A Doctor's Vow

“Right.” He probably shouldn’t have asked. He could see the collar of a robe beneath the coat, but still, taking it off might have felt too much like undressing.

Undressing.

What had made him think of that, for pity’s sake?

Damn, this was awkward—the two of them standing here by the front door in their pajamas, at two in the morning.

Maybe if they got more comfortable…

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go into my study. We can sit down in there.”

She looked at him for a moment, her head tipped to the side. He was absolutely certain she was going to say no. But then she said quietly, “That would be fine.”

He gestured toward a door a few feet from the bottom of the stairs. “Right through there.” He led the way at first, but then stopped to open the door for her and flick on the light. “Have a seat.” She went on ahead. He smelled the cool dampness of rain as she passed. Rain and something else, a faint perfume, as inviting as it was subtle and fresh.

She took one of the two leather wing chairs opposite the desk.

He went around the desk and dropped into the big, deeply tufted swivel chair behind it.

Once he’d sat down he said, “So…” And then he wasn’t quite sure how to go on.

She pulled herself straighter and cast a glance around—at the leather-bound books that lined the bookcases, at the arrangement of family photos that stood in contrasting frames on the credenza a few feet away. At the broad expanse of desk between them, which was empty except for a leather blotter and a marble pen stand.

He knew what she was thinking. “I don’t use this room too much,” he said. “I have my office at Memorial.”

She made a small sound of understanding. “It’s a good room for work. Attractive, masculine…and comfortable. Or it would be comfortable, with a little more clutter.”

“It’s hard to clutter up a room you’re never in.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” She shifted a little in the chair. And then she waited, giving him a chance, he knew, to take the lead. As a general rule, he was a man who had no problem taking the lead.

But for some reason, right now, he didn’t seem to know quite where to start. He cleared his throat. “I guess I’m hoping that you know something I don’t—about what my son just did.”

She looked down at her flashlight—and then leaned forward a little to set it on the edge of the desk. “There honestly isn’t much to tell. He came over to check me out—in the middle of the night. It was a case of iffy judgment and bad timing, that’s all.”

“Wait a minute. The way I see it, he broke in to the guest house.”

She shook her head sharply. “No, he didn’t. Not exactly, anyway. To him, the guest house is part of his home. He didn’t really think of it as someone else’s house. He even knew where the key was—where his mother had left it, under a flowerpot outside.”

“Fine. He didn’t break in. He had a key. But I think the real question is, why did he let himself in at all?”

“He said he wanted to make sure about me. He wanted to be certain I was no threat to him or his family.”

“Where would he get the idea that you were a threat?”

She sat back again then and smoothed her coat a little more neatly over her knees. “My guess? He didn’t think I was a threat, not really. But he still had to be sure.”

“But you said that he said—”

“Mr. Malone, your son is a very mature, very responsible little boy. I really do think he was only doing what he said he was doing—making certain that I was okay, that I wouldn’t do harm to him or his family. He’s realized now that, at least while I’m staying there, the guest house isn’t part of his house. He sees that letting himself into my bedroom in the middle of the night is not acceptable. And he’s promised me he’ll never do such a thing again.”

“He promised you.”

“Yes. He did.”

“You sound as though you believe him.”

“I do believe him. And since we’re on the subject, there’s another thing…” He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what, but she told him, anyway. “It would mean a lot to him if you would call him Drew.”

“He said that?”

“Not in so many words. He asked me to call him Drew—and he said he keeps telling you and his grandmother that his name is Drew now.”

Ryan caught her implication. It didn’t particularly please him. “But we don’t listen, right?”

She shrugged. “Often, children of Drew’s age feel a need to improve on their names. Maybe it’s the urge to take more control of their lives as they mature. Or maybe just part of the natural process of self-definition. Whatever. All of a sudden, Arlenes become Leenas. Jasons insist that you have to call them Jake.” She had a dimple on the right side of her mouth. He watched it deepen as she grinned. “I modified my own name at about Drew’s age, to tell you the truth. I remember constantly telling people, ‘Not Veronica. Ronni. Ronni with an i.’ The change has stuck, too.”

