The Bride Wore Red Boots

To Evie,

for someday.

When it comes time to choose your destiny,

no matter how old or young you are,

I hope you take the path that leads toward your heart.

—Nana

A
S ALWAYS, THE
biggest thanks go to my family. My husband, Jan, who is the inspiration for every romance hero I ever write. My adult kids, who wish they had a nickel for every time I say “I don't know how this is going to get finished” and then act proud when I actually get it done. My parents, who passed down their creative genes and then encouraged me to use them. My sister-in-law Robin, who is a most wonderful groupie (everyone needs a groupie). And all my sibs, aunts, and uncles who are the best PR team I could have!

I couldn't do this without my critique partners, Ellen Lindseth, Nancy Holland, and Naomi Stone, who are so talented in their own “writes,” and who are my biggest inspirations.

My agent, Elizabeth Winick Rubinstein, is my driving force and never lets me go very long without checking in and taking my pulse to make sure I'm still acting like a healthy writer. My books are where they are because of her.

My Avon Impulse editor Tessa Woodward is also brilliant. Do you know what she called this book? “Pure Lizbeth magic.” There is NO higher compliment from a boss, and I'm honored she is mine.

Thank you to Dr. Benjamin VanVranken, an internal medicine specialist at the VA Medical Center in Minneapolis, Minnesota (a.k.a. my son-in-law), who was my medical expert for this book. He answered questions anytime, often during work hours, and gave me all the numbers I needed for authenticity. Any mistakes in the medical information in this book are solely mine.

Thank you to Velma B. Johnston (1912–1977), a.k.a. Wild Horse Annie, who brought the mustang to life for me when I was very young. She fought to end mistreatment of wild mustangs in the '50s, and pushed for laws that protected America's mustangs for the future.

T
HE
R
OCK
S
PRINGS
Mustang Holding Facility in Rock Springs, Wyoming, is a real place. Although there is no “Claire” as in my book, there is definitely a caring staff for the 700 wild mustangs that are rounded up in annual Bureau of Land Management (BLM) Horse Management Area gatherings. These animals are available on a first-come first-served basis for adoption by qualified individuals.

For more information visit http://www.blm.gov/wy/st/en/programs/Wild_Horses/rs-wh-facility.html

Also, BLM Extreme Mustang Makeover competitions are real events, and every year professional and amateur trainers show what amazing and versatile animals the hardy mustangs are. Competitions and challenges are held across the US.

For information visit: http://extrememustangmakeover.com/

D
R
. A
MELIA
C
ROCKETT
adored the kids. She just hated clowns. Standing resignedly beside Bitsy Blueberry, Amelia scanned the group of twenty or so young patients gathered for a Halloween party in the pediatric playroom at NYC General Hospital. She didn't see the one child she was looking for, however.

Some children wore super-hero-themed hospital gowns and colorful robes that served as costumes. Others dressed up more traditionally—including three fairies, two princesses, a Harry Potter, and a Darth Vader. Gauze bandage helmets had been decorated like everything from a baseball to a mummy's head. More than one bald scalp was adorned with alien-green paint or a yellow smiley face. Mixed in with casts, wheelchairs, and IV poles on castors, there were also miles of smiles. The kids didn't hate the clown.

Amelia adjusted the stethoscope around her neck, more a prop than a necessary item at this event, and glared—her sisters would call it the hairy eyeball—at Bitsy Blueberry's wild blue wig. Bitsy thrust one hand forward, aimed one of those obnoxious, old-fashioned, bicycle horns–with-a-bulb that were as requisite to clowning as giant shoes and red noses, at Amelia's face and honked at her rudely. Three times.

Amelia smiled and whispered at Bitsy through gritted teeth. “I detest impertinent clowns, you know. I can have you fired.”

She wasn't
afraid
of clowns. She simply found them unnecessary and a waste of talent, and Bitsy Blueberry was a perfect example. Beneath the white grease paint, red nose, hideous blue wig, and pinafore-and-pantaloons costume that looked like Raggedy Ann on psychedelic drugs was one of the smartest, most dedicated pediatric nurses in the world—Amelia's best friend, Brooke Squires.

“Look who's here, boys and girls.” Bitsy grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her unceremoniously to the front of the room, honking in time with Amelia's steps all the way. “It's Dr. Mia Crockett!”

She might as well have said Justin Bieber or One Direction for the cheer that went up from the kids. It was the effect Bitsy's squeaky falsetto voice had on them. Then again, they'd cheer a stinky skunk wrangler if it meant forgetting, for even a short time, the real reasons they were in the hospital. That understanding was all that kept Amelia from cuffing her friend upside the head to knock some sense into it. She waved—a tiny rocking motion of her wrist—at the assemblage of sick children.

“Dr. Mia doesn't look very party ready, do you think?” Bitsy/Brooke asked. “Isn't that sad?”

“Not funny,” Amelia said through the side of her mouth, her smile plastered in place.

Bitsy pulled a black balloon from her pinafore pocket and blew it into a long tube. Great. Balloon animals.

