by Sandra Brown
“Afraid I’ll give you AIDS?” he asked, nodding at her gloved hands.
“Professional precaution.”
“No worry,” he said with a slow grin. “I’ve been real careful all my life.”
“You weren’t so careful tonight. Were you caught cheating at poker? Flirting with the wrong woman? Or were you cleaning your pistol when it accidentally went off?”
“I told you, it was a—”
“Yes. A pitchfork. Which would have punctured instead of tearing off a chunk of tissue.” She worked quickly and effectively. “Look, I’ve got to trim off the rough edges of the wound and put in some deep sutures. It’s going to be painful. I must anesthetize you.”
“Forget it.” He hitched his hip over the side of the table as though to leave.
Lara stopped him by placing the heels of her hands on his shoulders. The fingers of her gloves were bloody. “Lidocaine? Local anesthetic,” she explained. She took a vial from her cabinet and let him read the label. “Okay?”
He nodded tersely and watched as she prepared another syringe. She injected him near the wound. When the surrounding tissue was deadened, she clipped the debris from around the wound, irrigated it with a saline solution, sutured the interior, and put in a drain.
“What the hell is that?” he asked. He was pale and sweating profusely, but he had watched every swift and economic movement of her hands.
“It’s called a penrose drain. It drains off blood and fluid and helps prevent infection. I’ll remove it in a few days.” She closed the wound with sutures and placed a sterile bandage over it.
After dropping the bloody gloves into a marked metal trash can that designated contaminated materials, Lara returned to the sink to wash her hands. She then asked him to sit up while she wrapped an Ace bandage around his trunk to keep the dressing in place.
She stepped away from him and looked critically at her handiwork. “You’re lucky he wasn’t a better marksman. A few inches to the right and the bullet could have penetrated several vital organs.”
“Or a few inches lower, and I couldn’t have penetrated anything ever again.”
Lara gave him a retiring look. “How lucky for you.”
She had remained professionally detached, although each time her arms had encircled him while bandaging his wound, her cheek had come close to his wide chest. He had a lean, sunbaked, hair-spattered torso. The Ace bandage bisected his hard, flat belly. She’d worked the emergency rooms of major city hospitals; she’d stitched up shady characters before—but none quite this glib, amusing, and handsome.
“Believe it, Doc. I’ve got the luck of the devil.”
“Oh, I believe it. You appear to be a man who lives on the edge and survives by his wits. When did you last have a tetanus shot?”
“Last year.” She looked at him skeptically. He raised his right hand as though taking an oath. “Swear to God.”
He eased himself over the side of the examination table and stood with his hip propped against it while he rebuttoned his jeans. He left his belt unbuckled. “What do I owe you?”
“Fifty dollars for the after-hours office call, fifty for the sutures and dressing, twelve each for the injections, including the one you wasted, and forty for the medication.”
“Medication?”
She removed two plastic bottles from a locked cabinet and handed them to him. “An antibiotic and a pain pill. Once the lidocaine wears off, it’ll hurt.”
He withdrew a money clip from the front pocket of his snug jeans. “Let’s see, fifty plus fifty, plus twenty-four, plus forty comes to—”
“One sixty-four.”
He cocked an eyebrow, seeming amused by her prompt tabulation. “Right. One hundred and sixty-four.” He extracted the necessary bills and laid them on the examination table. “Keep the change,” he said when he put down a five-dollar bill instead of four ones.
Lara was surprised that he had that much cash on him. Even after paying her, he still had a wad of currency in high denominations. “Thank you. Take two of the antibiotic capsules tonight, then four a day until you’ve taken all of them.”
He read the labels, opened the bottle of pain pills and shook out one. He tossed it back and swallowed it dry. “It’d go down better with a shot of whiskey.” His voice rose on a hopeful, inquiring note.
She shook her head. “Take one every four hours. Two if absolutely necessary. Take them with water,” she emphasized, seriously doubting that he’d stick to those instructions. “Tomorrow afternoon around four-thirty, come in and I’ll change your dressing.”