She looked so pleased with herself. He couldn’t resist prodding her a little. “It made that much difference to you, to be called Ronni instead of your real name?”

She came right back. “Ronni is my real name.”

He shrugged. “I’m only saying, what’s wrong with Veronica?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to be called Ronni.”

“With an i.”

“Right.”

“But why?”

She let out a slightly irritated little grunt. “I thought I just told you. I needed…to redefine myself. On my own terms.”

“When you were Drew’s age, you thought of that? That you needed to redefine yourself?”

“Not consciously, no. But in retrospect, I know that’s what I was doing.”

“And that’s what Drew’s doing?”

“I think so, yes.”

Ryan let a moment pass before remarking, “You got a lot out of my son tonight, about how he feels and why he did what he did—which you really seem certain he won’t do again.”

“Is that an accusation?” She laughed then, a laugh with a purpose he easily recognized: to soften the challenge in her question. She definitely knew how to handle herself, this red-haired elf with the knowing eyes.

“No.” He looked at her levelly. “It was not an accusation. It was merely an observation. And a compliment.”

She thought that over, then said softly, “A compliment. Well, all right. Thank you, then.”

“You’re welcome.” He wanted to smile, but he didn’t. To smile right then would have felt like an admission of something—an admission he wasn’t quite ready to make. “You’re good with children. But then, I suppose it goes with the territory.”

She frowned—and then caught his meaning. “You mean, being a pediatrician?”

“Yes.”

“You know what? You’re right. I’m an expert on kids.” She flashed that dimple at him again. “So listen to the expert. I really think Drew just feels responsible. He wants to look out for the people he loves. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing at all.”

“He’s nine years old.” Ryan spoke more gruffly than he meant to. “It’s not his job to be responsible.”

Ryan himself had felt responsible from the age of four. He didn’t want that kind of crushing emotional burden laid on his children. Perhaps he wasn’t as involved with them as he should have been. But he provided well for them. There was no reason they shouldn’t feel safe and well cared for.

“Drew might only be nine,” she said gently. “But his age doesn’t change the way he feels. And as I keep telling you, I don’t think what happened tonight is anything to get too concerned about—unless it’s a part of a pattern.”

“No. I’m sure it’s not. My mother-in-law said it—tonight was completely unlike him.”

“Well, good then. As long as it doesn’t happen again, my advice is…” She paused. “Wait a minute. Do you even want my advice?”

“That’s why I asked you in here.” Or at least, a voice in the back of his mind whispered, it was the reason I gave myself for asking you in here….

She leaned toward him once more. “All right, then. My expert advice is to talk it over with him—and then let it go.”

He couldn’t hold back any longer. He let himself smile. “All right. I’ll do that.” She smiled in return. He looked at her wide mouth, at that dimple. She had a true redhead’s skin—pale, creamy pink, with light freckles dusting her brow and the bridge of her nose. She really did look so young, especially right now with her face bare of makeup, still damp from the rain.

He was staring again. And he shouldn’t be.

Just as he shouldn’t be thinking how cute she was. Shouldn’t be thinking that maybe he’d had more than goodwill on his mind when he’d offered her the guest house for a month.

At the time, right after Marty Heber had introduced them, when she’d mentioned her housing problems, he’d told himself that it never hurt to do favors for other professionals in the medical community. A lot of his job was about raising funds—and funds were always easier to come by when a man had the sense to hold out a helping hand at every opportunity.

Besides, he had reasoned, she would present no inconvenience to himself or his family. The guest house had its own separate access and its own small yard. Other than the occasional polite wave when they met in passing, he’d foreseen no other contact between them.

Yet here they were, on her first night in the little house, sitting across from each other in their pajamas, discussing the uncharacteristic actions of his older son.

And here he was, staring too much. Thinking that he could sit here for a long, long time, just looking at her, just watching her smile.

Dr. Powers must have decided he’d gaped at her long enough. She started to reach for her flashlight.

And he realized he wasn’t going to let her go. Not yet. He said, “You’re finding everything in order, then? Over at the little house.”

