Hearts Afire - Marta Perry Mills & Boon Love Inspired

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expected to say it aloud. Or to feel the icy silence that greeted it.

      For a long moment he stared at her—long enough for her to regret her hasty words, long enough to form a frantic prayer for wisdom. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

      “No. You shouldn’t.” His face tightened with what might have been either grief or bitterness. He turned away, seeming to buy a moment’s respite by walking to the window that looked out over the hospital parking lot. Then he swung back to face her. “What happened two years ago has nothing to do with the clinic.” The words were clipped, cutting. “I think it best if we both try to forget the past.”

      Could he really do that? Forget the suicide of a woman who’d said she loved him? Forget blaming the paramedics who’d tried to save her? Forget the gossip that said he was the one at fault?

      Maybe he could. But she never would.

      He seemed to take her assent for granted. He nodded toward the folder in her hands. “Read through that, discuss it with your volunteers. Possibly we can arrange for the clinic to be in phone or radio contact with the E.R. when it’s open. We’ll discuss that later.”

      “Yes.” Her fingers clenched the manila folder so tightly someone would probably have to pry it loose. All she wanted now was to get away from him—as far away as possible.

      He picked up a ring of keys from the desk. “Suppose we go out and look at this clinic of yours.”

      “Not now.” The words came out instinctively. “I mean…we can schedule that at your convenience.”

      His eyebrows lifted again. “Now is convenient. Would you like to ride with me?”

      She didn’t even want to be in the same state with him. “No. Thank you, but I’ll need my car. Why don’t you follow me out? The camp is a little tricky to find.”

      If she were fortunate, maybe he’d get lost on the maze of narrow country roads that led to the migrant compound. But somehow, she didn’t think that was likely to happen.

      Jake kept Terry’s elderly sedan in sight as they left the outskirts of Suffolk and started down a winding country road. He hadn’t gotten used to the fact that the area went so quickly from suburbs to true country, with fields of corn and soybeans stretching along either side of the road.

      He frowned at the back of her head, red curls visible as she leaned forward to adjust something—the radio, probably. He shouldn’t have been so harsh with her. It wasn’t Terry’s fault that he couldn’t see her now without picturing her racing the stretcher into the E.R., without seeing Meredith’s blank, lifeless face, without being overwhelmed with guilt.

      Just let me be a doctor again. That’s all I ask. I’ll save other lives. Isn’t that worth something?

      And did he really believe saving others would make up for failing Meredith? His jaw tightened. Nothing would make up for that. Maybe that was why God stayed so silent when he tried to pray.

      Meredith’s death wasn’t Terry’s fault. But if someone more experienced had taken the call—if he had checked his messages earlier—if, if, if. No amount of what-ifs could change the past. Could change his culpability.

      He pushed it from his mind. Concentrate on now. That means making sure Terry and her clinic don’t derail your future.

      It was farther than he’d expected to the Dixon Farms. The route wound past rounded ridges dense with forest and lower hills crowned by orchards, their trees heavy with fruit. Finally Terry turned onto a gravel road. An abundant supply of No Trespassing signs informed him that they were on Dixon Farms property. Apparently, Matthew Dixon had strong feelings about outsiders.

      He gritted his teeth as the car bottomed out in a rut. Surely there was a better way to provide health care for the migrant workers. Wouldn’t it make more sense to bring the workers to health care, instead of trying to bring health care to them? If Dr. Getz had given him any idea of what he’d been walking into that day at the board meeting, he’d have been prepared with alternatives.

      Terry bounced to a stop next to several other vehicles in a rutted field. He drove up more slowly, trying to spare his car the worst of the ruts. Not waiting for him, she walked toward a cement block building that must be the site for the clinic. It was plopped down at the edge of a field. Beyond it, a strip of woods stretched up the shoulder of the ridge.

      He parked and slid out. If he could find some good reason why this facility wasn’t suitable, maybe they could still go back and revisit the whole idea. Find a way of dealing with the problem that wouldn’t put the hospital at so much risk. To say nothing of the risk to what was left of his career.

      Several people moved in and around the long, low, one-story building. Terry had obviously recruited volunteers already. The more people involved, the harder it would be to change.

      Pastor Brendan Flanagan straightened at his approach, turning off the hose he was running. “Welcome. I’d offer to shake hands, but I’m way too dirty. I’m glad you’re here, Dr. Landsdowne.”

      “Jake, please, Pastor.”

      “And I’m Brendan to all but the most old-fashioned of my parishioners.” The minister, in cutoff jeans, sneakers and a Phillies T-shirt, didn’t look much like he had at the board meeting.

      “Brendan.” Jake glanced around, spotting five or six people working. “What are you up to?”

      “We recruited a few people to get the place in shape. Dixon hasn’t used it for anything but storage in a couple of decades.” He nodded toward what appeared to be a pile of broken farm implements. “It’ll be ready soon. Don’t worry about that.”

      That wasn’t what he was worried about, but he wasn’t going to confide in the minister. “I’ll have a look inside.”

      He stooped a little, stepping through the door. The farmer certainly hadn’t parted with anything of value when he’d donated this space.

      “You must be Dr. Landsdowne.” The woman who had been brushing the walls down with a broom stopped, extending her hand to him. “I’m Siobhan Flanagan.”

      “Another Flanagan?” He couldn’t help but ask. The woman had dark hair, slightly touched with gray, and deep blue eyes that seemed to contain a smile.

      “Another one, I’m afraid. I’m Terry’s mother. Brendan recruited me to lend a hand today.” She gestured around the large, rectangular room, its floors pockmarked and dirty, its few windows grimy. “I know it doesn’t look like much yet, but just wait until we’re done. You won’t know the place.”

      He might be able to tell Terry the place was a hovel, but he could hardly say that to the woman who smiled with such enthusiasm. “You must look at the world through rose-colored glasses, Mrs. Flanagan.”

      “Isn’t that better than seeing nothing but the thorns, Dr. Landsdowne?”

      He held up his hands in surrender. “I’ll take your word for it.” She’d made him smile, and he realized how seldom that happened recently.

      Somehow the place didn’t seem quite as dismal as it had a moment ago. It reminded him of the clinic in Somalia. For an instant he heard the wails of malnourished children, felt the oppressive heat smothering him, sensed the comradeship that blossomed among people fighting impossible odds.

      He shook off the memories. That was yet another place he’d failed.

      Through the open doorway, he spotted the red blaze of Terry’s hair. She was in the process of confronting an elderly man whose fierce glare should have wilted her. It didn’t seem to be having that effect.

      He went toward them quickly, in time to catch a few words.

      “…now, Mr. Dixon, you can see perfectly well that we’re not harming your shed in any way.”

      “Is there a problem?” Jake stopped beside her.

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