West Wing to Maternity Wing!. Scarlet Wilson

waiting to see if he would say anything else.

      ‘Dr Adams?’

      A nurse appeared at the curtains, with David standing behind her. ‘They need you in NICU.’

      NICU. The neonatal intensive care unit. A place that normally didn’t exist in Pelican Cove—there had never been a need for it. A place that currently held the First Daughter. In the last two days more personnel and supplies had been transferred down from San Francisco Children’s Hospital than he’d thought possible. Didn’t there have to be more than one baby for it to be termed an NICU? He pushed the thoughts from his mind.

      ‘What can I do for you folks?’ David strode through the curtains with his normal joie de vivre. Lincoln’s eyes met his and he lifted the battered envelope from the bottom of the gurney and handed it to him. ‘I need you to see a friend of mine, please, David.’

      David’s face changed, his eyes taking in the patient on the bed. The pregnant patient on the bed. He pulled the notes from the envelope, glancing to see which hospital they had come from, then gave Lincoln an inquisitive stare.

      ‘My patient now, Dr Adams.’ David’s manner was brisk and to the point. ‘I’ll let you know if I need you.’ His tone was almost dismissive. Whilst at times he gave the impression of being a bumbling fool, as a clinician he was second to none. And Lincoln knew it—it was why he’d asked for David’s help. Amy couldn’t be in safer hands. But there was no mistaking who would be in charge here.

      Linc took a deep breath and stepped away from the gurney. ‘I’ll be back,’ he muttered, his eyes not meeting hers, and he stepped through the curtains.

      David’s hand caught his shoulder. ‘Dr Adams?’

      The professional title. He must be annoyed. ‘Yes?’

      ‘Just remember your first and only priority is the First Daughter. Don’t let other things get in the way. Don’t get distracted.’

      ‘You think I am?’ The words came out automatically, snappier than he expected.

      David’s voice was quiet. The voice of years of learning and experience, both academically and human. ‘I think you could be. Let me handle this.’ He turned and ducked behind the curtains, pulling them tightly shut behind him.

      Linc walked the few hundred yards along the corridor. Pelican Cove was a small community hospital, not a sprawling metropolis with new technology sprouting from every corner. That was why, when the First Lady had gone into labour here, he’d had to transfer staff and equipment from San Francisco Children’s Hospital to ensure the safe delivery of the thirty-two-weeker.

      As usual, the black-suited security detail was at the door—it was getting to the point they just blended into the background. He pushed open the door to the newly kitted-out NICU. The heat encompassed him immediately, the temperature warmer in here to compensate for the early arrival’s rapid heat loss.

      He walked over to the incubator. Two of his best nurses were on duty.

      ‘What’s up?’

      For a premature baby, the First Daughter had an air of determination about her, obviously a chip off the old block. She’d come out screaming, breathing on her own and continued to do so.

      He glanced at the nearby monitor. Her O2 levels were good and there was no nasal flaring.

      ‘She’s not feeding well. In fact, we can’t get her to latch on at all.’

      Lincoln frowned. A common complaint in premature babies who hadn’t yet learned how to suck. ‘What about kangaroo care?’

      Ruth, the nurse, nodded and stared down at her charge, ‘The only reason Esther is back in here is because Jennifer Taylor is currently sleeping. She’s exhausted. Up until now it’s been skin-to-skin contact the whole time. Six hours since delivery and we’ve not managed to get her to feed yet.’ She leaned over the incubator. ‘And little missy is getting cranky.’

      Lincoln scrubbed his hands at the nearby sink. He’d already examined Esther just after delivery, but there was no harm in rechecking. He pulled on some sterile gloves and slid his hands into the incubator. He ran his hand around and inside her mouth, ensuring her palate was correctly formed. Checked her skin tone, colour and fontanel for clinical signs of dehydration. Sounded her chest to check her heart and lungs and gently probing her small abdomen. Once he was finished he stripped off his gloves, washed and dried his hands again and checked her charts.

      ‘Okay, there are no immediate problems, except her blood glucose has dropped slightly since delivery. Once Jennifer Taylor wakes up, can you give me a shout and I’ll go and have a chat with her? I’m really reluctant to start any kind of supplementary or tube-feeding. At thirty-two weeks I think she’s more than capable of breastfeeding and I don’t want to do anything that will jeopardise that. We might have to suggest that Jennifer expresses some milk in the meantime to try and get some fluid into her.’

      Ruth gave a nod. ‘I’m sure she’ll be awake shortly. I’ll give you a shout.’

      Lincoln entered some notes in the electronic record and went back outside, glancing at his watch. Half an hour. Would David Fairgreaves be finished with Amy yet?

      He walked over to the nurses’ station, glancing around him before picking up Amy’s notes. They were thicker than he would have expected for a healthy woman her age and he started to flick through them to read over her obstetric care. If he was going to look after her baby he needed to know what he was dealing with. IVF pregnancy. The words caught his attention instantly.

      Why had Amy needed IVF? His fingers went backwards through the notes—away from the area of his expertise—and froze at the long clinical letter near the end. His eyes scanned it quickly, his breath catching in his throat. The diagnosis was in bold type at the head of the letter. Breast cancer. Amy had breast cancer.

      No. She was too young. She didn’t smoke, rarely drank alcohol, and lived a relatively healthy lifestyle. How on earth could she be a candidate for breast cancer? It seemed unreal. Even though the words and clinical evidence were there in front of him. He couldn’t believe it. It was almost as if he were reading about someone else.

      His eyes raked the letter for a date. And his brain did rapid calculations. He felt himself sag into a nearby chair.

      Six years ago. Her diagnosis had been made six years ago when she’d left the Amazon boat. Had she known she was sick? Why on earth hadn’t she told him?

      His hands skipped over her treatment plans, test results—some good, some bad. He turned to the inside cover of the notes, searching for her next of kin.

      Nothing. No one listed. He’d known that her mother and father had died a few years before she’d joined the boat. She’d gone through all this herself?

      Something twisted in his gut. Surprise. Anger. Hurt.

      She hadn’t told him—and he was hurt. Six months he’d spent with her. They might not have confessed undying love to each other, but surely she’d known he would have supported her? Wasn’t that what friends did?

      After all, that was why she was here now. She needed help—or her baby did. She obviously felt she could ask him for help now, so why not then?

      He could feel the tension in his neck and jaw. Irrational anger built inside him. His fingers brushed the notes again. He had to push this stuff aside. He had to deal with her in a professional capacity.

      He edged back along the corridor, approaching the curtains quietly. Two seconds later he heard a peal of laughter.

      Not girly. Not tinkling. Deep, hearty, genuine laughter. David had obviously turned on his natural charm again. The man could have people eating out of his hand within two minutes of meeting them. Something about the ease and instant familiarity between the two of them bothered him. Made him want to march into the cubicle and stand between them. How crazy was that?

      Linc cleared his throat loudly and edged