Never Let Go

By Sherryl Woods

Healing hands

As a psychologist, Mallory Blake knew there were times when one had to let go. She also knew just how much it hurt. After her husband's death, she'd packed up her belongings and moved to San Francisco, wishing it was as easy to box up her memories and seal away her regrets. But she had her patients at the hospital who helped her move forward, patients like six–year–old Davey. The broken little boy needed Mallory–not that his doctor agreed.

Mallory had heard the rumors about neurosurgeon Justin Whitmore. She had experienced firsthand his temper, his impossible standards and his undeniable charm. But beneath all of that, Mallory discovered Justin hid an old pain, one she wasn't sure she could heal. And yet she couldn't walk away from him. Because there were times when it was right to move on…and times when you took someone's hand and never let go.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Feb 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781488707544

Sherryl Woods

With her roots firmly planted in the South, Sherryl Woods has written many of her more than 100 books in that distinctive setting, whether in her home state of Virginia, her adopted state, Florida, or her much-adored South Carolina. Sherryl is best known for her ability to creating endearing small town communities and families. She is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over 75 romances for Silhouette Desire and Special Edition.

Book preview

Prologue

The rumpled sheets on the on-call room’s narrow bed felt as cool and welcome as satin when Dr. Justin Whitmore finally stretched out after nearly twenty-four straight hours on duty. His mind was numb, his thought processes dulled by an all-too-familiar exhaustion. His back ached from hours of standing in surgery bent over an operating table. His tired eyes burned and his stomach was knotted with hunger, but sleep was more important now than food. As his head hit the thin, lumpy pillow, the tensed muscles in his long legs and across his broad shoulders slowly began to relax and the deep furrow between his hazel eyes eased.

Just a half hour, he pleaded silently, as his eyes fluttered closed. A half hour of blessed sleep just might get him through the rest of the night and the day that stretched interminably ahead. Sometimes it seemed as though his residency had been an endless blur of such nights. Sleep tugged at him, luring him like a forbidden mistress, attracting him so thoroughly that it was several seconds before the piercing beep dragged him back.

Hell, he muttered, leaping to his feet and pulling on his white lab coat as he took off down the hall with long strides.

He knew even before he pressed the beeper button for his message that it would be the emergency room. For a neurosurgeon at this hour it was always the emergency room and it was always trouble. He’d be needed by people on the edge of death, fighting not just to live, but to live with bodies and senses intact. There were times, like now, when that thought intimidated him. He thrived on the challenge, but the power he held in his hands humbled him, especially on a night like this. He feared his concentration wasn’t sharp enough, his hands weren’t quite as steady as they should be.

Double doors whooshed open automatically as he ran down the eerily silent halls, corridors that only a few hours from now would be teeming with doctors, nurses, technicians and visitors. Justin knew all too well that the middle of the night hush could be deceptive, hinting at serenity, only to erupt into well-orchestrated chaos once the ER was reached.

He arrived at the emergency center on the run, pausing only long enough for the triage nurse to point him toward the trauma area, where another nurse was waiting for him.

Six-year-old male, head injury, possible fractured ribs, maybe a broken arm and internal injuries. His vital signs are shaky. The X-ray technician is in there now, and we’ve sent the blood work to the lab. I’ve called up for an operating room. You’re going to need it, she summed up with a conciseness that Justin appreciated.

The trauma team nurses were exceptional. They were compassionate, but far more important in this setting they were skilled professionals. They never wasted a single second of time that could mean the difference between life and death.

Thanks, Helen, he said, taking the chart and going into the room. The team of nurses, an intern from general surgery and the X-ray technician surrounding the patient all spoke in a terse medical shorthand. An intravenous line and portable monitors were already in place.

Justin moved into a space beside the table and asked the intern for a summary. The recitation of injuries and vital signs was ominous.

What the hell happened? Justin said, already going to work with skilled efficiency. Adrenaline pumped through his body, wakening him thoroughly and sharpening his senses.

His mother says he fell down the stairs.

Justin’s head snapped around, his gaze incredulous. At four o’clock in the morning? Who’s she trying to kid?

I recognize him, Dr. Whitmore. He’s been here before, one of the veteran nurses offered. Cuts and bruises, that sort of thing. Never anything quite this bad.

How often?

I’d say a couple of times a year until recently. Lately, it’s been more like once a month. Last time, I checked it out with social services. The social worker has filed reports with the state. They’re trying to get him out of that house, but it seems his grandparents have a lot of clout. No one wants to take a chance that they might be wrong about what’s going on.

Justin muttered a vicious expletive as he gazed down at the skinny little boy, who was lying so unnaturally still. The child’s pale skin was already turning an angry shade of purple in splotches on his arms and legs. There was a nasty lump on his forehead and a deep cut on his scalp that had matted his curly blond hair to his head. The boy whimpered as Justin probed gently, and something inside the surgeon twisted into a hard knot as carefully blocked memories reawakened and washed through him. For just a second, his hands shook. Then he took a deep breath, fought for control and continued with the examination.

