Cover

One

Marjorie Majors’s deep brown eyes widened as a flash of burning pain shot through her side. Feeling hot and flushed again, she guessed she was running a fever. Her smile was decidedly forced as she walked across the showroom floor, weaving her way around the shiny new Mercedes while lightly pressing her hand against her hipbone. She’d thought that if she ignored the throbbing ache, this unexplained malady would vanish on its own. So far her reasoning hadn’t worked, though, and the mysterious discomfort had persisted for days.

“Is your side hurting you again?” Lydia Mason, the title and license clerk for Dixon Motors, called from behind the front counter.

“A little.” Now, that had to be the understatement of the week, Marjorie mused. The shooting pain had been coming and going all day with no real rhyme or reason. She should have known she wasn’t going to be able to fool Lydia. Her friend had a nose for news. Little transpired at Dixon Motors without Lydia knowing about it.

“Honestly, Marjorie, why don’t you just see a doctor?”

“I’m fine,” she protested. “Besides, I don’t have a doctor.”

Lydia, who stood barely five feet tall and wore heels that increased her height an additional two inches, moved around the counter. Her mouth was pinched into a tight line of determination. “But you haven’t been feeling good all week.”

“Has it been that long?”

“Longer, I suspect,” Lydia murmured, shaking her head. “Listen, no one is going to think less of you for needing a doctor, for heaven’s sake. Just because you’re one of only three female salespeople here, that doesn’t mean you have to behave like Joan of Arc.”

“But it’s just a little stomachache.”

“What did you have for lunch?”

Marjorie shrugged noncommittally, preferring not to lie. A wry smile lifted the corners of her full mouth as she pretended to survey the parking lot, hoping a prospective buyer would magically appear so she would have an excuse to drop the conversation. She didn’t want to admit that with her stomach acting up, she hadn’t bothered to eat lunch. And now that she thought about it, breakfast hadn’t appealed to her, either.

“You didn’t have any lunch, did you?” Lydia challenged.

“I didn’t have time, since—”

“That’s it, Marjorie—that’s the final straw. I’m making you an appointment with my gynecologist.”

“You’re what?”

“You heard me.” Lydia didn’t wait for an argument.

With her manicured fingernails, she flipped the hair that had fallen across her cheek to the back of her shoulder and marched around the counter with the authority of a Marine drill sergeant.

“Don’t call a gynecologist! That’s crazy. I don’t need a woman’s doctor—an internist, maybe…”

Ignoring Marjorie’s protest, Lydia pressed the phone to her ear and turned her back to her friend. “What’s crazy,” she said, twisting her head around, her eyes sparking with impatience, “is suffering for days because you’re afraid to see a doctor.”

“I am not afraid! And a gynecologist is the last person I want to see.” Marjorie couldn’t seem to get it through her friend’s thick skull that a queasy stomach was unworthy of all this fuss. From the way Lydia was behaving, Marjorie fully expected her friend to dial 911 to report a minor pain that came and went without warning. She’d lived with it for the last few days—a little longer wasn’t going to matter. More than likely, it would disappear as quickly and unexpectedly as it had come. Or so she continued to hope.

“Today, if possible.” Lydia spoke firmly into the telephone. She placed her hand over the receiver and turned to Marjorie. “Listen, I had a friend once with similar symptoms, and it ended up being female problems and—” She broke off abruptly. “Five o’clock would be fine. Thanks, Mary.”

Although Marjorie knew it wouldn’t do any good, she tried again. “Lydia…”

The telephone was replaced in its cradle before Lydia turned around. “And something else. Dr. Sam isn’t your run-of-the-mill doctor. He’s wonderful! If you need to see someone else, he’ll refer you, so stop looking so worried.”

“But I’m sure this pain is nothing.”

“Then checking it out won’t be any big deal. Right?” Marjorie shrugged. “He has an opening this afternoon at five.”

“His name is Dr. Sam?” Now Marjorie had heard everything. “Will Nurse Jane be there, too?”

“He’s really terrific,” Lydia announced with a loud sigh, obviously choosing to ignore Marjorie’s sarcasm. “I think I fell in love with him in the delivery room just before Jimmy was born. He was so gentle and understanding when I was in labor. He made me feel like I was the most noble, heroic woman in the world for enduring the pain of childbirth.”

“Hey, I’ve got a stomachache. I’m not looking to find Prince Charming.”

“But he’s handsome, too.”

“Does Dr. Sam have a last name?” She wasn’t bothered by the thought of seeing a physician, exactly, but the simple truth was that Marjorie hated relying on anyone else. She could take care of herself very well, and relying on another person went against her fiercely independent nature.

