Race To The Altar. Judy Duarte

Maybe they can give you something for that.”

      Whatever.

      The next time Chase heard footsteps he cracked open an eye, the one that actually worked, and caught sight of the pretty blonde nurse who’d worked on him last night.

      “Chase?” she asked.

      “Call me Raymond. And if you told me your name, I’ve forgotten.”

      “I’m Molly, and I’ll be your nurse today. How are you feeling?”

      He turned his head toward the lull of her voice, only to feel a sharp pull in his neck. “Like hell. But maybe I’ll recover now that you’re back. That other nurse—Bela or whatever his name is—has it in for me.”

      “His name is Eric, and he’s a lab tech.” She neared his bed, took his wrist in her fingers and felt for a pulse. “What makes you think he doesn’t like you?”

      “He kept stabbing me with a dull needle.”

      “Sometimes the veins are hard to find.”

      Chase grimaced, then tried to roll to his side and reach for the bed rail. “Ow. Damn, that hurts.”

      “What’s the matter?”

      “I’m going to need help getting to the bathroom.”

      “I don’t think Dr. Nielson wants you up yet. I’ll get you a bedpan.”

      “Don’t bother. I’d rather hold it until my eyes turn yellow than use one of those again.” Especially with Nurse Molly holding it.

      She smiled, and her eyes—green or blue? It was hard to tell with impaired vision—glimmered. “We can try a catheter.”

      “Not if you want to live to tell about it.”

      She laughed, a melodious lilt that at any other time might have charmed his socks off. But now? Well, the pain and the whole damn situation had done a number on his sense of humor. But he had to admit that the blonde Florence Nightingale beat the heck out of Bela or the candy striper.

      “I’ll call one of the male nurses or an orderly to come and help,” she said.

      He’d never had what they call a shy bladder, but something told him that might even be worse.

      “How long have I been in this room?” he asked. “It feels like a week.”

      Molly looked at her wristwatch, a no-nonsense type with a leather band. “About forty-five minutes.”

      She walked to a whiteboard on the wall, pulled out a black marker and wrote her first name, followed by a phone number. “This is my pager number. The call button will bring anyone at the nurses’ desk. But if you need me, give me a call, and I’ll come as soon as I can.”

      That seemed easy enough.

      “I know that you wanted to ‘fly under the radar,’” she said, “but are you sure there isn’t someone we should tell that you’re here? Parents, sister, girlfriend, neighbor?”

      “Not unless I’m dying.”

      “No pets at the house that need to be fed?” she asked.

      “Nope.” He turned his head toward her, even though it hurt his neck to do so. “Are you just a soft-hearted nurse? Or are you trying to ask in a subtle way if I’m attached?”

      “Actually, you’re not all that attractive right now. And any sign of personality or charm is nonexistent. So, no, I wasn’t quizzing you for personal reasons.”

      “Too bad.” He tossed her a painfully crooked grin, sorry that he wasn’t at his best and wondering what she saw when she looked at him.

      

      Molly studied her battered patient, trying to imagine the photo on the ID she’d seen last night—dark, curly hair that hadn’t been matted from bed rest, expressive blue eyes that actually opened and blinked.

      If she knew what was good for her, she’d be a lot more focused on what he looked like now. A nurse had no business being attracted to her patient. And Molly, especially, didn’t need to be intrigued by a race car driver who’d probably had more than his share of women.

      Yet she couldn’t help getting involved in a little flirtatious banter. “So what’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?”

      “Are you trying to hit on me?” There was the hint of a grin on his face.

      Molly laughed. “Sorry. I’m not into the footloose, reckless type. I was just trying to make conversation.”

      “Too bad,” he said. “It would be nice to have my own private duty nurse, especially a pretty blonde.”

      “Something tells me, with your occupation, you probably ought to have your own mobile medical unit.”

      “Actually, I’m a very good driver.”

      She crossed her arms, a smile stealing across her face. “Those lumps and cuts and bruises suggest otherwise.”

      “It could have been worse.”

      A lot worse. He could have died—or one of the children could have.

      As though reading her thoughts, he asked, “So how’s that kid doing? The one who was riding the bike?”

      “I’m sure he’s okay.”

      “Did he have to stay in the hospital?”

      “I don’t think so.”

      “Can you find out for me? I need to know.”

      “I’ll see what I can do.”

      He obviously cared about the kid. After all, he’d avoided the children and had chosen to slam into the semi instead. And his follow-up interest in the boy was touching.

      She couldn’t help thinking of him as a hero, the reckless and rebellious sort, like Han Solo in the first set of Star Wars movies.

      So what made this guy tick?

      She walked around the bed and opened the blinds, only to get an immediate complaint.

      “Hey, what are you doing? Trying to kill me? The glare hurts my head.”

      “Sorry.”

      “They were closed for a reason.”

      She twisted the control rod, darkening the room again. “Do you need something for pain? I’ll check the chart, and if it’s time for more, I’ll bring it in.”

      “I don’t want whatever they’ve been shooting into my IV. It’s messing with my mind. I hear people talking around my bed, but when I look, there’s no one there. So I’d rather suck it up.”

      A tough guy, she thought, rebellious and surly, but with a tender heart. “There’s other medication we can give you that isn’t as strong. So there’s no need for you to suffer.”

      “Right now I’d feel better if I could just sleep it off.”

      With the extent of his injuries and the seriousness of the concussion, she didn’t think he’d wake up feeling any better. “All right, I’ll leave you alone for a while so you can go back to sleep. I’ll come in to check on you later.”

      She glanced at his monitor, noting the numbers were within normal range, and checked his IV drip. Everything was as it should be, so she headed for the door. But before leaving his room, she took one last look at her patient.

      And for the second time in minutes, she wondered who the real Chase Mayfield was.

      Shaking off her curiosity, she stepped out the door and returned to the third-floor nurses’ desk, where Dr. Nielson sat, jotting down notes in a patient’s chart.

      Just last year, when Betsy took over Doc Graham’s practice