It’s okay, pal, he murmured soothingly as the boy moaned softly. We’re going to get you through this. I promise.

It was a terrible world that allowed a child to be mistreated like this. Repeated visits to the hospital, mysterious injuries always attributed to clumsiness and a system that didn’t seem to give a damn. What would it take to end the child’s suffering? His death?

The nurse who’d spoken seemed shaken by Justin’s fierce expression and his heavy, heartfelt sigh as he scanned the X rays.

Is he going to make it, Dr. Whitmore? she asked hesitantly.

With a little help from God, we might be able to save him one more time, he said, his voice raw-edged with a quiet fury. Are the consents signed? Helen nodded. He looked at the intern. Okay, then, let’s move it. Get him to the OR on the double, Frank. I’ll meet you there.

He turned back to the head nurse. Helen, see if you can rouse Dr. Hendricks at home and get him in here. He’s the attending physician on tonight and we may need him. And have an orthopedic guy on call just in case that arm’s broken, too.

Justin was out the door as he spoke, already racing for the elevator…racing against time.

Chapter 1

Afternoon sunlight spilled into the room, chasing away the gloomy shadows. Bright murals of children playing decorated the walls, the cheerful paintings a stark contrast to the sterile, high-tech machinery filling the room. A hand puppet, looking like a little boy, dressed in blue boxer shorts and a red-striped T-shirt poked its bandaged head between the high metal rails at the side of the hospital bed. The bed seemed much too big for the small patient it held.

Hi, Davey, a soft voice said. Remember me? I’m Joey. I was here yesterday.

The blond lashes that lay against pale cheeks fluttered, but the eyes of the boy in the bed didn’t open. The only sound to break the expectant stillness was the steady beep of the cardiac monitor.

I’d really like to have a friend, Joey said, waving one tiny hand hopefully. Wouldn’t you?

This time there wasn’t any sign at all that the injured child, his own head swathed in bandages, had heard.

Mallory Blake—and, thus, Joey—sighed.

She’d been at this for a week now, coming every day to spend a half hour or more at Davey Landers’s bedside, hoping to penetrate the wall of silence that distanced him from the world. The nurses had told her he’d been like this ever since he came into pediatrics from intensive care. For nearly a month now he’d had no visitors except the staff, and few of them had time to sit with him and talk. He wasn’t an assigned case, but Mallory was touched by Davey’s desperate need for love and attention. She found the time for him in a schedule of rounds and appointments that grew more crowded each day she was at Fairview General.

She’d heard about the near-miraculous surgery that had saved Davey’s life. She also knew it had been touch and go with him for a while in intensive care. Now, according to his chart, his physical condition was improving every day, but emotionally he couldn’t be reached. His state of mind wasn’t surprising, judging from his medical history and the bits of information she’d been able to pick up from the social worker on the case, but it saddened her just the same.

At first Mallory had simply talked during the visits to Davey, keeping her voice deliberately low and soothing. She had read him countless stories, asked him questions that were never answered. Because he refused to eat, he was still being fed by IV and she tried to tempt him by bringing in approved special treats. Not once did he even look at her, much less accept the offerings.

On one occasion she had tried foolishly to hold his hand, but he’d reacted so strongly to the gesture, his body tensing with fright, that she hadn’t tried again. It wrenched her heart to see a six-year-old boy so terribly withdrawn, his psychological scars far deeper than his physical pain. She’d seen adults with no will to live, but never a child. She was determined to give him back that will, to see him laugh and play again.

For the past two days she’d brought Joey with her, hoping that Davey would respond to the puppet without the fear he obviously and understandably had of adults. In her practice, she often used puppets and dolls to help children get through the aftershocks of a trauma or to prepare them for surgery.

Joey, whose head had drooped while Mallory sat thinking, perked up and inched closer to the head of the bed for another try.

Davey, he called beguilingly. Won’t you talk to me? I’m very lonely. I think this place is scary. If I had a friend, I’d get better faster. See, I’ve got bandages on my head, just like you.

There was the slightest rustling of the sheets as Davey moved. His eyes didn’t open and he didn’t speak, but Mallory rejoiced just the same. Davey had reacted and that was what counted. Maybe he was beginning to trust her. If only he would look at the puppet just once, he might discover it was less intimidating than he feared.

Couldn’t you look at me, Davey? I’d like to see what color eyes you have. Mine are brown. I wish I had blue eyes, the puppet said wistfully. Somebody told me your eyes are blue. Is that true?

Mallory waited breathlessly as Davey’s eyes blinked once. But before they could open, a harsh voice cut across Joey’s gentle whisper like the fall of a rough-edged ax. What the hell do you think you’re doing?

Davey’s eyes clamped even more tightly shut, and he curled into a tight ball under the sheet. The moment of breakthrough was lost, and only concern for Davey kept Mallory from raising her voice in an outpouring of frustrated fury. She looked up to see hazel eyes burning with anger and a firm mouth tensing into a tight-lipped frown.

