Wild Honey. Veronica Sattler
specific about the man’s importance, although they hadn’t given any details.
Glancing at the memo she pulled from her clipboard, Randi frowned. He’d be a doctor, of course. He’d been a fourth-year medical student back then, so he had to be a full-fledged physician by now. But why would the brass at Bethesda be ordering the red-carpet treatment for a doctor—a doctor with a gunshot wound?
Hope flared as she redirected her gaze to the tall blond man now stretched out on the gurney. Maybe there were two of them! There were such things as doubles, she’d heard. The Germans even had a word for it—Doppelgänger, if she recalled her high-school German correctly.
Carefully, trying to appear casual amid the usual emergency-room chaos, she made her way toward the nurse she’d directed to admit the man on the gurney. She saw John Ames, the second-year resident in surgery on duty tonight, and managed a smile as he approached the gurney from the opposite side.
At least, she hoped what she did passed for a smile. Inwardly she was quaking like a leaf in a storm.
Randi held her breath and prayed as she stole a glance over her assistant’s shoulder. At the form on the clipboard that gave the patient’s full name.
And felt her heart sink as she read, “Travis Paxton McLean.”
“E-excuse me, Pierson,” she stammered when her assistant, a big capable black woman, glanced up at her and then offered her the clipboard. “I…there’s something I forgot to take care of in my office. Continue until I get back, please. I’ll…I’ll only be a minute.”
How she managed to get to her tiny office at the far end of the corridor, Randi never knew. But somehow, agonizing minutes later, she was shutting the door behind her. She leaned back against it in the unlit room, her heart slamming against her ribs.
She hadn’t really expected to learn he was someone else of course. No, reading his name had only compounded the feeling that the floor had just opened under her. The feeling she got when she’d risked a glance at the man’s eyes: the exact same eyes as her son’s.
Images swirled as the past came up to confront her—the tastefully decorated waiting room of the doctor’s office outside Cambridge, the look that might have hinted at embarrassment on the handsome face, the lazy Southern draw! as he asked for an application, and finally the sharp crystalline blue of those eyes.
Matt’s eyes.
Matt. Seizing on the image of her son, Randi fought for control; she sucked in a deep calming breath, then another. Matt, she repeated silently. Matt had been worth it!
Miranda Terhune was thirty-two years old; because of a rapid shift in personnel that had left several unexpected vacancies, and because of her own professional skill and competence, she’d been promoted to her present position at Johns Hopkins Medical Center in a little more than two years.
But it wasn’t the scene of her current job she was remembering now. It was the place where she’d worked five years before. A fertility clinic near Cambridge.
She’d gotten the job because of Connie, her old college roommate. She, Randi, had been working at the time at a hospital in Washington, D.C., and not really enjoying it. But it hadn’t been just the work; she’d felt a vague dissatisfaction, an odd restlessness, though she’d been unable to put her finger on the source of these feelings.
Now, with the twenty-twenty vision of hindsight, she knew why she’d felt that way. She’d always thrown herself into her work, but as time wore on, it hadn’t been enough. Perhaps earlier than most women who chose career over marriage and family, she’d felt her biological clock ticking. Reminding her that her prime child-bearing years were passing. That one day she could wake up and find it was too late.
Of course, she hadn’t had an inkling she might be yearning for a child when Connie had called, asking if she’d like to fill in for her at the clinic while she was on maternity leave. Yet she might have picked up a clue from something Connie had said.
“Never thought I’d be one to opt for the Pablum and Pampers scene, but you know, Randi, there’s something about being in a place like this day after day, seeing all these women with big bellies—and grins on their faces, instead of the urgent hungry looks they came in with. Maybe it’s catching, y’know?”
Yes, the clue had been there, all right. Because when Connie had said that, Randi had said yes.
But the yearning had been strong and recognizable after only a few months of working in Dr. Philip Burgess’s clinic. Randi wanted a child, hungered for one. The trouble was, she was unmarried and determined to remain so.
Because Randi Terhune was afraid of men.
Leaning against her office door now, she felt herself shudder with the silent admission. It was the first time she’d admitted it, to herself or anyone else. She suspected Jill knew, though. Jill and Dr. Carol Martin.
Fighting a wave of nausea, she tried to block the images, but they came at her with the ruthlessness of longsuppressed demons. Demons straight out of hell.
He was stalking her. She knew it as well as she knew her own name. Or that she was twelve years old. Or that her mother had been dead more than six months now, and all she had left was Jill.
But Jill couldn’t help her, couldn’t protect her. Her sister was only fourteen, and she hadn’t been able to protect herself! He’d come to Jill’s bedroom at night, when he’d thought both girls were asleep. But Randi hadn’t been asleep. She’d gotten up to get a drink of water from the bathroom and glanced into her sister’s room. The door was open and the hall light spilled in. And she’d seen.
Just as she’d seen him stalking Jill for days. Touching her back and shoulders and arms with lingering hands, brushing against her small breasts in passing. Watching her with eyes that burned as they fastened on those breasts, and on Jill’s bottom when she bent over, or her bare legs when she wore shorts.
Soon he’d begun stalking Randi, too. Waiting until he thought the time was right to come into her room and make her whimper, just as Jill had whimpered, to push her down on the bed and—
“Oh, God!”
The sound of her cry startled her in the still, dark room. She became aware that tears were streaming down her face.
Impatiently she swiped at them with her fingers. She’d thought all that was behind her. Jill had put it behind her, hadn’t she? And Randi’d had just as many hours of counseling as her sister. Jill was happily engaged to marry David in the fall, and Dr. Martin was so certain of Jill’s recovery she’d delightedly consented to be a bridesmaid.
But the doctor isn’t so certain of your recovery, is she? an inner voice taunted.
Carol Martin was the psychiatric counselor they’d both seen following their stepfather’s death in a car crash. The car crash that had mercifully ended his months-long sexual abuse of Jill Terhune and prevented him from ever actually laying hands on Randi.
Yet Randi had been the one with the nightmares after they’d gone to live with Aunt Tess. The nightmares that had awakened Jill, if not the kindly old woman who was their dead mother’s maiden aunt. And so Randi had finally been forced to tell Jill that she knew.
The two of them had always been close, but that night, as they’d wept together, an even closer bond had been forged. A bond that gave them the courage to approach the guidance counselor at school. The woman had broken the news to their elderly guardian, and it was then they’d begun the sessions with Carol Martin.
Sessions that had healed the actual victim of the abuse, but not her younger sister? In the silence of the darkened office now, Randi wanted to deny it, but how could she with the man whose sperm she’d stolen lying on a gurney a room away? Stolen, because she’d longed desperately for a child, but was terrified to conceive in the normal way.
Still, old habits die hard, and so Randi did find herself denying it as she switched on