Saving Dr. Ryan

by Karen Templeton

  No point in arguing. Not that he wasn’t hungry. It just seemed cruel to give his stomach something it wasn’t going to get on a regular basis. But he grabbed a stoneware plate from the drainer, his heavy socks snagging on the wooden floor as he lumbered over to the stove, where he piled on a half dozen links, God knows how many eggs. A lot.

  “And get yourself some juice, too,” Ivy commanded. “I don’t suppose I need to tell you about antioxidants.”

  Ryan got the juice, sloshing it over onto the eroded Formica counter when he tipped the pitcher a half inch too far. Ivy clucked—Ivy clucked a lot—then wiped up the spill one-handed.

  “When you gonna get yourself a housekeeper, is what I want to know.”

  With a groan, Ryan sank down onto a kitchen chair, some fancy Victorian press-back number Suzanne had picked out when they were still engaged. He shoveled in a bite of egg before replying. “For one thing, I don’t need to be tripping over some stranger in my own kitchen every morning.” Noah’s dark, frightened eyes flashed through his memory, making him frown. Harder. “And for another, what am I supposed to pay her with? My charm?”

  “Oh, Lord. Then you would be in trouble.”

  Ryan shrugged, took a swig of coffee, downed another forkful of egg.

  “Of course, you could get yourself a wife instead, you know.”

  Yeah, well, he’d figured that was coming. “You applyin’ for the job?”

  “Don’t be fresh.”

  He almost grinned. The caffeine must be kicking in. Not to mention the food. After a gulp of the juice, he said, “Anyway, if I don’t have the money or the charm for a housekeeper, how in tarnation am I supposed to take care of a wife?”

  Of course, both of them knew the problem went much deeper than that, although Ivy had flat-out told Ryan his objections were nothing but bunk more times than he’d care to remember. For some reason, though, judging from her squinty eyes—which meant she was more carefully considering her response than she was normally prone to do—this was apparently not going to be one of those times. He’d no sooner breathed an inward sigh of relief, however, when she slammed into him from another angle.

  “Well, I don’t suppose I can do much to shake the stranger-in-your-kitchen business,” she said. “But there’s no earthly reason you should be having money problems, and you know it. You got enough patients to keep three doctors busy, and most of those who don’t pay private have insurance or Medicare or something. The house is free and clear, you don’t have any dependents and you went to school on scholarship, so there’s no school loans to pay back. So what gives?”

  “Criminy, Ivy!” So much for his better mood. Still chewing, Ryan lifted his bleary gaze to hers. How other folks survived morning conversations was beyond him. “What lit your fire this morning?”

  With a loud sigh, she dropped onto the chair opposite him, rubbing the baby’s back. “I’m worried about you, is all. Figured that fell to me when your mama died. She’d be all over your case, and you know it.”

  This, he didn’t need. On top of having people cluttering up his kitchen, a woman he didn’t quite know what to do with in his guest room and a practice that kept him running ragged but close to the poverty line at the same time, Ivy’s reminding him about his mother was just one straw too many.

  Yes, Mary Logan certainly would be on his case. Not to mention his brothers’ as well. When it came to getting their acts together, lifewise and lovewise, all three of her sons seemed to have struck out. And for a woman who’d preached the family unit as the bedrock of civilization the way she did—and lived it, to boot—her sons’ disastrous records would have sent her to her grave, if cancer hadn’t done the job first when Hank and Cal were still in their teens.

  The family had drifted apart after her death, like a solar system without its sun. Not so much physically—all three of them were right there in Haven—but emotionally. And Big Hank, their father, hadn’t seemed to know how to bind up the wounds, either. Had too many of his own to tend to, would be Ryan’s guess. Wounds from which he never fully recovered. The old man simply faded into himself, little by little, quietly dying in his sleep five years after his wife’s passing.

  Mama would have given them all hell, if not the back of her hand, for giving in like that. For giving up. And Ivy, who’d been Mary’s best friend, had simply taken up their mother’s cause. One day, Ryan supposed, he’d appreciate it.

  One day. Not this morning. Not when the events of the last few hours seemed hell-bent on rattling him to kingdom come.