“His name is really Sam Bretton, but everyone calls him Dr. Sam.”

Marjorie rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “I don’t know if I can trust a man who sounds like he keeps an office on Sesame Street.”

“Wait and see,” Lydia claimed, writing out directions to the medical center on a piece of paper and ripping it free of the tablet before handing it over to Marjorie. “He’s marvelous—trust me.”

Marjorie folded the paper in half and stuck it inside her purse. If nothing else, it would be interesting to meet the guy. Lydia wasn’t generally free with her praise, yet she hadn’t been able to say enough good things about this guy.

“You’ll like him, I promise,” Lydia added.

Marjorie made a barely perceptible movement of her head, as if to say it made no difference to her how she felt about him. She didn’t care what he looked like, as long as he could give her something for this blasted pain.

—

At precisely ten minutes to five, Marjorie pulled into the parking lot of the large medical complex north of Tacoma General Hospital. The ache that had troubled her most of the day had vanished, just as she’d known it would, and she felt better generally. If she’d had a fever earlier, she was convinced it was gone now. Briefly she toyed with the idea of heading back to her apartment and forgetting the whole thing, but that would be irresponsible, and if Marjorie knew anything, it was the meaning of responsibility. Besides, her friend would be furious with her for canceling at the last moment.

Two other women were seated in the waiting room. Both were in the advanced stages of pregnancy. One sat with her hands resting on her protruding belly, looking content, while the other was knitting. The thick needles, encased in a pastel shade of yarn, moved furiously. Their smiles were friendly as Marjorie stepped up to the reception desk to announce her arrival. An older gray-haired woman asked Marjorie to fill out several forms and handed her a clipboard.

Marjorie took it and located a seat in the corner beside a dying houseplant. The yellowish leaves did little to boost her confidence in this unknown physician.

“Is this the first time you’ve seen Dr. Sam?” one of the soon-to-be-mothers asked.

Marjorie nodded. “My friend recommended him.”

“He’s absolutely wonderful.”

“And good-looking to boot,” the knitter added.

“Real good-looking!”

The two pregnant women eyed each other and shared a smile.

“I suppose all women fall in love with their doctors,” the woman with the knitting needles commented, “but I’ve never known a man who’s as caring as Dr. Sam is.”

“I’m not pregnant.” Marjorie didn’t know why she felt it was necessary to tell them that. This physician might do wonders with mothers-to-be, but all Marjorie cared about was his expertise with sharp, persistent pains.

“You don’t have to be pregnant,” the two were quick to assure her.

“Good.” Marjorie completed the information sheets and returned them to the receptionist, then subtly glanced at her watch. She hadn’t experienced any real discomfort in hours and was beginning to feel like a phony. Again, the thought of skipping out of the appointment sprang to mind. Sheer stupidity, of course. If nothing else, it would be interesting to stick around and meet this doctor who seemed to be a paragon of virtue. From what Lydia and the two patients in the waiting room had said, Dr. Sam Bretton was a cross between Brad Pitt and Mother Teresa.

“It’ll only be a few minutes,” the receptionist told her.

“No problem,” Marjorie answered softly, wondering if the woman had read her mind.

—

A few minutes turned out to be fifteen. Marjorie was escorted into a small exam room by a nurse who was dressed as though she were shooting a scene from a daytime soap opera. Her gray hair was perfectly styled in a bouffant, and even after a full day in the office, not a single strand was out of place.

Marjorie stopped just inside the room, her mind whirling. She’d been in her teens when she’d last seen a physician. Over the years there’d been minor bouts with the flu and a bad cold now and again, but overall she’d been incredibly healthy. There might have been times when she should have seen a physician and hadn’t, mainly because she wasn’t particularly fond of anyone poking around her body, but usually she could take care of herself just fine.

“Go ahead and have a seat,” the nurse instructed, gesturing toward the upholstered examination table.

Reluctantly, Marjorie walked into the room and pressed her backside against the oblong exam table, her elbows resting on top of the padded cover. She crossed her ankles as though she posed this way regularly, hoping to give the picture of utter nonchalance. Chagrined, she realized she’d failed miserably.

Thankfully the nurse didn’t seem to notice. “What seems to be the problem?”

Marjorie shrugged. “A little pain in my side. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“We’ll let Dr. Sam decide that.” The woman pulled out a digital thermometer and, before Marjorie could protest, stuck it under her tongue. Motioning with her hand, the nurse told Marjorie to sit on the end of the table and skillfully took her blood pressure.

“Go ahead and get undressed,” the nurse said afterward. She leaned over and pulled a paper gown from a cupboard. “When you’ve finished, put this on. The doctor will be with you in a couple minutes.” She left, quietly closing the door.

