Moving slowly and gracefully, Darcy swayed to the music.

Her hips rolling, Darcy’s arms traced patterns in the air. The exotic music, the sparkle of sequins and shimmer of silk—even the faint incense scent of the air around him—worked a spell on Mike. He felt as if he’d plummeted through a trapdoor from his everyday life to this erotic new world.

Darcy twirled a veil around her, hiding behind it, then revealing the curve of her hip, the smooth paleness of her bare back, the gentle roundness of her belly, the swell of cleavage above the sequined bra top.

Mike’s heart pounded and he had trouble breathing, but he made no attempt to turn away.

Dear Reader,

Three and a half years ago I took a belly dancing class. I was looking for some form of exercise that would be fun. The class was fun, all right. So fun I’ve been dancing ever since.

Though the characters in this book have no connection to the women I’ve met through my dancing classes, it was a lot of fun to write a story that combines my love of dancing, family and romance.

Life is full of little miracles, and organ transplant is certainly one of those. If you’d like to know more about organ and tissue donation, visit www.organdonor.gov.

I hope you’ll enjoy Darcy and Mike’s story. I always enjoy hearing from my readers. You can e-mail me at Cindi@CindiMyers.com or through my website www.cindimyers.com.

Cindi Myers

About the Author

CINDI MYERS is the author of more than three dozen novels and a member of an amateur belly dancing troupe, the Mountain Kahai Dancers. She thinks writing and dancing have a lot in common, since both require creativity and a certain amount of chutzpa. She writes and dances in the mountains of Colorado, where she lives with her husband and two spoiled dogs.

Dance with

the Doctor

Cindi Myers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Sheila and the Mountain Kahai Dancers—

especially the Thursday night bunch.

CHAPTER ONE

WHAT WAS I thinking? Darcy O’Connor fought down butterflies as she looked out over the dance studio filled with eight preteen girls who’d signed up for the Belly Dancing for Girlz class. The normally tranquil room had been transformed into a scene of chaos. Dressed in everything from blue jeans and T-shirts to ballet leotards, the girls, ranging in age from nine to eleven, took turns preening and posing in the full-length mirrors lining one wall, draping themselves in the various scarves and costumes that hung around the rest of the room, all talking at once.

Darcy had taught dozens, even hundreds, of women to dance in her four years as a belly dance instructor, but she’d never attempted a class just for girls. When she’d come up with the idea, she’d thought of it as a good way to make children part of her life, but now she wondered if she was really ready for this.

“My aunt Candace took a pole dancing class last summer. Is this anything like that?”

“We saw belly dancers at the Renaissance Festival. My dad stuck a dollar in one of the dancer’s bras and my mom got mad.”

“I want to dance like Shakira. How long will it take you to teach me to do that?”

“Girls, girls!” Darcy held up her hands. “I’ll answer your questions as we go along, but right now let’s get started. First, let’s line up in rows. Everybody stand where you can see yourself in the mirror.”

She moved one of the taller girls, Debby, into the back row, and called forward the smallest of her new students, a delicate child with large brown eyes and a mass of dark brown hair. “Sweetie, you come up here on the front row. What’s your name, again?”

“Taylor,” the girl said eagerly. She grinned up at Darcy.

“Taylor, you stand next to me. Hannah, you come up on my other side.” Darcy surveyed the neat double line of girls in the mirror and felt more in control of the situation. “That’s better. Now we can start.” She pressed the play button on the remote for the stereo and the first notes of a pop number filled the room. “The first thing we’re going to learn is to move our hips from side to side, while the upper part of our bodies stays still.”

“My brother says I can’t learn to shake my hips because I don’t have hips yet,” one of the girls, Zoe, volunteered.

“You do too have hips,” Kira protested. “Everybody has hips.”

“Brothers are just that way,” Debby said. “Once mine told me—”

“Now let’s try making a circle with our hips,” Darcy said, recalling the girls’ attention.

“What’s this move called?” Liz asked.

“Is it okay if my circle is more of an oval?” Taylor asked.

Darcy smiled to herself. Yes, this class was going to be a challenge, but maybe a challenge was exactly what she needed. “All right, girls. See if you can do this next move. I want everyone to be quiet and listen to the music. Think about how the music makes you feel.”

The soaring notes of an Egyptian mizmar filled the air, accompanied by a pounding drumbeat. The music vibrated up through the soles of Darcy’s bare feet, soothing her like the caress of a friend. She hoped the girls felt it, too. She wanted to pass on to them more than the mere mechanics of movement.

She caught Taylor’s eye in the mirror and was rewarded with a smile that made Darcy’s heart skip a beat. There was so much joy and innocence in that smile—so like the smile of her son. A smile she ached to see.

She pushed the sad thought away and struck a dramatic pose as the last notes of the song hung in the air, holding still until someone in the back of the class giggled. Then all the girls dissolved into laughter. Darcy joined them, reaching out to pull Hannah and Taylor close. She’d missed the sound of children’s laughter since she’d lost Riley two years ago.

“That was fun.” Taylor looked up at her, still smiling. “You’re really pretty,” the girl said. “Did it hurt when they pierced your nose?”

Darcy laughed. “A little.”

Taylor wrinkled her own button nose. “I hate needles.”

The fierceness in the child’s voice both surprised and charmed Darcy. She patted Taylor’s back. “There will be no needles in this class. I promise.”

“Are we going to learn to dance with swords?” Kira pointed to the pair of curved scimitars that hung over the mirrors at the front of the room. Darcy danced with a sword as part of her professional routine sometimes, but the thought of these girls anywhere near those sharp blades made her blanch.

“You’re going to learn a special routine,” she said. “We’ll spend the next eight weeks learning it and you’ll perform it for your parents and friends at my student show in April.”

“Will we get to wear costumes?”

“Real belly dancing costumes?”

“I want a pink costume!”

“Can we have bells on them and everything?”

So much for thinking she was in control, Darcy thought, as the girls crowded around her. But she no longer felt nervous or panicky among them. She clapped her hands. “We’ll talk about costumes more next week. For now, let’s dance some more.”

For the rest of the class they played games where Darcy showed a move and each girl did her best to imitate it. The last five minutes they simply danced. She encouraged the girls to be as silly and uninhibited as they liked, and their excited comments echoed off the walls of the small studio until Darcy’s ears rang.

By the end of the hour, everyone was tired but happy, including Darcy. She’d taken an important step today toward putting her life back together. These girls didn’t make her miss her son less, but they made her heart less empty.

