Kitabı oku: «Craving Her Rough Diamond Doc», sayfa 3

“That’s why you wanted me to stitch you up…” Imogen murmured, realization coming in a flash.

“That’s why I wanted you to stitch me up.”

“He could have lied about being the one to shoot him, you know.” People lied all the time.

“I know, but he wasn’t.” Wyatt still seemed unfazed, and so sure of himself. Ego.

She nodded, still processing this information. The idea of putting her license on the line didn’t appeal, but she could understand his logic. There was a certain kind of nobility to the decision, whether she would’ve made the same call or not. “At least it won’t be boring.”

“Last thing. If you have questions or concerns about one of my calls, make them in private—later, ideally. I need you to trust me and follow my orders without hesitation.”

“I’ll try,” Imogen murmured, mostly because she wasn’t ever sure exactly what she was going to do from moment to moment. And even if she’d never questioned a doctor’s call in front of a patient before, she wasn’t feeling too sure of anything. The job. Why she’d come. Him. Her worthiness as a nurse or a person. Amazing how fast all that could come rushing back. And she had thought she was past someone having the ability to make her feel so off. So small.

He turned the bus off the road and into a gravel lot beside a tiny white church, the kind quickie-wedding places and photographers liked to clone for ambiance.

“Do better than try.” He sounded distant suddenly, and more than a little icy. Dr. Beechum had just arrived. A new mask came down, and Imogen didn’t know which Wyatt was the real one—the one who walked her through stitches, the surly wild man on the mountain, or this icy man now walking to the back to start setting up.

Ditching her cup, she rubbed some warmth back into her suddenly chilled hands.

She hoped it was the last of his masks she’d have to watch out for.

She’d learned early on that when the masks came off, the monsters came out.

CHAPTER THREE

“EMMA-JEAN?” Like an immigrant to Ellis Island, Imogen had been renamed. And this time it wasn’t a patient mangling her name.

The first couple of times she’d heard her name mispronounced by patients, Imogen had wanted to correct them. But in the spirit of following Wyatt’s Grandpa Law she’d held back. That and because the patients seemed no more interested in talking to her than they might be to a wandering taxidermist who offered to kill and stuff their favorite pet for them.

Most of her smiles went unreturned. No one even wanted to talk about the fabulous weather, how green and lush everything was, how wonderful it smelled outside, with the honeysuckle blooming, or pretty much anything else she brought up.

Her efforts to find common ground with one older gentleman had even resulted in her being called a “damned dogooder” for offering him a cup of coffee. Further alienating the patients wasn’t high on her frustrating list of things to do. Coffee had been her go-to for common ground. Who didn’t like coffee?

With a deep breath and after a few seconds to unclench her hands, Imogen turned to face Wyatt, who’d called her new name. He looked smug. He also looked like he needed someone to stomp on his toes. Someone like her. Later. After she played his stupid game.

“Yes, Doctor?”

“Next patient.” He could’ve just said that, but that would have deprived him of the perverse pleasure he took in her predicament.

She stepped off the bus and made for the serene little church, today’s waiting room, feeling not at all serene. Red carpet, wooden benches carved on the ends with crosses, an open stage in the front for the kind of preachers who needed room to wander. So quaint and peaceful it almost took the edge off her day. Her little oasis away from Wyatt.

Inside, a handful of people sat—most of whom had spent the day there, chatting while people came and went from the bus. She snagged the sign-in sheet from the table beside the door and called the last name on the check-in sheet. “Mr. Smith?”

Day almost over. Just one more patient.

An older man stood with some effort and as he turned to look back, ice lanced through her middle.

Blue skin.

Oh, no. His skin tone rivaled a blueberry, bluer than anyone she’d ever seen. She’d coded patients in her time, she just hadn’t expected it to happen on this job.

Fear, bright and blistering, sent her running for the man. “Sir, it’s going to be okay. Sit back down. Breathe for me. Sit. Yes.” She urged him back onto the wooden pew, ready to throw him on his back to give CPR.

