Mystic Cowboy: Men of the White Sandy, Book 1

by Sarah Anderson

  Nelly buried her face in her mom’s shoulder. “This is just a one-time thing.” Tara looked like she’d been busted mid-cookie snatch. “My mom had something to do, and Jesse was supposed to watch her…”

  “Well.” Rebel could see Dr. Mitchell forcibly getting herself back under control. Her mouth snapped shut, her hands dropped away from her hair and she picked up that broken thing and jammed it into her pocket. “Yes, Jesse. How is he today?”

  “He’ll have to stay off of dirt bikes from here on out,” Rebel said, shifting his weight so his zipper stopped intruding. “But he’ll live.”

  “Well.” She looked down at Nelly, who had graduated to cautious peering at the new white woman on the rez. “Hello. I’m Dr. Mitchell. I’m the new doctor.”

  The last three doctors who’d thought they could save the world had all told the kids to call them Dr. Jerry, Dr. Blaine, and Dr. Nate, but not the new doctor. She seemed almost as afraid of Nelly as Nelly was of her.

  What was her name? He was dying to find out. He wanted to wrap his tongue around it, and then maybe wrap his tongue around a few other things.

  Ow. His zipper was intruding again. Damn white women.

  Dr. Mitchell waited, but she got no response from Nelly. Unexpectedly, a warm smile broke out on her face. “Tara, this shouldn’t be a problem. And please add...speculums...to the list.” She turned fire-red again.

  His zipper was going to kill him.

  “Rebel came in to get his bill,” Tara said. She turned demanding eyes to him. “Didn’t you, Rebel?”

  “Sure.” He took the bill and looked it over. And looked again, because he was sure his eyes were playing tricks on him. “One thousand dollars?”

  “I understood that you paid your—horse!”

  “What?”

  But then he heard the rest of the waiting room gasp as Nelly squealed, “Blue Eye! Get out!”

  Rebel spun to see that Blue Eye was straddling the fan, no doubt enjoying the breeze as she checked out what all the hubbub was about.

  “Horse!” Dr. Mitchell screamed again. “Horse in the clinic!”

  “Get, shoo, Blue Eye.” Finally, the chance to get his pants adjusted. He grabbed the mare’s lead and backed her out of the clinic. “Stay out here, or you’ll have the mad doctor after you.”

  Blue Eye knocked his hat off his head and sniffed his hair, which was her way of saying, “Can we go now?”

  Rebel knew she’d become an increasingly large pain in the ass until they got the hell out of town and back to the wide open spaces again. “Give me a second,” he muttered as he cinched the lead down tight and went back in. If he was lucky, he had five minutes before the horse figured her way out of the tie again. But he wasn’t ready to leave, not just yet.

  Dr. Mitchell was waiting for him, her eyes all ice and her cheeks all fire again. Her crossed arms were suddenly making that lab coat a whole lot less sexless as she huffed at him. “Horses do not belong in this clinic,” she said, like that wasn’t some obvious statement.

  He grinned and saw the way her eyes got...deeper, somehow. It had been a long time, but not so long that he’d forgotten what that look meant on a woman’s face. That was attraction, pure and simple. “She was just curious,” he said, trying to stretch time just a little. The longer he stalled, the more he could look at her. “Not a big deal.”

  She was a sea of emotions. He thought he caught a glimpse of amusement under the attraction, but then both were gone, and she wore the meanest look he’d ever seen on a woman. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen eyes that damn blue, and he was positive that no one had ever tried to kill him by glaring alone. “Pay your bill, sir. And control your animal. Clarence! Bring me the next patient.” And she stomped off.

  He watched her go. What he wouldn’t give to see her without that doctor’s coat on. He strongly suspected that underneath she had a long, elegant body. The kind of body that gave a man just enough to hold onto, but no more. The kind of body that someone should be properly appreciating.

  The kind of body he couldn’t see right now. But what he could see was the way she sort of wobbled in her boots, like she was hurting.