The girls gathered around the door of the studio to greet arriving parents. Hannah’s mother, Darcy’s friend Jane, was one of the first to arrive. “How did it go?” she asked.

“It went great, Mom.” Hannah held up her cell phone. “I was just texting Kelly all about it. She’s going to be so sorry she chose soccer over this.” She moved past them out the door, furiously thumbing away.

Jane turned to Darcy. “Well? What do you think?”

“It was a blast,” Darcy said. “I was worried at first because the girls seemed so scattered, but they really got into it after a bit.”

“I’m glad. This was a big step for you.” Jane squeezed her hand.

“It was time.” For months after Riley’s death even the sight of a child on television was enough to cause a flood of tears.

Jane lingered, her eyes fixed on Darcy. “Is something wrong?” Darcy asked.

Jane shook her head. “No. I was just wondering—would you like to go out this weekend?” she asked.

“Go out where?”

“I don’t know,” Jane said, with studied casualness. “Maybe out to dinner. There’s a new steak place over in Kittredge I hear is nice.”

“You want to take me out for steak?” Darcy asked.

Jane fidgeted. “Eric has this friend …”

Ah. “No fix-ups.” Darcy shook her head.

“He’s a really nice guy,” Jane persisted. “His name is Mitch and he—”

Darcy didn’t cover her ears, though she wanted to. Instead, she put one hand on Jane’s arm. “I appreciate the thought, but I’m not interested.”

Jane’s brown eyes filled with sadness, and her smile vanished. “Okay,” she said. “But let me know when you’re ready.”

That would be never, but Darcy didn’t try to explain. Some people, like Jane, who’d been married to Eric for twenty years, were made for happily-ever-after relationships. Others, like Darcy, who came from a family with so many exes and halves and second, third and fourth marriages that they’d have to hire an arena if they ever held a reunion, weren’t the long-term-relationship type. Darcy had tried to buck the odds when she’d married Riley’s father, Pete, but as much as she’d loved him, things couldn’t have turned out worse. She wasn’t going to take any more chances.

“Excuse me. Ms. O’Connor?”

Both women turned at the sound of the deep, masculine voice. A broad-shouldered man with dark, curly hair, dressed in an expensive overcoat, greeted them. If Darcy had been asked to use one word to describe the man, she would have chosen “imposing.” He had the demeanor of a man used to being in authority.

“I’m Darcy O’Connor,” she said, drawing herself up to her full five feet four inches and looking him in the eye, though she had to tilt her head slightly to do so.

Jane squeezed Darcy’s arm and waved goodbye, at the same time giving the stranger an appreciative once-over.

“I’m Dr. Mike Carter. Taylor’s father.”

Darcy saw the resemblance now, in the thick dark curls and brown eyes. Those eyes appeared troubled. She didn’t ordinarily have much sympathy for doctors. Her dealings with the medical profession since Riley’s death had been mostly unpleasant.

“Hey, Daddy.” Taylor joined them, swinging on her father’s arm. Dr. Carter looked down at his daughter and smiled, his face so transformed that Darcy caught her breath.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

“Great. The class was awesome.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? You seem flushed.”

“Dad!” Taylor’s voice rose. “I’m fine.”

“Is something wrong?” Darcy asked. Taylor’s cheeks were a bit pink, but that was normal after an hour of dancing—wasn’t it?

Dr. Carter’s gaze remained on his daughter, who was giving him what Darcy could only describe as a warning look. Finally, he said, “Taylor’s fine. She’s fine now.”

Now? “Is there something I need to know?” Darcy asked. Had this man sent his daughter to class sick, possibly exposing a room full of children—not to mention herself?

He shook his head. “I just don’t want Taylor to overdo it. Her mother assured me belly dancing wouldn’t be too strenuous, though how she’d know that, I have no idea.”

Darcy had a vague recollection of a telephone conversation with an enthusiastic woman. “Your wife is the one who signed Taylor up for the class,” she said.

“Ex-wife, actually. We’re divorced.”

Oops.

“I have custody of Taylor, but Melissa sees her as much as possible,” he continued. “Her work takes her out of the country quite often.”

“My mom’s a flight attendant,” Taylor offered.

“I’m the one who’ll usually be picking up Taylor from class, so I wanted to introduce myself.” He looked around her open-concept studio. Wood floors, white walls and windows on three sides. Framed photos of dancers between the windows. Merely stepping into this space was enough to relax Darcy. This was her hard-won sanctuary where grief and fear were absolutely not allowed. She wondered what the doctor, with his expensive coat and patrician air, thought of the humble space. She wouldn’t call his expression disapproving, but he was a difficult man to read.

“Do you have children?” he asked.

She stiffened. An innocent enough question, but his tone bothered her—almost as if he was grilling her. I had a son, she might have answered. But that was none of his business. “No,” she said.

“Do you have experience working with children?”

“Not especially. But I’ve taught dance full-time for four years and I’ve danced professionally longer than that.” It annoyed her to have to defend herself to this man. She didn’t blame him for wanting to know more about the adult who’d be teaching his daughter, but his tone was accusational, as if he suspected her of something.

“Do you have any first-aid training?” he asked. “Do you know CPR?”

Having been the mother of an active boy had taught her plenty of first aid, and she had, in fact, taken a CPR course three years ago. But why did Dr. Carter want to know about that? “Is there a point to all these questions?” she asked.

“I’m concerned for my daughter’s safety, that’s all.”

“I assure you Taylor is perfectly safe here.” Did he really think belly dancing was dangerous?

“Dad!” Taylor’s tone was anguished. “You’re embarrassing me.”

His face flushed, and he gave Darcy a look that might have passed for apologetic. “I’ve tried to tell Taylor it’s a father’s job to embarrass his child, but she doesn’t agree.” He took out his wallet and handed her a card. “If you should need to get in touch with me.”

She took it. Michael Carter, M.D. Pediatric Specialist. He wasn’t just any doctor—he was a children’s doctor. Was he so cautious with Taylor because he spent his days seeing everything that could go wrong with children? “Thanks,” she said, and started to add the card to the pile of papers on the table just inside the door.

“Wait a minute.” He stopped her. “Just in case.” He took the card back and scribbled on it. “My cell number.” He returned it to her. “Nice meeting you,” he said, and took Taylor’s hand.

“Goodbye, Darcy,” Taylor called. “See you next week.”

“Goodbye, Taylor. Dr. Carter.” When they were gone, Darcy studied his business card again. Had Taylor’s father been coming on to her? Why else would he give her his number? After all, it wasn’t as if Taylor wouldn’t know her father’s phone number.