Assess. Breathing somewhat labored, but he still breathed. He looked a little alarmed but not panicky. Didn’t exactly add up. She needed Wyatt. Blue skin was a bad sign. “Someone get Dr. Beechum.”

Everyone in the room stared at her, shock and horror on their faces—and not one of them equipped to run for Wyatt.

With the man seated, she confirmed his pulse was more or less regular then held up one hand to signal he should stay, and barreled for the bus. The door had barely opened before she started shouting, “Wyatt! A patient inside is cyanotic. I think he’s coding…”

Wyatt grabbed a tank of oxygen and a mask, and ran behind her.

She was nearly at Mr. Smith’s side when Wyatt took her by the elbow and thrust her behind him. “Oh, sir, I’m so sorry. My nurse is new—Emma-Jean, Amanda’s friend. Don’t think she’s ever encountered anyone with methoglobinemia before.”

Her breathing sounded so loud in her ears Imogen couldn’t even be sure she understood what Wyatt was saying. The man wasn’t coding? Blue skin happened when someone was deprived of oxygen. Blue skin was never good.

The two men exchanged a few quiet words and the next thing she knew, Wyatt was peddling her backwards, out of earshot, his big body blocking her view of the bizarrely colorful man. “Take a walk, Emma-Jean.”

“Please tell me what’s going on. That man—”

“He’s descended from the Blue Fugates of Troublesome Creek.” Wyatt leaned close as he spoke, like she knew the people or the creek. It was a hell of a time for him to invade her space and fill her nose with his good smell. It just got warmer and fuller the longer the day wore on. And with her adrenaline surging, her senses only multiplied her reaction to it.

“Take your phone, walk up the hill and run a search on it. Come back in a half hour, I’ll explain if needed.”

“I’m sorry. I thought…”

“I know.” His voice gentled but he still looked grim. “You’re embarrassed, and so is he. Take a walk.”

Imogen nodded, and though she wanted to apologize to the man for causing a scene, she slipped to the exit with as much dignity as she could muster.

She felt the burning in her eyes before she got to the door but managed to hold back a well of frustrated tears—they got no further than her lashes. Horrified didn’t begin to cut it.

Shaking started deep in her shoulders, after-effects of adrenaline. A simple walk up the hill wouldn’t suffice. She had to move.

Once clear of the building, Imogen broke into a jog. For a few minutes the scorching embarrassment from nearly coding poor Mr. Smith deadened the soreness that had racked her body since yesterday.

Wyatt’s repeated warnings that she wouldn’t fit in had sounded like a bunch of excuses before today. All her efforts to engage the patients, all the resisting of correcting the pronunciation of her name, all her good work…gone, in the wake of one well-intentioned mistake.

It figured that he’d be right about her fitting in but wrong about her having cell reception at the top of the hill. No bars again. The mountains rejected both her and her cellphone. What was she even doing here?

The surge of energy left as quickly as it had arrived, and rather than walk back down to the bus and chance an encounter with the blue grandpa, she hopped over the ditch on the shoulder of the road, walked into the trees and sat.

Day One—Epic Failure. Would he even allow her to attempt Day Two? Should she count herself lucky if he went ahead and fired her spectacularly later?

When Mr. Smith had been gone for twenty minutes and Imogen still hadn’t returned, Wyatt stored any loose items and started the bus. Not the greatest day on record, but at least she hadn’t started chest compressions and broken Mr. Smith’s sternum.

Wyatt considered the thought and dismissed it. Imogen might be a little culturally clueless for the region, but she was a good nurse. When the situation had failed to compute for her, she had come for him. It had been the right call.

He found her sitting beside the road, right where he’d told her to go, knees up and hand to forehead, propping it up. With little enough traffic on the country road, he stopped. A few seconds later he heard the bus door open and close, and finally she joined him.

“You all right?” Wyatt asked, not starting the bus again yet—no one waited behind them and he wanted to look at her. No anger, though the set of her shoulders and her refusal to look at him said enough. Dismay. Disappointment. Maybe even defeat.

“I’m fine. Can we go?”

She wasn’t fine, but was obviously not ready to talk about it. When they reached the motel and had settled in, he’d try again.