“I know a secret about Dr. Mia,” Bitsy said. “Would you like to know what it is?”

Unsurprisingly, a chorus of yesses filled the room.

“She . . . ” Bitsy dragged the word out suggestively, “is related to Davy Crockett. Do you know who Davy Crockett was?”

The relationship was true thanks to a backwoods ninth cousin somewhere in the 1800s, but Mia rolled her eyes again while a cacophony of shouts followed the question. As Bitsy explained about Davy and hunting and the Alamo, she tied off the black balloon and blew up a brown one. She twisted them intricately until she had a braided circle with a tail.

“You're kidding me,” Mia said when she saw the finished product.

“That's pretty cool about Davy Crockett, right?” Bitsy asked. “But what isn't cool is that Dr. Mia has no costume. So I made her something. What did I tell you Davy Crockett wore?”

“Coonskin cap!” One little boy shouted the answer from his seat on the floor at the front of the group.

Mia smiled at him, one of a handful of nonsurgical patients she knew from her rounds here on the pediatric floor. Most of her time these days was spent in surgery and following up on those patients. Her work toward fulfilling the requirements needed to take her pediatric surgical boards left little time for meeting all the patients on the floor, but a few kids you only had to meet once, and they wormed their ways into your heart. She looked around again for Rory.

“That's right,” Bitsy was saying. “And this is a bal
loon
skin cap!”

She set it on Mia's head, where it perched like a bird on a treetop. The children clapped and squealed. Bitsy did a chicken flap and waggled one foot in the air before bowing to her audience.

“I want a boon-skin cap!”

A tiny girl, perhaps four, shuffled forward with the aid of the smallest walker possibly in existence. She managed it deftly for one so little, even though her knees knocked together, her feet turned inward, and the patch over one eye obscured half her vision. She wore a hot-pink tutu over frosting-pink footie pajamas, and a tiara atop her black curls. To her own surprise, Mia's throat tightened.

“But, Megan, you have a beautiful crown already,” Bitsy said gently.

Megan pulled the little tiara off her head and held it out. “I can twade.”

Mia lost it, and she never lost it. She squatted and pulled the balloon cap off her head then held it out, her eyes hot. “I would love to trade with you,” she said.

Megan beamed. Mia placed the crazy black-and-brown balloon concoction on the child, where it slipped over her hair and settled to her eyebrows.

“Here,” Megan said, pronouncing it “hee-oh.” “I put it on you.”

She reached over the top of her walker and pressed on Mia's nose to tilt her face downward. She placed the tiara in Mia's hair and patted her head gently. It might as well have been a coronation by the Archduke of Canterbury. Megan had spina bifida and had come through surgery just four days earlier. No child this happy and tender and tough should have such a poor prognosis and uncertain future.

“You can be Davy Cwockett's pincess.” Megan smiled, clearly pleased with herself.

“I think you gave me the best costume ever,” Mia replied. “Could I have a hug?”

Megan opened her arms wide and squeezed Mia's neck with all her might. She smelled of chocolate bars, apple-cinnamon, and a whiff of the strawberry body lotion they used in this department. A delicious little waif.

She let the child go and stood. A young woman with the same black hair as Megan, arrived at her side. It could only be Megan's mom. She bent and whispered something in her daughter's ear. The child nodded enthusiastically. “Thank you, Doc-toh Mia.”

“You're welcome. And thank
you
.”

The young mother's eyes met Mia's, gratitude shining in their depths. “Thanks from me, too. This is a wonderful party. So much effort by the whole staff.”

“I wish I'd had more to do with it.”

“You just did a great deal.”

Megan had already started on her way back to the audience. Mia watched her slow progress, forgetting about the crowd until a powerful shove against her upper arm nearly knocked her off her feet. She turned to Bitsy and saw Brooke—grinning through the white make-up.

“What the heck? Clown attack. Go away you maniac.”

A few kids in the front row twittered.
Bitsy
honked at her, but it was
Brooke
who leaned close to her ear. “That was awesome, Crockett,” she whispered. “It's the kind of thing they need to see you do more of around here.”

“They” referred to the medical staff. It was true she didn't have the most warm-hearted reputation—but that was by design. She grabbed Bitsy's ugly horn.

“
They
can kiss my—”
Honk
.
Honk
.

All the kids heard and saw was Davy Cwockett's Pincess stealing a clown's horn. Bitsy capitalized, placing her hands on her knees and exaggerating an enormous laugh.

“Hey! I think I have a new apprentice clown. What do you all say?”

Bitsy pulled off her red nose and popped it on Mia's. The kids screeched their approval.

“I'm going to murder you.” Mia's tone belied her pleasant smile.

“Our newest clown needs a name. Any ideas?”

Princess! Clowny! Clown Doctor! Sillypants! Stefo-scope!

Names flew from the young mouths like hailstones, pelting Mia with ridiculousness.

“Stethoscope the Clown, I like it.” Bitsy laughed. “How about Mercy?”