Still puzzling over the doctor’s strange behavior, she pulled a coat on over her costume and left the studio, which had once been a detached garage. Though the sun was shining in a Colorado blue sky, the forecast called for more snow by nightfall. She made a mental note to check that the snowblower had plenty of gas.

She walked out to the end of the driveway and collected her mail from the box, then climbed back up to the house. Painted in two shades of green, with a stone patio across the front, it had started life as a weekend getaway for some well-to-do Denverite. In the days before air-conditioning, city folks fled in the summer heat to rustic mountain cabins like this one in Woodbine.

Now they built second homes in Vail and Aspen, leaving the old cabins for people like Darcy to renovate and call home.

She pushed open the front door and shed her coat, pausing, as always, in front of the shelf tucked into an alcove by the door. A swath of bright green Indian silk covered the shelf, on which sat a statue of the Hindu goddess Kali. Cradled in the goddess’s many arms was a framed photo of a handsome man with bright red hair and a goatee, and a sandy-haired boy of six, who smiled out of the photo with all the joy and innocence of an angel.

Darcy kissed her finger, then touched the boy’s face, her heart tightening as always. The raw grief of missing these two—her husband and son—had lessened in the time since they’d both died in a car accident, but she still felt their absence keenly.

With one last look at the photo, she moved into the living room to sit on the sofa and sort the mail: junk, bill, magazine, junk, junk, bill, ju—She froze in the act of tossing the last letter onto the junk pile. She read the return address on the meter-stamped envelope: Colorado Donor Alliance, Denver.

She stared at it a long time, her insides liquid. Nightmare images filled her head—harsh hospital lighting, beeping monitors, the concern of a woman explaining about organ donation, a pile of paperwork … Darcy struggled to push the ugly memories away. Why were these people contacting her now, after two years?

“They probably just want a donation,” she muttered as she tore open the envelope with shaking hands.

Dear Mrs. O’Connor,

Your decision to give the ultimate gift of life by donating your son’s, Riley’s, organs, has saved the lives of several children. I hope you will take comfort in knowing that some small part of Riley lives on.

Your information and information about organ recipients is always kept in strictest confidence unless both parties give their permission for it to be released. Though some donor families wish to remain forever anonymous, others find closure in meeting the recipients of their gift.

We have recently been contacted by the family of the child who received your son’s heart. They would like to meet you, to personally thank you and to allow you to see the results of your decision.

We will be happy to facilitate such a meeting, if you so desire. If you prefer to maintain your anonymity, we will respect that also.

Sincerely,

Mavis Shehadi

Donor Coordinator

Darcy sank back on the sofa and stared, not at the letter in her hand, but at the framed eight-by-ten photo on the wall opposite. Riley, dressed in his green-and-yellow Little League uniform, a bat posed on one shoulder, his hat sitting at a jaunty angle over his blond curls, was frozen in a moment of six-year-old bravado. This was the image of a child who had never known prolonged pain or a moment’s real unhappiness.

Darcy had been assured he’d died without suffering. A head injury had damaged his brain, but his other organs had functioned long enough that they could be given to others. The Donor Alliance counselor had assured her that donating Riley’s heart, kidneys and liver might spare some other mother the agony Darcy had endured. Overwhelmed by grief and guilt, Darcy had signed the papers, numb to anything but the pain of losing her son. She was convinced she should have done more to save him. Saving his organs for others had seemed such a small thing at the time.

Only later, as some of the blackness receded, had she wondered about those children and their families. But she quickly decided she didn’t want to know.

The idea that part of Riley lived on somewhere was comforting in the abstract, but she was afraid hearing about the lives of those children would hurt too much. They got to live …. No amount of heartfelt thanks from other parents could ever make up for the fact that they had their children and she’d lost hers forever.

She’d received a couple of moving letters from grateful parents, their identities carefully blacked out. She’d put them away with other mementos that were too painful to look at—the funeral program, Riley’s last report card, his baseball cap.

So she’d never contacted the donor registry and hadn’t considered the possibility that they might contact her after all this time.

She reread the letter and waited for the familiar pain to overwhelm her. The guilt was still there, and the ache of longing, but the resentment had faded. That Riley had been taken from her was tremendously unfair, but she would never wish the loss she’d endured on another.

And to think that Riley’s heart lived on filled her with a flood of good memories. She had called Riley her sweetheart. When he did something kind for someone, she told him he had a good heart. Before he was born, she had listened to the beating of his heart in her doctor’s office and begun to know and love him as someone precious who was part of her, yet his own person.

Did Riley’s heart, beating in this other child, sound the same? Would Darcy recognize its rhythm?

What would she do if she did recognize something of Riley in this other child? The idea stopped her short.

If she met this child, she wouldn’t be anything like Riley, Darcy reassured herself. She had a vague recollection of the donor coordinator telling her Riley’s heart was going to a girl. And she would belong to other parents.

Grief was a kind of insanity she only recently felt she’d emerged from. Would meeting this child plunge her back into that darkness, making the loss of Riley fresh again?

She shook her head, and replaced the letter in the envelope. That wasn’t a risk she was willing to take. She’d write to the Donor Alliance and refuse. Maybe one day she’d be strong enough to meet one of the transplant children, but she wasn’t there yet.

“WHAT DID YOU THINK of Darcy, Dad?”

Mike glanced in the rearview mirror at his daughter. Taylor leaned forward in the backseat of the car, straining against the seat belt. Only recently had she been able to abandon the booster seat that had been a source of shame for her. Her health problems had left her undersized for her age. Strangers often mistook her for a much younger child. “Isn’t she awesome?”

Awesome was Taylor’s word of the moment, used to describe everything from her favorite song on the radio to the macaroni and cheese they’d had for dinner last night. And apparently her new dance teacher. “Ms. O’Connor seems very nice,” he said. Though not what he’d expected. “Belly dancer” conjured an image in his mind of someone dark and exotic; Darcy O’Connor was blond and blue-eyed with the kind of curves that would make any man take a second look. Even as concerned as he was for Taylor, Mike had had a hard time not staring.

“She’s so beautiful.” Taylor ran both hands through her dark curls. “I wish I had hair like hers.”

The idea of Taylor with blond curls like Darcy O’Connor almost made Mike smile. “Your hair is beautiful just the way it is,” he said.

“You only say that because you’re my dad.”

Mike felt a pang of regret. Not so long ago his compliments had meant the most simply because he was her dad. Now, apparently, they didn’t count for as much.