Marjorie mumbled grumpily to herself as she pulled the paper gown over her head and sighed with disgust when the opening for her arm hung far wider than necessary. Keeping her arms tucked close to her for fear the gown would reveal the sides of her breasts, she wrapped the tissue sheet around her waist and sat on the end of the paper-lined examination table. The whole idea of introducing herself to a man when she was nude felt ridiculous. All right, so he was a physician, but all that stood between her body and this stranger was a piece of tissue that felt as though a big sneeze would destroy it.

Her bare feet dangled, and she kicked at the air aimlessly. Her brilliant red toenails looked funny, and she absently decided to change the color. Next time she would use a more subdued shade.

Just when she had convinced herself she was wasting her time, a polite knock sounded at the door. The knob twisted, and Marjorie painted a welcoming smile on her lips, doing her best to swallow the panic that unexpectedly gripped her.

Dr. Sam Bretton entered the examination room, reading Marjorie’s chart, his wide brow furrowed as he took in the information.

The first thing Marjorie noticed was his stature. Five-foot-seven in her stocking feet, she’d never considered herself short, but this man dwarfed her. His shoulders were broad and fit his height. His chest was deep. He wore his hair short, and his sideburns were clipped neatly around his ears. A few strands of gray at his temple provided a distinguished, sophisticated touch. He was good-looking—not strikingly handsome, but attractive enough to give credence to Lydia’s and the other women’s claims. His eyes were a deep, dark shade of brown and the gentlest Marjorie had ever seen in a man. For an instant they mesmerized her into speechlessness. A stethoscope hung from his neck and rested against his broad, muscled chest.

“Ms. Majors.” Sam smiled at his newest patient. Mary, his receptionist, had come to him earlier and asked about fitting this young woman into his already tight schedule. A friend of Lydia Mason’s, Mary had said, and Sam had agreed because he was fond of Lydia. Later he’d regretted the impulse. His day had started early, and he was tired, but with one look at the wide, frightened eyes of the woman sitting on the examination table he realized he’d made the right decision. Rarely had he seen a more expressive pair of brown eyes. Marjorie Majors was as nervous as a young mother, and struggling valiantly to disguise it. Her chin trembled slightly, yet she met his gaze with pride and more mettle than he’d seen in years. She resembled a lost kitten he’d once found in a rainstorm; her wide eyes were round and appealing, and she looked as though she might turn and bolt at any moment.

“Doctor.” The return of her voice brought with it the reappearance of her poise and aplomb. Her chin came up with the forced determination not to let him know how nervous she was. She handed him her business card.

“I realized I forgot to put my work number on the form,” she said by way of explanation.

He removed the card from her stiff fingers, read it casually, and nodded before sticking it inside the folder. “Your chart states that the last time you saw a physician was at age fourteen.” He grimaced; whatever was bothering her now must be traumatic for her to seek medical help. In the last ten years he’d seen everything, and now a list of possibilities ran through his mind, most of them unpleasant.

“I had an ear infection.” Marjorie pointed to her right ear while her heart beat double time. She was literally shaking. She couldn’t understand why she was reacting this way. Certainly this doctor didn’t frighten her. His demeanor inspired confidence, not fear.

“You’re experiencing pain in your right side?”

“That’s correct,” Marjorie said, and her voice wobbled as she jabbered on witlessly. “I don’t think it’s anything to be concerned about…probably one of those common female problems. No doubt it will go away in a couple days.”

“How long has it been bothering you?”

“A few days…maybe longer,” she admitted reluctantly.

His thick brows contracted into a single dark line. “Fever?”

Marjorie nodded. “But not high. It seems to be worse at night.”

“Nausea? Dizziness?”

Again Marjorie answered with a nod.

“How has your back felt?”

“Sore.” She wondered how he knew that. “Is that bad?” she asked hurriedly. “I mean, I can suffer with the best of them…In fact, I have a high tolerance for pain, and if you tell me it’ll simply go away, I’m sure I can get through it.”

“There’s no need for you to do any suffering. Go ahead and lie back.” He gave her his hand to guide her into a reclining position.

His hand curved around her fingers, and Marjorie’s grip was surprisingly tight. What the others had said was true: Dr. Sam did inspire faith. She only wished he would stop looking at her as though she were a pathetic, scared doe caught in a hunter’s sights.

“There’s no need to be nervous,” he said softly. “I promise not to bite.”

“It’s not your teeth that bother me.”

He smiled again and stepped closer to the table to stand at her side. “Are you always such a wit?”

“Only when I’m forced to introduce myself to a strange man when I’m in the nude.”

