Race To The Altar

Unable to help herself, Molly relived each stroke, each caress, each heated kiss until she missed Chase so badly she wanted to tell him she’d been wrong.

But she knew better than that.

With each second that silently tick-tocked through the room, time stretched and strained like a frayed rubber band, tighter and tighter until it was ready to snap.

Finally, a little pink dot formed, mocking every attempt Molly had made to convince herself she hadn’t conceived. She blinked her eyes a couple of times, hoping to clear her vision, hoping to see that the result screen had remained blank.

But that bright pink spot wasn’t going anywhere.

Molly sat on the commode for the longest time, peering at the testing apparatus and hoping for a different outcome until she was forced to accept the truth.

She was pregnant—with Chase Mayfield’s baby.

Dear Reader,

Summer is a perfect time to read. With all the books available to you, I’m glad you chose Race to the Altar, the first story in my BRIGHTON VALLEY MEDICAL CENTER series.

Those who enjoyed reading THE TEXAS HOMECOMING books will get a chance to return to Brighton Valley and experience a medical setting this time around. But don’t worry. You’ll meet a few cowboys and ranchers, too!

I love a good western—whether it’s a book, a movie or a song—and that’s why many of my romances have a Texas setting. So grab a glass of sweet tea—or maybe a sarsaparilla—and escape to Brighton Valley for a guaranteed happy ending.

When you finish Race to the Altar, be sure to visit my Web site, www.JudyDuarte.com, and let me know what you thought of the story and the setting. I’d love to hear from you.

Wishing you romance,

Judy Duarte

Race To The Altar

Judy Duarte

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JUDY DUARTE

always knew there was a book inside her, but since English was her least favorite subject in school, she never considered herself a writer. An avid reader who enjoyed a happy ending, Judy couldn’t shake the dream of creating a book of her own.

Her dream became a reality in March of 2002, when Silhouette Special Edition released her first book, Cowboy Courage. Since then, her stories have touched the hearts of readers around the world. In July of 2005, Judy won the prestigious Readers’ Choice Award for The Rich Man’s Son.

You can write to Judy c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10237. You can also contact her at JudyDuarte@sbcglobal.net, or through her Web site, www.judyduarte.com.

To the members

of the San Diego chapter of Romance Writers of America

for your friendship and support over the years,

as well as the wealth of knowledge I’ve gleaned

from your awesome workshops. You rock.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Chapter One

Chase Mayfield left his sponsors in the den of the sprawling ranch house and headed for the front door, his temper just barely under control.

What the hell had that been? Some sort of intervention?

When he’d been summoned to the gentleman’s ranch owned by Texas oilman Gerald Barden, he hadn’t given it a second thought. He’d figured the men wanted to discuss the racing schedule, the competition and what they expected from their driver in the upcoming season, so he’d been surprised when they’d laid down the law about how he would conduct himself off the track from now on.

But Chase didn’t like ultimatums—never had, never would.

Outside, the stars flickered overhead, and like the restless spirit that often swept through him, a warm summer breeze stirred up the leaves on the ground.

He wished he could kick that edgy spirit that had been a part of him since he’d been in diapers and had toddled after his older brothers, but he’d never been able to.

After climbing into the classic ’63 Corvette he’d recently restored, Chase turned the ignition and pumped the gas pedal. When the engine responded with a well-tuned roar, he put the transmission into gear and started the long drive back to Houston, hoping to put some distance between him and his sponsors.

Chase had always lived life in the fast lane, both on and off the track. Hell, he didn’t know how to live any other way; he didn’t even want to.

Besides, he’d had his fill of people bossing him around while he was growing up. By the time he hit his teen years, he’d decided not to put up with it anymore.

For that reason alone, he was tempted to flip open his cell phone, call Gerald Barden back at the ranch and tell him and his cronies what they could do with their money. But he figured it was best to let things ride for a while. After all, Chase didn’t have any other burning interests that left him many options.

