Shadows of Recovery (Everhart Family #3)

Chapter 7

Seven

T he January Doldrums were in full effect when Sophie arrived at the hospital, her white coat billowing slightly with each step. She had grown accustomed to the fast-paced environment of the ER, and her skills had earned her the respect and admiration of her colleagues. She noticed Tristan watching her from a distance, his chin held high.

"Dr. Everhart, can I consult you on a case?" a young resident named Connie approached Sophie, holding a patient chart.

"Of course, Connie. What do you have?" Sophie asked, her tone encouraging.

As they discussed the patient's symptoms and possible diagnoses, she looked up, catching Tristan’s smile and nod.

The blaring red phone alerting the staff to an approaching ambulance cut through the noise of the busy ER. A new patient was arriving. “Doc, severe diff breather coming in,” announced a nurse.

Sophie, now a supervising attending physician at Waverly County Hospital, was in the middle of reviewing another patient chart when she heard the commotion. She quickly finished her orders and handed the chart to a nurse before she headed toward the entrance, her heart pounding with the familiar rush of adrenaline.

As the ambulance doors swung open, paramedics hurriedly wheeled in an elderly man, an oxygen mask covering his face. Sophie immediately stepped forward, scanning the patient for any immediate signs of distress. His skin was wrinkled and pale. His lips were tinted blue, his neck veins resembled garden hoses, and he was struggling to breathe despite the mask.

The first paramedic said, “We have an eighty-one-year-old male, Trace Whitlock, with severe difficulty breathing. Oxygen saturation is at 82%; heart rate is 120 bpm. Possible acute exacerbation of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease."

Beside the stretcher, a frail woman with a worried expression clutched a handbag tightly to her chest. "Please, help him," she pleaded, her voice trembling. "He’s my husband.”

"We’ll take good care of him, Mrs. Whitlock," Sophie assured her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder before turning her full attention to Trace.

"Let's get him to Trauma 1," Sophie instructed, leading the way as the team rushed through the bustling ER.

As they moved the patient onto the bed, Sophie began her assessment. "Trace, I’m Dr. Everhart. Can you tell me what you’re feeling?" Her voice was voice calm and steady.

Trace struggled to speak, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. “Alright, let's keep him on high-flow oxygen. Continue the non-rebreather mask at 15 liters per minute. Let's get a full set of vitals and an EKG. We need IV access; start with a 20-gauge in the left arm. I don’t think you are going to get a bigger one than that.”

A few minutes later: "Vitals coming up. Blood pressure is 145/90, respiratory rate is 30, and temperature is 99.0."

"Thank you. Page respiratory therapy. We need to rule out any cardiac issues."

"He mentioned he has a history of COPD and heart failure,” a second medic said.

"Understood. Let's prepare for a nebulized bronchodilator treatment. Albuterol and ipratropium, one dose each,” she ordered.

"Nebulizer treatment on board," said a respiratory therapist who had rapidly joined them.

"Get that chest X-ray stat to check for any signs of infection or pneumothorax."

A radiology tech arrived with the lumbering portable X-ray machine. "Ready for the chest X-ray."

"Great. Trace, we're going to take an X-ray to see what's going on in your lungs. Stay as still as you can," Sophie asked, donning a lead cape rather than leaving him.

The patient, struggling to speak, managed to say, "Thank... you..."

"You're doing great, Trace. Just hang in there." After Sophie listened to his chest, a nurse handed her the EKG. "Sinus tachycardia, no acute ST changes. We need to hang IV steroids. Start with 125 mg of methylprednisolone."

Sophie took a step back. "Keep monitoring his oxygen saturation and vitals closely. If there's no improvement in his respiratory status, we may need to consider non-invasive ventilation or intubation."

"Oxygen saturation is improving, now at 88%,” the respiratory therapist said.

"That's a good sign. Let's continue with supportive care and reassess after the nebulizer treatment."

"Trace, we're going to take care of you. We're doing everything we can to help you breathe easier." Sophie turned to her patient.

He weakly nodded. "Thank... you..."

“You’re most welcome. Just rest now. I want to give the medication a chance to work.” Sophie smiled. She looked at the bag of pills Mrs. Whitlock handed her, then ordered medication to reduce the fluid overload. She helped get Trace into a gown and insert a foley catheter.

Within minutes, the flurry of activity slowed. Sophie noticed the worried expression on his wife’s face and made sure to provide updates whenever possible, trying to offer some measure of comfort.

