First-Time Valentine. Mary J. Forbes

      Like J.D. had.

      “Huh,” he grunted. “Damn kid doesn’t know what the hell he’s doin’ half the time. Leaves the snow piled so close to the walk, all it does is slide back down.”

      She went up the stairs. “Give me that broom, please, and go on inside where I know you won’t fall on your keester.”

      “Don’t you mean my ass?” he grumped, though a smile lay in his voice.

      “Whatever.” She took the broom, and waved him toward the door. “I’ll see you shortly.”

      “What for?”

      “I have some questions to ask. Now, are you going to let me finish this or are you going to stand in the way?”

      “Huh,” he said again. “I’ve a mind to lock you out. Don’t need a li’l mite like you naggin’ my head off.”

      “I don’t nag. It’s called TLC. But you wouldn’t know what that means, would you?”

      “Fresh-mouthed doctor, is what you are,” he griped, shutting the door in her face.

      She swept the stoop and stairs, then grabbed the snow shovel parked against the house and tackled the walkway.

      The door opened. “Do a good job—or I won’t let you do it again.” The door slammed shut.

      Old coot, she thought, unable to resist the affectionate laugh that erupted. He’d been her neighbor since she moved into her grandmother’s house a week after she finished her residency last year. After her grandmother’s death three years before, renters had lived in the place—and neglected the property.

      Mr. Sumner Senior had jumped at the chance to fix up her “pig sty,” as he termed it. His labor didn’t come cheap, but then a first-class groundskeeper was worth every penny she put in his pocket.

      Finished with the walkway, she set the shovel in its spot and climbed the steps. She had all of five minutes.

      After brushing the snow from the hem of her long woolen coat, she knocked once. As though he’d been waiting on the other side, he flung open the door.

      “Thank you.” Ella strode in. The kitchen’s warmth stung her cold cheeks. She looked past the man to the interior and saw a small tidy room. He was as meticulous here as he was with the outdoors.

      “I thought you had people to dice,” he grumped, gripping his carved wooden cane. “You’re takin’ up my afternoon.”

      “And you’re welcome for the walkway.”

      A grunt.

      She shoved her cold hands into the deep pockets of her coat and studied him a moment. Except for his height and thick silver hair, he looked nothing like J.D. Could she be mistaken? Oh, she understood that by asking specific questions she’d be digging into a part of their lives that was not her business. She was both men’s doctor. Not their priest, psychologist or social worker.

      But there was that birthmark.

      And the last name—as well as the first—marking father to son.

      She stared into the old man’s blue eyes. “I’ll make this short, Mr. Sumner. Do you have family?”

      He was taken aback. “What the hell concern is that of yours? First you come here bitchin’ about my shovelin’, then you storm into my house and now you’re askin’ questions that got nothin’ to do with patient care.”

      She wouldn’t back down. “Do you?”

      “If you’re askin’ if I have kids the answer is no.”

      “No children?”

      “Ya deaf, Doc?”

      The tension ran from her shoulders and settled in her gut. The old man was lying. “I have a patient in the hospital right now. His name is J. D. Sumner from New York City—”

      “Don’t know nobody in New Yawk.” Cane in hand, he turned away and shuffled to the kitchen table, a small sixties chrome-and-Formica affair with two red vinyl chairs.

      Had J.D. sat there once?

      Hanging the cane over the back of a chair, the old gent lowered himself into the one facing the window that overlooked his backyard, and it startled Ella that her own kitchen table mirrored an identical arrangement.

      He said, “Go back to your hospital, Doc. I’m gonna take a nap, if you don’t mind.” Staring out at his snowy world, he began massaging his hip.

      She stepped forward. “Are you in pain?”

      “Nothin’ I can’t handle.”

      J.D.’s words.

      “You’re due for another checkup next week. I’ll expect to see you in my office.”

      He turned suspicious eyes on her; eyes that had her thinking of J.D. when he lay on the stretcher in Emerge and asked what she planned for his knee.

      “If I need pills, I’ll call you.”

      Stubborn old cuss. “You do that,” she said. She should leave well enough alone. But she couldn’t. Her heart could not stand by without trying. “And if you’re curious about my other patient…he’s mid-thirties, has dark auburn hair. And,” she said, pausing for effect, “brown eyes.”

      No reaction. The old gent continued his vigilance on the yard.

      “All right,” she said. “I’ll go now.” However, as she opened the door she heard him whisper a word. Had it been green? She slanted a look over her shoulder to be sure, but he sat in profile, his jaw pointing toward the winter landscape, his lashes unblinking.

      Ella released a small sigh. “See you later, Mr. Sumner.”

      He remained motionless.

      Stepping outside, she softly shut the door, and smiled.

      In profile, Jared Sumner was the image of his son.

      J.D.’s skin was on fire one minute, the next like he’d been dunked in the North Atlantic, his teeth chattered so hard. What the hell was going on with his body? He’d done the exercises the therapist told him to do and he’d walked the corridor most of the day, resting whenever the pain got a little touchy.

      He glanced at the plate the dinner staff had brought, the chicken congealing in the gravy. It smelled good ten minutes ago, before a wave of heat swept his body and a migraine set up camp in his brain.

      Pulling the covers to his neck, he let his eyes drift shut. Maybe if he slept for a bit he’d be okay.

      Another shudder shook his body. Dammit. What the hell was the matter with him? All he’d done was a little damage to his knee, for Christ’s sake. Nothing major.

      Except his body had switched into betrayal mode.

      A stickler for health—he watched what he ate, exercised daily, drank in moderation, had sex regularly—the fact he had no control over his anatomy’s behavior at the moment did not endear J.D. to the hospital. Had she made an error during surgery? The way that quack doctor had with his mom? Had Dr. Ella gone into the wrong area? Used an unsterilized scalpel? He’d read of such things.

      Your imagination is running amuck, J.D. You know she did her job. The incision was neat and tidy. Hadn’t he viewed that thin, red line each time she redressed it?

      Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough. Tomorrow he was leaving, whether she liked it or not. He couldn’t recall ever staying more than a couple of hours in a hospital. Now here he was again, heading toward his second day with his temperature a rising tide.

      Maybe he should call a nurse.

      Where was the call button?

      God, he was cold….

      “Dr.