“I really like the other girls, too,” Taylor said. “A couple of them I recognized from school.”

“Are any of your friends in it?” he asked. Taylor didn’t talk much about her classmates. This hadn’t worried Mike before. Yes, all her hospitalizations had put her behind some of her classmates academically. Maybe that had hindered her socially, as well.

“Keisha and Monica are the only girls I really hang out with much at school,” Taylor said. “And neither of them is in the class. I think dancing might help me make more friends.”

The note of wistfulness in her voice tugged at his heart, and he felt the tightness in his chest from the old anger he could never completely bury. Why had his daughter been singled out for such cruelty? Why did she have to suffer so much? “I’m sure you’ll make friends,” he said.

“I think so.” She sat back in the seat. “It’s kind of special, you know? Being part of the dance group, I mean. I’ll bet a lot of girls wish they could be in it.”

Mike forced himself to loosen his grip on the steering wheel and reminded himself that in spite of everything, Taylor had been very lucky. She was alive, and likely to live a long, happy life, if she was careful. He turned onto Sycamore Street. “Did you remember to take your medicine?” he asked.

“Yes. I took it before class.”

“Good.” She’d been so excited about the dance class he’d been afraid she’d forget. It needed to be taken on a strict schedule. “I want you to be honest with me—you didn’t overdo it today, did you? The class wasn’t too strenuous?”

“No. It was fun. Darcy’s a really good dancer.”

Darcy again. Taylor was clearly captivated by her attractive teacher. “I imagine she’s been practicing for quite a few years.” Though how long could that be, really? Maybe her petite size made her look young for her age, but she hadn’t seemed a day over twenty-five to Mike. At thirty-six, he felt positively ancient next to her.

“If I start now, I could be that good by the time I graduate high school.”

“I thought you wanted to be a doctor.” He tried to keep his voice neutral.

“I do. But I could belly dance on the side. As a hobby.”

A belly dancing doctor. “That would certainly give your patients something to talk about.”

“Dad, please!” Taylor’s voice drifted toward an unpleasant whine. “You’re always telling people how important it is to exercise. Dancing will be good for me.”

It probably would. And she was bored with spending so much time at his office after school, where he worried she might come down with an opportunistic infection despite all his precautions. But he hadn’t found a sitter he trusted and he couldn’t leave Taylor at home alone.

Even two years out from her transplant surgery, she was still so vulnerable. How could he trust her with a woman he barely knew? “Like it or not, you’re always going to be more vulnerable than other people to illness,” he said. “What if something happened while you were in dance class? What if you have a reaction to one of your medications?”

“Dad, that only happened one time! And it was months ago.”

“But what if it happened? I don’t know if Darcy is prepared to handle that.”

“She would do the same thing they would do at school—she’d call nine-one-one.”

Taylor had to go to school, but Mike tried to keep her away from large groups of people otherwise. Maybe he was being overly cautious, or even silly, but he couldn’t help himself. The knowledge of everything that could go wrong, and the memory of how close he’d come to losing the most precious person to him, haunted him. “I’d be happier if you’d wait a little longer,” he said. The past two years had been a nightmare of hospital rooms and surgeries, antirejection drugs, infections and the constant fear that something as simple as a cold virus could undo all her progress.

“I just want to do something a normal kid would do.”

The plaintive words cut through him. Wasn’t that all he wanted, too—for his little girl to be happy and healthy, and to live a full, normal life? And she was doing better. She’d started growing, and it had been four months since she’d been sick a single day.

“I know,” he said. “And dance class will probably be fine. But if you have any problems at all …”

“I’ll have to quit. But I’ll be fine, I promise. Thank you, Daddy. I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.” All that love made making the right decisions for her even harder sometimes.

They pulled up to their townhome and Mike pressed the button to open the garage. He and Melissa had purchased the home shortly after their wedding. When they’d divorced they’d both agreed it would be better for Taylor to remain in the only home she’d ever known, and Melissa had moved into an apartment near the airport, convenient to her work. If not for Taylor, Mike would have moved, too. The house was one more reminder of dreams that hadn’t come true. He and Melissa had planned to raise a family in this home.

Taylor was out of the car as soon as Mike released the child locks. “I’m gonna call Mom and tell her about the class,” she called over her shoulder as she raced to the door.

Mike hoped Melissa would be able to answer Taylor’s call. If she was in the middle of a flight that wasn’t possible. Taylor could leave a message, but Melissa wasn’t always good about returning her calls right away.

He followed Taylor inside, stopping to hang his coat on the rack in the foyer, opposite the portrait of the three of them as a family. Melissa smiled straight into the camera; a younger Mike focused on the toddler in Melissa’s lap. Taylor, in a lacy white dress, had been barely two then. She was laughing up at Mike—the happiest baby in the world.

And he’d been the happiest man, just beginning his practice, starting a family. How naive he’d been.

Taylor’s illness had changed all that. Mike didn’t know if he’d ever trust happiness again. He’d always be waiting for the other shoe to drop. He’d emerged from more than two years in hell with his daughter safe, for now, but the perfect family was gone. The messiness—both emotional and physical—of dealing with a chronically ill child had ended a marriage already strained by Mike’s long hours at work and Melissa’s erratic schedule.

The failure to save his marriage still stung. Mike’s parents had been married more than forty years now, while his grandparents had lived to celebrate seventy-five years together. His two sisters both enjoyed long marriages. Only Mike had failed.

He didn’t blame Melissa. Mike had deserted her when she needed him most. He’d been too focused on Taylor and on keeping his practice going to have much left over for his wife.

He found Taylor in the living room, curled on one end of the sofa, the phone still in her lap. “Did you talk to your mom?” he asked.

“I had to leave a message.” Her shoulders drooped.

“I should talk to your mother about setting up a schedule to see you more often,” Mike said. As it was, Melissa flew in and out of town, and her daughter’s life, with no predictable regularity. Taylor missed her mother, though she seldom said it.

He and Melissa had agreed to family counseling to help Taylor deal with the divorce, but her frequent hospitalizations had interfered with those sessions, and Mike wasn’t sure how much good they’d done. Taylor seemed well adjusted to their situation, but how could he be sure?

Right now, Taylor looked as worried as he felt. She was chewing on her lower lip, an unattractive habit he’d tried to discourage. “Honey, is something wrong?”

She glanced at him, then away. “Mom told me something last time I saw her. She didn’t tell me not to tell you, but I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”

“What is it?” What had Melissa done that had Taylor so worried?

“She said she has a boyfriend. His name is Alex and he’s a pilot.”

