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      In Raina’s memory

      Special Thanks

      To my Tuesday night critique group for steering me in the right direction each week, especially Lisa and Claudia.

      To my editor, Flo Nicoll, for seeing something in my writing that showed promise and encouraging me until that something showed through. I appreciate you.

      To Darcy for saying you should write this. You were right.

      To Sia for sharing your writing knowledge. I’m better for it.

      To Carol for reading, re-reading, and taking care of me. Couldn’t have done it without you.

      To my mom, my husband and my kids for being so supportive. I love you all.

      CHAPTER ONE

      “A HEART TRANSPLANT? My baby’s only two years old.” Hannah Quinn stared at Dr. Scott McIntyre, the cardio-thoracic surgeon who sat across the conference room table from her. His familiar Mediterranean-Sea eyes were sympathetic, but his face remained somber.

      The shock of seeing Scott again was only surpassed by the pain of his words. Her son was dying.

      When had she slipped down the rabbit hole to this horror at Children’s General Hospital? As if that weren’t torment enough, she now faced a mother’s worst nightmare, and the news was being delivered by Atlanta, Georgia’s supposedly best cardiothoracic surgeon, a man who had hurt her badly years before.

      In the movies this would have been called a twist of fate, horrible irony. But this wasn’t some screenplay, this was her life. Her child, who always had a smile, her little boy, who giggled when she kissed him behind his ear, was in serious danger.

      “He was doing fine. I was taking him for a scheduled check-up. Next thing I know his pediatrician has ordered an ambulance to bring us here.” Hannah covered her mouth, damming the primal screams that threatened to escape. Moisture pooled in her eyes, blurring her vision of Scott … now Jake’s doctor. “You have to be wrong.”

      He glanced at Andrea, the heart-transplant coordinator, sitting beside him, before he reached across the table as if to take Hannah’s hand.

      “Don’t.” She straightened. He withdrew.

      That night eight years ago had started with a simple brush of his hand. She couldn’t go there, wouldn’t go there again, or she’d fall apart. She had to hold it together until her world righted itself. And it would, it had to. “I knew that a valve replacement might be in his future sooner than I had hoped, but a heart transplant? Your diagnosis can’t be correct.”

      Scott ran a hand through his wavy hair. The soft, silky locks had gone from light to golden blond with age. His fingers threaded through his hair again, a mannerism Hannah remembered from when they’d been friends, good friends. They’d shared warm banter when he’d come to work on the step-down floor. The banter between them had developed into a friendship she’d valued, and had thought he had too.

      Leaning forward, he brought her attention back to why they were sitting in this tiny, barren room, acting as if they’d never known each other intimately.

      “I’m sorry, Hannah,” he murmured with compassion. His voice strengthened with the words, “But the diagnosis is correct. The condition is called cardiomyopathy.”

      “Isn’t that when the heart has become enlarged?” Hannah asked.

      “Yes, it is. In Jake’s case, he must have contracted a virus that went undetected. It settled on the valve he has had from birth—the one that wasn’t working correctly. His heart is inflamed and is no longer pumping efficiently.”

      “He’s had nothing more than a little runny nose. I assure you that if it had been more, I would’ve taken him to see a doctor.”

      “I’m not questioning your care for your son. The virus may have looked like something as simple as a cold, but it attacked his heart, damaging it. Sometimes it takes weeks to manifest itself and sometimes, like in Jake’s case, only days or hours. There is no way to know how or when it will happen. But you would know that, being a nurse.”

      “Most of my work experience has been on an adult orthopedic floor and, anyway, I’m not nursing at present.”

      His head canted questioningly, but he said, “Still, you should understand the only thing we can do for your son—”

      “His name is Jake.” The words came out frosted. She wouldn’t allow Jake to become a hospital number, just another patient in a bed.

      Scott’s gaze met hers. “Jake needs

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