Judy Duarte - Race To The Altar

Oh, well. It was all in a day’s work.

“What’s the victim’s ETA?” Molly asked Dawn.

“Three minutes, maybe less.”

“Thanks. I’ll give Dr. Nielson a heads-up.”

Dawn handed Molly the slip of paper on which she’d written the patient’s vitals, including blood pressure, respiration, pulse rate and other pertinent details.

Molly took note of it all as she headed toward the toddler’s bed. She glanced up in time to see Betsy Nielson draw aside the blue privacy curtain and leave the child’s bedside.

“Doctor,” Molly said, “we have a car accident victim coming in—a male, twenty-nine years old and unconscious. He has lacerations, possible fractures and a head injury. The ETA is approximately two minutes.”

“All right. Only one victim?”

“Yes, the driver of a Corvette. The trucker wasn’t hurt.”

The doctor and nurse made their way to the triage area, and moments later the automatic door swung open. Two EMTs rushed in with the patient on a gurney, and the E.R. staff kicked into high gear.

Molly had been expecting the worst, and she’d been right. The driver of the sports car was still unconscious. His eyes were bruised and swollen, and blood from a laceration over his left brow covered most of his face.

Since Karen would be relieving her soon, she stepped back to allow Dawn to join the doctor, then worked with the paramedics as they recited their findings and their treatment en route.

Dr. Nielson, whom Molly referred to as Betsy when they weren’t working, listened intently while she made a methodical assessment of the man’s injuries.

“Cut off his clothes,” Betsy told Dawn, as the two continued to examine the patient.

When the transfer of information was complete, Molly turned to the E.R. drama unfolding and watched Dr. Nielson work. Even with the blood cleaned from his battered face, it was difficult to imagine what he’d looked like before the collision. Handsome, she suspected. And she couldn’t quell her curiosity about him.

Joe Villa, the ambulance driver, handed Molly a plastic bag holding the man’s wallet. “His ID says his name is Chase Mayfield. I wonder if he’s the race car driver.”

Molly wouldn’t know. She didn’t follow sports and wasn’t into cars. In fact, ever since the accident, she’d been uneasy whenever she got behind the wheel.

She did, of course, own a car, but she preferred to ride her bike around town, saving the vehicle to use on rainy days.

“It’s hard to imagine a celebrity like that being in Brighton Valley,” Sheila Conway, the senior EMT, said.

“Yes, but he was driving a classic old Corvette,” Joe reminded her. “That tells me he appreciates speed and a fast car.”

“Maybe so.” Sheila crossed her arms. “But he won’t be zipping around town in that Corvette anymore. It’s little more than a mangled mess now.”

Molly hadn’t recognized the name at all, so it was anyone’s guess if he was the same guy.

If he really was a race car driver, one thing that she did know was that he was a man who normally cheated death on the track. A man who had no fear. Or, if he did, he’d learned to control it.

Unable to help herself, she opened the plastic bag and pulled out Chase’s ID. His driver’s license photo wasn’t all that remarkable, but then most of them weren’t.

His black, unruly curls were matted with blood now. And his eyes, which his ID said were blue, were swollen shut.

What had they looked like before?

According to his ID, he was six feet tall, a hundred and ninety pounds. He had a birthday coming on October seventeenth.

He’d be thirty. But that’s about all she could assess, other than he’d probably been an attractive man when he’d started out today.

Her curiosity continued to build, which was strange. Normally she kept a professional distance from her patients, yet for some reason she was drawn to this one. And that was crazy, since there were several good reasons to excuse herself now that the paramedics were packing up and preparing to leave.

“By the way,” Sheila added, “there’s a kid coming in, too. He has a laceration on his left leg which may need stitches, as well as a possible fracture of the wrist. His guardian is driving him in.”

“Was he involved in the accident?” Molly asked.

“He was looking for his little sister, who’d chased after a runaway cat. When he saw the collision, he lost his balance and fell off his bike.”

Molly nodded, then returned her attention to the man on the gurney—Chase Mayfield.

“He’s coming to,” Betsy said. “Hi, Chase. You’re in a hospital. You’ve been in an accident. I’m Dr. Nielson. How are you feeling?”

He grimaced.

“Your injuries aren’t life threatening,” Betsy told him, “but we’re going to run a few tests. We also want to keep you in the ICU tonight for observation.”

His only response was a moan.

Betsy went on to probe and clean his head wound. After telling him what she was about to do, she began stitching it shut.

Dawn, who’d ordered an MRI, reentered the room just as Betsy finished the last of ten or twelve sutures over Chase’s left eye. “Doctor, the boy arrived and is waiting with his guardian.”

Betsy nodded. “I’ll be finished here in a few minutes.”

The man moaned again.

“Chase?” Betsy asked.

No response.

“Wake up, Mr. Mayfield.”

Chase cracked open his good eye. “Where…what…?”

“You’re in the hospital,” Betsy told him again. “You were involved in an accident. Do you remember?”

He seemed to be trying to process the information. “Oh…yeah.”

“Can you tell me what happened?” the doctor asked.

