Father By Choice. M.J. Rodgers

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СКАЧАТЬ taking this year off before going to college helped at all?” she asked.

      Another shrug.

      “Your folks have any suggestions?” she persisted.

      “My dad and granddad want me to study science like they did and join the firm. But I suck at that stuff.”

      “So outside of being a great assistant, what don’t you suck at?”

      “I don’t know.”

      Emily gave up. Josh was a good worker, but as a conversationalist he left a lot to be desired. Her thoughts were rudely interrupted by the sudden blast of a leaf blower. Oh, no. Not again. She whirled around, trying to determine where he was. Then the breeze blew a faint whiff of gasoline fumes in her face and she knew.

      Emily charged up the path through the rose garden, past the swaying beds of fragrant lilacs, and broke into a jog around the lily pond. Turning the corner, she saw Lester inside the greenhouse. He was shuffling to the tune he heard in his headphones, the leaf blower in his hand blasting dirt and debris off the stone path.

      She’d asked him repeatedly not to use that polluting piece of crap in the Botanical Gardens, especially not the greenhouse. The toxic fumes were dangerous to the more fragile plant species, not to mention human lungs.

      But Lester considered sweeping with a broom to be beneath his manhood. Which was why, every time he thought she wasn’t around, he brought out the leaf blower.

      Emily waved, trying to get his attention. But he wasn’t looking in her direction. She hurried up the cobblestone path toward him, feeling her nostrils burn, trying not to inhale too deeply. She called out to him, but he obviously couldn’t hear her above the noise of the leaf blower and whatever he considered music in his ears.

      Her temples had begun to throb. She entered the greenhouse, knowing she’d have to grab his arm to get his attention. But before she could, the heat and exhaust hit her full blast.

      And she was sinking into a spinning, blinding nothingness.

      BRAD WINSLOW OFTEN THOUGHT that working in the E.R. was a lot like going to the theater. It was always high drama with life hanging in the balance. But whether he ultimately found himself part of a mystery, triumph, tragedy or farce sometimes depended less on the skill and dedication of Courage Bay’s team of medical professionals than it did on the assortment of characters coming through the door.

      Today the E.R. was overflowing with crazy fools bent on tempting fate and the limits of their medical insurance.

      Behind curtains one and two were a pair of middle-aged golfers with head wounds—continuing to exchange obscenities while they waited for their CT scans. They’d been so bent on ramming each other’s golf carts as they raced to the next green that they never noticed they’d taken a wrong turn.

      Fortunately, the driver of the industrial-size lawn mower they’d smashed into had escaped injury. It was the two idiots who had landed on his windshield that needed their heads examined.

      Then there was the guy behind curtain three who decided to sail his son’s skateboard down his daughter’s slide to see how much lift he could get. He lifted over his neighbor’s fence and landed in the swimming pool.

      Lucky for him the neighbor had filled it that morning or he’d have cracked a lot more than a collarbone.

      And behind curtain four was the teenage artist determined to have a butterfly tattoo on her boob no matter how much her parents objected. She’d assembled a sewing needle, candle, some food coloring and had at it—until her swallowtail turned into an infected swirl of blisters.

      Sometimes the most difficult part of being an E.R. physician was maintaining the controlled detachment that was a necessity in the face of such human folly.

      Brad was passing the base radio station when the paramedic line began to ring. The nurse who generally answered the calls was trying to get a naked seventy-year-old loony balancing a bedpan on his head to return to the examining room.

      Yep, it was definitely the day for crazies. Brad stopped to pick up the phone.

      “Courage Bay E.R. Winslow.”

      “It’s Paramedic Kellison on Rescue Squad Two. How do you copy?”

      “Loud and clear, Kellison.”

      “We’re en route to your location with a Code Red.”

      Code Red meant they were coming in with red lights and siren—the emergency team’s protocol whenever they were faced with a possible life-threatening situation.

      “We’ve got a female, around thirty, fell without warning onto a cobblestone path approximately twenty minutes ago,” Kellison continued. “Unconsciousness. No observable wounds. Her pressure is ninety-five over sixty, rate about seventy. She’s somewhat pale, but nondiaphoretic at this time. ETA to ambulance bay about three minutes.”

      “We’ll be expecting you,” Brad said. “CB clear.”

      “Number Two clear.”

      Brad signaled to a passing trauma nurse and went to put on a fresh gown and gloves. With a little luck maybe this patient wouldn’t turn out to be a loony.

      EMILY WAS ENCASED in thick white mosquito nets. She was thankful. The incessant buzzing that was going on outside was getting louder. Last time she’d been bitten by one of those bloodsuckers, she’d endured a painful welt for several days. Had one of the sprinkler systems developed a leak? Was water pooling somewhere? Were they breeding within the Botanical Gardens?

      She tried to respect all life. But mosquitoes were a species that stretched the limits of her tolerance. She could hear one of them now—very loud and insistent.

      “Wake up, Emily. I know you can hear me.”

      Not a mosquito. An urgent voice—deep and very male—from someone used to being listened to. Her eyes fluttered open to a blinding light. She grimaced and quickly shut them again.

      A hand closed over her forearm—large, warm. “Emily, you lost consciousness. You’re in Courage Bay’s Emergency Room.”

      She still couldn’t make sense out of the blurred words coming through the thick mosquito netting, but the deep resonance of his voice vibrated nicely in her ears.

      “Emily, we’re taking good care of you. But I need you to tell me if you hurt anywhere. I’m Dr. Brad Winslow.”

      Brad Winslow?

      “English ancestry. Thirty-one. Six foot three. One hundred ninety pounds. Black hair. Gray eyes. Birthday, March 25. Favorite color, blue. Favorite food, cheesecake. Favorite song—”

      “What?”

      The sharp demand of his voice sliced through the net surrounding Emily’s woolly thoughts and brought her to a full and sudden consciousness. She opened her eyes and blinked into the blurry face of the big-shouldered man hovering over her.

      “Tell me who you are,” he said.

      “Emily Barrett,” СКАЧАТЬ