Kiss a Girl in the Rain

by Nancy Warren

  “But I’ll call you when I get there.”

  “You do that.” Cooper fist bumped him. “I’ll want to borrow that bike when you’re done, so don’t wreck it.”

  “I won’t.”

  “If you head out on the 80 or the 84 east, that should give you a good start,” said his dad who’d obviously been studying the atlas.

  “I made a deal with myself. If there’s a major route or a minor one, I’ll always take the smaller road.”

  “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,

  I took the one less traveled by,” Iris, the English major, quoted.

  “Exactly.”

  “So, your twelve year old self and a dead poet are your guides on this trip,” Cooper said.

  He grinned at the sheer craziness of his plan. “Pretty much.”

  “It’s a wonderful idea,” Daphne said. His mom was way too nice to tell him how happy she was that he and Tessa had broken up, but he wasn’t stupid. And, being his mom, she was right.

  Lucky, the lab who’d been part of their family since Marguerite found her as a stray five years ago, sat with a concerned look in her big eyes, panting. Her tail drooping. Her disgusting tennis ball forgotten in a corner. Like every dog Evan had ever known, Lucky viewed packing with deep suspicion, knowing it meant somebody she loved was going away somewhere.

  He knelt on the kitchen floor and gave the dog a hug. “I’ll be back soon, Luck. You guard Mom and Dad, okay?”

  Lucky’s tail thumped on the floor, which he took to be a yes.

  He zipped his leather jacket. Picked up his helmet and headed out to the porch. His family came out with him. Lucky stopped only to grab the ball in her mouth and followed.

  He gave last hugs all around, then walked down to the gravel drive. He stowed the last gifts, mounted the bike, started it and headed out.

  When he got to the end of the long gravel drive where the hand-painted mailbox perched, right before he hit the paved road, he put a foot on the ground and turned. They all stood on the big porch waving. He felt a foolish wetness behind his eyes. He raised his hand and then lifting his foot, he began a trip he’d planned when he was twelve years old.

  Ride a motorcycle across the country.

  Okay. He headed east.

  Evan was driving down a country road. It was probably nice and quiet out there, hard to tell with the relentless roar of the powerful motorcycle engine. He should find a place to stay for the night, he thought, realizing he’d been following this same road in a kind of trance for a couple of hours now. His shoulders were sore and his back tight from too many miles without a break. He’d find a motel or a campsite, get some food.

  This was only his second day on the road but he felt that he’d developed a kind of rhythm. He’d drive for a few hours, stop for meals, maybe see whatever sight the area boasted, then he’d get back on the bike and ride some more.

  Last night he’d pulled into a drive-in motel, so different from the places he usually stayed on his corporate expense account. His room had smelled of disinfectant and when he’d tried to sleep, the couple having sex next door had kept him awake. Finally, he’d pulled out the atlas and, using a yellow highlighter, he’d traced his route on the atlas. For all the hours of driving it was amazing how little of the country he’d covered. He wasn’t in a hurry, he reminded himself. He’d imagined his trip across the country would take eight days. Now he was wondering if it might be more like two weeks? Especially if he kept taking these country roads.

  Today, his body was reminding him that this was unfamiliar exercise. His back felt stiff, his wrists sore from the unaccustomed strain. It was time to take a break.

  He began to look around him, wondering where exactly he was.

  This road was more like a country lane with no streetlights and little in the way of lit homes. The single headlight on his bike seemed to tunnel through darkness showing only a few feet ahead of him. He really should have stopped at the last town which he’d reached as night was falling but he’d felt that he had a few more miles on him. He hadn’t seen a place to stay that appealed to him and so had ridden on. Big mistake. Now he was tired, had no idea where he was and knew he’d have to stop at the next place that offered some kind of accommodation and food.

  He heard the bark before he saw the flash of dark shadow against the dark road. He swerved, but the crazy animal, dog of some kind he thought, changed direction right when he thought he was clear.