She left the flashlight where it was. “Yes. It’s lovely. Thank you for offering it to me.”

“No problem. No problem at all.”

“Good. Well then, I—”

“Tell me more.”

“Excuse me?”

“About Ronni. About how she’s different from Veronica.”

She laughed, a slightly nervous sound. “Oh, come on. It’s very late and I should—”

“I’m interested. I really am. And besides, it’s raining hard out there. Too hard. You can’t leave yet.”

“I can’t?”

“No. You have to wait till it eases up.”

She was watching him doubtfully. “What if it doesn’t ease up?”

“It will. Eventually. And I honestly do want to know all about why you changed your name.”

“You’re serious?”

“I am.” He leaned forward a little. “Come on. The difference between Ronni and Veronica.”

She hesitated—and then she confessed, “Veronica is…a little shy.”

“Shy?” He made the word an encouragement.

And she volunteered a little more. “Veronica lacks confidence. She…worries too much.”

“You were like that? As a young child?”

She tipped her chin at a defiant angle. “Yes. But I got over it.”

“By changing your name?”

“No, the name was just the outward manifestation of the change.”

“Sounds very deep.”

“You asked.”

They laughed together then. And she challenged, “What about you? Didn’t you ever want to change your name, or change something about yourself?”

“Now you’ve got me thinking about it, I believe at one point I really wished my name was Bud.” He pretended to glower at her. “Don’t laugh. When you’re in fifth grade, Bud can sound like the name of a really manly kind of dude.”

“So Ryan wasn’t manly enough?”

“I’ve learned to live with it.”

“Good. I like it a lot better than Bud.”

“Then I think I’ll go ahead and keep it…as long as you like it.”

She blinked—and her expression turned wary. Her hand started edging toward the flashlight again.

Before she could touch it, he commanded, “Forget it. Stay here. It’s still raining hard.”

“But I—”

“Uh-uh. Stay here.” He glanced around at all the gold-tooled leather volumes that lined the walls. “This is a comfortable room. You said so yourself. We might even get a little reading done.”

“Great idea. Two strangers. Reading in your study in their pajamas. In the middle of the night.”

“We’re not strangers. We’re neighbors, remember?”

“Oh, that’s right. Neighbors.”

“And I’ve just shared with you my deepest personal secret.”

“You have?”

“Yes. That once I wished my name was Bud—and now you should reveal something about yourself.”

“I already did, remember? Ronni and Veronica? Why I changed my name?”

“I remember. And what I meant was, you should reveal something more.”

“Like what?”

“How about telling me why you went into pediatrics?”

She didn’t have to stop and think about that. “The usual reason. I like kids.”

“As opposed to adults?”

“Not as opposed to. It’s a preference. Children are so…naturally optimistic. I like their sense of wonder, and their simplicity. And they are incredibly resilient.”

“Which means fewer of them die on you.”

It was a hard way of putting it, but she didn’t argue with his assessment. “That’s right—and now it’s your turn. What made you choose hospital administration, of all things?”

“I like being in control.”

She made a face at that. “And that’s all?”

“I like working with people. I enjoy organizing projects, seeing things through from conception to completion.”

“You mean you like running things.”

“That’s right. Is there something wrong with that?”

“Not a thing.” She grinned.

A moment passed where the only sound was the rain outside.

He saw her glance at that flashlight, so he asked her another question about her work.

She sat back, getting more comfortable. And for a while, they talked about their jobs, the challenges and the rewards.

Eventually, she got up. He didn’t try to stop her, since she didn’t reach for the flashlight first. She went over to the credenza to look at the family photos there. One by one, she picked up the pictures, studied them, then set them down.

When she came to a studio shot of Patricia, she asked, “Your wife?”

He nodded. “It’s been a little over two years since she died. Acute myelogenous leukemia.”

In her eyes, he saw a doctor’s understanding of the words: cancer of the white blood cells, starting in the bone marrow, multiplying swiftly until they disrupted the production of normal blood cells. And then moving out, into the bloodstream, invading organs and tissues, especially the spleen and the liver.

