Mending the Doctor's Heart. Tina Radcliffe
She knew she was long overdue for finding the courage to fight for those same dreams.
Dropping her briefcase in a chair, she took a deep breath and turned just as Malla came from the kitchen with the portable landline in her hand.
“Sara, are you all right?” Malla asked.
“I will be.”
Malla nodded in sympathy. “The phone. It’s for you,” she said.
“Me? Who even knows I’m home?”
“Ben Rogers?” Malla arched a questioning brow.
“Who?”
“Dr. Ben Rogers. He is a friend of yours?”
“Ben?” Sara paused, surprised. “Yes. We work together. Thanks, Malla.” Sara took the phone and moved toward the living room. “Ben. What can I do for you?”
“Sorry to bother you at home. I didn’t have your cell so I thought I’d take a chance on the ranch number. I found it online.”
“Really, it’s all right. What’s wrong?”
He cleared his throat. “I hate to impose. I mean, it is Friday night and I’m sure you have plans...”
“Yes, but Rocky is used to waiting for me. So what’s up?”
“I need your skillful hands.”
“Pardon me?” She blinked at his words.
“I had a little accident. Left triceps. I can’t reach the area, but it looks like at least half a dozen quick sutures will close the site.”
“Ben, we’ve got a level-four trauma center at the Paradise E.R. Not exactly what you’re used to, but they can handle this. Are you bleeding a lot? Maybe I should call 9-1-1.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” His response was emphatic, cutting off further discussion. “Can you just bring your bag and a suture kit?” He took a deep breath. “Please.”
“I’ll be right over.”
“Thank you.” His sigh of relief was audible. “I’m at 1400 Grand Avenue. About five miles outside of town. Just stay south on Main and turn left at the dilapidated barn, then a right at the mailbox that says Miller. Oh, and don’t wear your heels.”
Taking the carpeted stairs two at a time, Sara grabbed her jeans from the chair she’d tossed them on this afternoon.
Despite the reason he’d called, Sara couldn’t help a small frisson of pleasure that she was the one he called.
Was that a good thing? After all, she did have to work with the man for two months, and noticing that his dark eyes changed from milk chocolate to dark chocolate according to his mood or that his lips twitched attractively when he tried not to laugh or that when he said her name a shiver slid over her skin probably wasn’t what Uncle Henry meant when he said they needed to get to know each other.
Besides, hadn’t she learned anything in two years? If someone seemed too good to be true, they probably were. Ben Rogers would certainly prove to be no exception.
* * *
“Ouch.” Ben grit his teeth as the sharp needle combined with the local anesthetic bit.
“Good grief, that was just the lidocaine,” Sara said as she placed the needle on the table.
“Yeah, well, I’m generally on the other side of the injection. Guess I’ll have to rethink the whole this-isn’t-going-to-hurt spiel.”
“If you’re working as the clinic director, odds are you aren’t going to have that much one-on-one patient contact.”
“Okay by me.”
“Is it?” Her questioning gaze met his. “I mean, are you really okay with that? I’m not so sure I am,” she said.
“Sounds to me like you really don’t want the director position. You’re not ready to be a paper pusher. Why don’t you just tell your father?”
Sara froze, her green eyes rounded. “What makes you think my father has anything to do with this?”
He narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
“Oh, I see—apparently you specialize in psychiatry in your spare time.” Her jaw tensed.
“Any first-year med student could figure this out, Sara,” Ben said.
She rolled back the torn edge of his starched, pinpoint-cotton dress shirt and glared at him. “Lift your arm higher.”
Whoa. He’d definitely pushed a button, and she was not happy. Probably not a good idea to tick her off before she picked up a suture needle.
Ben raised his arm.
“Higher.” She pulled out the suture kit, ripped open the cover and dumped the contents onto the sterile field. “Tell me again why you didn’t go to the E.R. with this laceration?” Sara asked as she reassessed his arm.
“I couldn’t see myself applying pressure to the site and driving at the same time.”
“Hmm,” was her only response.
Ben released his breath. He’d neatly side-tepped that one. No way would he step into the E.R. and then break out in a cold phobic sweat in public. His credibility would be shot to pieces, on top of the humiliation of falling and cutting his arm.
“I’m going to assume your tetanus is up-to-date.”
Ben nodded.
She glanced around. “Do you have bandage scissors? Mine seem to have disappeared.”
“In my bag on the couch.”
Tearing off her gloves, Sara opened his satchel, then re-gloved. “Can you feel that?” she asked as she prodded his upper arm.
“Not a thing.”
“Too bad,” she murmured.
He nearly laughed out loud. “Doctor Elliott. What happened to primum non nocere?”
“Do no harm.” Her lips curved into a begrudging smile, her humor apparently restored. “I’m sure Hippocrates would understand if he met you.”
Ben’s lips twitched. Sara Elliott was a worthy opponent. Smart, witty and beautiful. A dangerous combination under any circumstance.
Her dark lashes were lowered as she worked, and he found himself absently counting the light freckles scattered over her sun-kissed cheeks and trailing across her small upturned nose.
Minutes later she pulled off her latex gloves, and their gazes met. Sara paused, her bright eyes startled.
“What are you looking at?” she asked.
“Sixteen freckles.”
“Please. Don’t remind me.” Annoyance laced her voice. “Those have been generously passed down from my mother’s side of the family.”
Ben’s mind began to backtrack to Henry Rhoades’s office as the light bulb slowly illuminated his thoughts. “The picture on your uncle’s desk. It’s you.”
“Yes.” The word was a soft murmur before she averted her gaze to efficiently wrap sterile gauze around his arm, trim the excess and tape the edges.
“And the woman in the picture?”
“That would be my mother, the other Dr. Elliott.”
Ben swallowed, the epiphany becoming even clearer. “Your mother is Dr. Rhoades’s sister.”
“Correct.”
All the bits of information began to fit together. “Amanda Rhoades.”
“Yes. Amanda Rhoades-Elliott. You know who my mother is?”
“My