Of course, settling down wasn’t much of an option, either. Marriage certainly hadn’t tamed the restlessness that plagued him, and neither had racing. Divorce might have ended his marriage, but racing and competition were in his blood.

Once on the open highway, Chase again pondered the ultimatum he’d been given.

“You’re going to have to stay out of trouble and bars,” Gerald had said. “We don’t like the press you’ve been getting, son. If you don’t fly under the media radar, you can kiss our money goodbye.”

He’d wanted to remind Gerald and the others that he’d been racking up points and bringing them the kind of success they’d been hoping for. But over the years he’d gotten to know Gerald better than the man might even know himself—and he’d learned when to push his point and when to keep his mouth shut.

And this had clearly been a keep-your-mouth-shut night.

“Family’s important to us,” Gerald had tossed in for good measure.

It was important to Chase, too, but he doubted if anyone believed him. He hadn’t been back home in ages. But he hadn’t been up for an argument with the men who signed the checks. Not tonight.

About thirty-five minutes into his drive, he noticed a sign that said Now Entering Brighton Valley.

That wasn’t right. Had he made a wrong turn? Where the hell was the county road?

A block ahead, a nearly burned-out neon bulb in a streetlight flickered, limiting his vision. He caught sight of several trash cans sitting curbside.

Chase glanced farther up the road, noting a big rig coming down the opposite side of the street.

Just as he realized he would need to make a U-turn so he could get back on the route to Houston, a small animal—a cat or a dog maybe?—darted out in the street, followed by a larger blur of pink. A child?

Chase had always been ready for the unexpected, especially on the road, but at this time of night he hadn’t expected to see a kid playing outside. He hit the brakes, all the while watching the blonde pixie caught in the high beam of his headlights freeze, her eyes wide, her mouth gaped, her pink nightgown billowing and revealing bare feet.

His first reaction had been to pull to the right, but when another child on a bicycle whizzed into his path, the only choice he had was to turn sharply to the left, hoping to broadside the semi rather than hit it head-on.

He gripped the steering wheel as adrenaline pumped through him and threw his mind into slow-motion mode.

With no air bags, no roll bar and only a fiberglass car body, this crash wasn’t going to be as easy to walk away from as the others had been.

Upon impact, pain exploded in his head, and then everything went black.

Molly Edwards sat at the nurses’ desk in the emergency room at Brighton Valley Medical Center, hoping Karen Wylie would arrive and relieve her soon. Normally, Molly didn’t work in the E.R.—or work the night shift, for that matter—but Karen had called in with some kind of family emergency, saying she’d be a couple of hours late.

Since the new hospital was struggling to stay afloat financially, there’d been a hiring freeze and the staff was stretched to the limit. So here Molly was, covering for Karen and holding down the E.R. fort.

There was one good thing about working in emergency, though. It was usually busy, and time flew by. But so far this evening had been fairly quiet.

Earlier, a couple of cowboys had come in after a friendly card game devolved into a brawl. None of the men had been injured seriously in the fight, but one had suffered chest pains and was now on the second floor, where he was being treated by the resident cardiologist.

A toddler who’d had a febrile seizure was in one of the pediatric beds, but he would be going home soon. Dr. Betsy Bramblett—or rather, Nielson—had tried to assure the worried parents that a sudden spike in temperature could cause convulsions in a small child, and that this particular type of seizure wasn’t as dangerous as it might seem.

Dawn McGregor, the nurse who’d answered the phone moments ago, was sitting to the right of Molly, jotting down notes. When she ended her communication with paramedics en route to the hospital, she got to her feet. “Get ready for another accident victim. A guy driving a sports car collided with a semi truck. The trucker’s fine, just a little shook up. He declined treatment, but the sports car driver has a head injury, lacerations and possible fractures.”

Molly couldn’t help but wince. She hated dealing with the aftermath of a car accident, especially in a triage setting. Twelve years ago, when she was seventeen, she’d lost her parents and her brother in a head-on collision.