  He jammed on the brakes and jerked the handlebars, going into a skid. He swerved to miss the dog, but he low sided on the gravel shoulder. He heard a squeal and realized he hadn’t missed the dog after all. Almost as though it were happening in slow motion, he felt the bike lose traction, slip out from under him. He tumbled, and the next thing he knew he was on the ground.

  Evan stood slowly, happy to find nothing hurt too badly. His bike lay on the side of the road, probably scratched but he couldn’t really see. He turned the bike off. He had to brace himself and use all his strength to haul the bike upright on the kick stand.

  The howl of canine pain was high-pitched and filled him with guilt as he ran forward. “It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay,” he said, in the voice he’d been using with hurt dogs since one of the earlier family mutts had got a snout full of porcupine quills.

  He kept his gloves on in case the animal tried to bite him, and ran his hands over its body.

  The dog howled piteously so at least he knew it wasn’t dead. Couldn’t leave it in the middle of the road. Shit. There was no traffic but who knew when a car would come along? The dog struggled to its feet, but when it tried to walk it whined. “Okay, buddy, let’s get you home.”

  Fortunately, the dog was small enough that he could lift it, though he wouldn’t be able to go too far. He started off at a trudge, deciding he’d pull in to the first house he saw. His companion whined a little, but at least had the sense to stay still. He couldn’t have carried it if it kept struggling. He kept up a one-sided conversation with the dog, mostly repeating variations of, “we’re going to find help. We’ll get you fixed up good as new.” He hoped to hell he was telling the truth.

  His arms were burning when he heard the sound of a car driving slowly behind him. He turned, hoping to flag down the driver and get some help. To his relief, the vehicle was a police cruiser and it pulled over beside him. The passenger window rolled down revealing a lone officer at the wheel, a guy about his own age, who checked him out with the universal cop gaze they must teach in the police academy.

  “You got some trouble there?” he said.

  “Yeah. Dog ran in front of me. It’s hurt, don’t know how bad.”

  “That your bike back there?”

  “Yes.”

  The cop nodded.

  “Is there a vet near here?”

  Again, that searching gaze turned on him before the cop accepted that a man carrying a whining dog probably didn’t have B&E on his mind. “Doc Sorenson lives in that house through there.” He pointed to the lit windows of a house down a path. “That’s a community walking trail. You’ll be there in a couple minutes.”

  “Thanks.”

  The officer didn’t offer to drive him to the vet’s place. Probably didn’t want to have to clean dog blood out of the back of the cruiser. “Is your bike rideable?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. Have a nice evening.” And the cruiser drove away.

  He couldn’t tell if the query about his bike had been genuine helpfulness or a veiled suggestion that he get his dog-maiming self out of this sleepy town ASAP.

  Evan turned with his burden and headed for the lighted windows of the vet. “Almost there, buddy.”

  It was farther than he thought, and definitely more than a couple of minutes’ walk, but eventually he was standing in front of a sturdy oak door, shifting the dog so he could ring the bell. In the porch light he got his first good look at the wounded dog. It was not a pretty sight. Bedraggled, with a tangle of matted brown hair, this was
a dog only fleas could love.

  He wished the door would open. His arms were aching and he was worried about the mutt. What if no one was home?

  But the second he had the thought he became convinced there was someone on the other side of the door. He turned to the peephole as though he could see into it rather than be observed. Then the door opened and he forgot who he was and why he was standing there.

  A young and seriously beautiful woman stood in front of him, long blond hair haloed by the lights inside the house so she looked for a moment like an angel.

  Her pretty face creased in a frown. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Doctor Sorenson. A cop sent me here. This dog ran out into the road and I hit it with my motorcycle. I tried to swerve but the fool mutt changed direction.”

  “A police officer sent you here?” Even her voice was pretty. Low and musical. The dog’s tail thumped his elbow so he figured the instant crush was mutual.

  “Yes.”

