Roping the Wind (8 page)

Professor Peter Hart’s sigh was so loud, Helen winced. ‘Well, I suppose it will have to do. Don’t be late.’

Helen took great satisfaction in dropping the receiver into the cradle from a great height. After the debacle of her divorce from David she certainly hadn’t expected Peter, her former tutor and mentor, to follow her to another hospital. But here he was, still making her life difficult. Sometimes she hated all the politics and games in her profession, especially those sprung on her at the last minute.

‘Sorry, Nancy. That was the boss.’

Nancy wrinkled her pert nose and leant against the door frame. ‘I heard. I also heard there are going to be some changes around here.’

Helen sat up. The hospital was a veritable hive of gossip and scandal, and dear Nancy was the queen bee of knowledge.

‘Are you going to tell me or leave me to walk into a meeting with Professor Hart unprepared?’ Helen got to her feet and picked up the pile of charts Nancy had deposited on her desk.

‘I hear his highness is retiring.’

‘You’re kidding, right?’

Nancy shrugged. ‘Nope, that’s what they’re saying. Apparently, he’s received an offer to head up a research unit in the drug company that wants to develop your product.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘I thought you’d know all about it.’

Helen stiffened. The rumor that she had slept with her mentor and collaborator wasn’t a new one. To some, it was the easiest way to explain her rise to the top of her profession. She’d learnt not to react to the implied insult although it still hurt.

‘Working in the private sector sounds right up his alley.’

In her opinion, Peter Hart had become a doctor for all the wrong reasons. He was incredibly political and not above manipulating anyone for his own advantage. Almost from the first, she had regretted asking him to sponsor the necessary academic progress of her new discovery. She’d been too young to see the project through by herself and too ambitious to see the downside of confiding in Peter until it was too late.

Their academic success and the interest from Nifen-berg in developing a new, more malleable and resistant plastic for joint implants hadn’t stopped him from siding with her ex-husband. After her divorce, Peter had assumed she should be the one to leave her job so that her ex could take over her position in Southern California and continue to advance his career. Despite Peter’s considerable charm, and the fact that she did owe him for her academic success, she didn’t consider him an ally.

As she made her way down the hall to see her first patient – an elderly woman who’d fractured her arm in three places after slipping in a convenience store – Helen considered Nancy’s pointed comments. She couldn’t help wondering if she was being considered for promotion. If she was, she’d be the first woman to head the orthopedic department at this particular university hospital.

She wasn’t popular though. Her success didn’t sit well with many of her peers. They never asked her to go out for a beer with them, play squash or golf. Helen imagined herself in a plush office on the top floor telling her secretary to hold her calls while she went to play a round of golf. She snorted. OK, she didn’t play golf but maybe it was time to learn.

She frowned at the faded blue tiles on the floor. Perhaps it would be better to invest in self-defense classes and a Kevlar vest to protect her back. She just remembered to smile before she opened the door to exam room 3 and found Mrs Hutton waiting for her.

‘Sit down, Helen.’

Helen took the chair Peter Hart indicated and sat, ankles crossed neatly, hands folded in her lap. Her boss took his seat behind his antique mahogany desk and studied her. He was in his sixties, a suave silver-haired man who looked every inch the consultant. His hands were unlined, his nails buffed to perfection. She wondered how long it was since he’d actually touched a patient.

‘Thank you for fitting me into your busy schedule, doctor.’

Helen ignored the hint of sarcasm and simply smiled. He dropped his gaze to his gold pen and doodled something on his blotter. Helen refused to let him rattle her. He was notorious for his long silences. Years ago she’d learnt not to rush into speech and make a fool of herself. He cleared his throat.

‘I was wondering if you’ve heard any rumors about my future here.’

Helen raised her eyebrows. ‘Rumors?’

‘That I’m about to retire.’

‘There are always rumors, Peter.’

He smiled, displaying a flash of perfectly aligned teeth. ‘That’s true and, in this case, they might be right. I’ve received a very interesting offer from our drug company to head up the development of our little plastic gadget.’

