Love's Healing Touch. Jane Myers Perrine

in her neck. She hated the night shift, but that was what she had to cover if she wanted to learn everything she could about emergency medicine.

      Besides, her schedule wasn’t all that bad: on twenty-four hours, off twenty-four, with no more than seventy hours a week. It allowed her time with her family, time to study and a few hours to rest.

      The pain in her thigh was worse than it had been for years. She must have twisted her leg. Now all she wanted to do was elevate it for a few hours. Not an easy thing to do in the E.R.

      In the long run, she was sorry she’d heard the conversation between Fuller and the other orderly. Better for her not to know about the private lives of anyone she worked with.

      So why was she interested in Fuller? Had she made him her project of the year? Usually her projects were easier to handle, more open and not nearly as attractive as Fuller. Wait. When had she started to think of Fuller as attractive?

      Well, what woman wouldn’t? He had great longish dark hair and a terrific smile, although few people over the age of ten saw it. What she usually saw was a face clear of expression with a hint of anger in the depths of his dark eyes. The charm and the anger made him, well, interesting, as if he had dimensions he never shared.

      Add to that his broad shoulders, great build and the black stubble that covered his chin and cheeks by the end of the shift, and—¡caramba!—what’s not to like?

      Which meant it was time to get back to the E.R. before she had any more completely unprofessional thoughts about a man with no ambition. Maybe in other people’s minds, Fuller wouldn’t be seen as lacking in ambition. He worked hard, made good decisions, was great with kids. On the other hand, as an orderly he wasn’t using every bit of his ability. Why wasn’t he in school? Her brothers always told her she was an education snob, and maybe she was, but she hated it when people didn’t push themselves to live up to their potential.

      Besides that, he was a man who had clearly but politely told her to leave him alone, a man she had absolutely no interest in.

      None at all.

      “Hey, chica,” Enrique, Ana’s sixteen-year-old brother, said as she entered her family’s home that evening. “What’s for dinner?”

      “What does it matter, Quique? You eat everything I put on the table. You’d eat lizards if I could catch enough to fill you up.” She grabbed him in a hug that became a wrestling match when he tried to slip away.

      “Sounds good.”

      “And you never put on a pound.” Ana glanced at his skinny body then down at her rounder hips. “I don’t think we come from the same family.”

      She headed for the kitchen and glanced back at him. “Where are you going?” As if she didn’t know. He was wearing baggy shorts, a Spurs T-shirt and his favorite Nike runners.

      “Pickup game at Rolando’s.”

      “Dinner is at seven. Be home.” She glared at him, well aware that he’d probably grab a bite with Rolando’s family before he meandered home in a few hours. “I’d like to see you sometime.”

      “Mira.” He held out his arms and rotated slowly in front of her. “Look, here I am.”

      “Just go.” She waved as he ducked out the door.

      “Ana, is that you?”

      Hearing her father’s voice from the kitchen, she hurried toward it. “Hi, Papi.”

      Her father sat at the table doing a crossword puzzle. He and Enrique looked so much alike. Both six feet tall and slender. Her father had streaks of white in his still-full, dark hair. Before her mother’s death almost a year ago, he’d been a quiet and often moody man. Since then, he’d retreated deeper, lost any spring in his step and his shoulders were more rounded. He was still a handsome man but not a happy one, as much as he tried to hide it.

      “What’s a five-letter word for hackneyed? Ends in an E.”

      “How ’bout stale or trite?”

      “Those might fit.” His pen hovered over the folded newspaper.

      She pulled an apron from the pantry, tied it around her, and continued to watch her father. He was always doing puzzles. Crossword and Sudoku and anagrams. He had a basket by his chair with puzzle books in it and spent most of his time at home solving those puzzles. He’d become a hermit.

      “Papi, you have to get out more.” She picked up a dishrag and squirted detergent on it. “Let’s go to a movie next Saturday.”

      He didn’t answer, just stared at the crossword clues.

      The kitchen cabinets were dark walnut; the linoleum floor that was supposed to look like bricks was well-worn. This place felt a lot more like home than the tiny efficiency she’d recently rented a few blocks from the hospital and spent so little time in. She squeezed out the dishrag and started cleaning the white tile counters.

      When she finished, she said, “I thought I’d fix enchiladas tonight.” She pulled down a jar of tomato sauce. Her mother had always made her sauce from scratch, with real tomatoes, but this would just have to do. Except for her father, no one could tell the difference. After eating his wife’s cooking for thirty-five years, he knew homemade sauce from canned.

      Ana’s philosophy about cooking was if she covered every dish with cheese and onion, they tasted great. Well, not flan, of course. Because her father was diabetic, she used low fat cheese and watched his portions although he did pretty well keeping track himself.

      “Who’s going to be here tonight?”

      Her father stood, held on to the back of the chair before he walked across the room. He was only sixty-one but appeared much older. A day at the store wore him out now. She’d made him go to the doctor but he said nothing was wrong with her father, not physically. How long did it take to recover from the death of a wife? Obviously, a year wasn’t enough.

      “Robbie and Martita are coming with Tonito and the baby. She said she’d bring a cake,” he said.

      “Luz, Quique and Raúl also?” Ana listed the other siblings who lived in Austin. Her brother Robbie, his wife and their small family were fun to be around, and Martita made wonderful cakes. “I want to be sure so I can make enough enchiladas for everyone and still leave some for your lunch Saturday.” If Quique didn’t eat them when he went through the refrigerator later.

      “Well, Raúl will probably stop by. He’s between gigs.”

      Raúl was always between gigs. Fortunately, he had a steady job at the family’s furniture store Robbie managed. “Is he between girlfriends?”

      “I’m never between girlfriends,” Raúl said as he came in from the garage.

      “Oh, yes, I know. Women always throw themselves at you. Poor dears.” Ana pulled tortillas from the fridge. Store-bought tortillas, another shortcut her mother would never have considered.

      “¿Cómo no? Why not? They can’t resist my smile or my guitar.”

      What was he going to do in the future? Raúl floated through life, making it on his dark good looks, great smile and personality, plus a dab of talent.

      “Hey, Ana, no te preocupes. Don’t worry.”

      “Why would I worry about you?” She took out a slab of white cheese and began to grate it.

      “Because you always worry about me and Luz and Quique. We’re all young.” He pulled one of his guitars from the hall closet and came into the kitchen. “We’ll grow up someday.”

      Ana rolled her eyes. “I hope so.”

      “We’ll never be as responsible as you are.” He ran his fingers over the strings. “After all, you were born responsible, but you don’t always have to worry about us.”

      “Yes, she does, Raúl.” Her brother Robbie followed