  So he impaled a sausage, waved it at her. “Do me a favor, Ivy—stick to midwifery. Which reminds me…the Lewis baby turned yet?”

  “Yesterday, thank you, so no, I don’t need you, and you’re changing the subject.”

  He stuffed the whole sausage in his mouth, mumbled, “Damn straight,” around it.

  Ivy let out a little sigh of her own, shifted the dozing infant to a more secure position on her shoulder. “You know she’s got to stay here, don’t you?”

  His plate clean, Ryan kicked back the last of his juice, got up to carry his dishes to the sink. “I’m hardly going to turn the woman and her kids out, Ivy.”

  “I know that. But I figured you’d probably try to find someplace else for her to stay.”

  He shook his head, washing up his few dishes, then started in on the griddle and skillet. “No. At least not for the next week or so. I want to keep an eye on her. And the baby.”

  “And then?”

  Yeah, well, that was what was making the eggs and sausage do somersaults in his stomach, wasn’t it? “I don’t know. She tell you she’s kin to Ned McAllister?”

  Ivy heavy brows lifted. “No. How?”

  “Her husband’s great-uncle.”

  She angled her head. “And her husband is…?”

  “Dead.” Ryan took a moment to let some of the anger burn off, then said, “Jerk left her with nothing.”

  “Oh…that poor thing.”

  Ryan turned to Ivy, wiping his hands in a dishtowel. “You saw the scars?”

  Ivy sighed. “The father?”

  “According to Maddie. I see no reason not to believe her.”

  That was worth several seconds’ clucking. “Life’s thrown some real curve balls at that young woman.”

  Ryan couldn’t disagree there. He glanced up at the clock, grabbed his jacket from where he’d dumped it earlier over the back of the kitchen chair.

  “Where you goin’?”

  “Over to Hank’s to pick up whatever Maddie’s left in her room.”

  “Think he’ll be up for a visitor this early?”

  “Ask me if I care,” Ryan said, punching one arm through his jacket sleeve. “I’ve got office hours starting at eight-thirty, and I figure Ms. Kincaid just might like her clothes before six o’clock this evening.”

  Hank greeted him barechested and scowling, his jeans unsnapped. A toothbrush dangled out of his mouth; comb tracks sliced his dark, wet hair. Eighteen months older, two inches taller and twenty-five pounds heavier than Ryan, Hank Logan was what some folks might call “imposing.” Others bypassed niceties and went straight for “scary.” And with good reason. Nothing pretty about that mug of his, that was for damn sure, every feature sharp, uncompromising, anchored by a twice-broken nose that made a person think real carefully before disagreeing with him. Everything about Hank Logan said, “Don’t mess,” and most folks didn’t.

  Which led a lot of people to wondering what on earth had possessed the guy to buy a beat-up, run-down, sorry-assed old motel and go into the hospitality business.

  Hank had been a cop in Dallas, up until a couple years ago, when his fiancée had died in a convenience store robbery gone to hell. And so had Hank. The force shrinks had finally convinced him he needed to take some time off before facing the world again with a gun strapped to his hip. So Hank had come home on a six-month leave. But, while Ryan had his practice, and Cal, their youngest brother, the family horse farm to look after, Han
k had been suddenly left with nothing.

  Until this motel.

  He never got back to Dallas.

  Hank took one look at Ryan and swore, the effect somehow not all that intimidating around a mouth full of toothpaste suds. “She had the baby?”

  “I won’t even ask you how you figured that out.”

  “Hell, Ry—” Hank ducked back inside his apartment adjacent to the office, a hellhole if ever there was one, and strode back to the bathroom. Ryan followed, shutting the door behind him. As usual, some opera singer was holding forth from the CD player.

  “She was in her ninth month,” Hank was saying over the sound of running water and an emotionally distraught soprano. “Her car’s not here this morning. And you are. Doesn’t take a genius.”