She buckled in and he got the bus moving, letting her soak up some peace as they made the forty-five-minute drive to the nearest little town and the motel he usually stayed at.

Family-owned motels were what Wyatt preferred. They were tiny, but they were also friendly, not connected to the interstate so they felt safer, and the owners happily learned his route and saved a room for him. The colors the rooms sported had probably been hideous even when new, but for some reason their homeliness tickled him. Something he appreciated after years of a cosmopolitan lifestyle. They were also extremely clean. Another selling point.

Pulling off into the gravel lot of his usual stop, Wyatt realized two things: no Wi-Fi, so he was going to have to get Imogen to talk at least enough to explain what happened with Mr. Smith; and the Trout Derby might have filled his usual room. Ten rooms in the whole building, and by his count there were ten vehicles in the lot.

Shutting off the ignition, he climbed out of his seat and headed for the door. “Wait here. I’ll make sure they still have the room waiting.”

Imogen had given no indication she intended to move, but he said it anyway.

“Okay.”

One-word answers from the talkative woman…From the number of cars, if they had a room saved, it was going to be just that: one room, which was what they always saved.

Imogen watched Wyatt cross the lot and enter the office before it dawned on her that he’d said “a room.” Singular. One. Did he intend on staying in the bus?

She should stop him before he spent money on the wrong accommodations. Moving quickly was off the menu for the foreseeable future—her body ached more than ever after sitting still for so long—but with a cup of effort and a bushel of unladylike noises, she peeled herself off the seat and made her way off the bus.

Wyatt stood at the counter, talking and laughing with the rosy-cheeked, grandmotherly innkeeper, charm personified. Another new mask. Were they gossiping? He had never once tried to charm her. Because he didn’t want her working for him. And maybe he also just didn’t like her. She didn’t rate Charm Face. Well, she didn’t particularly like him either, so whatever.

“Dr. Beechum.” Screw him and his renaming her. She’d still say his name however he wanted—regardless of the spelling. It was called being a professional. “Pardon me, did you say a room?”

When he turned to look at her, the smile left his deep brown eyes. “Yes, and Miss Arlene has saved the room for us.”

“To share?”

“Double room.”

“To share?” she repeated, leaning heavily on the second word to drill its importance into him. Why couldn’t she have promised Amanda that she’d just come and take care of her, not her job? Then she wouldn’t be stuck about to share a room with a man who…who…who…was bossy. And stuff.

“Amanda never minded.” He cleared his throat, smiled at Arlene And leaned away from the counter to approach Imogen.

“You’re her cousin! She has to like you well enough to share a room. And she’s Amanda. Even if she minded, she wouldn’t mind.” Why was she yelling? Imogen stopped the flow of words and rubbed the tension from her forehead. Maybe she’d just sleep on the bus. There weren’t any blankets, but there were pain relievers and really uncomfortable vinyl exam tables.

Sigh. Too tired. Way too sore.

“She had a long day and dragged felled timber for me yesterday,” Wyatt said to Arlene, making more excuses for her behavior. This day just kept getting better.

“Come on.” Key in hand, he winked at Arlene and then steered Imogen out of the office and to the nearby room. “Run a bath and soak, it’ll help. I’ll put your bag outside the door and fetch dinner.”

“There aren’t any other rooms available, are there.” She couldn’t manage more than the faintest trace of a question in her tone, just giving the realization a voice.

“Not for about thirty miles.” He paused inside the room, hand on the knob, ready to exit again. “Want to go there?”

Imogen looked around the room, the full weight of the décor hitting her at once. “Do they film porn in here?”

Wyatt made a sound like a laugh he’d barely stopped.

“Oh, man, they do. And now I’ve got that music in my head.” Imogen sighed. “But with banjos.”

“Banjo porn soundtracks,” Wyatt said with a chuckle. “There’s probably a kink for that. The orange carpet and green refrigerator may be a little loud, but it’s impeccably clean.” He left his hand on the knob, ready to open the door again. “Want to go?”

It meant something that he would offer. Thirty more miles or a bath now?

Who was she kidding?

