The Men of Medicine Ridge - Diana Palmer [50]
There was a breeze and then a familiar face with a black eye patch hovered just above her. She couldn’t quite focus. Her mind was foggy.
A big, warm hand spread against her cheek, and the one eye above her was much brighter than she remembered it. It seemed to be wet. Impossible, of course. She was simply dreaming.
“Don’t you die, damn it!” he choked huskily. “Do you hear me, Natalie? Don’t you dare!”
“Mr. Killain,” one of the nurses was trying to intervene.
He ignored her. “Natalie, can you hear me?” he demanded. “Wake up!”
She blinked again. Her eyes barely focused. She was drifting in and out. “Mack,” she whispered, and her eyes closed again.
He was raving mad. She heard him tossing orders around as if he were in charge, and she heard running feet in response. She would have smiled if she’d been able. Every woman’s dream until he opened his mouth…
She didn’t know that she’d spoken aloud, or that the smile had been visible.
Mack had one of her small hands in his with a death grip. Now that he could see her, touch her, he was breathing normally again. But she looked white, and her chest was barely moving. He was scared to death, and it displayed itself in venomous bad temper. Somebody would probably run him out any minute, maybe arrest him for causing a disturbance. But he’d have gone through an armed camp to get to her, just to see her, to make sure that she was alive. He couldn’t have imagined himself like this not so long ago.
Neither could his siblings, who stood in awe of him as he broke hospital rules right and left and sent veteran health-care workers running. This was a Mack they’d never seen before. It was obvious that he was in love with the woman lying so still and quiet in the recovery room. All of them looked at each other, wondering why they hadn’t realized it a long time ago.
The surgeon—presumably the one who’d spoken to him on the telephone—came into the recovery room still wearing his operating clothes. He looked like a fire-eater himself, tall and dark-eyed and taciturn.
“Killain?” he asked.
“Yes.” Killain let go of Natalie’s limp hand long enough to shake the surgeon’s. “How is she?”
“Lost a lower lobe of her lung,” he said. “There was some internal bleeding and we’ll have to keep her here for a while. The danger now is complications. But she’ll make it,” he added confidently.
Mack felt himself relax for the first time in hours. “I want to stay with her,” he said bluntly.
The doctor raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “I think that’s fairly obvious to the staff,” he mused. “Since you’re a relative, I don’t have an objection. But we would prefer to have you wait until we can get her out of recovery and into a room. Meanwhile, it would help if you’d go to the business office and fill out some papers for her. She was brought in unconscious.”
Mack hesitated, but Natalie was asleep. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to leave her, just briefly. “All right,” he said finally.
The surgeon didn’t dare look as relieved as he felt. He pointed Mack toward the business office, noticing that three younger people fell in step behind him. The victim apparently had plenty of family to look after her. That lightened his step as he went toward the operating theater to start the next case.
Several hours later, Natalie opened her eyes again, groggy from the anesthetic and hurting. She groaned and touched her side, which was heavily bandaged.
A big, warm hand caught hers and lifted it away. “Be careful. You’ll pull out the IV,” a familiar voice said tenderly. It sounded like Mack. It couldn’t be, of course.
She turned her head and there he was. She managed a smile. “I thought I was dreaming,” she murmured drowsily.
“The nurses don’t. They think they’re having a nightmare,” Bob said with a wicked glance at his brother.
“I saw an orderly run right out the front door,” Charles added dryly.
“Shut up,” Mack said impatiently.
“He just wants to make sure you’re properly looked after, Nat,” Vivian said, coming close enough to brush back Natalie’s hair. “You poor baby,” she added softly.