“We thought she had a bad case of the flu. Not four months later, she was dead. It was…hard on all of us. And on Andrew—I mean, Drew—particularly, I think. He was seven, old enough to understand what was going on a little better than Lisbeth and Griffin could, old enough to have some idea that he was actually losing his mother, to know that when she died, she really wasn’t coming back.”

Ronni made a low, musing sound in her throat. There was a world of understanding in that sound. And sadness. Very carefully, she set the picture of Patricia in its place with the others. She returned to her chair, but then didn’t sit down in it.

“I should—”

He put up a hand. “Hear that? Still raining…”

“It may never stop.”

“It’ll stop. Eventually.”

They shared a long look, at the end of which she dropped into the chair again. “So what now? Should I choose a book to read?”

He considered, then replied, “No. You should tell me what movies you like.”

And she did. She liked comedies.

He preferred action-adventure, and said so.

They moved on to favorite foods and dream vacation spots. To the schools they’d each attended, to the professors they each remembered.

She talked about med school, and how she didn’t believe she’d ever slept more than two hours at a stretch through the whole of her residency.

Finally, they got onto the subject of the things that really bugged them.

“Price stickers that won’t come off,” she said.

He opted for “Voice mail. I really hate voice mail. It’s just another excuse for people not to answer their phones.”

“But I bet you have voice mail.”

He had no defense against that. “Guilty as charged.”

The rain was still drumming away when she glanced at the clock on the bookcase near the window. “Omigod. It’s 4:00 a.m.”

It couldn’t be 4:00 a.m. But it was.

And still, he wanted her to stay. “Listen. Hear that rain? You can’t leave yet. You need to give yourself a little more time, see if it slows down some before you slog back across the yard.”

“I’ve already been here for two hours.”

“And maybe you’ll just have to stay for two more.”

“Right. And then I might as well just stay for breakfast….”

“Why not?”

“Because…”

“Because why?”

Ronni stared at him. There were surely a hundred reasons why she should leave now, why she should have left a long time ago. She just couldn’t think of one.

She cut her eyes away from him. Had two hours really passed since she’d entered this room? It didn’t seem possible. He had started her talking and then…time had just melted away.

“Come on,” he coaxed some more. “Stay. Just a little while.” She looked right at him again. He smiled. He had the kind of smile that seemed unwilling, as if he didn’t do it often—which made it special, made her feel special.

Ronni had heard it said that Ryan Malone could get money out of a stone. He’d spearheaded the plan to raise millions so that Honeygrove Memorial could add on a much-needed new wing. The new wing was under construction, scheduled to open in September, just eight months away.

Everyone marveled at him, wondered how he’d done it. But looking into his eyes right then, Dr. Ronni Powers understood the mystery completely. The man possessed a commanding presence, a natural reserve—and a reluctant knock-’em-dead smile. An unbeatable combination, whether it came to convincing wealthy donors to put their money in his hands—or coaxing a woman to stay up all night talking about everything from the tragic death of his beautiful wife to why she preferred the name Ronni over Veronica.

Say you have to go, and say it now, her wiser self insisted. But when she opened her mouth, what came out was “Well, maybe I could—”

“Oh! Ryan. I never imagined the doctor would still be here.”

The mother-in-law to the rescue, Ronni thought. The woman was standing in the doorway to the entry hall, clutching her robe at the neck and squinting as if she’d just been awakened from a sound sleep—which she probably had.

“I woke up and thought I heard voices, so I came down to check. I…I do hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Ronni scooped up her flashlight and started toward the door and the woman standing there. “I was just leaving.”

“Well, I’d imagine. It is so late.”

“Wait.” Ryan Malone stood from his swivel chair. “I’ll walk you back across the yard.”

The mother-in-law piped right up. “Ryan. It’s pouring out there.”

“She’s right,” Ronni agreed quickly. “No reason for both of us to get soaked.”

“I’ll walk you back,” he said again, his tone allowing no room for argument. “Let me grab an umbrella.” He came out from behind the desk and walked between the two women, commanding over his shoulder as he went out the door, “Lily, you go on back to bed.”

