The Crush by Sandra Brown
Prologue
Dr. Lee Howell's home telephone rang at 2:07 A.m.
His wife, Myrna, who was sleeping beside him, grumbled into her pillow. "Who's that? You're not on call tonight."
The Howells had been in bed barely an hour.
Their poolside party had broken up around midnight. By the time they'd gathered up the debris and empty margarita glasses, stored the perishable leftovers in the fridge, and visited their sleeping son's room to give him a good-night kiss, it was nearing one o'clock.
As they undressed they had congratulated themselves on hosting a successful get-together. The grilled steaks had been only a little tough, and the new electric mosquito zapper had sizzled all evening, keeping the insect population to a minimum.
All things considered, a good party.
The Howells had felt mellow but agreed that they were too exhausted even to think about having sex, so they'd kissed each other good night, then turned to their respective sides of the bed and gone to sleep.
Despite the shortness of time Dr. Howell had been asleep, his slumber, assisted by several margaritas, had been deep and dreamless. Yet when the telephone rang he was instantly awake, alert, and responsive, as years of conditioning had trained him to be. He reached for the phone.
"Sorry, hon. A patient may have taken a bad turn."
She nodded grudging assent into her pillow.
Her husband's reputation as an excellent surgeon wasn't based solely on his operating-room skills. He was dedicated to his patients and interested in their well-being before, during, and after their surgeries.
Although it was unusual for him to be telephoned at home in the middle of the night when he wasn't the doctor on call, it wasn't altogether rare. This inconvenience was one of the small prices Mrs.Howell was willing to pay for the privilege of being married to the man she loved who also happened to be in demand and well respected in his field.
"Hello?"
He listened for several moments, then kicked off the covers and swung his feet to the floor.
"How many?" Then, "Jesus. Okay, all right.
I'm on my way." He hung up and left the bed.
"What?"
"I've gotta go." He didn't turn on the lamp as he moved toward the chair where he'd left the pair of Dockers he'd been wearing earlier in the evening. "Everybody on staff has been called in."
Mrs. Howell came up on one elbow.
"What's happened?"
Serving a busy metropolitan area, Tarrant GeneralHospital was constantly on alert to handle major disasters. The staff had been trained to provide immediate emergency treatment to victims of airplane crashes, tornadoes, terrorist attacks. By comparison this night's emergency was mundane.
"Big pileup in the mix-master. Several vehicles involved." Howell shoved his bare feet into a pair of Dock-Sides, which he loved and his missus despised. He had owned those shoes for as long as she had known him and refused to part with them, saying the leather was just now molding to his feet and becoming comfortable.
"A real mess. A tanker trailer overturned and it's burning," he said as he pulled his golf shirt over his head. "Dozens of casualties, and most are being sent to our emergency room."
He strapped on his wristwatch and clipped his pager to the waistband of his slacks, then leaned down to kiss her. Missing her mouth, he caught her between nose and cheek. "If I'm still there at breakfast time, I'll call and update you. Go back to sleep."
As her head resettled into the pillow, she murmured, "Be careful."
"Always am."
Before he got downstairs, she had already fallen back to sleep.