So, she thought, this had to be the infamous Dr. Justin Whitmore. Despite a day-old beard and a rumpled green scrub uniform, he was impressive and intimidating. Boldly masculine, he had an aura of confidence and strength about him that a military commander would envy and a woman would automatically swoon over. Mallory had always thought she was immune to sheer physical presence, but it was all she could do to keep from sighing aloud. Heaven knows what effect he could have on her in a suit and tie, with that square jaw of his clean-shaven.

Her reaction was absurd, especially since she’d been anticipating this meeting with dread ever since the nurses had called her in to help Davey. Mallory had been a child psychologist at Fairview General for less than three months and in that short time she’d heard a lot about Dr. Whitmore, the thirty-one-year-old chief resident in neurosurgery.

The kinder reports described him as driven and obsessed, a skilled, tireless surgeon who demanded perfection. Others called him arrogant, temperamental, cynical, even cruel, especially toward those who didn’t live up to his impossibly high standards. The nurses in pediatrics had warned her that he had a low opinion of psychiatrists and psychologists and that he’d probably blow a fuse if he found out about their interference in one of his cases. Once she’d seen Davey, though, Mallory had been willing to risk the physician’s wrath.

Besides, no one questioned Justin Whitmore’s dedication to his patients. She was certain he would come around, once she could prove to him that Davey needed her. Now that he was here, though, glowering down at her, she wasn’t so sure. He didn’t look like an easy man to sway. He looked…indomitable, even more so than she’d expected.

Mallory had heard almost as much about the physician’s attractiveness as she had about his attitude. No one, least of all the awed nurses, disputed the fact that he was wickedly handsome, in the style of a bold and rugged adventurer.

With the evidence staring her in the face, Mallory wasn’t about to dispute it, either. He had a trace of prematurely gray hair intermingled with shaggy brown at his temples, eyes that could strip a woman bare and leave her trembling, and a scar at the corner of his mouth that could emphasize a cruel scowl or a sensual smile. Word had it, though, that the scowls were all too familiar, the sought-after smiles disappointingly rare.

He certainly wasn’t bestowing one on her now. In fact, if looks could kill, Mallory figured they’d better start digging her grave.

I asked you what you were doing? he said again, his voice not one whit more mellow. His body unconsciously shifted to get between her and Davey, as if he felt the need to provide a protective shield for the boy.

Talking to Davey, she said coolly, determined not to be put off by the rude tone or the assessing gaze that seemed to strip her of her silk blouse and the lacy bra beneath it. Ironically, the boldness of his look didn’t seem intentional, which made its effect on her pulse all the more disconcerting. She felt an urge to tug her lab coat more tightly around her, but sensed he would find the instinctive gesture irritating, if not amusing.

She held out her hand. "I’m Mallory Blake. Dr. Blake," she added, deciding that even though Justin Whitmore wouldn’t be a full-fledged member of the staff until he completed his residency, he was the sort of man to consider status important.

Apparently he did, because he ignored her hand, looked her up and down and demanded disbelievingly, What service?

Nothing short of an outright lie would get her around that question, and Mallory wasn’t about to try. I’m not a medical doctor. I’m a child psychologist, a Ph.D.

His gaze narrowed. So much for status, Mallory thought. The nurses had been right. Hers clearly wasn’t good enough. In fact, it only seemed to anger him further.

Who brought you in on this case? he demanded. I’m Davey’s doctor and I assure you I haven’t placed a request for your services.

The staff in the unit told me about Davey, she said. She decided it wouldn’t serve any purpose to start casting the blame on the nurses who had to work with this man. Dr. Whitmore already had a reputation for having members of the staff written up at the slightest provocation. They said he wasn’t responding. I thought I might be able to help.

Do you always butt in where you’re not needed?

Mallory’s temper was slow to flare, but once it did, the Irish in her made it a spectacular sight to behold. It was beginning to flare right now. I didn’t consider it butting in, she said, her teeth clenched so tightly her jaw was starting to ache. I considered it part of my duties, even though I acted unofficially.

Look, Miss Blake—

Doctor, she corrected firmly.

Whatever. This child doesn’t need your sort of psychological mumbo jumbo. He needs time to heal. He won’t get it with you in here pestering him.

Blue-green eyes flashed and full, sensual lips parted, then clamped shut as she whirled around, grabbed Dr. Justin Whitmore by his rock-solid arm and dragged him from the room. She was wise enough to know that at five-feet-two and 107 pounds she’d never have budged all six-feet plus of him if he hadn’t been willing to follow. She wasn’t sure whether it was curiosity or his own fully aroused anger, but at least he came.

In the hallway, she dropped her suddenly trembling hand to her side and stared defiantly at him. She tried very hard not to notice how exhausted he looked. It might have made her feel a stirring of sympathy for him and that was the last thing she needed if she was to put him quite properly and thoroughly in his place.

"I do not practice psychological mumbo jumbo, doctor," she began indignantly, then tried to temper her tone to one of pure, straightforward professionalism.