  Ryan, however, hadn’t really heard that last part, fascinated—in a ghoulish kind of way—with the state of his brother’s apartment. The only refined thing about it was the music. While none of the Logan brothers would win any housekeeping awards, from the looks, and smell, of things, Hank seemed determined to see just how bad his place could get before it ignited from spontaneous combustion. Layers of dirty clothes, moldering fast food containers as far as the eye could see, dishes stacked like drunken acrobats in the sink—the place redefined dump.

  “For cryin’ out loud, Hank—why don’t you pay Cherise an extra fifty bucks to clean up in here once a week?”

  From the bathroom, he heard spitting and rinsing, before Hank reappeared, laconically buttoning up a denim shirt. Dry heat hummed from a vent under the no-color drapes, teasing the hems. “I do. She comes tomorrow.”

  “I take that back. Make it a hundred. And remind me to make sure her tetanus shots are up to date.”

  Hank grunted.

  “And how’d you know Maddie Kincaid was in her ninth month, anyway?”

  His brother had let his cop-short hair grow out—a lot—but he still moved with a kind of taut awareness, as if he expected the bad guys to pop out from behind his Murphy bed. His eyes as dark as Ryan’s were light, Hank tossed his brother a glance as he rifled through a pile of clothes on an ugly upholstered chair, looking for something. “I asked. She said three weeks yet.”

  Lord. Hank had probably frightened her into labor. “The baby had other ideas.”

  Hank found what he was looking for—a belt—and threaded it through his jeans. “How’d she find you?” He dug in his pocket for a stick of gum, a habit taken up after Ryan finally convinced him to give up smoking. The wrapper drifted to the floor after he poked the gum into his mouth.

  “I have no idea. She and the kids just showed up.”

  “Huh. You take her to the hospital?”

  “I was doing well to get in position in time to catch the baby. That’s why I’m here. To get their things.”

  Hank nodded, snatching a spare set of keys off a hook by his door. He grabbed a leather jacket from the back of a dinette chair and opened the door to the biting cold.

  They walked the short distance in silence, gravel crunching underfoot, their breath frosted in front of their faces. Hands rammed in his pockets, Ryan glanced around. You couldn’t exactly say Hank’d been singlehandedly restoring the place to its former glory, since that was a word one would never have associated with the Double Arrow, even in its heyday. But he was definitely restoring it, shingle by shingle. A dozen single-room units out front, a half dozen two- and three-room cottages down by what the previous owners generously called a “lake.” The single rooms were pretty much done; Ryan imagined it would take another year, maybe two, before the cottages were ready for occupants. At least, the two-footed variety.

  It was a pretty spot, actually, especially this time of year with the ashes and maples doing their fall color thing. With a little effort—okay, a lot of effort—Hank could turn the motel into someplace folks might actually want to stay.

  The scrape of a key in a lock caught Ryan’s attention; they stepped inside Unit 12, Ryan breathing a silent sigh of relief that the room seemed—and smelled—clean. A little strong on the Pine-Sol, but that was okay. Calling the county health authorities on his own brother wasn’t high on his list. Especially as Hank could still probably beat the crap out of him, if he had a mind to.

  The twin beds were both undone, a denim jumper and blouse neatly laid across the back of the desk chair. One suitcase was open on the metal-and-strap rack, the contents still more or less intact. Ryan quickly gathered the few stray items, including a plastic soap case and toothbrush from the bathroom sink, haphazardly folding the clothing before stuffing everything into the open case, then clicking it shut. Even without really looking, though, he could tell the clothes were worn and faded. For a woman with such intense pride, her predicament must be eating her alive.

  Ryan hauled the cases out to the truck, Hank meandering wordlessly behind. To tell the truth, none of the brothers had much to say to each other anymore. Which was a shame, he supposed, since they’d been close as kids, even though they’d tormented each other like any normal siblings.

  Hank stood with his arms crossed, the stiff breeze messing with his hair. “Now what do you suppose makes a woman that pregnant up and leave wherever she was?”

  Ryan settled the cases in the truck bed, turned back to his brother. Little had caught Hank’s interest since his return, other than this rat-trap. But damned if Ryan didn’t catch a whiff of genuine intrigue about Maddie Kincaid.

  “Desperation,” he said simply. “Husband’s dead, she’s got no money from what I can tell. And her only living relative is here.”