“Oh.” He shifted in his chair, trying to get comfortable with the idea of his wife—he still thought of her that way sometimes—dating another man. The emotion that rose to the surface wasn’t so much jealousy as regret that things hadn’t worked out the way they were supposed to.

One of them ought to at least be happy; he wouldn’t begrudge Melissa that. “That’s good, honey,” he said. “Are you okay with it?”

“It would be nice if she had someone, so she wouldn’t be alone,” Taylor said thoughtfully. “I mean, you and I have each other, except …” The words trailed away.

“Except what?”

“Do you think you’ll ever get married again, Dad?”

Was Melissa close to marrying this guy? Was that why she’d mentioned him to Taylor? “I don’t plan on getting married again, honey,” he said. “Not for a very long time, anyway.” Not before Taylor was grown, if then. He’d already proved he was lousy at dividing his attention.

“I wouldn’t mind if you did,” she said. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind having a stepmom, if she was nice.”

So that’s what this was all about. Mike moved to sit beside his daughter and pulled her close. “I know you miss your mom,” he said. “There’s not much I can do about that, but I’m not sure a stepmom is the answer. You and I will just have to muddle along like we have been.” He kissed the top of her head.

“I’m okay, Dad.” She squirmed around to look up at him. “Really. I just thought you might, you know, be lonely sometimes.”

Yes, he was lonely sometimes, but he’d survive. “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart,” he said. Life demanded sacrifices sometimes. Right now his priorities were Taylor and his medical practice, in that order. Any woman in his life would be shortchanged. He wouldn’t put himself or anyone else through that hurt again.

CHAPTER TWO

“SISTER, DEAR, if you lived a more normal life, this kind of thing wouldn’t happen.”

Darcy helped her older brother, Dave, wrestle the snowblower from the snowbank where it had skidded and stopped working. “I do—” puff “—have a normal—” puff “—life,” she said. “At least it’s not abnormal.”

“If you had a normal life you’d store your snowblower in your garage instead of using the space for a dance studio. Then parts wouldn’t rust and you wouldn’t have to call me to come to the rescue.”

“You love playing the big, strong hero and you know it.” She folded her arms over her chest and watched him tinker with something on the snowblower. “Can you fix it?”

“What do you mean, can I fix it? Of course I can fix it.”

“Can you fix it today? In time to finish my driveway before my evening classes?”

“No, I cannot.” He reached in and yanked something loose and held it up. “I’m going to have to order this part. Depending on how hard it is to find or how long it takes to ship from the factory, you may be shoveling for a few weeks.”

She groaned. Not that she wasn’t capable of shoveling out her driveway, but it took a lot longer than running the snowblower, not to mention she almost always ended up hurting her back. “I don’t suppose you’d let me borrow your snowblower in the meantime?”

“I’m not even that generous with my girlfriend, much less my sister.” He straightened and wiped his hands on his pants. “Maybe you ought to put on one of those belly dancing costumes and see if you can persuade some big, strong guy to shovel for you. Either that, or pray it doesn’t snow again between now and whenever the part comes in.”

“Or I’ll just shovel it myself. And speaking of girlfriends, how is Carrie?” Dave and Carrie Kinkaid had dated on and off for five years. Lately it was definitely more on than off.

“Carrie is fine. She dyed her hair red and it looks great. I told her it was like dating a new woman without all the first-date trauma.”

“You’re such a romantic. When are you two going to get married?”

“Why should we get married? Things are good between us the way they are.”

“You can’t just date each other forever.”

“Why not? Seems like our family does a lot better at dating than marriage.”

Darcy grimaced. Whereas it bothered her that their family had so many failed relationships, Dave seemed to take a perverse pride in their poor track record. “Somebody ought to be the first to break the family curse,” she said. “Why not you?”

“You beat me to it,” he said. “You were a great wife and an even better mom.”

He meant to cheer her up with the compliment, but it only served to remind her of what might have been. “Pete and I didn’t have a perfect marriage.” Toward the end, especially, they’d had big problems, problems that only added to Darcy’s guilt.

“Who does? But you made it work. And I never saw anyone happier than you were with Riley.”

She nodded, afraid her voice might break if she tried to say anything. From the time she was a girl she’d wanted to be a mom. She’d loved babysitting and was always ready to help with her younger cousins. When Riley had been born she’d been over the moon. She hadn’t meant for him to be an only child, but the time had never been right for another baby, though before the accident she’d decided she and Pete should try for another child soon.

Dave left the snowblower and put his hand on her shoulder. “You should have more kids,” he said. “Not to replace Riley, but because you were meant to be a mother.”

She shook her head. “I think maybe … I’m the type of person who’s better off without that kind of responsibility.” How could she bear to love another child, knowing that at any moment she could do the wrong thing—make the wrong choice—and he could be taken away from her?

“That’s crazy.”

“No crazier than you not wanting to marry the woman you love.”

“Right.” He took his hand from her shoulder. “Then I guess we’re just a family of loony tunes. Come on—find me a shovel and I’ll help clear your driveway.”

“Now that’s the way to be a good brother.”

He grinned. “It’s just an excuse to hang around until your adult students start to show up in their skimpy costumes.”

She swatted his back. “Don’t you dare ogle my dancers.”

“Why not? Some of them might like it.”

“I’m going to tell Carrie you said that.”

“She doesn’t care if I look. And don’t try to pretend you don’t like it when men look—otherwise, you wouldn’t dress in those costumes.”

She sighed. “Okay, I’ll admit it. I worked hard for these abs, and I don’t mind showing them off. But that is not all dancing is about.”

“If you say so.”

He dodged her next blow and grabbed up the snow shovel. “If you want the driveway done, step out of my way. And be nice to me. I’m the only man in your life right now, so you might want to keep me around.”

“Sure. But only for your muscles.”

“You know you love me.”

“I do love you.” Sometimes it was nice to have a little testosterone around the house, even if he was related to her. Men, like children, had a different perspective on life. She hadn’t always agreed with Pete’s point of view about things, but sometimes he had helped her see a situation in a new light, and that was probably healthy.

But the opportunity to hear the male perspective wasn’t a big enough benefit to risk another botched relationship. She might joke with Dave about breaking the family curse, but she believed in that curse. Maybe she and Dave and the rest of her relatives weren’t meant for the lifelong monogamy she’d always idealized, in the same way some people didn’t have a talent for math or a good sense of direction.

She’d never been much of a gambler, but since the accident all she wanted was to play it safe. If that meant being alone, well, there were worse things in the world. Whoever said it was better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all didn’t know what he was talking about.