Molly knew Betsy wasn’t interested in details of the accident. She was actually trying to assess the extent of his head injury and his cognitive function.

“A dog…a kid…a truck…” His eyes opened momentarily, then closed again. “I had to pick one…”

He’d opted for the truck, Molly concluded.

“Good choice,” Betsy said. “At least, for the sake of the kid and the dog.”

Chase grumbled. Or perhaps it was a groan.

“Rumor has it you might be the Chase Mayfield,” Betsy said. “The race car driver.”

“Rumor has a big mouth.”

So, Molly thought, he had a sense of humor. And apparently, he was the man in question. She drew closer to the bed. “Karen still hasn’t arrived, Doctor. So I can finish cleaning him up and put on his gown.”

“Thanks, Molly. I really appreciate you coming in to pinch hit like this.”

“No problem.” She glanced at the patient.

He opened his eyes. Well, actually, he opened the one that wasn’t completely swelled shut, and it was the prettiest shade of blue Molly had ever seen. Like the color of the stone in her mother’s sapphire ring.

“We can transport you to Houston,” Betsy told him, “if you’d rather be in a larger hospital.”

“No.” Chase turned to the doctor and reached out, grabbing Molly’s arm by mistake, gripping her with an intensity that shot her adrenaline through the roof. “I don’t want to go to the city.”

“No problem,” the doctor said. “You can stay here, if you’d rather.”

“I don’t—” he winced “—want word to get out…about this…if it can be helped.”

“We’ll do what we can to ensure your privacy,” Betsy assured him. “But there were witnesses to the accident. The media could find out, although we certainly won’t make any statements, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“I want to…fly under the radar.” He opened his eye a crack. “Use my middle name, Raymond, instead of Chase. Maybe that’ll throw people off.”

“We’ll issue a request for discretion.” Betsy turned to Molly. “I’ll let you take it from here. I’ll order some Demerol and let ICU know he’s on his way up.”

“All right.”

Chase closed his eyes and blew out a sigh.

“Is there someone I can call for you?” Molly asked. “Someone who’s expecting you at home?”

“No.” He blew out another ragged breath. “Damn, my head…hurts.”

“Dr. Nielson is ordering pain meds. I’ll go and get it for you.”

Ten minutes later, after giving Chase an injection, Molly had managed to fill out the forms and have Mr. Mayfield formally admitted to the hospital—under his middle name, Raymond.

She’d returned to his bedside to tell him, but he’d fallen asleep—his eyes were shut, his breathing even.

Good, she thought. He’d feel better in dreamland.

She reached into the cupboard and took out one of the hospital gowns. Then she proceeded to pull down the sheet to Chase’s waist, noting the broad shoulders, the sprinkle of dark hair across his chest, the well-defined abs, the…

Oh, wow. The whisper of a sexual rush buzzed through her veins, and she did her best to shake it off.

She’d seen countless naked men in her life—professionally speaking, of course—but she’d never had a purely feminine response to a patient.

Until this moment.

Doing her best to ignore the unwelcome physical reaction, she slipped his arms through the gown, then proceeded to lift his shoulder just enough to tie at least one of the strings.

“Ow. What’re you doing?”

Startled, she gently rolled him back on the mattress. “Getting you dressed.”

Did he realize his nakedness had unbalanced her?

Surely not.

“You dozed for a few minutes,” she said, trying to get her mind back on track. “How are you feeling now?”

“Like I…got hit by a…Mack truck.”

“I think you did.” She smiled at his joke, letting down her guard just a little. “A sense of humor should help you recover quickly, so I’m glad your funny bone wasn’t fractured.”

“What do you know? A pretty nurse…and witty, too. I…like that…in a woman.” He managed a faint smile.

She couldn’t help but wonder what one of his smiles would have looked like before his face had been swollen and bruised.

His eyes—well, the one that had actually opened—closed again. She hoped that meant he was really drifting off to la-la land.

She sure hoped so. She really needed to be done with this shift, done with him. She didn’t like the unprofessional turn her thoughts had taken. So she straightened, eager to pass him on to another nurse. One who knew how to keep her feminine side in check.

Before she could pull the curtain aside, Betsy peeked in on them. “How’s he doing?”

“I’d say he’s on the road to mend.”

“Good. If all goes well in ICU tonight, we’ll be sending him to the third floor in the morning.”

So much for being able to pass him off to someone else. That’s where Molly would be tomorrow, and with her luck, she’d probably be assigned to his room for at least part of the time he was in the hospital. Unless, of course, she could figure out a way to talk her way out of it.

“I promised to do what I could to protect his identity from the media,” Betsy said. “So I’m reluctant to let anyone else come in close contact with him.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I’m going to suggest that he be assigned to you for the entire time he’s here. That should be the easiest way to maintain confidentiality.”

Molly tried not to roll her eyes or object. “How long do you expect that to be?”

“A week maybe, unless there are complications.” Betsy’s gaze intensified. “Do you have a problem with this, Molly?”

“No, not at all.” She was a professional. She did her job and took care of whatever patient had been assigned to her.