She shrugged. ‘It’s hardly my drug company or my gadget. You were the one to take my idea and turn it into something commercial.’

She’d come to regret her decision to take the formula to her former mentor. But she’d been too ambitious to understand the implications of what she’d done and how far Peter Hart’s influence could take her half-formed concept and turn it into a project that the drug companies would fight over.

Peter seemed taken aback by the directness of her response but she knew it was an act. He must’ve expected her to be upfront. She’d long suspected he didn’t like female doctors after he insisted her ex-husband’s job was more important than hers.

‘As your name is also on the academic paper that proposed this new formula, it would seem odd if you weren’t involved in any decisions regarding the patenting of this product, wouldn’t it?’ His gaze was sharp and considering. ‘It would also seem odd if you weren’t considered for my job. Many people believe that I’ve groomed you to be my successor.’

Fucked me, rather.
Her involvement would also give the gossipmongers more ammunition for their assumptions about how she had slept her way to the top. Peter had never come out and actually denied he was her lover. He seemed to relish the idea.

He watched her closely and she hoped her expression gave nothing away. ‘You would recommend me as your successor?’

He laughed gently. ‘Oh no, that’s not allowed anymore, but I’ll certainly suggest your name to the search committee. It would benefit Nifenberg to have a direct link with you, here, in the field, as it were. If you were appointed, they might be prepared to offer a substantial grant to the hospital for further research.’

Helen frowned. ‘The position will have to be posted, won’t it?’ Recruiting a candidate from within an existing team could be difficult. An outside candidate might be able to bring new funding and new academic status to the hospital and these days that was vital for the future of any teaching facility. Despite Peter’s comments, Helen knew that nepotism and favoritism were alive and well at every single medical institution in the country. ‘When will I have to make the decision to enter the race?’

He dropped his pen. ‘Are you suggesting you might not want the job after all? You would be the youngest female orthopedic department head in the country.’

Helen got to her feet. ‘I’m just asking when the job will be available so that I can make a reasoned decision.’

Peter stood up too, his gaze cool. ‘I’ll make sure they notify you through the official channels. It shouldn’t be more than a week or so.’

She nodded. ‘I appreciate you thinking of me, Peter, and I’ll certainly do my best to impress the selection committee if I decide to go forward.’

‘I thought better of you, Helen. I thought your ambition had no limits.’

She paused at the door but decided not to answer him. In the last few years she’d learnt that ambition and material success were no substitute for her sense of honor. Before he could repeat his remark, she shut the door and headed into the outer office. Peter’s secretary, Clarice Hill, gave her a friendly wave which almost stopped Helen in her tracks. Clarice normally treated her with complete contempt. Perhaps she was worried Helen would be her new boss. Helen made sure to smile extra sweetly as she passed by. If she got the job, Clarice would be out on her ear five seconds later.

At least Peter had been brief. Helen glanced at her watch. She had fifteen minutes to get something to eat before she needed to be back at her clinic. Sometimes she wished her job was less stressful but when she helped a patient like Mrs Hutton regain function of her arm, it made it all seem worthwhile.

The vending machine obligingly coughed up a BLT sandwich, which Helen took back to her desk. Five sticky notes now adorned her phone. Three of them said to call Carol. Dammit, she’d forgotten to put her cell on again. Helen unwrapped her sandwich and took a bite. Her years as a resident had left her with a cast-iron stomach and the ability to eat anything that stood still long enough to be devoured.

But today she had to force herself to eat. Did she
want
a promotion? After the series of academic papers she had co-authored with Professor Hart while still in training, she’d become something of a celebrity within the medical community. Some had openly doubted that a young attractive woman could possibly have come up with the idea for the new implant plastic formula by herself.

She stopped chewing. And those doubters would be right. Not that the gossip was correct. The idea hadn’t come from Professor Hart either. Helen stared at her sandwich as the old familiar guilt swamped her. She should have contacted Robert Grant and told him what she’d done long ago.

She dialed Carol’s business number and continued to munch the slightly soggy bread and greasy bacon without complaint. She swallowed quickly as Carol picked up.