THE STUDENTS ARRIVED for their Wednesday afternoon dance class in a rush of cold wind and chaos. Most of them, including Taylor, walked up the hill to Darcy’s house from the bus stop, and surged into the studio, wrestling off backpacks, coats and shoes, chattering like a flock of parrots. Darcy stood to one side and watched, letting the energy and vitality of these young people wash over her.

When their conversation had subsided to a low murmur, Darcy stepped to the front of the room and clapped her hands. “Today we’re going to start learning the routine you’ll perform for your parents and friends in April,” she announced. “Everyone in your places so we can get started.”

Music up, Darcy led the way through the first few moves of the routine she’d choreographed with the girls in mind. The moves were simple but lovely, challenging enough to keep them entertained and to impress their families, and a foundation they could build on if they decided to continue studying belly dance. She watched in the mirror as they practiced the moves, the girls all smiles. Next to her, Taylor was grinning so broadly Darcy wondered it didn’t hurt.

“What kind of costumes will we wear in the show?” Debby asked from the back row as they practiced moving their hips in a figure-eight pattern.

“You can wear a skirt or pants and a top, and a hip scarf with coins,” Darcy said. “Something similar to what the adult dancers wear.”

“My mom said she’d make me a pink costume,” Jane’s daughter Hannah said.

“Where do you get a costume?” Zoe asked. “Can you just buy one?”

“You probably already have some skirts and tops at home you can use,” Darcy said. “Your moms—or dads—can decorate them with sequins or beads.” She smiled at the thought of Dr. Mike sewing sequins on a tiny top.

“What color costume do you want, Taylor?” Hannah asked.

Taylor shrugged.

“Well, what’s your favorite color?” Hannah persisted.

“Purple.”

While the others discussed the merits of skirts versus pants and sequins versus beads, Darcy was aware that Taylor had become very quiet. Her smile had vanished, and she seemed almost to have shrunk into herself. “Is something wrong, sweetie?” Darcy asked.

Taylor shook her head, not meeting Darcy’s eyes.

Clearly something was wrong. “Are you worried about your costume?” she asked. Maybe Taylor thought Mike would object to her wearing one. Or that a dad wasn’t qualified to help her put one together. Darcy bent low, and whispered, “I’ll help you find the right thing to wear. Don’t worry.”

Taylor nodded, though she didn’t look much happier.

“Darcy, will you dance for us, please?” Liz asked.

“Yes, please! We want to see you dance!”

The other girls added their pleas.

Darcy had planned to finish out class with a version of Simon Says using dance moves, but it would be fun to perform for the girls. She could show them some of the things they’d be able to do if they continued to study and practice. “All right,” she said. “Everyone sit on the floor at the back of the studio and I’ll dance for you.”

“With the sword,” Kira said.

“Not with the sword,” Darcy said. “With a veil.” She plucked a large gauzy blue silk one, spangled with sequins, from a shelf near the door. “Now just give me a minute to find the right music.” She felt a familiar tickle of excitement low in her stomach. Nothing like performing for an appreciative audience to make a dancer want to do her best.

ON WEDNESDAYS, Mike closed his office early. Most of the time he and Taylor did something special together. They went to the movies or out for pizza. Now that she was in dance class, he missed her more than he’d imagined. The office seemed emptier without her chatter, and he felt at loose ends, wondering what she was up to, and if she was all right. In a few more weeks he’d adjust to the change in routine, just as he’d adjusted to her return to school after her last hospitalization and her overnight visits with her mother. But for now her absence left him unsettled.

Nicole stopped in the doorway of his office. “Your last patient is ready,” the nurse said.

Grateful for the distraction of work, Mike headed for Exam Room One, where nine-year-old Brent Jankowski waited, along with his mom, Sarah, and three younger sisters. “What’s up with you today, Brent?” Mike asked, glancing at the boy’s chart.

“I have a cold.” Brent sniffed.

“I hate to bother you with such a silly thing.” Sarah looked up from tying her youngest’s—Emily’s—shoe. “But you did tell us we should come in for any sign of illness at all.”

“Yes, it’s smart to be careful.” Mike put his stethoscope to Brent’s chest and listened. There, under the normal lub-dub of the heart was a soft, sighing sound—a leaky heart valve. It was just the sort of defect that could lead to bigger problems down the road. Even something as routine as a common cold could turn more serious for Brent, as it had for Taylor. Fortunately, advanced diagnostics had caught the problem earlier and new treatment protocols promised a more favorable outcome than Taylor’s.

Mike moved the stethoscope to listen to the boy’s lungs, then checked his ears and throat. “There’s bronchitis setting in,” he said. “I’m going to prescribe a heavy-duty decongestant. We’ll try to avoid antibiotics for now, but if he starts running a fever above a hundred, call me right away.”

“All right. Thanks.”

As he typed the prescription into the computer, he marveled at Sarah Jankowski’s calm. He started imagining worst-case scenarios every time Taylor sneezed. Maybe Sarah’s blasé attitude came from having four children instead of only one.

He’d wanted more children, despite his long work hours, but Melissa had been as reluctant as he was to take time off from her job and felt one child was plenty.

He saw the Jankowskis to the front desk, then glanced at the clock. He still had a few minutes before it was time to pick Taylor up from her class, but it wouldn’t hurt if he arrived early.

When he pulled into the driveway and switched off the car he could hear music coming from the garage-turned-studio. He could make out drums and some kind of high-pitched instrument, maybe a flute. Smiling to himself, he slid out of the car. He’d just peek in, try to catch a glimpse of Taylor dancing without her realizing he was watching.

Snow crunched under his feet as he followed the path to the studio. He slipped through the foyer to a second door behind which the music throbbed. He eased it open and peeked inside.

But instead of watching Taylor and the other students, he found himself staring at Darcy, her back to the door, performing for a wide-eyed group of girls.

Moving slowly and gracefully, Darcy swayed in rhythm to the music, hips rolling, arms tracing patterns in the air. The exotic music, the sparkle of sequins and shimmer or silk, even the faint incense in the air, worked a spell on Mike. He felt as if he’d plummeted through a trapdoor from his everyday life to this erotic new world. Darcy twirled a veil around her, hiding, then revealing the curve of her hip, the smooth paleness of her bare back, the gentle roundness of her belly, the swell of cleavage above the sequined bra top. Mike’s heart pounded and he had trouble breathing, but he made no attempt to turn away.