After a high school football game, they’d left San Antonio and were headed to Brighton Valley to visit her grandparents. Along the way, a reckless driver had run a red light and careened into the family minivan. Her father had died upon impact, and her mother had been DOA. Jimmy, her younger brother, had clung to life for nearly two days before he died from his injuries, leaving Molly as the only survivor.

She’d been injured, of course, but not seriously. For some inexplicable reason the corner of the backseat where she’d been dozing with her favorite pillow had been spared the brunt of the impact. Most people had called it a miracle, but she tended to see it as a weird twist of fate that had spared her rather than the others.

For the longest time she’d felt guilty—for insisting they leave when they did, for sleeping through it, for practically walking away from it. She’d also been devastated by the loss, but she’d eventually worked through the grief, thanks to the love and support of her grandparents.

Two years later, when Gramps suffered a heart attack, which—thank God—hadn’t been fatal, the hospital experience had had a positive effect on Molly. She’d gained a real appreciation for healthcare professionals during her visits to him, and soon after he was discharged she’d decided to pursue a nursing degree, hoping to be able to help people in pain and to comfort families who were suffering. It gave her a purpose, a reason to be alive.

While she no longer let her own personal tragedy drag her down, she had to admit it was the main reason she didn’t work in the E.R. on a regular basis—too many feelings of déjà vu.

Molly closed the chart she’d been working on and scanned the room to see if Karen had clocked in yet. She hoped so, because she was eager to go home and get some sleep before returning to the hospital to start her shift at 6:00 a.m. But Karen was nowhere in sight, which meant Molly would be called upon to help with the incoming accident victim.

Oh, well. It was all in a day’s work.

“What’s the victim’s ETA?” Molly asked Dawn.

“Three minutes, maybe less.”

“Thanks. I’ll give Dr. Nielson a heads-up.”

Dawn handed Molly the slip of paper on which she’d written the patient’s vitals, including blood pressure, respiration, pulse rate and other pertinent details.

Molly took note of it all as she headed toward the toddler’s bed. She glanced up in time to see Betsy Nielson draw aside the blue privacy curtain and leave the child’s bedside.

“Doctor,” Molly said, “we have a car accident victim coming in—a male, twenty-nine years old and unconscious. He has lacerations, possible fractures and a head injury. The ETA is approximately two minutes.”

“All right. Only one victim?”

“Yes, the driver of a Corvette. The trucker wasn’t hurt.”

The doctor and nurse made their way to the triage area, and moments later the automatic door swung open. Two EMTs rushed in with the patient on a gurney, and the E.R. staff kicked into high gear.

Molly had been expecting the worst, and she’d been right. The driver of the sports car was still unconscious. His eyes were bruised and swollen, and blood from a laceration over his left brow covered most of his face.

Since Karen would be relieving her soon, she stepped back to allow Dawn to join the doctor, then worked with the paramedics as they recited their findings and their treatment en route.

Dr. Nielson, whom Molly referred to as Betsy when they weren’t working, listened intently while she made a methodical assessment of the man’s injuries.

“Cut off his clothes,” Betsy told Dawn, as the two continued to examine the patient.

When the transfer of information was complete, Molly turned to the E.R. drama unfolding and watched Dr. Nielson work. Even with the blood cleaned from his battered face, it was difficult to imagine what he’d looked like before the collision. Handsome, she suspected. And she couldn’t quell her curiosity about him.

Joe Villa, the ambulance driver, handed Molly a plastic bag holding the man’s wallet. “His ID says his name is Chase Mayfield. I wonder if he’s the race car driver.”

Molly wouldn’t know. She didn’t follow sports and wasn’t into cars. In fact, ever since the accident, she’d been uneasy whenever she got behind the wheel.

She did, of course, own a car, but she preferred to ride her bike around town, saving the vehicle to use on rainy days.

“It’s hard to imagine a celebrity like that being in Brighton Valley,” Sheila Conway, the senior EMT, said.

“Yes, but he was driving a classic old Corvette,” Joe reminded her. “That tells me he appreciates speed and a fast car.”