  He thought she rolled her eyes. “I’m Doctor Sorenson.” Maybe she only worked office hours. He couldn’t carry this dog another step. He tried pulling out all his charm. Cracked a winning smile, the kind he used on female clients and opposing counsel. “Please. Could you take a look at him? I don’t know how badly he’s hurt.”

  She reached out and patted the dog’s head. It licked her hand. Clearly, she had a way with animals. “All right. Bring him around to the side door. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Thanks.”

  He backed down the three stairs and when he hit bottom a light came on to his right, indicating what must be the door to her vet hospital.

  She opened the door before he got there, and he had a glimpse of a waiting room with a circle of chairs and a reception desk with a wall of files behind it. She led him to a small examination room and even with the dog weighing heavy in his arms and his concern that it might be seriously hurt, he couldn’t help but notice the sway of her trim hips. She wore faded jeans and a blue sweater that slipped off one shoulder. On her feet were bedroom slippers. “Put him on the examination table,” she said, flipping on a bright overhead light. The black vinyl bed had paper stretched over it that crinkled when he laid the dog down. He thought the dog might try to flee, but the animal seemed to be as tired of this ordeal as he was.

  In the bright light the dog didn’t get better looking. It was not what anyone would call a handsome animal. Brown with some gray markings, the tangles of matted fur, a sharp-nosed face, and legs that seemed too skinny for its body. There was a little blood on the coat but otherwise he couldn’t see how badly it was hurt.

  The vet pulled on surgical gloves and stepped forward. “Okay, pup, let’s take a look at you.” She ran her hands gently over the dog. It watched her from dark eyes and he found himself patting the thing on the head saying, “It’s okay, Buddy.”

  She had a calm, capable way about her. She pulled out a stethoscope and listened to the dog’s heart. He loved the concentration on her face. She had big, blue eyes and the kind of pale skin that suggested Nordic blood. She was small-boned, tall and slender and he wondered how she managed the bigger farm animals she must treat out here in the boonies.

  She asked him to describe the accident. Nodded when he’d finished.

  “The skin is broken from the impact, but nothing internal seems injured. He’s bruised. And he’s strained a leg.” She rubbed the dog. “You were lucky.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a small tube. “This is antibiotic cream.” She applied it gently to the hurt spot on the dog’s side and he seemed to enjoy the attention. She put the lid back on and handed him the tube. “Apply this a couple of times a day until the wound heals.”

  Evan took the cream automatically, but said, “He’s not my dog. Do you know him? I’d like to get him back to the rightful owners.”

  “No. I’ve never seen this dog before.”

  “Damn. Thought he might be one of your patients.”

  A gleam of humor lit her eyes. In that moment he registered facts he hadn’t paid attention to before. The big poster of a human skeleton on the wall. The stirrups at the end of the black bed.

  “Actually,” she said, “I’m a—”

  “People doctor,” they both said at the same time.

  Chapter Four

  Caitlyn Sorenson almost hadn’t opened the door. A good look through the peephole had revealed, not one of her patients who believed that clinic hours were for other people, or a kid selling something to raise money for a sports team as she’d expected. Instead, she’d seen a stranger. That was remarkable in itself, to have a stranger show up at seven at night in Miller’s Pond. He looked like a drifter or an outlaw in black leathers streaked with dirt. His dark brown hair needed a trim, and she doubted his face had met a razor in the last week. Good looking if you liked those disheveled rootless types, with almond-shaped hazel eyes and a mouth that looked to her as though it were made to talk dirty.

  Nope, she’d never have opened her door to him, except that she’d seen the dog and known it was hurt. And she’d been a sucker for anything hurting ever since she could remember.

  There was also something about the way motorcycle guy had held that dog that had weakened her resolve not to open the door to anyone who wasn’t in life-threatening, gonna die if I don’t see a doctor NOW danger. Clearly this was not the case, but there was blood on the dog’s coat, and she supposed motorcycle guy could have a concussion or head trauma. She saw no motorcycle helmet, which irked her immediately. Then he’d raised his eyes as though he were looking right back at her through the peephole and she’d experienced a shivery sense of connection.