“For another fifty bucks, I guess.”
“No, that’s included.”
“Much obliged.”
“Don’t be. As soon as you leave, I’m calling Sheriff Baxter.”
Crossing his arms over his bare chest, he regarded her indulgently. “And get him out of bed at this time of night?” He shook his head remorsefully. “I’ve known poor old Elmo Baxter all my life. He and my daddy were buddies. They were youngsters during the oil boom, see? It was kinda like going through a war together, they said.
“They used to hang out around the drilling sites, came to be like mascots to the roughnecks and wildcatters. Ran errands for them to buy hamburgers, cigarettes, moonshine, whatever they wanted. He and my daddy probably procured some things that old Elmo would rather not recall,” he said with a wink.
“Anyway, go ahead and call him. But once he gets here, he’ll be nothing but glad to see me. He’ll slap me on the back and say something like, ‘Long time no see,’ and ask what the hell I’ve been up to lately.” He paused to gauge Lara’s reaction. Her stony stare didn’t faze him.
“Elmo’s overworked and underpaid. Calling him out this late over this piddling accident of mine will get him all out of sorts, and he’s already cantankerous by nature. If you ever have a real emergency, like some crazy dopehead breaking in here looking for something to stop the little green monsters from crawling out of his eye sockets, the sheriff’ll think twice before rushing to your rescue.
“Besides,” he added, lowering his voice, “folks won’t take kindly to you when they hear that you can’t be trusted with their secrets. People in a small town like Eden Pass put a lot of stock in privileged information.”
“I doubt that many even know the definition of privileged information,” Lara refuted dryly. “And contrary to what you say, in the time I’ve been here, I’ve learned just how far-reaching and accurate the grapevine is. A secret has a short life span in this town.
“But your message to me about Sheriff Baxter came through loud and clear. What you’re telling me is that he enforces a good ol’ boy form of justice and that even if I reported your bullet wound, that would be the end of it.”
“More’n likely,” he replied honestly. “Around here, if the sheriff investigated every shooting, he’d be plumb worn out in a month.”
Realizing that he probably was right, Lara sighed. “Were you shot while committing a crime?”
“A few sins, maybe,” he said, giving her a slow, lazy smile. His blue eyes squinted mischievously. “But I don’t think they’re illegal.”
She finally relinquished her professional posture and laughed. He didn’t appear to be a criminal, although he was almost certainly a sinner. She doubted that he was dangerous, except perhaps to a susceptible woman.
“Hey, the lady doctor’s not so stuffy after all. She can smile. Got a real nice smile, too.” Narrowing his eyes, he asked softly, “What else have you got that’s real nice?”
Now it was her turn to fold her arms across her chest. “Do these come-on lines usually work for you?”
“I’ve always thought that where boys and girls are concerned, talk is practically unnecessary.”
“Really?”
“Saves time and energy. Energy better spent on doing other things.”
“I don’t dare ask ‘Like what?’ ”
“Go ahead, ask. I don’t embarrass easily. Do you?”
&n
bsp; It had been a long time since a man had flirted with her. Even longer since she had flirted back. It felt good. But only for a few seconds. Then she remembered why she couldn’t afford to flirt, no matter how harmlessly. Her smile faltered, then faded. She drew herself up and resumed her professional demeanor. “Don’t forget your shirt,” she said curtly.
“You can throw it away.” He took a step away from the table, but fell back against it, his face contorted in pain. “Shitfire!”
“What?”
“My goddamn ankle. I twisted it when I… Hell of a sprain, I think.”
She knelt down and as gently as possible worked up the right leg of his jeans. “Good Lord! Why didn’t you show me this sooner?” The ankle was swollen and discolored.
“Because I was bleeding like a stuck hog. First things first. It’ll be all right.” He bent over, pushed aside her probing hands, and pulled down his pants leg.
“You should have it X-rayed. It could be broken.”
“It isn’t.”