“Maybe so.” Sheila crossed her arms. “But he won’t be zipping around town in that Corvette anymore. It’s little more than a mangled mess now.”

Molly hadn’t recognized the name at all, so it was anyone’s guess if he was the same guy.

If he really was a race car driver, one thing that she did know was that he was a man who normally cheated death on the track. A man who had no fear. Or, if he did, he’d learned to control it.

Unable to help herself, she opened the plastic bag and pulled out Chase’s ID. His driver’s license photo wasn’t all that remarkable, but then most of them weren’t.

His black, unruly curls were matted with blood now. And his eyes, which his ID said were blue, were swollen shut.

What had they looked like before?

According to his ID, he was six feet tall, a hundred and ninety pounds. He had a birthday coming on October seventeenth.

He’d be thirty. But that’s about all she could assess, other than he’d probably been an attractive man when he’d started out today.

Her curiosity continued to build, which was strange. Normally she kept a professional distance from her patients, yet for some reason she was drawn to this one. And that was crazy, since there were several good reasons to excuse herself now that the paramedics were packing up and preparing to leave.

“By the way,” Sheila added, “there’s a kid coming in, too. He has a laceration on his left leg which may need stitches, as well as a possible fracture of the wrist. His guardian is driving him in.”

“Was he involved in the accident?” Molly asked.

“He was looking for his little sister, who’d chased after a runaway cat. When he saw the collision, he lost his balance and fell off his bike.”

Molly nodded, then returned her attention to the man on the gurney—Chase Mayfield.

“He’s coming to,” Betsy said. “Hi, Chase. You’re in a hospital. You’ve been in an accident. I’m Dr. Nielson. How are you feeling?”

He grimaced.

“Your injuries aren’t life threatening,” Betsy told him, “but we’re going to run a few tests. We also want to keep you in the ICU tonight for observation.”

His only response was a moan.

Betsy went on to probe and clean his head wound. After telling him what she was about to do, she began stitching it shut.

Dawn, who’d ordered an MRI, reentered the room just as Betsy finished the last of ten or twelve sutures over Chase’s left eye. “Doctor, the boy arrived and is waiting with his guardian.”

Betsy nodded. “I’ll be finished here in a few minutes.”

The man moaned again.

“Chase?” Betsy asked.

No response.

“Wake up, Mr. Mayfield.”

Chase cracked open his good eye. “Where…what…?”

“You’re in the hospital,” Betsy told him again. “You were involved in an accident. Do you remember?”

He seemed to be trying to process the information. “Oh…yeah.”

“Can you tell me what happened?” the doctor asked.

Molly knew Betsy wasn’t interested in details of the accident. She was actually trying to assess the extent of his head injury and his cognitive function.

“A dog…a kid…a truck…” His eyes opened momentarily, then closed again. “I had to pick one…”

He’d opted for the truck, Molly concluded.

“Good choice,” Betsy said. “At least, for the sake of the kid and the dog.”

Chase grumbled. Or perhaps it was a groan.

“Rumor has it you might be the Chase Mayfield,” Betsy said. “The race car driver.”

“Rumor has a big mouth.”

So, Molly thought, he had a sense of humor. And apparently, he was the man in question. She drew closer to the bed. “Karen still hasn’t arrived, Doctor. So I can finish cleaning him up and put on his gown.”

“Thanks, Molly. I really appreciate you coming in to pinch hit like this.”

“No problem.” She glanced at the patient.

He opened his eyes. Well, actually, he opened the one that wasn’t completely swelled shut, and it was the prettiest shade of blue Molly had ever seen. Like the color of the stone in her mother’s sapphire ring.

“We can transport you to Houston,” Betsy told him, “if you’d rather be in a larger hospital.”

“No.” Chase turned to the doctor and reached out, grabbing Molly’s arm by mistake, gripping her with an intensity that shot her adrenaline through the roof. “I don’t want to go to the city.”

“No problem,” the doctor said. “You can stay here, if you’d rather.”

“I don’t—” he winced “—want word to get out…about this…if it can be helped.”

