In a like manner, he stopped the tape and threw the recorder down onto the bed. "Take it." Looking scornfully at the tangled bed linens, he added, "You earned it."

"Doc, listen. I-"

"You got what you were after. A good story." Pushing her aside, he picked up his jeans and angrily thrust his legs into them.

"Will you stop with the righteous indignation and listen?"

He flung his hand toward the incriminating recorder.

"I've heard enough. Did you get everything? All the juicy details of my personal life? I'm surprised you've tarried this long. I'd've thought you'd jog back to Dallas if necessary just so you could start assembling all the good material you've got on me."

He buttoned the fly of his jeans and yanked his shirt off the floor. "Oh, no, wait. You wanted to get fucked first.

After Joe what's-his-name turned out to be a dud, your ego needed reinforcing."

The insult smarted and she reacted to it by striking back. "Who came to whose room? I didn't track you down.

You came here, remember?"

He cursed when he couldn't find but one sock. He shoved his foot into his boot without it.

"Nor is it my fault that you're a good story," she shouted.

"I don't want to be a story. I never did."

"Too bad, Doc. You are. You simply are. Once notori ous, you're now a hero. You saved lives last night. Do you think that'll go unnoticed? Those kids and their parents are going to talk about 'Doc.' So are the other hostages.

Any reporter worth his paycheck is going to be clamoring for the lowdown. Even your friend Montez won't be able to shield you from the publicity. You would've made news no matter what. But since 'Doc' is the reclusive Dr.

Bradley Stanwick, you're big news. Huge news."

He gestured toward the recorder again. "But you've got them all beat, don't you? Is there another recorder under the bed? Were you hoping to get titillating pillow talk?"

"Go to hell."

"I wouldn't put anything past you."

"I was doing my job."

"And here I thought I was speaking confidentially. But you're going to use it, aren't you? The stuff I thought I was confiding to you?"

"You're damn right I am!"

His jaw flexed with rage. He glared at her for several seconds, then marched toward the door. Tiel barged after him, grabbed his arm, and pulled him around. "It could be the best thing that ever happened to you."

He yanked his arm free of her grasp. "I fail to see that."

"It could force you to face up to the fact that you were wrong to run away. Last… last night," she said, stuttering in her haste to make her point before he stormed out.

"You told Ronnie that he couldn't run away from his problems.

That running from them was no solution. But isn't that exactly what you did?

"You moved out here and buried your head in this West Texas sand, refusing to accept what you know to be true.

That you're a gifted healer. That you could make a difference.

That you were making a difference. For patients and families facing a death sentence, you were granting reprieves.

God knows what you could do in the future.

"But because of your pride, and anger, and disillusionment with your colleagues, you abandoned it. You threw out the baby with the bathwater. If this story draws you back into the limelight, if there's a chance it will motivate you to return to your practice, then I'll be damned before I'll apologize for it."

He turned his back on her and opened the door.

"Doc?" she cried.

But all he said was, "Your ride is here."

Tiel's cubicle in the newsroom was a disaster area. It usually was, but more so now than usual. She had received hundreds of notes, cards, and letters from colleagues and viewers, complimenting her excellent coverage of the Davison-Dendy story and commending her for the heroic role she'd played in it. Many were yet to be opened. They had been piled into wobbly, uneven stacks.

There weren't enough surfaces to accommodate the number of floral arrangements delivered over the past week, so she had distributed them to offices and conference areas throughout the building.

Vern and Gladys had sent her a mail-order cheesecake that would have fed five thousand. The newsroom staff had gorged themselves, and there was still more than half left.

As anticipated, she had been the center of attention, and not only on a local level. She had been interviewed by reporters from global news operations, including CNN and Bloomberg. Because of the compelling human ele ment, the love story, the emergency birth of the baby, and the dramatic denouement, the story had piqued the interest of TV audiences all over the world.

She'd been asked by a local car dealership to do their commercials, an offer she declined. National women's magazines were proposing feature articles on everything from her secrets of success to the decor of her house. She was the undeclared Woman of the Week.

And she had never been more miserable.

She was making a futile stab at clearing off her desk when Gully joined her. "Hey, kid."

"I took the rest of the cheesecake to the cafeteria and left it there on a first come, first served basis."

"I got the last piece."

"Your arteries will never forgive me."

"Have I told you what a great job you did?"

"It's always nice to hear."

"Great job."

"Thanks. But it's left me drained. I'm tired."

"You look it. In fact you look like hammered shit." She tossed him a dirty glance over her shoulder. "Just calling it like I see it."

"Didn't your mother ever tell you that some things are better left unsaid?"

"What's the matter with you?"

"I told you, Gully, I'm-"

"You're not just tired. I know tired, and this isn't tired.

You should be lit up like a Christmas tree. You're not your normal, hyperactive, supercharged self. Is it Linda Harper? Are you sulking because she got the jump on you and stole some of your thunder?"

"No." She methodically ripped open another envelope and read the congratulatory note inside. I love your reports on the TV. You're my roll [sic] model. I want to be just like you when I grow up. I like your hair too.

Gully said, "I can't believe you didn't recognize the Doc of standoff fame as Dr. Bradley Stanwick."

"Hmm."

Gully continued, undaunted in spite of her seeming disinterest. "Let me put it another way. I don't believe you didn't recognize him as Dr. Bradley Stanwick."

The change in Gully's tone of voice was unmistakable, and there was no way to avoid addressing it. She laid down the note from the girl who identified herself as Kimberly, a fifth-grader, and slowly swiveled her chair around to face Gully.

He looked down at her for a long moment. Her eyes never wavered. Neither said anything.

Finally, he dragged his hand down his face, the sagging skin stretching like a rubber Halloween mask. "I suppose you had your reasons for protecting his identity."

"He asked me not to."

"Oh." He slapped his forehead with his palm. "Of course! What's wrong with me? The subject of the story said, `I don't want to be on TV,' so, naturally, you omitted an important element of the story."

"It didn't cost your news operation anything, Gully."

Her mood testy, she stood up and began tossing personal items into her bag in preparation of leaving. "Linda got it.

So what are you complaining about?"

"Was I complaining? Did you hear me complaining?"

"It sounded like complaining."

"I'm just curious as to why my ace reporter wimped out on me."

"I didn't-"

"You wimped! Big-time. I want to know why."

She spun around to confront him. "Because it got…"

She stopped shouting, drew herself up, took a deep breath, and ended on a much softer note. "Complicated."