  Moccasins. A woman like that—a woman who was on her feet all day, yelling at people about medical supplies—a woman like that could probably use a nice pair of moccasins.

  He kept his voice low. “Tara, what’s her name?”

  Tara rolled her eyes with expert precision. “Madeline, Madison—something Mad.” She snorted as she answered the phone. “Suits her too.”

  Something Mad.

  That just about described how she was driving him.

  “Hello, I’m Dr. Mitchell.” Madeline drew the curtain behind her. This entire clinic was in violation of HIPAA practices. Like the divider curtains kept anything private from anyone else. If this were Columbus, she’d already have been sued seven times over. Not that anyone here seemed to notice.

  She glanced down at the chart. Oh, great. Another one of those names. “And you’re Mr....White Mouse?” She looked up from the chart to the old man slumping against the exam table. His hair was a dingy gray, and when he smiled, he revealed a mouth minus most of its teeth. At least he didn’t have bloodshot eyes. She was damned tired of cirrhosis of the liver. Damned tired.

  He nodded, his head bobbing forward just enough to stir his hair. White hair, White Mouse. At least he isn’t Mr. Mighty Mouse. She frowned to keep the giggle back. Knowing her luck, Mr. Mighty Mouse would be in next week. “What seems to be the problem?”

  Mr. White Mouse smiled and nodded again. And said nothing.

  Madeline took a deep breath. Clarence was stitching a kid’s chin back together, and Tara was no help in these situations. So she tried again. Slowly. “What’s wrong?”

  Mr. White Mouse’s brow wrinkled, like he was concentrating extra hard. “Sick,” he finally got out, his accent so thick that she could barely make out the word. The one word.

  This was going to be a long day. Better bedside manner. Better bedside manner. She forced her best caring look. “Where?”

  Progress. He nodded in understanding and then pointed at his crotch.

  Well. That had gone south fast. She poked her head out the curtain. Clarence was still trying to get that kid closed up, and Tara was checking in what looked like a tour bus full of patients. She was on her own here.

  Ten minutes later, she peeled her glove off while Mr. White Mouse hitched up his trousers. She looked at the old man, his face understandably twisted with confusion and maybe just a little pain. But he still managed a kind smile, full of trust and hope.

  His prostate was the size of a grapefruit. He needed to get to the hospital. The surgery would have to be immediate—who knew what kind of strings she’d have to pull to this man on the docket? Given his age, he’d probably have to go to an assisted nursing facility, and maybe stay through the chemo and radiation.

  And she had no idea how to explain this to a man who barely spoke English. She needed Clarence, damn it. If he hadn’t gotten that kid stitched up yet, then they’d just have to wait. She flung back the curtain and found herself face to face with Rebel.

  “What the...?” she squawked as she stumbled backwards. He caught her arm and pulled her up—and right into his chest.

  “Hiya, Rebel,” Mr. White Mouse said behind her.

  “Hiya, Tȟunkášila,” Rebel replied, still holding onto her arm. Still holding her.

  She could feel a chest that matched those arms. Could feel it right through her coat and ugly blouse. Could feel it right down to her very core. Her mouth began to move. “Speak English,” was the first thing that sputtered out. Excellent. She sounded like a bigot.

  “Learn Lakota,” he shot back with a grin. A distracting grin. “This is our land.” Again, part of her brain knew he should be angry with her—she was kind of being a jerk—but he just seemed amused. Suddenly, she was aware that his thumb was rubbing the underside of her arm.

  Was this a joke to him? She wou
ld not let this man distract her with something as petty as a gentle touch. Not any more than he was already distracting her, that was. “This is my clinic.”

  She wasn’t mistaken. His whole hand was moving over her upper arm, like he was checking to see if she had the muscles to deck him or something. His head dipped down and he locked his eyes onto hers. Her breath caught in her throat. “You’re just renting it for a few years. Some of us will still be here long after you’re gone.”

  Damn it all, he was intentionally distracting her, what with the caresses and the intent gazes and all. Trying to use her weakness against her. Trying to get rid of her. “You aren’t even giving me a chance. You expect me to fail.”

