In Care of Sam Beaudry. Kathleen Eagle

Chapter Four

      It didn’t matter to Maggie whether Sam had once loved Merilee Brown. It didn’t matter to her whether he was the girl’s father—unless he’d skipped out on them, which seemed unlikely, knowing Sam. But watching the three of them through the ICU glass gave rise to some soul-searching.

      First, she shouldn’t have been watching anything but monitors. Second, she was feeling an uncomfortable twinge in a bone she could have sworn she didn’t have in her body—what self-respecting woman could be jealous of someone who was comatose—and, third, it did matter whether Sam was still in love with Merilee Brown. Because, first of all, the woman was probably dying. Second…

      There was no second. Maggie was a nurse. Merilee was a patient. Put the two together, end of search. Merilee’s life was all that mattered at the moment.

      Maggie dragged her attention back to the heart monitor. The life monitor. Life was dear, and Death was jealous.

      “What’s the—”

      Hilda’s voice gave Maggie a jolt.

      “Sorry.” Hilda joined her at the nurse’s station, her gaze tagging after Maggie’s lead. Through the window several feet away they watched Sam take a seat in the bedside chair with Star in his lap. He said something to her as he reached for the tissue box, and she nodded.

      “Oh,” Hilda whispered, and then, barely audibly, “Oh, Sam.”

      Maggie swallowed convulsively against a rising tide of tiny stingers.

      Hilda touched Maggie’s shoulder and leaned closer, as though she had a secret. “Lila said to tell you Jimmy wants to go home with her. I’m taking Star home with me as soon as she’ll let me. That leaves you and Sam.”

      “For?”

      “Coffee, maybe?”

      “Hilda.” Maggie warned her friend with a look. “He’s not going to tell me anything he hasn’t told you.”

      “Good.” Hilda patted Maggie’s shoulder. “Maybe you don’t tell each other anything. Maybe you just look at each other and breathe easy over a cup of coffee.”

      What could it hurt?

      “I’ll ask.”

      She’d have to swallow some pride—first throat prickles, then pride—but given the circumstances, given the sweet moment between the big man and the little girl and the fact that Maggie had claimed a piece of it, maybe she could trade away a little pride. Give him one more chance. Forget that she’d invited Sam over for supper a couple of weeks ago, and he’d cancelled. Emergency, he’d said. Hell, Maggie’s middle name was Emergency. The next move should have been his.

      Not that she was making a move, but if she had any thought that there were moves to be made, the events of the day should have convinced her otherwise. Words like issues, history and baggage came to mind. Stuff she didn’t need. She had no trouble handling herself pro-fessionally, and she was determined to start living the rest of her life with wits about her at all times. She’d almost decided she might be ready for an uncomplicated relationship with an uncomplicated man, and she’d been thinking about Sam Beaudry. A lot.

      And now this.

      So she asked, and he said sure—well, he’d nodded, anyway—and here they sat across from each other in Doherty’s Café staring into their ceramic mugs as though the shape of a coffee oil slick might foretell the future. Maggie was determined to let the first word be Sam’s. He could give her that much. She didn’t care what the word was. Maybe he needed a friend or a confidante. Maybe he wanted her professional opinion.

      Maybe he was watching some kind of reflection of the clock that was affixed to the wall behind him.

      Okay, so she cared. She was a nurse, for heaven’s sake.

      “I think she’s holding her own, Sam.”

      He glanced up. “Will they transfer her to Billings?”

      “If there’s something that can be done for her there that can’t be done here, they’ll consider moving her. But in her condition, it’s a risky trip.”

      “Why?”

      “As I said, she’s holding her own. But she’s frankly pretty frail. Most of her major organs are at risk of failing.”

      “Is it all from drugs?” he asked, and she glanced away. “What, you can’t give out that kind of information?”

      She offered an awkward smile. “I’m supposed to ask if you’re a family member, and then I’m supposed to refer you to the doctor.”

      “What do you consider a family member?” He cast a searching glance at the ceiling before drilling her with a dark-eyed stare. “How about the son of the woman she says is her daughter’s grandmother?”

      “I…guess that works.” Montana was different from Connecticut. Fewer people with more space between them added up to more slack. Indian country was definitely different, especially when it came to defining a family member, and most especially when children were involved. “We don’t have all the test results. She has pneumonia. Probably hepatitis. She’s on medication for diabetes. That’s just for starters.”

      “Damn.” He stared into his coffee for a moment. Then he drilled her again with those dark, straight-shooter eyes. “You think her daughter looks like me?”

      Who but a man would ask such a self-centered question?

       Who but a man would have to?

      “She’s a beautiful child.”

      “Yeah, I don’t see it, either.” He glanced away. “What did my mother tell you?”

      “That she’s never heard of Merilee Brown. That you used to tell her everything, but now you don’t.”

      “I’d tell her if I had a kid.” He bobbed a shoulder. “That I knew about.”

      “These things happen?”

      “Not to me.” He toyed with his spoon on the table. “We lived together for a while. I was crazy about her. I don’t remember why.”

      “When you’re crazy, nobody expects you to know why.”

      “Good point.” Which he chalked up on an air board with the spoon. “I remember why I left.”

      “Being crazy wasn’t working for you?”

      He rewarded her cleverness with half a smile. “I would’ve danced to whatever tune she called, but I didn’t have it in me. Couldn’t learn the steps.”

      “Daddy don’t rock ‘n’ roll?”

      “I never took you for a smart-ass, Maggie.” But he gave her the other half of the smile. “I could do that number. And I would.”

      She pressed her lips together, holding back on any remarks about Mama not dancing with him—maybe not even breathing much longer.

      “Go ahead, say it.”

      She feigned innocence. “What?”

      “Something like, ‘Easy for you to say that now, Jack. How many years after you hit the road?’”

      She laughed, less for the humor than for the surprise of it, coming from Sam. And the accuracy. “I won’t tell you what I was thinking. Your guess is so much better.” But close.

      “I’m not much of a dancer, but I do a little mind reading sometimes.”

      “I see that.” She sipped her coffee. “What’s your next move?”

      “I’m workin’ on fortune-telling.”

      “I mean, being the law in these parts, what do you do now? You’ve