"Mrs. Whitlock, we’re doing everything we can. His condition is serious, but we’re working on stabilizing him," she explained, her tone professional and compassionate.

The elderly woman nodded, tears welling in her eyes. "Thank you, Doctor. It took a while for the old coot to listen to me and come. Our sons will be here soon. They’ll want to know what's happening."

“It’s now a waiting game. We will see how he responds to the treatment. Sit with him. I’ll check in on him in a little while.” She headed out to see her other patients.

Thirty minutes later, Sophie walked back into the trauma room. As she entered, she was met with a sudden commotion. The door burst open, and six men, each bearing a striking resemblance to Trace, pushed their way inside. The Whitlock boys were all there, filling the small space with their large presence.

Sophie raised her voice to be heard. "Gentlemen, please, I need you all to step outside. We can only allow two visitors at a time."

"But we're his sons. We need to see him,” the oldest son said. “I’m Nathan.”

The second son said, "We won't stay long; we just want to make sure he's okay."

Sophie exhaled. "I understand, but for your dad’s health and safety, we need to limit the number of people in the room. Please, step outside."

Reluctantly, five of the brothers shuffled out, leaving one standing as the last to introduce himself. His demeanor was calm, but there was an unsettling intensity in his eyes.

“I’m Damon.” He extended his hand. "Thank you for understanding, Sophie. We appreciate everything you're doing."

The minute he said her name and shook her hand, a shockwave sent a chill down her spine. She forced herself to stay composed, but her unease was evident. Forcing a smile, she said, "It's part of the job. Please, keep your visit brief."

As the brothers finally left the room, Damon’s grip lingered a moment too long, his dark eyes never leaving hers. His sharp appearance was softened by the casual sweater and slacks he wore. His dark hair was slightly tousled, as if he had run his hands through it multiple times in worry.

Sophie felt exposed, as if he was seeing right through her professional fa?ade. She quickly withdrew her hand and turned her attention back to Trace, who was resting peacefully.

"He's doing better. I'll leave you to spend some time with him. If you need anything, I'll be just outside. Please keep it to two at a time."

As she stepped out of the room, her mind raced. She didn't recognize him, but the way he looked at her was unnerving. She tried to focus on her next patient, but the feeling lingered. It wasn't until she had a moment alone that the memory came rushing back.

Her brows furrowed. "No, it can't be...but it is. It’s him.” How else would he know her first name? The man from the bar.

It was at Nina's pre-wedding celebration. She had gone out with her friends to let loose, and the night was a blur of laughter and dancing. Then, there was the man who showed a predatory interest in her. He drugged her drink—a fact that still made her shudder. Tristan rescued her.

Now, here he was, standing in her hospital, shaking her hand as if nothing had happened. The realization made her stomach turn.

Sophie retreated to her office and sat at her desk, her hands trembling slightly as she tried to steady her breathing. She had to focus, keep her emotions in check. The door creaked open, and she looked up to see Damon standing there, his expression unreadable.

"Sophie, I just wanted to thank you again for what you're doing for my father,” he said.

Sophie kept her voice steady. "It's part of the job, Mr. Whitlock."

Damon stepped closer. "Please, call me Damon."

Sophie’s voice turned cold. "Mr. Whitlock, if there's nothing else, I have other patients to attend to."

"Of course. But you look like you've seen a ghost, Doctor. Are you alright?" He stepped closer.

Her heart was racing. "I'm fine. Just a long day."

Damon smiled slightly. "Well, thank you again. I'll see myself out."

As he left, a wave of nausea crashed over her. She knew she couldn't avoid him forever, but she needed to gather her thoughts and figure out what to do next.

Sophie took a deep breath and walked back to the nurses' station. The head nurse raised a brow. "Dr. Everhart, are you okay?"

"Yes, just a bit tired. Could you do me a favor and keep an eye out for Mr. Whitlock's sons? If they come back, let me know immediately."

"Of course. Is everything alright?"

"Just a precaution. Thank you." She signed into one of the computers and did her job. She admitted Trace to the telemetry unit. And she gave report on her other patients, closing out her shift.

* * *

Damon took his turn and sat beside his father's bed, holding his hand. Trace's breathing had stabilized, and he looked more comfortable.

"Damon... is that you?" Trace whispered.

"Yes, Dad. I'm here. All of us are here."

Trace smiled slightly. "Good... good to have my boys with me."

