Queasiness turned her stomach. A nasty, sick taste rose up in her throat. Coated her mouth.
Breathing through her nose, she shook her head. No. They were two totally different things. Pilar had gone behind Estelle’s back with her secret texts and phone calls to Chandler, making sure she was there to keep him company when Estelle was busy.
All Estelle had done was be nice to Adam, her mom’s fiancé. Yes, she’d flirted, but it hadn’t meant anything. Surely her mom would understand that. She and Estelle were best friends, Mama always said so. There was nothing, nothing Estelle could do that would make Meryl stop wanting her. Stop loving her.
Estelle snuggled down until the blanket was up to her chin and said a prayer.
Just in case.
* * *
CHAR LOOKED UP from the computer at the nurses’ station to see Leo—back for the third time tonight, lucky her—push a gurney into room 4, his hair and clothes wet. She caught sight of the patient’s muddy, damp jeans and worn biker boots, the length of the legs, the size of the boots telling her their latest guest was a man.
She turned her attention back to the screen. Frowned when a cool breeze caressed the back of her neck. She rubbed at the spot but the tingling sensation remained. Looking up again, she tipped her head to the side, narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. There was something familiar about those legs, those boots. She knew him, she realized, walking around the high counter.
Then again, she knew most of her patients. All part of living in the same small town she’d grown up in. It was a blessing, being able to help those she cared for.
It was a curse when they were beyond help. When all she could do was offer comfort, try to ease their pain. Hold their hand while they slipped away. Then comfort the loved ones they’d left behind.
This guy didn’t seem to be in that situation. No codes had been called. Thank God.
“What do we have?” she asked Leo as he stepped out of the room. She’d been with a patient and had missed the EMT report given while they’d been en route to the hospital.
Jocelyn Deems, a fellow RN, brushed past them with a wave. She would take the patient’s information, get him registered into the computer system and determine the priority of the patient’s treatment based on the severity of his injuries.
“Male, age thirty-four,” Leo said, flipping through his book of notes. “Single vehicular accident on Songbird Lane. Patient took a corner too fast and lost control of his motorcycle. A passerby called it in, said the patient was on the side of the road, unresponsive. When we got there, he was conscious and had managed to sit up on his own. Suffered contusions and abrasions, possible concussion, rib injuries, as well as a likely fracture of right arm.”
Char winced. “Ouch.” She tried to look over his shoulder at his notes. “Intoxicated?”
“No, thanks,” Leo said with a grin. “I’m on the clock.”
“Ha-ha. I meant the patient.”
“My best guess based on years of experience and, of course, my infinite wisdom would be no.” Though a blood test would tell them for sure. Leo flipped his book shut. He had a thing about people reading his notes before he’d transcribed them into an official report. “So you won’t have to deal with a drunk puking all over your clean exam room.”
She blanched. “It was reflex, okay?”
His grin turned absolutely wicked. “Sure. Some people just can’t handle certain smells. Or sounds. Or stomach contents being—”
“I get it,” she said. “Jeez, you lose your cool one time and you never hear the end of it.”
Most cases she handled without a problem. Blood, even copious amounts squirting from one of the main arteries? Keep pressure on it. Broken bone sticking through the skin? Make the patient as comfortable as possible and send them up to X-Ray. Mangled flesh, infected cuts, snotty noses, puss-oozing polyps? No problem.
But no matter how hard she tried, her stomach rebelled each and every time a patient puked. Oh, she did her job. Made sure the patient was taken care of, called janitorial to clean up the mess.
Then she’d head to the nearest bathroom and promptly lose whatever she had in her stomach.
It was annoying. Interfered with her doing her job. But mostly, it was humiliating.
“Nurse!”
At the sharp bark, Char jumped and whirled around. She saw Dr. Stockdale—with her linebacker’s build and coarse gray hair pulled back in a severe bun—bearing down on her and Leo. The physician’s high-stepping, arm-pumping walk clearly said, I move at this incredible speed because I am superior to you in every way.
A belief she never let the people who worked with her forget.
“You need to give her your best De Niro,” Leo whispered out of the side of his mouth.
Char didn’t take her eyes off the older lady. Kept her own voice low. “I think by this time in her life she has plenty of money of her own.”
He laughed. “Not dinero. De. Niro. As in Robert. You know. You talkin’ to me?”
Char snorted out a laugh, then quickly schooled her features into a calm, expectant expression. “I bet she’d just love that.”
Dr. Stockdale got closer and closer, making it pretty darn obvious she was, indeed, talking to Charlotte. Char leaned back, realized what she was doing and that it could be construed as intimidation, and straightened. “Yes, Doctor?” she asked, all pleasant and professional.
Ha. Take that, you old biddy.
Dr. Stockdale, clearly not grasping the concept of personal space, didn’t stop until the toes of her ugly brown pumps bumped Char’s sneakers. “Why hasn’t my patient been taken up for a CT scan?”
“And which patient would that be?” Char asked, sounding quite reasonable. Easy enough to do when compared with the doctor’s strident tone.
Dr. Stockdale waved her hand vaguely in the direction of the west hallway. “My patient in room 9.”
“I’m not actually the nurse for that patient,” Char said. “But I’d be happy to find out who is and they can check on the delay for you.”
“Oh, never mind,” Dr. Stockdale snapped, already whirling around, the hem of her mid-calf-length skirt hitting Char’s legs. “I’ll do it myself.” She searched the empty hallway and, despite there being no other people around, bellowed, “Nurse!” as she stormed off.
“I’m not sure which one is worse,” Leo said. “Her or Hamilton.”
Dr. Nathan Hamilton’s resignation from the hospital—due to an icky and completely perverted incident involving a consenting twenty-two-year-old certified nursing assistant, three silk ties and a few chairs from the X-ray wing’s waiting room—had led to Dr. Stockdale being hired.
It still ticked Charlotte off. Not that Hamilton had quit—she thanked God for that. But that, despite the numerous complaints filed against him, he hadn’t been fired.
“You only say that because Dr. Hamilton—” also known as Hands-On Hamilton, as in he-got-his-hands-on-everyone “—didn’t try to grope you on a regular basis,” Charlotte told Leo.
“Don’t be too sure about that.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Oh, really? Do tell.”
“Sorry,” he said as his partner, Forrest Young, stepped up to them. “I don’t spill sordid details with a woman unless she buys me dinner first.”
“You want to know something about this joker?” Forrest asked her, wrapping his arm around Leo’s neck. Forrest, as homely as Leo was handsome, was a favorite among the E.R. staff due to his laid-back