Five minutes later, Ryan and Ronni stood before the French doors that led to the guest house bedroom. She cast a rueful glance down at his feet. “Now your slippers are ruined, too, just like your son’s.”

“They’ll dry out.” The rain poured off the overhang above them and landed hard on his umbrella, flooding off the back side, splashing the slippers in question, soaking his pajamas to mid-calf.

She looked up at the umbrella, at the rain coming off it in sheets. “Don’t you just love Oregon? If it isn’t raining, it’s getting ready to rain—but why am I complaining? I did my residency in Seattle, did I tell you? It was even worse there.”

“And here,” he reminded her, “we actually get sun in the summer. And then there’s the salmon fishing. And the gorgeous, rugged Pacific shoreline less than two hours’ drive away.”

“And the tulips in the spring, miles and miles of them spread across the valley floor…” She laughed, a breathless little laugh. And then the laugh trailed off. “I…” She didn’t know what to say next, he could see that in her soft green eyes. At last, she continued shyly, “Thank you for…”

He helped her out. “Keeping you up all night?”

“Yes. And not only that. For walking me back here. For being so…gallant.”

“Gallant,” he said, rather idiotically. “That’s me.”

“Well, Mr. Malone, I—”

“Don’t you think we’ve reached the point where you can call me Ryan?”

She hesitated, then surrendered. “All right. Ryan. And you’ll call me Ronni.”

He already had called her Ronni. Repeatedly. In his mind, anyway. But if she wanted to think he’d been waiting for permission, that was just fine with him. “It’s a deal.”

Her hair looked so bright and alive. He wanted to touch it, to rub it between his fingers and feel the wetness of the rain in it. He wanted to bend down and bury his face in it, to let that faint, seductive perfume of hers invade all his senses. Then he wanted to kiss her.

Slowly and thoroughly.

She said, “Well. Good night—Ryan.”

He had to step back so she could open the door. She slipped in with a wave of her flashlight.

“Goodnight, Ronni,” he whispered as she pulled the door closed. It took him a minute to remember to leave. He stood there, the rain thudding on his umbrella, his shoes and pajama legs soaked clean through, looking in at her as she gave another quick wave and began shutting the curtains, first the filmy ones and then the outer drapes, too.

Finally, when it became utterly preposterous for him to stand there one second longer staring at a glass door and drawn curtains, he made himself turn and stride swiftly away toward the gate to the drive.

Chapter Three

Back in the main house, Ryan reset the alarm that his son had left disengaged. Then he climbed the stairs to his own bedroom, changed into dry pajamas and tried to sleep. But he couldn’t. He felt too edgy. Too…energized, in spite of the fact that he’d only slept for a couple of hours before Ronni and his son had disturbed him.

At a little before five, he threw back the covers and got out of bed. He found another pair of slippers and a second robe and then didn’t know what to do with himself.

He decided to check on his children.

Both of the younger ones were still sound asleep. Lisbeth was wrapped up tight in her blankets, only her button nose peeking out. Griffin had kicked the covers down and then curled himself into a ball against the nighttime chill.

Looking down at him, Ryan thought of Tanner.

Tanner, his younger brother. Tanner used to kick the covers down on winter nights sometimes. Before Tanner was five, they were separated for the first time. But during that initial year and a half after they lost their parents, they’d slept in narrow beds, side by side, in the state home. And when Tanner would kick his covers down, it was easy for Ryan to slide from his own bed and cover him back up again.

Carefully, so as not to wake him, Ryan pulled the covers close around his four-year-old son. Griffin let out a small sigh, his little body relaxing as the blankets banished the cold.

Ryan peeked in on Andrew—correction: Drew—last. He turned the doorknob slowly and pushed the door open with great care. Once he’d slid inside the room, he closed the door without letting the latch hook, to avoid the small click that might have disturbed a light sleeper.

He was halfway across the floor when Drew sat up in bed. “Dad?”

All he could think to whisper was a rebuke. “You should be asleep.”