And Daughter Makes Three

She tried the name, and decided it suited him. Solid, dependable, utterly trustworthy. No frills or flounces, just a good, honest name that could have been made for him.

She wondered if he resented the responsibilities that had been thrust on him, and decided that even if he did he would never admit it, not even to himself.

Her brother had resented the responsibility of his younger sister. He loved her, but providing her with a home for the past ten years had taken its toll of their relationship. And now his wife was on the scene …

With a sigh she picked up her book again and tried to read, but her eyelids were drooping. She took off her skirt, slipped under the quilt and settled down for a rest. She wouldn’t sleep for long. Inevitably her bleeper would squawk and she would have to get up again.

Her breathing slowed, her body quickly adapting to rest. After years of practice it had learned to snatch sleep when it was offered, and cat-napping was a gift she treasured. Within seconds, she was asleep.

Robeert knuckled the sleep from his eyes with one hand, the other clutching the receiver as he struggled to cast aside the dream. ‘Have you called Dr Bradley?’ Hell, even saying her name made it worse—

‘Yes, she’s with the patient now. She asked if I could contact you and get you to come in. I’m sorry.’

Robert sighed. ‘I’ll be right over,’ he promised, and throwing the bedclothes off he pulled on his clothes and went into his daughter’s room.

‘Are you going out?’ she mumbled.

‘Yes—sorry. Will you be all right?’

‘Mmm.’

He dropped a kiss on her cheek, ran downstairs and picked up his jacket and keys on the way out of the door. As he drove the short distance to the hospital, he ran the case through his mind again.

It was the man with the damaged lower leg, the one with the old unhealed fracture who had been hit sideways by a car the night before. They had operated just before lunch and put a fixator on the tibia to support the fractures externally, but the leg had swollen and was now apparently showing symptoms of compartment syndrome, where the sheath surrounding each of the muscles refused to allow sufficient swelling and so caused severe constriction to the muscles and underlying tissues, with resulting serious consequences if they were not rapidly decompressed.

He would require a minor operation called a fasciotomy, literally a slit cut in each of the muscle sheaths to allow for the swelling—assuming that Frankie had got it right.

Dr Bradley. He must remember to call her that. The temptation to call her Frankie was mixed up with all sorts of other forbidden temptations that he didn’t even dare consider except in his dreams—and they, he thought disgustedly, should be censored.

He turned into the hospital car park, pulled up in his usual space and headed for the ward. She was there, in the office with the night sister, her head thrown back and a delicious, deep chuckle bubbling up from her throat.

She turned to him with a smile and said, ‘Hi,’ in her warm honey voice, and his pulse rate soared as the dream came screaming back full force. Damn.

He ignored his body, tugged on his white coat from behind the door and rammed his hands deep into the pockets.

‘So, what’s the situation?’ he asked gruffly.

‘Mr Lee’s leg. It’s started to swell more, and he’s now got a tense calf with loss of extension and diminished sensation in the foot.’

‘Damn. What have you done?’

‘Elevated it, ice-packed the muscles and alerted Theatre. He’s had a premed and he’s ready when you are.’

‘You’re confident of the diagnosis?’

One eyebrow arched delicately, and she stood up and gestured to the door. ‘He’s your patient—I’d be delighted for you to check.’

He grunted and followed her to the patient’s bedside. Mr Lee was lying with his leg raised in a ‘gutter’, packed round with soft wadding to support it off the calf, and Robert could see the tension on the skin. The patient was restless, clearly in pain and the foot was looking discoloured. The calf was certainly swollen all round, and there was no question about the diagnosis.

He swore, softly and comprehensively, and then met Frankie’s eyes.

‘Well done, Dr Bradley,’ he murmured. ‘Ever done a fasciotomy?’

She shook her head, the soft, fine hair swinging round her face. ‘Not yet,’ she said, and the faintest smile touched her eyes.

It was the middle of the night, he was exhausted, and yet still she made him want to smile back. He felt his eyes crinkle. ‘Well, as the saying goes, there’s no time like the present. You didn’t really want to go back to that cold, lumpy bed, did you?’

This time she really smiled. ‘Actually I was getting used to it,’ she said ruefully.

‘Tough,’ he growled, but he was unable to stop the quirk of his lips, and she smiled again.

‘Come on, then, let’s go and do this fasciotomy.’

She was a willing pupil, he had to admit. What his grandfather would have called ‘a quick study’. She did only what she was told to do, exactly as she was told to do it, and with skill and sensitivity, as if the scalpel were simply an extension of her fingers. Immediately she released the affected compartments the muscle bulged through the space, colour and warmth returned to the foot and the situation improved.

‘Excellent,’ he murmured. ‘Right, he can go back down as soon as he’s recovered from the anaesthetic. I’ll be in the hospital for a while—I want to see him after he’s come round and make sure we’ve done enough.’

He stripped off his gloves and gown, dropped them in the bin and turned to Frankie. ‘You did a really good job. Well done.’

Wonders would never cease. The man who hadn’t wanted to give her the job dishing out such high praise? Frankie was faintly dumbstruck. She peeled off her gloves and gown, dropped them in the bin on top of his and marvelled at her beginner’s luck.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘It wasn’t really difficult.’

‘No, but it’s still possible to make a mess of it.’

She forced herself to meet his eyes. ‘I said I wouldn’t let you down.’

He smiled, a slow, lazy smile that made her heart thump a little harder. ‘So you did. Coffee?’

‘Tea?’

‘Whatever. Shall we go to the canteen? They usually have various things to eat and I’m starving.’

‘I’ve got a fruit cake,’ she said rashly.

‘Home-made?’

She should have denied it, but his eyes were so hopeful, as if it had been years—possibly forever—since anyone had made him a cake.

‘Yes, home-made,’ she said gently. ‘It was my Christmas cake, but it never got iced. There didn’t seem to be a lot of point—I was on duty so much coming up to Christmas that I didn’t have time to ice it, and I was too busy over Christmas to eat it, so it didn’t really matter. It was a bit ambitious bothering to make it anyway, I suppose.’

He eyed her curiously. ‘Didn’t you go home for Christmas?’

She thought of Jeff and his new bride, wrapped up in each other to the exclusion of everyone and everything else. She certainly hadn’t been wanted.

Her smile probably didn’t reach her eyes, but she tried. ‘I don’t have a family home any more.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He sounded contrite, as if he regretted hurting her, and suddenly she wanted to comfort him, to explain that it was all right, it didn’t matter any more, it couldn’t hurt her now.