“We’ll do what we can to ensure your privacy,” Betsy assured him. “But there were witnesses to the accident. The media could find out, although we certainly won’t make any statements, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“I want to…fly under the radar.” He opened his eye a crack. “Use my middle name, Raymond, instead of Chase. Maybe that’ll throw people off.”

“We’ll issue a request for discretion.” Betsy turned to Molly. “I’ll let you take it from here. I’ll order some Demerol and let ICU know he’s on his way up.”

“All right.”

Chase closed his eyes and blew out a sigh.

“Is there someone I can call for you?” Molly asked. “Someone who’s expecting you at home?”

“No.” He blew out another ragged breath. “Damn, my head…hurts.”

“Dr. Nielson is ordering pain meds. I’ll go and get it for you.”

Ten minutes later, after giving Chase an injection, Molly had managed to fill out the forms and have Mr. Mayfield formally admitted to the hospital—under his middle name, Raymond.

She’d returned to his bedside to tell him, but he’d fallen asleep—his eyes were shut, his breathing even.

Good, she thought. He’d feel better in dreamland.

She reached into the cupboard and took out one of the hospital gowns. Then she proceeded to pull down the sheet to Chase’s waist, noting the broad shoulders, the sprinkle of dark hair across his chest, the well-defined abs, the…

Oh, wow. The whisper of a sexual rush buzzed through her veins, and she did her best to shake it off.

She’d seen countless naked men in her life—professionally speaking, of course—but she’d never had a purely feminine response to a patient.

Until this moment.

Doing her best to ignore the unwelcome physical reaction, she slipped his arms through the gown, then proceeded to lift his shoulder just enough to tie at least one of the strings.

“Ow. What’re you doing?”

Startled, she gently rolled him back on the mattress. “Getting you dressed.”

Did he realize his nakedness had unbalanced her?

Surely not.

“You dozed for a few minutes,” she said, trying to get her mind back on track. “How are you feeling now?”

“Like I…got hit by a…Mack truck.”

“I think you did.” She smiled at his joke, letting down her guard just a little. “A sense of humor should help you recover quickly, so I’m glad your funny bone wasn’t fractured.”

“What do you know? A pretty nurse…and witty, too. I…like that…in a woman.” He managed a faint smile.

She couldn’t help but wonder what one of his smiles would have looked like before his face had been swollen and bruised.

His eyes—well, the one that had actually opened—closed again. She hoped that meant he was really drifting off to la-la land.

She sure hoped so. She really needed to be done with this shift, done with him. She didn’t like the unprofessional turn her thoughts had taken. So she straightened, eager to pass him on to another nurse. One who knew how to keep her feminine side in check.

Before she could pull the curtain aside, Betsy peeked in on them. “How’s he doing?”

“I’d say he’s on the road to mend.”

“Good. If all goes well in ICU tonight, we’ll be sending him to the third floor in the morning.”

So much for being able to pass him off to someone else. That’s where Molly would be tomorrow, and with her luck, she’d probably be assigned to his room for at least part of the time he was in the hospital. Unless, of course, she could figure out a way to talk her way out of it.

“I promised to do what I could to protect his identity from the media,” Betsy said. “So I’m reluctant to let anyone else come in close contact with him.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I’m going to suggest that he be assigned to you for the entire time he’s here. That should be the easiest way to maintain confidentiality.”

Molly tried not to roll her eyes or object. “How long do you expect that to be?”

“A week maybe, unless there are complications.” Betsy’s gaze intensified. “Do you have a problem with this, Molly?”

“No, not at all.” She was a professional. She did her job and took care of whatever patient had been assigned to her.

It’s just that this patient was different. According to the paramedics who’d brought him in, he’d been speeding and had, at least indirectly, caused a young boy to be injured. So Chase and his accident brought back a painful sense of déjà vu.

She could deal with that, she supposed.

As she walked around to the side of the gurney, kicking off the brake, he reached out and clamped a hand on her wrist. The hint of a smile crossed his battered face. “No speeding, okay?”