"Rest now, Dad. We'll take care of everything." Damon's words were soothing, but there was an undercurrent of something darker in his tone. As he gently adjusted the blanket around his father, the vulnerability in his expression was evident. The lines on his face, often sharp and commanding, were now etched with worry and care, revealing a side of Damon that few ever saw—a son deeply concerned for the man who had always been his rock.

* * *

At seven-thirty, she stepped outside to find Tristan waiting. She climbed into his car, his familiar scent immediately soothing her frayed nerves.

They drove in comfortable silence, the day slowly lifting as they neared the home they now shared. Once inside, Sophie took a quick shower and changed into more comfortable clothes.

She found Tristan starting dinner. “Mmm, what are we making?”

“Spaghetti with marinara sauce. You feel up to making a salad?”

“Sure. How was your day?” She stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

“Better now.” He chuckled. “I handled some stuff for the Institute, and then the hospital took me prisoner for a bunch of administrative glad-handing.”

“What’s going on with the Institute?” Sophie opened the refrigerator and grabbed the lettuce and other salad fixings.

“We are having some admission issues. Kay Birdham, the psychiatrist in charge of new patients, hasn’t effectively screened some of them.” He cocked his head.

“What do you mean?” She looked at him carefully.

“Kay and I used to be a couple. My dad, who is on the board, still thinks the world of her. It’s the only professional conflict between us. I wish he realized this isn’t personal.” Tristan stopped stirring the sauce and turned to face her.

“Our past relationship is complicated. Despite our breakup, Kay maintains a close relationship with my dad. This puts me in a difficult position.”

“Does your dad know we are a couple?” Sophie chewed her lower lip.

“Absolutely. He knows we’re living together. The entire Institute staff knows. Kay and my relationship ended five years ago. I’m hoping this mistake will open his eyes.” He pulled her against him. “Kay, on the other hand, is fully aware of the influence she still holds with my father.”

She curled into his embrace. “I still can’t believe I didn’t realize where I was after our first night together.”

“I took you home through the back gate. It’s closest to the house.” He kissed her on top of her head. “I wanted to maintain your privacy.” He shook his head. “I wanted to maintain my privacy.” He paused. “You were the first person I brought to my home since Mimi.”

“You never brought Kay here?”

He shook his head. “We went to her place or a hotel. I didn’t want her getting too involved with the Institute or leaving any trace that could complicate things down the line. Things did get complicated.”

“You brought me here…” Her eyes widened.

“I brought you here to keep you safe.” He stared at her. “I never imagined that we would make love together. My breakup with Kay was messy. I didn’t handle our relationship the right way. Things were very complicated.”

“Tristan, the sauce!” she cried as the sauce bubbled over.

He turned the burner down. “I fell into a relationship with her. After I shipped home from Afghanistan to bury Mimi, I was close to either returning, or my commitment was close to expiring, and, frankly, I was in no state to help anyone.”

He began to plate the pasta. “My family wanted me in New York. I was content to walk around this house, living in a Vicodin bottle. Still, I managed to begin building the Institute. Kay was one of the first hires. She was a gifted psychiatrist. I’d like to believe she still is. I should have told you this sooner, but it still holds a degree of embarrassment for me. I want you to know everything about me. Sophie, I don’t want to keep any secrets from you.”

She returned to finish the salad. “Me too.” She needed to tell him about Damon Whitlock.

“Can you forgive me?” Tristan asked, a look of regret in his eyes.

“Do you still have feelings for her?”

“No,” Tristan said with conviction.

“We’re good.” Sophie smiled.

* * *

Inside their beautiful rustic home, Tristan poured her a glass of red wine. "And your day?" He sat across from her at the table. “You let me go on and on about Kay.”

"Talking about Kay was important. My day was not as much rough as it was disconcerting.” Her hands wrapped around her glass of wine.

He leaned forward, concern etched on his face. "You’ve been quiet since I picked you up, Sophie. What's going on? You can tell me."

She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. Leaning back in her seat, she stared at the glass in her hands. "We had an elderly patient come in with severe respiratory distress. He has six sons, and the youngest, Damon, was a bit much. He was very insistent, very intense. There was something about him that put me on edge."

Tristan watched her closely. He reached out and gently took her hand. "What happened? Why did he bother you so much?"

Sophie looked up, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and anger. "I realized Damon was the man from the bar. The one who drugged me."

S hock and rage flashed across his face. "What? Are you sure?"

