, Wade would have to run tests, do a thorough exam. “Let’s just say I’m nosy.”

Seeing his answer hadn’t satisfied Gus, Wade scooted the chair forward another few inches, leaned elbows on his knees. “I have this theory, see, that the heart’s ventricles and auricles can be compressed by sitting in a wheelchair, causing obstruction of blood flow.”

Gus grinned and pointed to the copy of
Gray’s Anatomy
on his bookshelf. “You’d be amazed what a guy will do to pass the time once he loses the use of his legs.”

Patrice hadn’t said exactly what Gus had done for a living before the accident, but since they used to live on a farm Wade assumed that hard manual labor had probably been Gus’s way of life. He admired the man for having fought off self-pity and depression any way he knew how when his physical activities had been seriously curtailed after the accident.

“If I had to guess, I’d say I’ve read that book, oh, fifteen, twenty times,” Gus continued as he met Wade’s eyes. “So believe me when I tell you that I know a ventricle from an auricle.” He softened slightly to add, “Nice try, Doc, but humor me, why don’t you, and tell me what you
really
think.”

He took a deep breath and said, “I don’t know. But I promised Patrice I’d try to find out. That’s why I’d like you to come down to the office.”

Gus settled back into the pillows again and gave an approving nod. “That’s more like it.” Then he added, “So what
are
your intentions toward my daughter, anyway?”

Gus’s directness caught him off guard. If asked, he would have said questions like that went out with the horse and buggy. But then, he’d never dated any woman long enough to arouse her father’s parental curiosity.

Wade pressed his back against the chair’s slats and crossed both arms over his chest. “She’s concerned about you, and I’m a doctor.” Makes perfect sense, he told himself,
right?

“Oh, I get it.” Gus nodded sagely. “So all these visits, and lunches, dinners—they were for the purpose of interviewing her about my health.”