“You’re not qualified to give a medical opinion.”
“No, but I’ve had enough broken bones to know when one’s broken, and this one isn’t.”
“I can’t take responsibility if—”
“Relax, will you? I’m not going to hold you responsible for anything.” Shirtless, shoeless, he hopped toward the door through which he’d entered.
“Would you like to wash your hands before you go?” she offered.
He looked down at the bloodstains and shook his head. “They’ve been dirtier.”
Lara felt derelict in her duties as a physician treating him this way. But he was an adult, accountable for his own actions. She’d done as much as he had permitted.
“Don’t forget to take your antibiotics,” she cautioned as she slipped under his right arm and fit her left shoulder into his armpit. She placed her left arm around him for additional support as he hopped through the door, his right arm across her shoulders. A pickup truck was parked a few yards from the back steps. Its front tires had narrowly missed her bed of struggling petunias.
“Do you have some crutches?”
“I’ll find some if I need them.”
“You’ll need them. Don’t put any weight on your ankle for several days. When you get home, put an ice pack on it and keep it elevated whenever possible. And remember to come in at—”
“Four-thirty tomorrow. I wouldn’t miss it.”
She looked up at him. He tilted his head down to look at her. Their gazes came together and held. Lara felt the heat emanating from his body. He was muscular and fit, and she was certain that his vital body would heal quickly. He was a physical specimen, which she had tried, not entirely successfully, to regard through purely professional eyes.
His eyes scanned her, looking intently at her face, her hair, her mouth. In a low, rough voice he said, “You sure as hell don’t look like any doctor I’ve ever seen.” His hand slid from her shoulder to her hip. “You don’t feel like one either.”
“What is a doctor supposed to feel like?”
“Not like this,” he rasped, gently squeezing her.
He kissed her then. Abruptly and impertinently, he stamped her lips with his.
Gasping in surprise, Lara disengaged herself. Her heart was knocking and she felt hot all over. A thousand options on how to react flashed through her mind, but she considered that the best one was to pretend the kiss hadn’t happened. Taking issue with it would only give it importance. She would be forced to acknowledge it, discuss it with him, and that, she hastily reasoned, should be avoided.
So she assumed a cool, haughty tone as she asked, “Would you like me to drive you somewhere?”
He was grinning from ear to ear, as though he saw straight through her attempt to conceal her discomposure. “No, thanks,” he replied cockily. “This truck’s got automatic transmission. I’ll manage with my left foot.”
She nodded brusquely. “If I hear of any crimes that occurred tonight, I’ll have to report this incident to Sheriff Baxter.”
Laughing even as he grimaced in pain, he climbed into the cab of the pickup. “Don’t worry. You’re not obstructing justice.” He drew an imaginary X over his left breast. “Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a cross-tie in my eye.” The engine sputtered to life. He dropped the gear shift into reverse. “Bye-bye, Doc.”
“Be careful, Mr.—”
“Tackett,” he told her through the open window. “But call me Key.”
Everything inside Lara went very still. It seemed her heart, which had been racing only moments earlier, ceased to beat at all. Blood drained from her head, making her dizzy. She must have gone drastically pale, but it was too dark for him to notice as he backed the pickup to the end of the driveway. He tapped his horn twice and saluted her with the tips of his fingers as the truck rumbled away into the darkness.
Lara plopped down onto the cool concrete steps, which were speckled with drying drops of blood. She covered her face with damp, trembling hands. The night was seasonably warm and balmy, but she shivered inside her loose white shirt. Goose bumps broke out along her legs. Her mouth had gone dry.
Key Tackett. Clark’s younger brother. He’d finally come home. This was the day she’d been anticipating. He was essential to the daring plan she’d spent the past year developing and cultivating. Now, he was here. Somehow, some way, she must enlist his help. But how?
Dr. Lara Mallory was the last person Key Tackett wanted to know.
