2. Prescription For Love

Susan’s casual assurance didn’t quell Abby’s rising anxiety. Where she had trained, the surgeons were always available 24/7, and by now the trauma bay would be teeming with nurses, residents, trauma fellows, and technicians. And here she stood with a nurse and no idea where to find anything. She’d spent the last year as the senior fellow in a level one trauma unit. This hospital was far from that. She braced herself for the coming chaos. Hopefully, they’d have the personnel to handle a serious trauma.

“What have you got, beautiful,” a husky female voice called from the doorway.

Abby stepped aside as a sandy-haired woman in green scrubs barreled into the room. Even though she was average height and size, she seemed to fill the space. Maybe it was the energy pouring off her that electrified the air.

Susan responded. “Motorcycle versus tractor. Motorcycle lost.”

“Don’t they always?” The woman shook her head and pulled on booties. “ETA?”

“Ought to be pulling in right about now.”

“Perfect. I’ll be able to get my eight o’clock started on time, then.”

The woman glanced in Abby’s direction and shot her a cocky smile. “New nurse?”

Abigail forced a smile. And so it began. Surgeons never changed. Always swaggering, often condescending, and, unfortunately, necessary. She held out her hand. “Doctor. Abigail Remy.”

A smooth, firm hand enclosed hers. The dark gaze slid over her face, and a slow smile formed on a broad, shapely mouth. Good-looking and she knew it. Abby suspected this was the point where most women surrendered their panties. She tried not to swoon.

“Flannery Rivers. I guess the new residency program is starting a little bit early.”

Abigail kept her smile in place with effort and withdrew her hand. “Actually, no. I would be the

ER chief.”

The playful warmth in the brown eyes chilled. “Really. And here I thought that was my job. I guess

I missed the memo.”

Abby hesitated, considering whether to take up the gauntlet. Susan appeared to be watching them with the avid interest of a spectator at the US Open, her head swinging back and forth between them. Abby had no desire to be the talk of the entire hospital by lunchtime, although she probably couldn’t change anything at this point. Still, this was no place and no time to butt heads over who was going to be in charge. She planned to be, but she’d just have to update Dr. Rivers on the details later. “I’m sorry if communications have gotten twisted. I gather a lot has been happening pretty quickly here.”

“You might say that.” Flannery reached for her cap, as if to pull it off. “I guess you don’t need me here, then.”

“Actually,” Abby said, “I don’t know the code team. You should lead it.”

Flannery looked surprised and maybe a little chagrined. “Right, sorry. Sometimes I trip over my ego.”

Abby was just as surprised at the admission. Points to Rivers for good sportsmanship. Not many surgeons had the confidence to laugh at themselves, or admit their egos often outweighed their body mass. “Comes with the territory, doesn’t it?”

Flannery laughed and the cocky light returned to her eyes. “Absolutely.”

“Here they come,” Susan announced at the same time as a heavyset redhead pushed a portable Xray machine into the room.

“Thought you might need me,” the X-ray technician said, puffing slightly.

“Thanks, Kevin,” Flannery said.

On his heels, two paramedics steered a stretcher through the open bay doors. A thin blonde in her forties balanced on the side of the gurney, bagging the patient, while a wiry Hispanic man guided them up to the bed, calling out, “Twenty-year-old white female. Unresponsive at the scene, vital signs erratic. Present BP 80/40, heart rate 130, Glasgow 10. Second liter of saline running in now,

fractured right leg, right temporal contusion, breath sounds decreased on the right.” “Meds in the field?” Susan called, jotting notes on a chart.

“Two milligrams of IV morphine.”

“I’ll get bloods for type and cross and labs,” Susan said, tying a tourniquet around the patient’s right arm.

Abby edged up to the left side of the gurney across from Flannery, who had a stethoscope pressed to the girl’s chest. She felt the trachea—midline—and visually assessed her torso and limbs. Her left arm was angled unnaturally in the midforearm, and her hand was gray and blue.

“Get ortho,” Abby directed, and then stopped herself. She glanced at Flannery. “Fractured left humerus, possible compression syndrome. We need an ortho guy and possibly a vascular surgeon.” Flann nodded. “That would be me.”

“Which?”

“Both for now.”

Abby pressed her lips together. No orthopedist in-house. No vascular surgeon. Probably no specialists of any kind in-house. One surgeon to rule them all. God, what had she stepped into?

CHAPTER TWO