Sophie nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. "Yes, I'm sure. The way he looked at me, the way he acted... He called me Sophie. I couldn't place him at first, but then it all came back."

She wiped away a tear, her voice breaking as she continued, "I remembered. Before you came to my rescue. That night at the bar, he was relentless. He tried to buy me a drink, and when I refused, he got angry. Jenna pulled me away just in time. Later, you found out he had spiked my drink."

"Did he do anything to you in the ER?" Tristan’s face turned ruddy.

Sophie shook her head. "No, not exactly.”

Tristan frowned. "What do you mean?"

She hesitated, then sighed. "He followed me around, staring, making me uncomfortable. It’s nothing I couldn’t handle, but it was unsettling.”

“Was the father admitted?” He tensed.

“To telemetry. That’s also an issue. Trace, the father, arrived in very rough shape. His wife called the ambulance. She said his primary told her he could manage him at home. All he was on was ten milligrams of Lasix and a bunch of supplements. He was a mess. Drowning in fluid. Electrolytes out of balance.” She took a large sip of wine. “How do you do it, Tristan? How do you deal with the stupidity caused by other physicians?”

He stared up at the ceiling. "It never gets easier. But I focus on the ones we save, on the lives we change. And I try to remind everyone to give each patient their best."

Sophie looked up at him, her eyes reflecting a mixture of admiration and love. "You're incredible, you know that?"

Tristan chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I think you're pretty incredible too, Dr. Everhart."

They finished their dinner, cleaned up, and moved into the living room to relax and watch some TV, but Sophie was distracted. Her thoughts kept drifting to the Blackwell Institute, the place Tristan had built on a sprawling hundred-acre estate in Spring Hill—a true haven for those in need of healing. It was a testament to his dedication and compassion, and she admired him even more for it.

"Tristan, I need to talk to you about something," Sophie said suddenly, her voice tinged with hesitation.

Tristan turned to her. "What is it?"

"It's about us," Sophie began, her fingers nervously twisting a strand of her hair. "You mentioned that the staff at the Institute knows about our relationship.”

“It’s a little hard to hide when we’re living in a home across the driveway.”

“I’ve been thinking about how we navigate that while working together. Even though the deputy director is supervising me, it still feels... complicated. No one has said anything, but I don’t want anyone to think we’re hiding our relationship or I’m getting special treatment.”

Tristan nodded, his eyes full of understanding. "I get it. I want to make sure you feel comfortable. What are you thinking?”

Sophie took a deep breath, appreciating his willingness to listen. "I think it would help if we were more transparent with the ER staff. I know they already know, but they need to know we're committed to maintaining professionalism at work."

Tristan smiled, squeezing her hand. "I think that's a great idea, especially if you are more comfortable. We can have a meeting and address any concerns. Your talent and dedication speak for themselves, Sophie. No one can deny that you're an incredible physician."

She felt a surge of gratitude and love for him. "Thank you for always being supportive."

"Always," he replied, his voice earnest. "We're in this together, no matter what."

* * *

A few days later, Tristan called for a brief pre-shift and post-shift meeting with the ER staff. The atmosphere was a mix of curiosity and anticipation as they gathered in the conference room. He stood beside Sophie, his hand resting lightly on her back.

"Thank you all for coming," he began, his tone warm and authoritative. "We wanted to address something important today. As many of you know, Dr. Everhart and I are in a committed relationship. We've taken steps so there's no conflict of interest with the administration, but we also want to be completely transparent with all of you."

Sophie took a step forward, her gaze steady and confident. "I want you all to know that I'm dedicated to providing the best care possible, and I value your support and collaboration."

There was a moment of silence before Connie, the young resident, spoke up. "Dr. Everhart, we all respect you and the work you do. Your relationship with Dr. Blackwell doesn't change that. And, to be honest, if you were trying to keep the relationship secret, well, it’s good your medicine is better than that.”

As a murmur of laughter swept through the room, a wave of relief washed over her. Tristan gave her an encouraging nod, his pride evident.

That evening, they returned to Tristan's home, now their home. As they settled on the couch, he turned to Sophie, his expression tender. "You were amazing today.” His fingers traced patterns on her arm.

"So were you.” She leaned into him. "I think we're finally finding our balance."

Tristan kissed her gently, his lips lingering on hers. Their kiss deepened, a slow and passionate one. As they moved to the bedroom, Sophie jumped up into his arms and wrapped her legs around his waist.