  Oh, the hell with it. She opened the door.

  And now that she’d treated the canine, she said, “He should probably see a real vet tomorrow. Dr. Greenfall in Cedar Bend is your best bet.”

  Her unwanted guest still seemed stunned that an MD had treated his dog. A crackling of paper had them both turning to see the dog, obviously exhausted from its traumatic evening, stretch out on the patient examination table and fall asleep.

  “How much do I owe you?” he asked, reaching for a wallet.

  Her laugh stopped him. “Can you imagine my accountant trying to figure out how to itemize this? Don’t worry about it.”

  He nodded thanks, an answering gleam of amusement in his own gaze.

  “Why did that cop send me here?” rough and rugged asked.

  “Chief Barker has a – peculiar sense of humor.” And she was seriously going to kill him over this.

  The drifter’s gaze was steady on her face. “Is he your boyfriend?”

  He interviewed people the way she did, she thought. Picking up more than the words a person spoke. Listening for nuance, body language, the significant pause.

  There was a significant pause now, she realized too late, before she said, “No. He’s not.”

  “But he wants to be?”

  “You’re pretty observant for a stranger cruising through town.” And since she wanted to get off the subject of Barker and make sure her after hours visitor wasn’t hurt, she said, “I’d better take a look at you, too, before you go. I’m better with humans.” She motioned him to a visitor’s chair, since the examination table was occupied, and reached for a pencil light. “Do you remember if you hit your head when you crashed?”

  “Clinic hours are over,” he reminded her, pointing to the schedule posted on the wall.

  They locked gazes and she could see a kind of stubbornness she recognized well because she had it too. So she softened her approach.

  “Look at this from my point of view. If you’re found dead on the road of a brain bleed and everyone in town knows you came here the night of the accident – and believe me, in this town, everyone will know – how would it look for my reputation?”

  “I didn’t hit my head,” he said, but he sat down anyway.

  “You’d be surprised how many concussion patients tell me that. Were you wearing a helmet?” She kept her t
one neutral but he’d be getting The Lecture if he was roaring around on a motorcycle without wearing head protection. If she had a dollar for every trauma victim who could have been saved if they’d worn their seatbelts, bike helmets, kept the guns locked up…

  “My helmet’s with the bike,” he said, his gaze intent on her face.

  “Good.”

  She shone the light in his eyes and was gratified to see excellent pupil reaction. Also, there were intriguing flecks of gold and black in the mossy green of his eyes. There were white lines in the crinkles around his eyes as though he’d been squinting into the sun a lot.

  “Can you take off your jacket? I want to listen to your heart.”

  He obliged. Beneath the black leather jacket was a well-worn but obviously top quality gray T-shirt. The fabric was like silk to touch. She pushed the stethoscope under the fabric and heard the heartbeat, reassuringly strong and steady beneath a warm and muscular chest.

  “Where’s home for you?” She asked in a conversational tone but part of her examination was making sure his memory was intact.

  She watched him hesitate. Oh, oh. Then he said, “Oregon.”

  “Turn your head please, to the right.” As he complied, she asked, “Whereabouts in Oregon?”

  “Little town you wouldn’t have heard of.”

  “Turn your head the other way for me.”

  As he did, she asked, “What day is it today?”

  “Wednesday. No. Wait. Thursday.”

  Warning bells were beginning to tinkle. It was Friday. “Any pain when you turn your head?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a very nice watch,” she said, pointing to the gold piece on his wrist. “What time is it?”

  He glanced at the watch while she checked the clock on her office wall. The time he gave her was a good thirty-five minutes different than the actual time.

  As she brought her gaze back from the clock, he looked up from the watch and their gazes connected. “What’s your name?” she asked, wondering if she could get him admitted to the local hospital for observation overnight.

  “Evan.” Then, “What are you doing?”

  She’d already picked up her phone. “I’m calling the hospital, see if I can get you in for observation. I think you might have a concussion.”