Bluegrass Baby

“Absolutely.”

In her heart, she knew she’d done everything right during that delivery. But it was important to know that Kyle had agreed to testify for that reason alone, and not because he ultimately meant to protect the Binghams, the foundation and the clinic.

“And what if you thought the infection had been my fault?” Milla asked.

He leaned forward, assessed her as though she’d accused him of moral ineptitude. “I’d have no qualms about testifying against you or the Foster Clinic if I thought that infection had been caused by professional negligence.”

For the first time since being served notice of the lawsuit, Milla began to breathe easier.

She had someone on her side.

And not just anyone.

Dr. Kyle Bingham.

“By the way,” he said. “I’ve got to get back to the E.R., but I wondered if you might like to have dinner with me tonight.”

Dinner? With the best-looking doctor in all of Merlyn County? Was it a professional meeting? Or was it more like a date? She couldn’t be sure, yet when his blue gaze caught hers, her heart fluttered and something powerful passed between them.

Her mother would throw a walleyed fit—if she found out. But what Sharon Johnson didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Milla might live under her mom’s roof, but not under her thumb. Their living arrangement had more to do with finances. And, more recently, Dylan’s well-being.

“Sure,” she told the handsome resident. “I’d like to have dinner with you.”

“I’ll pick you up around six, if you’ll give me your address.”

Uh-oh. That might not be a good idea. Milla wasn’t up for another defensive bout with her mother this evening—not at this point in what might or might not develop into a relationship. She’d need time to work on her mom, more time than she would have between now and six o’clock. “Why don’t I meet you at the restaurant?”

“All right, if you’re more comfortable doing it that way.” Kyle slid her a heart-stopping grin. “I’ll see you at Melinda’s. Around six.”

Milla merely nodded, afraid her voice would betray her nervousness.

And her excitement.

At five minutes to six Milla pulled into Melinda’s parking lot. The red brick building, once a firehouse, had been converted into a steak and seafood restaurant. Melinda’s might not be as fancy as some restaurants found in Lexington, but it boasted an extensive wine list and was the fanciest eatery Merlyn County had to offer.

She parked her car, a white Caprice Classic whose odometer had lapped once or twice and still showed considerable mileage. But rather than opening the door, she continued to sit behind the wheel. Nervous. Apprehensive. And far more expectant than she cared to admit.

She spotted Kyle’s black, late-model BMW parked close to the restaurant’s entrance.

Waiting for her.

Milla Johnson.

Could she be any more flattered? She’d never had a man like Kyle interested in her.

Or had she read him wrong? Maybe he had only asked her here to discuss the lawsuit.

She’d wanted to primp before coming, to try on several outfits and fuss with her hair and makeup. But she’d feared her mother would notice and ask questions Milla didn’t have time to answer, questions she’d have to skirt until she had time to set her mom straight about her personal life, about boundaries.

A quick glance in the mirror told Milla she looked all right. Not bad. But deep inside she wanted to look her best.

As she climbed from the driver’s seat and closed the car door, she heard a man’s voice.

“Why, look there, Darlene. That’s the woman who nearly killed our baby.”

Milla’s feet seemed to take root in the asphalt. She didn’t need to see the man’s face to know who it was. Joe Canfield, the father of the baby who’d been rushed into the E.R. burning with fever and its limp, little body racked with infection.

The baby girl she’d been accused of neglecting.

The baby Kyle Bingham had saved.

“Enjoy your night out on the town,” Canfield said, as he and his wife strolled down the sidewalk that ran along Main Street. “When we get done with you, you’ll be doing jail time.”

Trying desperately to heed her attorney’s advice and avoid any conversation—let alone a confrontation—with the plaintiffs, Milla strode toward the entrance of Melinda’s. Her chest tightened to the point of making breathing difficult.

She clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms. Tears of frustration welled in her eyes. Why were they doing this to her? The baby’s infection hadn’t been her fault.

All she wanted to do was hightail it home and lock the door behind her. For a moment, she’d considered getting back in her car and using her cell phone to call Kyle and postpone their dinner.

But maybe she needed to meet with him, to see him. To let him tell her all over again that the Canfield baby’s life-threatening condition hadn’t been her fault.

She needed the reassurance. She also needed the distraction. And an evening out with a doctor whose smile could turn her inside out would certainly help her forget her troubles, if only for tonight.

So instead of bolting, she held her head high and continued into the restaurant.

“Ms. Johnson?” the hostess asked.

Milla fingered the narrow shoulder strap of her black purse. “Yes.”

“Dr. Bingham is waiting in the bar. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to his table.”

Milla made her way across the polished concrete floor to the lounge, where a massive, carved-oak bar lined the back wall and a vast display of framed black-and-white photographs decorated the brick of the inside walls.

Kyle stood when she reached his table. He flashed her a dazzling smile that sent her tummy topsy-turvy and her heart soaring. She nearly forgot the unpleasant run-in she’d had with the Canfields.

Nearly, but not quite.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked.

“White wine.” And plenty of it, her nerves shouted in echoed concert.

Kyle motioned for the waitress, and before long their drink order had been placed. “Our reservations are at six-thirty. I hope you don’t mind waiting.”

She managed a smile. “That’s fine.”

Trying to hide her nervousness, she turned to the brick wall and spotted the nearest photo. A small brass plaque said it was the first fire chief of Merlyn County dressed in a Santa Claus outfit and sitting at the wheel of a fire truck. She touched the wooden frame that had been bolted to the wall, then glanced at Kyle and caught him watching her.

He smiled. “I guess the proprietor wants to make sure tipsy, local history buffs can’t run off with any of the old photos.”