"This, Ellen Mayfield," she crowed, "is the day you've dreamed of."

The self-proclaimed SSS Auxiliary by dint of her widowhood, which she likened to divorce without the alimony, Cindy was as pale as Ellen was dark, a bone-thin, sallow, dishwater blond with a taste for sequins and studs and hair that was moussed into a cockatoo's crest. Cindy wasn't a particularly good nurse, but she was slavishly devoted to her friends in the SSS, especially Ellen, who pardoned her small sins and enjoyed her bad jokes.

"Okay," Barb announced, pulling away the pen Timmie was still clicking. "For Billy I prescribe IVs, high colonics, and a fire hose. I'll leave it up to you to decide where to put what."

"Barb, stop," Ellen demurred. "He could really be sick."

"After that," Barb continued with a mad gleam in her eye, "we'll admit him so we can really start to torture him."

"Now, honey," Ellen objected. "You really mean all he needs is Compazine and fluids so he can stop vomiting, don't you?"

Timmie winced.

Barb went on four-point alert. "You're in serious jeopardy of losing your SSS secret decoder ring," she warned.

"Let me do it," Cindy offered, bouncing like Tigger. "As long as I can put on gloves before inserting the hose."

"No thanks, hon," Ellen said, a hand up. "I have trouble enough with him without you-all helpin' me out."

"Wuss," Barb accused easily.

"Traitor," Cindy echoed.

"Just make sure you wait to give him the Compazine until after he's signed his child support payment," Timmie advised, and finally got Ellen to really smile.

Watching Ellen head down the hall, the three women shook their heads. Timmie grabbed her pen back and updated her notes.

"She really is too nice for her own good," Barb despaired.

"No kidding," Cindy retorted with a sad shake of her head. "I ask you. Compassion and empathy. What kind of reaction is that to the best news of the month?"

Barb patted Cindy's Wal-Mart-ringed hand. "I promise to be much more appreciative when you tell me my ex is down there hawking up his liver, okay?"

Cindy's smile was conspiratorial. "I'll see what I can do."

They all laughed.

"Now that's what I like to hear," a soft baritone announced from the doorway.

Timmie wasn't sure whether to hide or run. Her wait was over. Alex Raymond was here. And looking like every one of her very old daydreams, too. He strode down the hall in hunting jacket, jodhpurs, and boots, tailored to perfection, disheveled enough to be real. Golden hair, golden eyes, golden boy. Six feet of perfectly honed male who hadn't changed all that much from his twelfth birthday, when his parents had given him his first thoroughbred jumper.

"Hi, Dr. Raymond," Cindy cooed, coming right to attention like a cheerleader at halftime. "Thanks for coming."

To be taken any way he wanted it. He took it without offense, his answering smile sweet and genuine. Also nothing new. Watching him effortlessly skirt Cindy's come-on, Timmie felt twenty-year-old hero worship fight to rear its ugly head and quashed it with a vengeance. Leave it to Alex to end up even more beautiful than she'd remembered. And just as nice.

"Well, I was on the way in when I got the page. You're all coming out to the benefit horse show after work, aren't you?"

Cindy damn near did the dance of joy. "You bet we are."

Alex had noticed Timmie, and she could see him trying to dredge up a name. "It's for a good cause," he said, as if to her.

"Yeah," Barb agreed. "Our jobs. If you and Restcrest look good, the rest of the hospital looks good. And if we look good, we have a better chance of staying gainfully employed."

Alex's smile brightened appreciably. "I can't do what I do without you. That's what I want the patrons to see. The uninterrupted care we provide for our Alzheimer's patients."

"Bring a couple of them along," Timmie suggested dryly. "Cute ones, with bows in their hair."

She guessed she'd expected a fight. She got another smile and felt like a heel. "Oh, they'll be there on the fringes, where nobody can hurt them," he said. "But people with the kind of money we need don't want to be confused by reality. So we'll give them you guys instead..."

Suddenly, he snapped his fingers, confusion disappearing. "Timmie Leary, my God! I almost didn't recognize you. How long you been back?"

She didn't bother to correct him. "About five weeks."

"How's your dad?"

"Fine. Just fine."

"Wonderful! Then you'll come? And bring Joe." His ever-smiling eyes glinted with wry amusement. "Can't hurt the Neurological Research Group to be associated with Joe Leary."

Timmie almost answered. Almost gave herself away in front of everyone. Thankfully, Cindy saved her.

"She'll be there," Cindy said for her, inching a little closer to Alex. "So will I. I'll be happy to help at the scoring table again this year. It's the closest I get to showing anymore."

For the first time, Alex Raymond didn't look perfectly at ease. "Oh, I'm not sure this year, Cindy. They've brought a professional group along for that. Check with them, okay?"

Cindy's glow died. "Sure. I just thought I could help."

"You will, just by being there... well," he said, raking a hand through his perfect hair. "I do need to get back Is Mr. Cleveland here?"

Timmie picked up the chart, prepared to discuss Van Adder.

"Uh, excuse me... please..."

Heads turned. Alex froze, his mouth open. Timmie took one look at the middle-aged man weaving on his feet at the door from triage and dropped Mr. Cleveland's chart. The man was waxen and sweaty and wide-eyed, his hand to his chest.

"Oh, Jesus," Timmie murmured, already on the run.

"Pulmonary embolism?" Barb asked, hot on Timmie's heels.

"Gunshot," Timmie corrected just as the man began to fold. Her adrenaline kicked in like afterburners, and Timmie covered the last five feet almost in a leap to catch him as he went down. Folding him right over her shoulder in a fireman's lift, she headed for an empty room. She'd finally caught sight of the blood, right there beneath the man's splayed fingers.

"Somebody get a chest tray!" she yelled instinctively.

"Chest tray, hell!" Barb retorted. "Call the helicopter!"

"Repeat after me," Timmie conceded, staggering into the sole trauma room and dropping the man on the cart. "You are not in L.A. anymore. You are not in L.A."

"Mr. Cleveland!" Alex called from the doorway. "Anything I need to know?"

"No!" Timmie answered, her fingers palpating a carotid pulse, her eyes focused on the ragged little hole in the middle of the white T-shirt. "Already been released. No questions, although the coroner might have been more interested, if you ask me."

"Thanks!" he called and headed out, knowing better than to interfere where he wasn't qualified.

"I'm... sorry," the patient was apologizing, mouth round and quivering like a fish caught out of water, eyes wider, lips already ashen. Timmie yanked over the crash cart and dialed up the oxygen. The tech broke out the space suits and tossed around goggles while another nurse scrabbled for IV catheters and Cindy dithered by the door, screaming for lab and X ray.

"Get him in shock trousers!" Barb yelled. "Sir, can you tell me who shot you?"