His life was so devoid of the feminine. The sexual. He wasn’t the type of man who looked at magazine centerfolds or visited topless bars. He hadn’t dated since his divorce, his life consumed by work and caring for his daughter. The sexual side of him was there, but it wasn’t convenient or practical to think about it. Watching Darcy, he was thinking about it now.

The tempo of the song increased. Drums pounded and flutes trilled. Darcy whirled, hips bouncing, the bells on the blue scarf knotted over low-slung blue velvet pants chiming furiously. Mike stared, mesmerized, as she undulated and shimmied, hips, then stomach, then chest. Trying to regain his composure, he lowered his gaze to the floor, watching her feet, but this was no help; Darcy even had sexy feet, small with high arches and pink-painted toenails.

The music ended abruptly, with a drumroll. Darcy froze, arms over her head, breathing hard. The girls erupted into applause. “That was so awesome!” Taylor gushed. “Dad, wasn’t that fantastic?”

All eyes turned toward the door, including Darcy’s. Mike felt as guilty as a schoolboy, but tried not to show it. He stepped into the room. “That was … very impressive,” he said.

Taylor ran to greet him, swinging on his hand. “Wouldn’t it be great if I could do that?”

The thought of his little girl shimmying and undulating to exotic music, dressed in a skimpy costume, made Mike queasy. Of course Taylor had to grow up someday, but she was only ten ….

His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Darcy laughed. “Go easy on your father, Taylor. Dads have a hard time thinking of their daughters as all grown-up.”

She couldn’t know how especially hard it was for him, after having once faced the very real possibility that Taylor would never grow up at all.

He turned to her. “I hope you don’t mind that I watched your dance. I got here early and heard the music and thought I might catch a glimpse of Taylor.”

“Of course I don’t mind,” she said. “I’m used to performing for an audience.”

“Do you do shows often? I mean, for the public?”

“I dance at a restaurant in Denver—Arabica—most Friday evenings. You’re welcome to come watch anytime.” Her eyes sparkled. Was she flirting with him?

He smiled. “I might do that sometime.” Not that he would, but there was no harm in pretending. It felt good to interact with a woman who wasn’t the mother of one of his patients or Taylor’s teacher.

Other parents began arriving and Darcy turned to greet them. There was a flurry of donning coats and finding backpacks, then calls of “Goodbye!” and “See you next week!”

Then Taylor was at Mike’s side, tugging at his hand. “Dad!”

“What is it, hon?”

“I forgot to take my meds before class.” Worry made a deep V between her brows. “I thought about it on the bus, but then when we got here I was so excited …”

“It’s okay.” He patted her shoulder, as much to reassure himself as her. True, the medications were supposed to be taken at regular intervals, but there was nothing to be done about it right now. Later, at home, he’d emphasize to Taylor again the importance of keeping on schedule. Maybe he could set up a reminder on her phone. “You can take them now.” He turned to Darcy, who was closing the studio door behind the rest of the parents. “Could Taylor have a glass of water?” he asked. “She needs to take some pills.”

“Pills?” Darcy looked at Taylor, who blushed and stared at the floor. “Of course. Come up to the house with me.”

DARCY LED the way up the path to her house, hurrying her steps, aware of the anxiety radiating from the girl at her heels. Taylor looked so ordinary and healthy—why would she need to take pills?

“One glass of water, coming up,” she said once they were in the kitchen. She got a glass from the cabinet, while Taylor opened her backpack on the kitchen table. Mike stood just inside the door, hands shoved in his trouser pockets, studying the photograph in Kali’s arms.

“The boy looks like you,” he said.

Darcy turned from the sink, glass of water in her hand. “Excuse me?”

Mike nodded at the picture of Pete and Riley. “The boy looks like you. He has your eyes.”

Darcy handed the glass to Taylor. “That’s my son. Riley. And his father, Pete. They were both killed in a car wreck two years ago.” There was no easy way to reveal this tragedy—better to say it straight out.

“Oh.” He was clearly shocked. “I’m very sorry.”

“Thank you.” The kindness in his eyes touched the tender spot inside her where the pain was still raw. She looked away, focusing on Taylor. “What kind of pills do you have to take?”

Taylor pulled a pill case from her backpack—the plastic kind with multiple compartments. “This is Gengraf and that one is CellCept. This is prednisone, that’s quinine and this one is Zantac.” She rattled off the names of the drugs as if she was reciting a list of favorite music groups or the names of relatives.

“You take all these every day?” Darcy asked, stunned.

“Most of them three times a day—the prednisone and quinine only once. I was taking some drugs five times. Dad says as I get older, I should be able to get down to taking meds only twice a day, and some of them I should be able to stop altogether.”

Darcy swallowed a calcium pill at breakfast and the occasional pain reliever for cramps. She couldn’t imagine a life of ingesting what amounted to the stock of a small pharmacy every day. Mike was frowning at the array of pills laid out in front of his daughter. “Why does she need all this?” Darcy asked.

“The Gengraf and CellCept are antirejection drugs,” Taylor said, ignoring that the question hadn’t been directed at her. “But they give me leg cramps, so that’s why I take the quinine. The prednisone upsets my stomach, so I take the Zantac for that. The prednisone also used to make my face swell, but not so much anymore.”

She spoke matter-of-factly, as if this was all normal. Darcy continued to stare at Mike. He raised his eyes from the line of pills and met Darcy’s gaze. She was struck again by the sadness there. “Two years ago, Taylor had a heart transplant,” he said. “She’s doing great now, but the medications are an important part of her treatment.”

“A heart transplant.” Darcy lowered herself into a chair at the kitchen table, suddenly too weak to stand. She swallowed, trying to bring moisture into her too-dry mouth. In a voice that to her ears didn’t sound like her own, she said, “So—she received a heart from a donor?”

“A boy.” Taylor popped the last pill into her mouth and drained the last of the water. “We don’t know his name, but he was six years old.” She set the empty glass on the table. “Thank you for the water.”

Darcy closed her eyes, fighting dizziness. That was a mistake. As soon as her eyes closed, scenes from her last moments with Riley flashed in front of her. Riley lying still and small in the hospital bed, the only sound the whir and beep of the machines that kept his heart beating. The Donor Alliance coordinator with a sheaf of paperwork, explaining the donation procedure. The doctors think they have a match for your son’s heart. A little girl.

“Darcy, are you all right?”

She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up into Mike’s eyes. “Do you feel faint?” he asked. “You’re white as a sheet.”

Darcy shook her head and studied Taylor, who stood apart, eyes wide. “The boy who donated your heart—you don’t know his name?”