“It’s fine.” Not really, but they were both adults—in theory—and she wasn’t in the mood to care. She was in the mood to pamper her aching body, and that meant hot water and silence. She grabbed a towel and stepped into the bathroom, shutting the door and locking it.

Let him go do whatever he wanted, fetch whatever he wanted, apologize for her rude bathing and door-locking ways to whomever he happened to stumble across.

As she sank into the hot water, she began to feel a little more reasonable. Everything would be okay. Except for the part where they’d be sharing a room.

No. She could do this. She’d hauled his logs. She’d illegally stitched his arm. She could spend a night sleeping a short distance from the man she’d found so attractive before today.

His proximity, by turns, gave her both intensely naughty visuals and made her want to punch him where it counted. But it could be there was some happy place in between where she could merely tolerate his existence without strong feelings one way or the other.

So long as he didn’t go shirtless. She didn’t like him shirtless. Well, she did, but it could be a problem. Or maybe seeing him parade around shirtless would warm her to him enough to make it through tomorrow.

Just as she thought about toweling off, he knocked on the door and called through it, “Got dinner. It’s still hot.” Implied command: get out here and eat. Too tired and hungry to make a fuss, she called her assent and climbed out of the tub. The water was growing cold anyway.

As promised, her bag sat outside the door and she dragged it inside.

Normally, she’d just pull on her robe and let it dry her. But could she do that with him out there? No. Now she had to move her sore body to dry herself and then put on pajamas, and all she had was pink and strappy and covered in garish red kiss marks.

She put the robe over it. Let him stay curious about her anatomy until he deserved to see it.

When she got herself together enough to exit the bathroom, she found him standing by the door, takeout set out on the table, complete with paper napkins, plastic utensils, and water poured into actual glasses from a tall, cold bottle.

“Didn’t know what you like. The Trout Derby’s on and there’s a lady who sets up a fish shack. Fried, with grilled potatoes, mixed vegetables.” He looked uncomfortable too. Good.

Maybe she should take off her robe just to increase his discomfort. Level the playing field. Or not. The air-conditioning was cold…

“Thanks.” She pulled the towel off her head and took a minute to comb her hair out before sitting down. He waited, for some reason.

“About earlier,” he began, taking his seat opposite her at the small table. “It’s called methemoglobinemia. Overproduction of methemoglobin. I’ll spare you the details, but he’s been blue since birth and while it’s rarer now than, say…sixty or seventy years ago, there’s a stigma and a kind of urban legend that goes along with it around here.”

She nodded for him to continue, making a mental note to read more about it when they were somewhere with an internet connection. “And that legend is?”

“That it’s caused by inbreeding.”

“Oh, no.” The full weight of Mr. Smith’s condition began to penetrate and with it went Imogen’s appetite. The fish had looked good just a few seconds ago. School must have been hell for Mr. Smith. Living in the area must still be hell for him.

“It’s not, by the way. A family settled here a couple of centuries ago, up Troublesome Creek, had a bunch of kids. All at least carriers of the gene,” Wyatt said, effectively drawing her attention from her personal mortification to professional curiosity.

“So the creek didn’t make him blue?”

“No. Both parents have to pass the gene on, so it’s exceptionally rare. But with that large number of carriers at the start of the community, by the time you fast-forward a hundred and fifty years, loads of people in the area carry the gene. And sometimes two marry, and a child turns up blue,” Wyatt explained, holding off on his dinner while he talked. “It’s a sensitive subject to those affected.”

“And I really stepped in it with poor Mr. Smith.”

Wyatt winced and leaned back. “You made an honest mistake.”

The wince bought him some points. “Why did you make me leave?”

“I was just trying to kill the subject fast.” He lifted both hands, like he was afraid she was going to start shouting at him again. “I wasn’t trying to punish you.”

“It seemed…”

“I know,” he said, and after a second admitted, “Didn’t figure that out until you didn’t come back.”

“There’s no cure for him?”

“No cure. There’s treatment. Some treat it, some don’t. It’s high maintenance—leaves the system fast. Not everyone is as blue as Mr. Smith, some are just tinged.” Right now he seemed far removed from the man she’d spent two days angry with. This was a good mask. Almost a friend mask. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think to warn you about it before we went. I don’t see him that often, it just didn’t even occur to me.”