‘Hi, what’s up?’

‘Professor Hart is thinking about retiring and he wants me to apply for his job.’

‘Oh wow. That’s good, right?’

Helen swallowed a lump of sandwich. ‘I’m not sure. Can you come over tonight?’

Carol chuckled. ‘Of course I can. That’s why I called you earlier. Your cell was off. I’m waiting for all the gory details of your date.’

‘What date?’

‘You mean you didn’t go?’

Helen grinned at Carol’s outraged tone. ‘I went. It just slipped my mind. Or maybe I’m just messing with your head.’

‘Very funny. I won’t be bringing that pie I made for you now.’

Helen’s mouth watered and she glanced down at the sad remains of her sandwich. ‘You made pie? From scratch?’

‘Buttermilk pie.’

‘Did I ever tell you that you are the smartest and prettiest person I have ever known?’

‘Good try, girlfriend. See you later.’

Helen dumped the rest of the sandwich in the trash. If Carol was bringing pie, she needed to pace herself.

Jay walked through the entrance hall of the community college, his booted feet echoing in the silence. Despite the so-called digital age, the notice boards were covered in a million colored flyers that flapped and rustled every time someone opened the door. The place stank of spoilt milk, sweat and fresh paint. A pimpled kid passed him and gave him a look of complete disdain. It probably wasn’t usual to see a real live cowboy in such a suburban setting. Or else he simply looked too damn old.

Where the hell was he supposed to go? He spotted a window labeled
OFFICE
and headed toward it. A small gray-haired woman eyed him suspiciously. He tried a reassuring smile but she didn’t respond.

‘Hi, I’ve come to see Rob Wilton.’

Her gaze never left his. ‘He’s probably in his classroom. Why are you asking me and why do you want to see him?’

Jay frowned. ‘I want to take his class. This looked like a good place to ask where to find him.’

She gave a little huff and studied the list in her hand. ‘And who did you say you are?’

He touched the brim of his hat. ‘I’m Jay Turner.’ She stared at him again until he began to feel uncomfortable. ‘Ma’am, is Mr Wilton here?’

‘I’ve seen you before somewhere. On TV.’

‘It’s possible.’ Well hell, who would’ve thought the old dear was a rodeo fan?

She clicked her fingers in his face. ‘What have you done?’

‘Do you mean on TV?’

‘No, what crime? What did you do?’ She grabbed the phone. ‘I know the hotline number off by heart.’

Jay pushed the brim of his hat back with one finger and tried not to laugh. ‘What show do you think I’ve been on?’

‘
America’s Most Wanted
, I’d say. Now tell me what you did. I have pepper spray in my purse and I’m not afraid to use it.’

‘The only TV show I’m on is for rodeo cowboys.’ He gestured at the phone. ‘Now you can go ahead and check me out but it would be much easier if you just let me go see Mr Wilton. If I’m that desperate a criminal, I’m sure the police won’t mind waiting an hour.’

She glared at him, her lips pursed. ‘I’ll call him. He’s in Room one hundred and four, down the hall, turn left and go up the stairs.’

Jay straightened up. ‘Thank you.’

He tried not to laugh as he followed her directions. It wasn’t the first time he’d been mistaken for someone else on TV. It seemed that even if your face was well known, people needed to see you in your familiar setting. Maybe if he’d ridden his horse into the building she might have gotten it.

Jay stopped walking. Shit, for the first time in his life he didn’t own a horse and he couldn’t even ride. A sharp pang of longing took his breath away. God, he missed the rodeo so much. He forced himself to keep going. This was his new life, his choice of how best to move forward.

‘Come in.’

He opened the door and found Rob Wilton sitting at a workbench. He was younger than Jay had anticipated, probably in his mid-forties. His black hair was starting to silver at the temples and his gaze was friendly and open. Against the wall sat an ancient industrial-strength Singer sewing machine and several sets of lasts. Leatherwork in various stages of completion cluttered the worktops and spilt out of the cupboards. The familiar tang of freshly cut leather tugged at Jay’s senses. He smiled and held out his hand.