  Something about him changed. Some shadow crossed his face, and he let go of her. “No,” he said as he stepped around her, his mouth passing inches from her ear, “I don’t.” The tension was gone from his voice, and he sounded almost mournful. “But you have other promises to keep.”

  Was he quoting Robert Frost? To her? Maddening, that’s what the man named Rebel was. Soft touches, happy voice, strange words she didn’t know—what the heck was Tȟunkášila, anyway?

  “Tȟunkášila,” he said again, shaking Mr. White Mouse’s hand. He turned to look at her. “It means grandfather.”

  Okay. Yes. The pain in her ass was hijacking a medical consultation. But they looked like they knew each other. Rebel could translate for her, and no one else besides her gave a rat’s ass for privacy.

  “I need your help.”

  “Oh?” And the playful wolf was back in the room, shifting back and forth again, grinning like a man who held all the cards.

  “I need you to tell Mr. White Mouse that I think he might have prostate cancer.” Rebel’s eyebrows shot up, so she pressed on. “Now, I don’t know when I can get him into the hospital in Rapid City for a surgical appointment with the specialist, and the chemo will take some time after that, but—”

  Rebel held up his hand and cut her off. “Stop.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You think he has cancer?” The way he said it made her feel like the time her old Camry had died on her, and the first guy to come to the assistance of a damsel in distress had asked if she’d tried turning the key. Rebel was making it perfectly clear that not only did he expect her to fail, he thought she was an idiot.

  Well, he could take his expectations and shove them. And if he needed help, she had at least four pairs of gloves left. She’d be happy to lend a helping hand. “Yes. That is my professional medical opinion. He needs surgery, chemo, possibly radiation, and I would try my damnedest to get him enrolled in a clinical trial.”

  “I see.” He turned to Mr. White Mouse, who looked like he was bored at a tennis match. “And, Dr. Mitchell, can you tell me what his life expectancy will be if he agrees to such an aggressive handling of his possible cancer?”

  What the hell was that, Perry Mason? She took a deep breath to keep from losing the last of her cool in the closed space of a fabric room. “Average survival rates depend on a variety of factors, including reoccurrence and—”

  “Given. Average life expectancy?”

  “Three to five years.” She managed to keep the you asshole to herself.

  “I see.” He looked at Mr. White Mouse again. “And if we do nothing?”

  “Doing nothing means certain death.”

  “We all die, Doctor. Or did you miss that day in class?”

  He was trying to piss her off, trying to get her off her guard so he could finish outflanking her and drag her down to his level. “You paid your bill yet?”

  Boy, she’d love to be able to appreciate that smile—warm as the summer sun that was baking the clinic, but sultry in all the good ways. Every time she thought she had him cornered, he flashed that smile at her, which suddenly made her feel as if she wasn’t even playing the right game.

  “In cash. For the supplies. And you’re out of plaster of Paris.”

  Her one and only paying client. The relief washed over her, but she fought to keep from looking grateful.

  One eyebrow snuck up, giving him that playful look again. “How long with no treatment?”

  “One to three years.”

  “Yup.”

  Yup? Yup what? Nothing this man said made a lick of sense, except for the parts that pissed her off. She understood those just fine.

  Finally, he started translating. Mr. White Mouse nodded as Rebel went on. Occasionally, the two of them would look over to her, like she was a candy striper instead of the head honcho around here, but that was it.

  After what seemed like an eternity in the waiting room for Hell, Mr. White Mouse shook Rebel’s hand, nodded at her and walked out.

  She looked at Mr. White Mouse, at Rebel and back to Mr. White Mouse. “What the hell did you tell him?

  “To go to a sweat lodge.”

  “Excuse me?” That did it. She was going to lose it, right here, right now. In the three days she’d been here, she’d had a nameless man with an unreported bullet wound, a horse in the clinic, and now this—a strange man with a stranger name sending her patients away against medical advice. No wonder the last guy only made it five months. This place was insane. She yanked the curtain shut so she could at least pretend she was losing it in private. “What the hell is a sweat lodge?”