Imogen drew a deep breath, surprised at the apology. He hadn’t set her up, and that was something small to cling to in the travesty of a day.

The fish really did look good, covered in cornmeal and curling from the deep fry. She took a bite and grinned at him.

“You might not be thrilled with the accommodations but there are perks. The food’s good. And the views…especially come autumn.” Okay, maybe he had saved some charm for her. He really had a nice smile. When he used it.

“No denying that the food is good,” Imogen murmured, and, unable to help it, added, “Or the view. I might have to invite myself back to the mountain to see the foliage from the ridge. You know, since you might fire me spectacularly before then.”

Wyatt leaned back in his chair, those dark eyes pinning her to her seat. Was he about to fire her spectacularly?

“Do you want me to fire you?” He might be considering it. Or maybe he just wanted to keep that option in reserve for when she wasn’t expecting it. Biggest impact then…

“Are you going to fire me if I say no?” Imogen asked, steadily holding his gaze. Great eyes. Dark. Almost black…

“No.”

She didn’t know whether that was good news or bad news, so she pushed past it. “I don’t run from things that are hard.”

“What do you run from?”

Relationships. Jobs. Houses. Commitments. People. Not precisely right, but not really wrong either. Her exes had called her fickle for a reason, but past that first mistake she’d always been upfront about the fact that she’d never stay.

“Nothing,” she said. “Why did you ask that?”

“You emphasized ‘hard,’ not ‘run.’”

“I didn’t.” Imogen squinted, shaking her head.

“You definitely did.” Wyatt kept watching her in that way that made her want to leave the room. “And someone who lives on the road…”

“Monotony,” she blurted out. Monotony, monogamy—whatever.

“You run from monotony?” Wyatt asked, his brows lifted like he didn’t believe her.

“Yes.” True. Ish. Truer than any other way she could put into words.

“Then you should enjoy this position. Never a dull moment.” He didn’t call her on it, and even tried to make her smile again. “Except for those moments when nothing happens.”

“Does it always involve living together?” No smiling through that part. Living together was bad. Bad, and worse, and nothing good could come from it.

“Would it make you feel better about the accommodations if I promised not to banish you from the site again?”

“No.” She shuffled the food around in the container, trying to silence the little inner voice that shouted she was being unreasonable. “My roommate track record isn’t good. Even in college, as much as I love her, it was hard to live with Amanda. I need space and quiet.”

“Fair enough.” He reached for his water. “For tonight I can give you quiet and we’ll try for separate rooms from here on out. Deal?”

“Deal.” Peace and quiet was what she needed. She didn’t need him charming her like he did the innkeeper. Imogen went back to the fish, feeling better, all things considered. “He was really blue. And all that white facial hair! I bet you anything people torment that poor man with Smurf jokes. Might even be preferable to the urban legend jokes.”

Wyatt chuckled and threw a closed salt packet at her, bouncing it off her chin. “No making fun of the patients.”

“I’m serious. I feel bad for him. And I just feel bad about it in general.” What had brought on the sudden confession? That needed to stop. She threw the salt pack back at him.

He caught it and grinned at her. “Have to do better than that.”

“I don’t have to do anything. You’re not the boss of me,” Imogen sassed, trying to get past the emotion.

“Am too.” Wyatt tossed the packet in the trash and began tidying up.

Imogen let him have the last word.

And pretended his smile didn’t warm her.

Almost dark.

When the lights went off, she would be safe. Wyatt would go to sleep and stop moving around, drawing attention to himself. And he’d be under the covers, transforming himself into a quilt-covered lump and stop drawing attention to himself by lying there, all…big for the bed. Tall. Big. She liked a big man.

Wyatt would be good with his hands. And his mouth. Heck, he could probably make banjo porn music sexy. How would he react to that suggestion? The man had so many masks he still might have a Psychotic Nutjob Face in reserve. That would make working together impossible.