Chapter Two
As she did every morning of her life, Janellen Tackett left her solitary bed the instant the alarm went off. The bathtub faucets squeaked, and the hot-water pipes knocked loudly within the walls of the house, but these sounds were so commonplace she didn’t even notice them.
Janellen had spent all of her thirty-three years in this house and couldn’t imagine living anyplace else, or even wanting to. Her daddy had built it for his bride over forty years ago, and although it had been redecorated and modernized with the passing decades, the indelible marks Janellen and her brothers had left on its walls and the scarred hardwood floors remained. These flaws added to its character, like laugh lines in a woman’s face.
Clark and Key had regarded the house as merely a dwelling. But Janellen considered it an integral member of the family, as essential to her heritage as were her parents. With a lover’s attention to detail, she had explored it so many times she intimately knew it from attic to cellar. It was as familiar to her as her own body. Maybe even more so. She never focused her thoughts on her body, never contemplated her own being, never stopped to consider her life and wonder whether she was happy. She simply accepted things as they were.
Following her shower, she dressed for work in a khaki skirt and a simple cotton blouse. Her hosiery had no tint; her brown leather shoes had been designed for comfort, not fashion. She pulled her dark hair into a practical ponytail. Her only article of jewelry was a plain wristwatch. She applied very little makeup. One quick whisk of powder blusher across her cheeks, a little mascara on the tips of her eyelashes, a dab of pink lip gloss, and she was ready to greet the day.
The sun was rising as she made her way down the dim staircase, through the first-story hallway, and into the kitchen, where she switched on the overhead light fixtures, filling every nook and cranny with the blue-white light of an operating room. Janellen despised the invasive cold glare because it kept the otherwise traditional kitchen from being cozy.
But Jody liked it that way.
Mechanically, she started the coffee. She had religiously kept to this morning routine since the last live-in housekeeper had been dismissed. When Janellen was fifteen, she had declared that she no longer needed a baby-sitter, that she was capable of getting herself off to school and of cooking her mother’s breakfast in the process.
Maydale, their current housekeeper, worked only five hours a day. She did the heavy cleaning and the laundry and got dinner started. But for all practical purposes, along with her responsibiliti
es at Tackett Oil and Gas Company, Janellen managed the household.
She checked the refrigerator to make sure there was a pitcher of orange juice ready and poured half-and-half into the cream pitcher. Jody wasn’t supposed to be drinking half-and-half in her coffee because of the fat content, but she insisted on it anyway. Jody always got her way.
While the coffeemaker gurgled and hissed, Janellen filled a watering can with distilled water and went out onto the screened back porch to sprinkle her ferns and begonias.
That’s when she saw the pickup truck. She didn’t recognize it, but it was parked as though it belonged in that particular spot near the back door. It was parked right where Key had always—
She did an about-face, almost spilling the contents of the watering can before returning it to the counter. She raced from the kitchen and down the hallway, grabbed the newel post and executed a childlike spiral around it, then charged up the stairs. Reaching the second floor, she dashed to the last bedroom on the right and, without pausing to knock, barged in.
“Key!”
“What?”
Running his fingers through his dark, tousled hair, he lifted his head off the pillow. He blinked her into focus. Then he moaned, clutched his side, and flopped back down. “Jesus! Don’t sneak up on me like that. Had a bedouin do that to me once, and I almost gutted him before realizing he was one of the few friendly to us.”
Heedless of his reprimand, Janellen quickly threw herself across her brother’s chest. “Key! You’re home. When did you get here? Why’d you sneak in without waking us? Oh, you’re home. Thank you, thank you, thank you for coming.” She hugged his neck hard and pecked several kisses on his forehead and cheeks.
“Okay, okay, I get it. You’re glad to see me.” He grumbled and staved off her kisses, but as he struggled to a sitting position, he was smiling. “Hiya, sis.” Through bloodshot eyes, he looked her over. “Let’s see. No gray hairs. You’ve still got most of your teeth. Haven’t put on more’n five or six pounds. Overall, I’d say you look no worse for wear.”