LITMIR.BIZ

      “Glad you could join us, Dr. Landsdowne.” Sam Getz, Providence Hospital’s Chief of Staff, didn’t look glad. Let’s see how you measure up, that’s what his expression always said when he looked at Jake.

      “I appreciate the opportunity to meet with the board.” He nodded to the three people seated around the polished mahogany table in the conference room high above the patient care areas of the hospital.

      A summons to the boardroom was enough to make any physician examine his conduct, but Getz had merely said the board’s committee for community outreach was considering a project he might be interested in. Given the fact that Jake’s contract was for a six-month trial period, he was bound to be interested in anything the board wanted him to do.

      Last chance, a voice whispered in his head. Last chance to make it as a physician. They all know that.

      Did they? He might be overreacting. He helped himself to a mug of coffee, gaining a moment to get his game face on.

      Getz knew his history, but the elderly doctor didn’t seem the sort to gossip. In fact, Sam Getz looked like nothing so much as one of the Pennsylvania Dutch farmers Jake had seen at the local farmer’s market, with his square, ruddy face and those bright blue eyes.

      Dr. Getz tapped on the table, and Jake slid into the nearest chair like a tardy student arriving after the lecture had begun. “Time to get started, folks.” He nodded toward the door, where two more people were entering. “You all know Pastor Flanagan, our fellow board member. And this is his cousin, Paramedic Terry Flanagan. They have something to say to the board.”

      Good thing his coffee was in a heavy mug. If he’d held a foam cup, it would have been all over the table. Terry Flanagan. Was she here to lodge a complaint against him?

      Common sense won out. Terry would hardly bring up that painful incident, especially not to the community outreach committee. This had to be about something else.

      The other people seated around the table were flipping open the folders that had been put at each place. He opened his gingerly, to find a proposal for Providence Hospital to establish a clinic to serve migrant farmworkers.

      He pictured Terry, bending over the migrant child in the E.R., protectiveness in every line of her body. Was that what this was about?

      He’d been so shocked to see her that he’d handled the situation on autopilot. He’d read equal measure of shock in her face at the sight of him. What were the chances that they’d bump up against one another again?

      He yanked his thoughts from that, focusing on the minister. Pastor Flanagan spoke quickly, outlining the needs of the migrant workers and the efforts his church was making. So he was both Terry’s cousin and a member of the board—that was an unpleasant shock.

      This was what she’d done then, after the tragedy. She’d run home. At the time, he’d neither known nor cared what had become of her. He’d simply wanted her away from his hospital. Not that it had stayed his hospital for long.

      The minister ended with a plea for the board to consider their proposal, and Terry stood to speak. Her square, capable hands trembled slightly on the folder until she pressed them against the tabletop.

      Had she changed, in the past two years? He couldn’t decide. Probably he’d never have noticed her, in that busy city E.R., if it hadn’t been for her mop of red curls, those fierce green eyes, and the air of determination warring with the naiveté in her heart-shaped face.

      That was what had changed, he realized. The naiveté was gone. Grim experience had rubbed the innocence off the young paramedic.

      The determination was still there. Even though her audience didn’t give her much encouragement, her voice grew impassioned, and the force of her desire to help wrung a bit of unwilling admiration from him. She knew her stuff, too—knew how many migrant workers came through in a season, how many children, what government programs were in place to help.

      William Morley, the hospital administrator, shifted uneasily in his chair as her presentation came to a close. His fingers twitched as if he added up costs.

      “What you say may be true,” he said. “But why can’t those people simply come to the emergency room? Or call the paramedics?”

      “They’ll only call the paramedics in case of dire emergency.” Terry leaned forward, her nervousness obviously forgotten in her passion. “Too many migrants are afraid of having contact—afraid their papers aren’t in order or they’re simply afraid of authority. As for the E.R., no one from the migrant camps comes in unless it’s a case where the police or the paramedics become involved. They’re afraid, and they’re also dependent on the crew chief for transportation.”

      Jake heard what she didn’t say. He hadn’t thought too highly of the unctuous crew chief, either. But would he really refuse to transport someone who needed care? And did Terry, in spite of her enthusiasm, have the skills necessary to manage a job like this? He doubted it.

      Morley was already shaking his head, the overhead light reflecting from it. If he’d grown that pencil-thin moustache to compensate for his baldness, it wasn’t working. “Starting a clinic isn’t the answer. Let the government handle the situation. We do our part by accepting the cases in the E.R. And, might I add, we are rarely paid anything.”

      “That’s a point.” A board member whose name escaped Jake leaned forward, tapping his pen on the table for emphasis. “We’d put ourselves at risk with a clinic. What about insurance coverage? When they come to the E.R., we have backups and safeguards. If Ms. Flanagan or one of her volunteers made a mistake, we’d be liable.”

      He thought Terry’s cheeks paled a little at that comment, but she didn’t back down. “The hospital can establish any protocol it wishes for treatment. And I plan to recruit staff from among the medical professionals right in our community.”

      “How many people do you think have the time to do that?” Morley’s head went back and forth in what seemed his characteristic response to any risk. “Really, Ms. Flanagan, I don’t see how you can make this work in such a short time. Perhaps in another year—”

      The mood of

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