LITMIR.BIZ

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five o’clock. Ella glanced at the slim-banded watch on her wrist. Six-thirteen. She’d been at her desk almost an hour and a half. No wonder her shoulders ached.

      Lindsey continued, “Mr. Sumner in 239 has a mild fever again. Fluctuates between chills and sweats. My guess is he worked the leg too much today, but he won’t admit it.”

      “Swelling?”

      “There’s some distension and redness. Temperature’s one hundred. He’s asking for you.”

      “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Put the leg on pillows and pack the area in ice. Also, increase the antibiotics by ten milligrams. Has he eaten?”

      “Said he wasn’t hungry.”

      “Let’s get the fever down. Then we’ll get some food into him. Thanks, Lindsey.”

      “Anytime, Doctor. Um…” Pause. “He’s quite adamant about seeing you.”

      Her heart kicked. “Did he say why?”

      “No. He just seems a little agitated, like he’s nervous about being here.”

      “Here, or hospitals in general?”

      “He didn’t say.”

      “All right, I’ll finish ASAP and come down.”

      Ella ended the call. It wasn’t that often a patient of hers ran a fever that high. She’d bet he’d gone overboard with the exercising. Routinely, at noon and four o’clock, if she wasn’t in surgery, she checked with the nurses’ station to see how her patients fared. J.D., she knew, was determined to leave tonight after her rounds.

      Well, J.D. It seems you’ll be with me another night.

      The thought had no more entered her mind than she glanced around her office as though she’d spoken aloud. Lord, she needed to go home, soak in a hot bath and—

      Oh, Ella. You can’t win with those double entendres. Grabbing another patient file, she set to work. Fifteen minutes later, she took the stairwell down to the second floor; stopped at the desk.

      “Is he sleeping, Lindsey?” she asked the nurse.

      “No, but he’s adamant about speaking with you.” A glint entered the woman’s eyes. “I think he has a crush on you.”

      Ella sighed. “It’s the meds.”

      “Maybe we should cut back, considering the number of questions he asks about you.” She winked.

      One thing about hospitals, Ella realized early in her career, their gossip mills loved information about their medical personnel. Her brother Peter had been fighting off rumors since he and Bethany butted heads and then locked lips.

      That gossip mill was why Ella chose a counselor who practiced in Springfield, twenty miles away. The last thing she needed was her past—those dreaded few days during her years of internship in Boston—sifting down WRG’s corridors. Not even her family knew of the deep-seated guilt Ella harbored due to that one incident, or of the nightmares that still galloped into her sleep. Yes, she understood the fault of the incident was not hers. That the scrub nurse with her in the O.R. had been an alcoholic, had neglected to sanitize one of the instruments. And, yes, the woman lost her job over the whole awful situation.

      But a little boy nearly died as a result of that nurse’s disregard—a child under Ella’s care, and on whom she’d operated with an instrument she trusted and believed to be sterile.

      And though she still fought to regain the confidence she’d once possessed as a doctor, it was returning, growing stronger day by day within the walls of her beloved Walnut River General.

      Picking up J.D.’ s chart and ignoring Lindsey’s comments, Ella headed for 239.

      His glassy green eyes fastened on her the instant she stepped around the door. “Finally,” he said.

      Taking the ophthalmoscope from her pocket, she went to his side, turned his face toward her, checked his pupils. “You’re not my only patient, J.D.”

      “You called me J.D. again.”

      “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

      “There’s a lot I want.”

      She ignored his look as she reached for the blood-pressure cuff hooked on the wall above his head.

      “And,” he added, voice indistinct with fever, “I usually get it.”

      Ella pumped the cuff. “Not all of us are so lucky.”

      A corner of his mouth worked. “We talking about the same thing, Doc?”

      Oh, she understood precisely what he meant. What surprised her was his ability to tease while a fever warred inside his body. He was a determined man. “Well, there’s one thing you won’t get,” she said, releasing the cuff.

      “You?”

      “Since you’ve elevated your blood pressure and contracted a second fever, there will be no discharge until tomorrow.”

      His mouth sobered. “You’re keeping me another night?”

      Ella curled her hands around the guardrail and pulled it up. “How many times did you exercise today?”

      “A few.”

      “More than the physiotherapist’s recommendation?”

      He looked askance; she noticed his chapped lips. “J.D.,” she said, offering the bottle of ice water to him, “do you know what it means to rest?”

      “’Course. I do that at night.”

      “Not just at night. During the day, too. After any surgery your body needs time to heal, to redefine itself, so to speak. There’s a lot going on inside you that requires your patience—and rest. In other words, I want you to empty your mind of work and whatever else is on your BlackBerry. While exercising prevents clots—” his eyes, she noticed, sharpened “—going beyond the recommended sessions has aggravated your injury. It’s not going to get you back to your office quicker. And while your fever isn’t off the charts, it is high enough to tell me your body has put up a red flag. So, until we get it down and stabilized for at least twenty-four hours, I can’t discharge you.”

      During her speech, he sipped the water.

      “Do you understand?” she asked.

      He handed her the bottle. “I understand.”

      “Good.” She set the water on the table and picked up the lip balm. “Keep your lips lubricated,” she said, handing him the tube.

      Fevered as his eyes were, the lightheartedness returned.

      “To keep them from bleeding,” she informed him, removing the ice packs. The swelling was there, more than she liked, but not as bad as she’d envisioned. By morning, he should be on the mend.

      She assessed his circulation on the arch of his long narrow foot, and behind his anklebone where his skin was hairless and smooth and vulnerable.

      “What’s the rate?” he asked when she was done.

      “Eighty-eight—normal with a fever.”

      “My resting pulse is fifty-four,” he lamented.

      “It’ll be back once your temp decreases and you’re healing.” She gave him a smile. “You’re in excellent shape.” And he was. His calves were defined, his shoulders broad and solid. She’d noted the muscles in his forearms and biceps. No doubt another gym advocate. Juice monkey was Peter’s description.

      “Are you a member of a gym?” she asked.

      “Hate gyms. I run, hike and row in the summer, snowshoe in the winter.” He frowned at his leg. “I’d hoped to do some trails around here, maybe follow the river a few miles.”

      “No

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