  “Yeah? Who?”

  “Ned.”

  Black brows shot straight up. “McAllister?”

  “Yep.”

  “Damn. She really is havin’ a bad string of luck, isn’t she?”

  “To put it mildly.” Ryan pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, fished out a twenty and a five. “Let me settle up for her room.”

  But Hank shook his head. “Forget it. In fact, if she needs a place to stay—”

  “No,” Ryan said, too quickly, tucking the bills back into his wallet. “I need to keep an eye on her. And the baby, you know.”

  Hank gave a nod, then a sigh. “Pretty thing,” he said, which just about surprised the life out of Ryan. Far as he knew, it had been a long time since Hank had noticed a woman. Much less mentioned one. And that he’d notice this one, in her ninth month, skinny as a rail, with two other kids to boot…well, it didn’t make a whole lot of sense, and Ryan wasn’t about to figure out why it bothered him, but maybe it meant Hank was coming back to life.

  Which was a good thing, right?

  “I suppose she’d clean up okay,” Ryan said nonchalantly, climbing behind the wheel.

  Hank’s long, craggy face actually split into a grin. A grin. A grin the likes of which Ryan hadn’t seen for longer than he cared to remember.

  He gunned the truck to life, more irritable than he had any right or reason to feel.

  Chapter 3

  Ivy and the kids rushed out the back door just as Ryan pulled up, the midwife going on about taking the kids with her on her rounds, she’d just been waiting for Ryan to get back so Maddie wouldn’t be alone. And that she’d updated Maddie’s chart, it was on his desk, everything looked real good.

  Then they were gone in a blur of dust and engine growls— Ivy’s battle-scarred Ford pickup had a good five years on Ryan’s—leaving Ryan with a fresh pot of coffee and profound relief that Ivy’d taken the kids away for a bit. Keeping an ear out for Maddie and Amy Rose was one thing; watching two little kids while seeing to his patients was something else. He’d lost his last nurse/receptionist to marriage and a move to New Mexico not a month ago, had yet to replace her. Sometimes he had a temp in to help, but he usually found it less problematic in the long run to wing it on his own. His paperwork was suffering some, but he told himself he’d catch up, one of these days. Years.

  Ryan got himself another cup of coffee and wended his way toward the haphazardly conne
cted group of four rooms that made up his office. The house sat on a double-sized corner lot, three blocks from the center of town. Back in the twenties, a back parlor and summer porch had been converted into an office/exam room and waiting room with its own entrance. Later on, somebody got the bright idea to build a breezeway linking the original office to the detached garage, which had served double duty ever since as auxiliary exam and file rooms.

  The layout didn’t make a lick of sense, architecturally speaking, but it suited Ryan’s purpose well enough. And that was all that mattered.

  He’d peeked into the waiting room on his way to Maddie’s room: no one yet. Good. He only had a handful of actual appointments today, but every fall, soon as school started, there were the usual rash of coughs and colds, not to mention the playground boo-boos and football injuries. About due for the first round of strep, too, he imagined.

  The door to the back bedroom was slightly ajar; Ryan slowly shouldered it open, saw that Maddie was asleep. He’d intended on just setting the suitcases down and getting out of there, except one of the cases wasn’t as flat on the bottom as he’d thought so that it fell over onto the wooden floor with a bang! loud enough to set him back five years.

  Maddie twisted around in the bed, her eyes soft and unfocused. The room smelled of sunshine on clean linens, the sweet scent of newborn baby. An odd sensation that managed to be vague and sharp at the same time sliced through him as a stray shaft of sunlight grazed the top of her head, turning her dull brown hair a rich, golden color. And she had on one of his shirts, he noticed, that blue plaid that had gotten all soft, just the way he liked it.

  “One problem with this hotel,” he said, his throat suddenly dry, “is the lousy room service.”

  Maddie smiled, slowly and lazily, and his heart just hopped right up into that dry throat. “Hardly,” she said in that scratchy little voice of hers, before carefully pushing herself upright. Her just-washed hair was all feathery and soft around a scrubbed face, making her look more than ever like a child.