“Princess Goodheart.” That came quietly from Megan's mother, standing against the side wall, certainty in her demeanor.

“Oh, don't you dare.” Mia practically hissed the words at her friend the clown.

“Perfect!” Bitsy called, her falsetto ringing through the room. “Now, how about we get Princess Goodheart to help with a magic trick?”

Mia's sentimentality of moments before dissipated fully. This was why she couldn't afford such soppy silliness, even over children. If she was going to turn to syrup at the first sign of a child with a walker and a patched eye, perhaps pediatrics wasn't the place for her.

On the other hand, Megan represented the very reason Mia wanted to move from general to pediatric surgery. She had skill—a special gift according to teachers and some colleagues—and she could use it to help patients like Megan. They needed her.

“Pick a card, Princess Goodheart.” Bitsy nudged her arm.

Mia sighed. She'd have thought a party featuring simple games, fine motor skill-building, and prizes would have been more worthwhile. The mindlessness of magicians and the potential for scaring children with clowns seemed riskier. Indeed there were a few uncomplicated, arcade-type games at little stations around the room, but the magic and clown aficionados had prevailed. Mia grunted and picked a six of clubs.

“Don't show me,” said Bitsy.

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

“Now, put the card back in the deck. Who wants to wave their hand over the deck and say the magic words?” Bitsy asked.

“Oh, God, help! Oh, help, help please. Something's happening to him!”

Bitsy dropped the card deck. In the back of the room, next to a table full of food and treats, a woman stood over the crumpled body of a boy, twitching and flailing his arms. Mia heard his gasps for breath, ripped the ridiculous nose off her face, and pressed into the crowd of kids.

“Keep them all back,” she ordered Brooke, right beside her and already shushing children in a calm Bitsy voice.

The fact that she continued acting like a clown in the face of an emergency made Mia angry, but there was no time now to call her out for unprofessionalism. In the minute it took Mia to reach the child on the floor, five nurses had surrounded him, and the woman who'd called for help stood by, her face ashen.

“Are you the boy's mother?” Mia asked.

“No. I was just standing here when he started choking.”

“Out of the way, please.” Mia shouldered her way between two nurses, spreading her arms to clear space. They'd turned the child on his side. “Is he actually choking?”

“He's not. It looks like he's reacting to something he ate,” a male nurse replied.

She knelt, rolled the child to his back, and froze. “Rory?”

“A patient of yours?” the nurse asked.

“The son of a friend.” Mia hadn't seen him arrive. She forced back her shock and set a mental wall around her sudden emotions. “Is there anything on his chart?”

She'd known Rory Beltane and his mother for three years and didn't remember ever hearing about an allergy this life-threatening.

“I don't believe there were any allergies listed,” the nurse said. “We're checking his information now. He's a foster kid.”

“Yes, I know,” she replied with defensive sharpness. “His mother is incapacitated and temporarily can't care for him. Is the foster mother here?”

“No. At work.” The nurse said. “Poor kid. He was just starting to feel better after having his appendix out. This isn't fair.”

She had no time to tell him exactly how unfair Rory Beltane's life had been recently. “I need a blood pressure cuff stat. Get him on IV epinephrine, methylpred and Benadryl, plus IV fluids wide open.”

“Right away, Doctor.” Nurses scattered.

The male nurse calmly read from a chart, and Mia's temper flared.

“Excuse me, nurse, are you getting me that cuff?”

“It's on the way,” he said, and smiled. “Just checking his chart for you. No notations about allergies. I'll go get the gurney.”

Mia blew out her breath. She couldn't fault him for being cool under pressure. Another nurse, this one an older woman with a tone as curt as Mia's, knelt on Rory's far side holding his wrist. “Heart rate is one-forty.”

Mia held her stethoscope to the boy's chest. His lips looked slightly swollen. His breathing labored from his tiny chest.

“Here, Dr. Crockett. They're bringing a gurney and the electronic monitor, but this was at the nurse's station if you'd like to start with it.”

Mia grabbed the pediatric-sized cuff, its bulb pump reminding her of Brooke's obnoxious horn. With efficient speed, she wrapped the gray cuff around Rory's arm, placed her stethoscope beneath it, and took the reading.

She'd always been struck by what a stunning child he was. His mother was black and his father white, and his skin was the perfect blend, like the color of a beautiful sand beach after a rain. A thick shock of dark curly hair adorned his head, and when they were open, his eyes were a laughing, precocious liquid brown.

“Seventy-five over fifty. Don't like that,” she said.

The male nurse appeared with a gurney bed. “I can lift him if you're ready. We have the IV catheter and epinephrine ready.”

“Go,” Mia ordered.

Moments later Rory had been placed gently on the gurney, and three nurses, like choreographed dancers, had the IV in place, all the meds Mia had ordered running, and were rolling him to his private room.

“We've called Dr. Wilson, the pediatric hospitalist on duty this week who's seen Rory a couple of times. He'll be here in a few minutes,” said the male nurse, who'd just begun to be her favorite.