“Yes.” Once again the older woman’s voice revealed her lack of patience. She gripped the pen tightly and glanced up at Marjorie before slowly exhaling one long breath.

“Dr. Bretton was in earlier. I was wondering if I could ask about—”

“His wife?” the older woman finished for her.

The room swayed, and the floor felt as if it had buckled under Marjorie’s unsteady feet. She gripped the edge of the counter until she regained her balance and the hospital had righted itself once more. But she had to ask, and surely the hospital staff would know, while Lydia had only been guessing.

“That is what you wanted to know, isn’t it?” the woman pressed.

It was all Marjorie could do to nod and say, “He’s married, then?”

“Not as far as I know,” Bertha answered almost kindly. “But I swear that man breaks more hearts than George Clooney. There isn’t a woman on this floor who wouldn’t give her eyeteeth to be married to him. He’s the type we’re all looking for.”

“But…”

“Be smart, Ms. Majors. Listen to the voice of experience and learn from it. All Dr. Sam’s patients fall in love with him. It’s gratitude, I suppose. Heaven knows he’s hunk enough to melt anyone’s heart—even mine.”

Marjorie clenched her jaw to hide her reaction.

“Now, I don’t want you to feel bad about this. It’s common enough, believe me.”

The heat that exploded into Marjorie’s cheeks was hot enough to fry eggs. She hadn’t realized her feelings were so obvious. Under normal conditions she didn’t fluster easily, but when it came to Sam, she lost all her poise.

“He’s a wonderful person,” Marjorie managed to say with some semblance of calm.

“Honey, you don’t know the half of it. I saw that man sit for hours with a young couple after their baby died. More than once I’ve been a witness to his tenderness—that’s why I’m telling you what I am. Believe me, if I were twenty years younger, I’d be in love with the man myself. Truthfully, I am in love with him. We all are.”

“Thank you.” Already Marjorie was walking away, trying to disguise her embarrassment. She’d tried to be subtle, tried to find out what she could without making a total idiot of herself. And she’d failed.

After a few moments to think the nurse’s words over, Marjorie relaxed. An odd reassurance replaced her chagrin. It was good to know she was merely one of the masses. Bertha Powell was right. Women tended to fall in love with their doctors. It was a common enough malady, and one she should have anticipated.