“Does this happen often?” Sam couldn’t believe he’d asked her that. He clamped his jaw tightly. As a physician, he had taken an oath to treat all patients equally, but this one struck a chord, and the danger of looking upon her as a warm, desirable woman was strong.

“Meet men when I’m nude? No!”

He laughed outright at that, relieved. “I guessed as much.” Carefully he lifted up the tissue sheet at her waist and placed his fingers on her abdomen, suspecting he would find rigidity and tenderness at McBurney’s point, halfway between the navel and the crest of the hipbone.

“Actually, I’ve been feeling better the last couple hours,” Marjorie said hurriedly, hoping to suggest that whatever was wrong was curing itself. His hand felt cool and soothing against her heated flesh, and she closed her eyes. However, the instant he glided his fingers to her side and pressed down, her eyes shot open at the excruciating pain searing through her like red-hot needles.

She swore loudly and jumped from the examination table. “What do you think you’re doing?” she shouted, her hands crossed protectively over her stomach. The agony lingered, and she nearly doubled over with the force of it.

“Miss Majors—”

“And what were all those platitudes about not needing to suffer?”

“Miss Majors, if you’d kindly return to the table…”

“Are you crazy? So you can do that again? Forget it, buddy.”

“I may be able to forget it,” he said solemnly, with a hint of chastisement, “but you won’t. The pain isn’t going to go away. In fact, it will get worse. Much worse. You should have seen a doctor days ago.”

“It’s already worse, thanks to you.”

“Miss Majors—”

“For heaven’s sake, call me Marjorie.”

“Marjorie, then. Running out of here like a terrified rabbit isn’t going to make everything all right.”

So he’d noticed the way she was eyeing the neat pile of her folded clothes. She wouldn’t run, because that would be silly and stupid, but she couldn’t keep from looking at the door longingly.

“You have an inflamed appendix.”

She swallowed past the tightness in her throat. The shooting pain hadn’t ebbed; if anything, it had gotten steadily worse from the moment he had touched her tender abdomen. Oh dear heaven, her appendix. She didn’t need a fortune-teller to explain what would happen next. Surgery. The sound of the word was as ominous as that of a trumpet in a funeral march.

“Your temperature is rising, and my guess is that your white cell count is sky-high,” he continued. “A blood test will confirm that easily enough.”

A weak smile wobbled at the corners of her mouth. “My appendix,” she repeated.

Sam nodded. “Go ahead and get dressed. When you’ve finished, I’ll have my nurse draw some blood and escort you into my office. That’ll give me a few minutes to make the necessary arrangements. We’ll talk, and I’ll explain where we go from here.”

“Okay.” Her voice sounded scratchy and thin, like an ailing frog’s.

He eyed her again, his gaze tender and concerned. He regretted having hurt her. The look of suppressed pain in her eyes bothered him more than he’d expected, and he tried to lend her some of his own confidence. “Don’t look so worried—everything’s going to be fine.”

“Everything’s going to be fine?” Marjorie echoed, unable to disguise her sarcasm. “Sure it is.” The minute he left the room, she snapped her teeth over her bottom lip and bit down unmercifully. Her hand trembled as she brushed a thick strand of hair away from her face, and the room appeared to sway slightly. The last time she’d felt this shaky had been at her parents’ funeral.

As if on cue, the nurse reappeared the minute Marjorie had completed dressing, and led her into another room, where she drew blood from her arm.

—

While he waited for Marjorie, Sam contacted Cal Johnson, a surgeon and good friend. His instincts told him the sooner they had her in the hospital, the better. When he explained her symptoms to Cal, his friend concurred and agreed to take the case. His second telephone conversation was with a member of the staff at Tacoma General.

When Marjorie appeared in the doorway of his office, Sam saw her from the corner of his eye. She hesitated, and he motioned for her to come inside and take a seat.

“I don’t think we should wait any longer,” he said into the receiver. “Good. Good. Yes, I can have her over there in a half-hour. I’ll assist.”

In an effort to keep from looking as though she were listening in on his conversation, Marjorie scanned the walls. Certificates, diplomas, and service awards decorated every available spot. His desk was neat and orderly. The sure sign of a twisted mind, she mused darkly. She glanced his way again and sighed. Heavens, she hoped he wasn’t discussing her! He must have been. If he felt surgery was necessary, then she would at least like a couple days to mentally prepare herself. A week would be even better.

Marjorie’s soft, expressive eyes pleaded with him, but Sam’s gaze just missed meeting hers, and she realized that although he hadn’t mentioned her name, he wasn’t likely to be talking about another patient.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, when he’d hung up.

“No problem.” She smiled, and her fingers curved around her purse in her lap.

“I was just talking to Tacoma General.”

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