Taylor looked at her dad. “I don’t think they ever told us.”

“No,” Mike said. “That information is kept confidential unless both families agree for it to be released.”

Darcy stood, a little shakily. “Maybe you’d better sit back down,” Mike said. “You still seem very pale.”

She shook her head and crossed to the basket beneath the telephone where she kept the mail. She sorted through the stack of bills and flyers and unearthed the cream-colored envelope from the Donor Alliance. “Read that,” she said, handing it to Mike.

He pulled out the letter and stared at it. Darcy kept her eyes on the floral pattern of the tiles on her kitchen floor. She focused on breathing slowly through her nose, inhaling the aroma of basil and oregano from last night’s spaghetti dinner, and the faint strawberry-shampoo scent of Taylor. Taylor, who was standing here today because a boy had died, a boy like Riley.

Mike folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. “When did your son die?” he asked.

“January twenty-first, two thousand and eight.”

“The same day as my transplant,” Taylor said. She took a step closer to Darcy. “Do you think I have his heart?”

“Except that I never contacted the donor registry,” Mike said. “It’s possible there were two transplants performed that day.”

“Oh.” Darcy hadn’t thought of that. She was surprised at how disappointed she felt.

“Dad?”

Both adults turned to the girl, who looked as if she’d just been caught cheating on a math test. “I … I wrote a letter to the Donor Alliance.”

“You did?” Mike frowned. “When?”

“A few weeks ago. I’ve been thinking a lot about the boy who gave me his heart and … and I just wanted to know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Mike said, clearly stricken.

“I didn’t want to upset you,” Taylor said. “You always said it would be better not to know my donor’s identity, that the family deserved their privacy. But I really wanted to know.” She bit her lower lip. “I took some stationery from your desk and pretended to be you. I thought if the donor family wrote back and said they wanted to meet me, then I’d tell you and it would be all right.”

“You lied, Taylor,” Mike said. “That’s wrong.”

“But I thought it didn’t really matter, since the donor family never answered.”

“It’s not that I didn’t want to know about the child who got Riley’s heart,” Darcy said. “I just … I guess I was afraid. That it might be too hard.”

Mike put his hand on her shoulder. She wanted to lean into that comforting weight, to draw strength from him. “I’m sorry this has upset you,” he said.

“It’s all right.” Taylor still looked guilty, and a little scared. “Really, it’s fine,” Darcy said. “I’ll admit it was a shock, but if you do have Riley’s heart, I’m glad. Truly, I am.”

“We don’t know for sure your son was Taylor’s donor,” Mike said.

“That’s true,” Darcy said. The transplant had been performed at Denver Children’s Hospital. The recipient of Riley’s heart could have come from anywhere in the area, even from Wyoming. But the timing couldn’t be a coincidence. How likely was it that two heart transplants had been performed that fateful day?

“What did you say your son’s name was?” Taylor asked.

“Riley. He was big for his age. Maybe his heart was a little bigger too, and that’s why it was a good fit for you.” Darcy glanced at Mike. “Could that be right?”

“Yes, it could.”

“Do you have a picture of Riley?” Taylor asked.

“Over there.” Darcy nodded at the picture of Riley and Pete by the door. “But there’s a better one in here.” She led the way to the living room, and the portrait of Riley in his baseball uniform. “That was taken a couple of weeks before … before the accident.”

“He’s cute,” Taylor said. “I like his freckles.”

“I imagine the two of you could have been friends,” Darcy said. When he’d died, Riley had been at the age where he thought of girls as “icky” but maybe by now he’d see them differently. Darcy swallowed hard. No. She couldn’t let her thoughts dwell on what might have been. Mike had joined them in the living room. “Why did Taylor need the transplant?” she asked.

His sadness intensified. Had she been out of line to ask him to recall what must have been a terrifying time? But it was too late to take back the question now. “When she was nine she developed cardiomyopathy,” he said. “An inflammation of the heart muscle. It’s usually caused by some kind of infection, but we’re not sure what caused it or where it came from. By the time hers was diagnosed, the heart muscle was damaged beyond repair.”

“How horrible.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “How could a pediatrician have missed such a serious illness in his own daughter? But it’s not like the flu or an infected toenail. And Taylor isn’t the type to complain.”

“I wasn’t thinking any such thing,” she said. Mike clearly adored his daughter. But she recognized his guilt—those silent accusations that intimated her son would be okay today if she had only been a better parent.

“There’s no danger now,” Mike said. “As long as Taylor’s careful and remembers to take her medication.”

“I was distracted today,” Taylor said, blushing. “I won’t forget again.” She glanced at Darcy. “Dad’s always worried I’m going to overdo it, or that I’ll catch some infection from someone. He doesn’t even like me to go to the mall.”

“He wants to protect you,” Darcy said. “It’s what parents do.”

“I think it’s ‘cause he’s a doctor,” Taylor said. “He sees sick people all day and reads medical journals full of articles about horrible diseases, then he imagines everything bad that can happen.”

That wasn’t it, Darcy thought. Mike knew all the bad things that could happen because he’d lived them. Children weren’t supposed to have to get new hearts to stay alive, but his had. Who could blame him for fearing the worst after that? “You’re lucky to have a father who cares so much.”

Mike sent her a look of gratitude and sympathy. How had she ever lumped him with the arrogant and distant physicians she’d encountered? Though in truth, maybe even those doctors weren’t so bad, and her impressions were colored by the circumstances.

Still, Mike was different. Losing a child, or almost losing one, left scars only someone who had been through the same thing could understand. “Come on, Taylor, it’s time we went home,” Mike said. “Back to your life of drudgery and oppression.”

Taylor rolled her eyes.

Darcy walked them to the door. Taylor ran ahead to the car, but Mike paused for a moment. “Will you contact the Donor Alliance?” he asked.

“Yes. Just to confirm our suspicions.”

“I’m sorry if this has upset you.”

She glanced past him, at Taylor climbing into the backseat of the car. She’d been drawn to Taylor from their first meeting. Was it because she recognized something of her son in the child? “I’m glad you were able to find a donor for her, even if it wasn’t Riley.”

“Thank you.” He joined her in watching Taylor. “She’s right,” he said. “I do worry too much. I can’t seem to help it.”

“Maybe you’ll worry less as she gets older.” And stronger. Surely every year past the surgery meant a better prognosis for Taylor. Mike would see his daughter grow up, and all the worry would be worth that joy. At least that’s what she imagined she’d feel if their roles were reversed.

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