A fling with Dinner Face? Imogen could get used to that idea. Forget the day’s stress. Forget the length of her Appalachian prison sentence.

She closed her eyes and laid her head back against the headboard where she sat—stiff, sore and surly. It didn’t matter what he did, he disrupted her peace and quiet. Closing her eyes made her other senses go supersonic.

In trying not to look at him, it became impossible not to hear his every move. Worse, his bed lay between hers and the air-conditioning unit, so it constantly blew Eau de Mountain Man in her direction. He smelled good. Really good! The kind of good that kept making her sneak looks at him.

The attraction was too strong, and Imogen knew the limits of her endurance. At some point, unless he trotted out his Psychotic Nutjob, she was going to make a pass.

But not tonight.

With a sigh, she dragged herself out of the bed and marched to her bag to dig out her perfume. She doused her pulse points, and ended with a swipe of her perfume-dampened wrist beneath her nose. That should do the trick. Ruggedly manly man scent could never get past her favorite fragrance. Not even the scent of the large, stupidly attractive and rugged manly man disrupting her peace and quiet.

“Do I stink?” Wyatt asked, alerting her to the fact that he was watching her act like a crazy woman over the top edge of his computer tablet.

Yes. She wanted to say yes, but that wouldn’t be nice and he was trying to keep his word to give her quiet. “No.” She put her perfume back and thought up a lie to cover her insanity. “The fish. I smell the fish.”

“Right.” He put his tablet down, stood and a minute later was out the door with the remains of dinner.

Imogen took the opportunity to rid herself of her robe and climb into bed. She was under the covers with her back to him when he returned, but she still couldn’t relax. More so now. Lying down seemed to amplify the soreness racking her body. The simple act of relaxing the muscles made sneaky pained sounds escape her.

Wyatt returned to find Imogen in bed. Between today, yesterday’s log moving and however long she’d driven before that, he couldn’t blame her for getting to bed early. He was even a little grateful.

As quietly as he could, he locked the door, shut the curtains and turned out every light but one—he had a little work to finish before turning in. One of the perks of a small practice was not as much paperwork and file maintenance required as there would be when the practice grew, but he needed meticulous files as backup for the funding application.

Imogen rolled over from her side onto her belly, and made a little sound. Pain. He looked back over at her, squirming under the blanket.

“Want some painkillers?”

“I’m okay.”

Liar.

Wyatt watched her settle for about thirty seconds and then shift again, clearly looking for a comfortable position. “Are you going to do that all night?”

“Bath is wearing off,” she mumbled, sounding miserable.

“Back?”

“Shoulders, arms, back, butt, legs. Pretty much everything hurts.”

He could help that. “Right.” He put the tablet aside and stepped over to the bed, grabbing the quilt and pushing it down to her waist as he sat.

“What are you doing?” she asked, and looked at him accusingly. “How come you’re not hurting after falling down and getting cut up?”

“Be still. I’m helping.” He put a hand to the center of her back and pushed her down on the bed. “I’m a tough hillbilly. They start rolling us down the hills to toughen us up when we’re babies.”

“I don’t want your help.” She paused and then added, “Or your silly stories.”

“I know this grouchiness is the way you charm men, but shut up, Imogen.” He flattened his hand between her shoulder blades and pressed again, willing her to listen even if he had grave doubts she’d ever stop being contrary. “Be still. You are certainly the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met.” And that shouldn’t tickle him, but for some reason it made him want to rile her.

She stopped trying to sit up and actually went silent. Amazing.

She’s just like a patient. Wyatt tried to ignore the feel of her skin under his hands as he kneaded her shoulders, which were knotted from exertion but stiff from something else—wariness, maybe? After a couple of minutes’ insistent kneading, she started to relax. The nightclothes she wore blocked his access so he said, “I need your top off. You stay facedown. I’m not looking for a cheap thrill here.”

She was quiet a few seconds and he waited. Her nod was brief, uncertain, but pain often trumped caution. He pushed the garment to her ribs and waited for her to lift and pull the material past her breasts so he could get it off her arms and back to work.

It was just a shirt. Nothing erotic about helping a patient remove restrictive clothing…