  “Calm down, ma’am.” His voice dropped a notch and he turned to face her.

  Oh, he was going to do the old speak-in-quiet-tones thing, the very thing she did when she needed to calm a patient? Screw him. “I’m not your ma’am. I’m Dr. Mitchell to you.”

  He leaned in, so close she could feel his breath on her flushed face. “You’re really Madeline, aren’t you?”

  The air crushed out of her chest and her heart, which had been moving along at a nice, super-pissed clip, threatened to stop entirely. All at once, she realized they were obscured from everyone else in the clinic by the curtain. They were almost alone. And he was almost going to kiss her.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said, dipping his head down to hers. He waved his hand—not touching her face, not touching her hair, but she felt the coolness of the air move over her. “Madeline.”

  He was outflanking her, plain and simple. Mesmerizing her with his deep voice that said her name like it was something sacred, something worth protecting. Holding her with his soft eyes. Hypnotizing her with his easy movements. Waiting until she was completely defenseless. And then he’d go for the kill.

  So what if she wouldn’t mind being taken down right now? Dr. Madeline Mitchell didn’t go down without a fight. “You tell me what a sweat lodge is. You tell me why you sent my patient away against medical advice. You tell me what your real name is, or I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.” She wanted to wince at that last part. She had no idea if she could have him arrested or not. But it was too late. It was out there.

  If he only had a longer nose, he’d look exactly like a wolf grinning at his prey. Her.

  “I didn’t send him away against medical advice. You said so yourself—he’s got about three years, one way or the other.” He leaned back, his heel tapping again. Always moving—but not moving in on her now. She let go of the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Even if he had the money to pay for tests and surgery and chemo and radiation, even if he had a car that could get him to Rapid City and back, even if he let you poison his body in hopes of saving it, he’s got about three years. He’s sixty-eight. He’s already lived longer than most of us will on this rez.”

  “So you won’t even try? You won’t even let me try to cure him?”

  He scrunched up his face with disdain. “With surgery and controlled poisoning? You might cure his body—that’s a big might—but you will not heal him. We’ll go into a sweat lodge, and the elders and I will heal him. That’s what he needs in his twilight.”

  Sweat lodges? He was speaking her language, and she still had nothing. “I could still have you arrested.”

  He c
alled her bluff without blinking an eye. Damn, those eyes—those eyes would do her in. Here she was, trying to kick him out, and he was looking at her like...like...like she didn’t know what. Those eyes didn’t give away much. “Rebel is my real name.” He tipped his hat, old-school. “Madeline.”

  And then he was gone.

  And all she could do was watch him walk away.

  Chapter Four

  At 8:15 on Thursday morning, Rebel was in the waiting room, sitting next to Irma Speaks Loud. He was fully aware that he’d been here every single day this week and that he didn’t have to stick around for Irma’s appointment—her English was just fine. He was also aware that he could not get his leg to stop jumping and that Tara was staring at him out of the corner of her eye.

  He was more than aware that Dr. Madeline Mitchell was wearing a skirt today. A blue-jean skirt that came to just below her knees but hugged everything it touched like an old friend. Her legs were pale, almost milk-white. Those legs said she didn’t normally wear skirts. Those legs said she had a good reason for wearing that skirt.

  She had on those boots again too. They were right pretty boots, he figured, chestnut with blue stitching. Matched her eyes. But they pinched her feet. He could tell by the way she splayed her feet out to the side when she walked. Probably blisters on the heels. He thought about making her a pair of mocs, then realized he was thinking of the pair he’d seen in the vision. They’d look good on her.

  However, even if he made her a nice pair of mocs, she might very well throw them back in his face. After all, she’d seriously considered calling Tim on him yesterday—as if Tim would actually arrest him. But she didn’t know that.

  She spun around and caught him watching her. Her hands flew to her hair again—this time, it was tied in a low tail. It swung down to just between her shoulder blades. He liked it down, but something about it seemed off. Not quite right.