Spurs and Lace (Lonely Lace Series Book 1)

by Bonnie R. Paulson

  Reclaiming her hands, she looked away from his hypnotic eyes. She had to concentrate. They didn’t have much time and she didn’t know how long her new-found courage would last. Get her into the surgical part and she’d be fine. Once there she hit a zone and nothing affected her.

  The child whimpered, growing more restless. Becky grabbed Slate’s hand and pulled him to the double-basined sink against the wall.

  Snow whipped against the upper half of the window and drifted against the lower portion.

  “You need to scrub for at least an entire minute with a lot of soap. Like me.” The liquid soap on the counter would have to do.

  She scrubbed and scrubbed, scraping her fingernails over her skin. The taken man’s fingers joined hers in the basin. Taken. Becky, it wouldn’t do to notice the soft curl of dark hair at his wrists or over the angle of his knuckles, she chided herself. Rinsing, she glanced at the suffering child. Nerves returned her to the sink. “I… I think I’ll wash again.”

  “No. Let’s get this done. You’re not going to get any cleaner.” Slate copied her pose of hands in the air, water dripping down their forearms and off their elbows.

  “Okay.” Becky could do this. She’d instruct him and she could do this. At the island, she applied gloves and grasped gauze to maintain a barrier between the sterile surgical field and the ether lid. A splash, no make it three, onto the gauze. She held it away from her face. “Don’t breathe it in. It smells pretty strong. How long do the animals stay under and how long do they breathe it in?”

  “The foal I worked on last year sniffed it for about a minute and he was under two hours. He weighed a solid one-fifty.” Slate’s gaze trained on the white packet in her fingers.

  The child couldn’t weigh more than thirty pounds which put him at a fifth of the weight of the horse. Which meant – “I’ll apply the ether for ten seconds. I need you to keep precise time. In thirty minutes we’ll apply more, if we need to. Small children and ether can be lethal.”

  “Wait, do I need to learn anything before we get started? I haven’t assisted before.” Such a big man to be concerned about the little things, but they were wasting time.

  “I got this. Here we go. Just do as I say and we’ll be fine.” Becky rounded the island, above the boy’s head. “Start.” She cupped the damp gauze over Mac’s mouth and nose. His pain-filled jerking motions calmed. The seconds dragged on. He stilled. His breathing, still shallow, steadied and slowed. The whimpers stopped.

  Becky didn’t look away from Slate’s face as he watched the second hand on the grandfather clock. A sharp nod told her to pull it from the boy’s face. She pressed her finger to Mac’s neck. His pulse beat strong and his breathing seemed fine.

  She briskly applied a sternum rub with her elbow. Nothing. No excess movement. “Okay, let’s get going. This isn’t going to be pretty.” Slate would have to be non-sterile and sterile, her medium. “You’re going to put a glove on one hand and then the other will do everything that isn’t sterile. You cannot touch them together or you’ll break the sterile field. Do you understand? Further compromising the situation would do more damage than we can measure. Pick which hand will do which.”

  She swallowed. Making the cut was close. A few more orders for her “assistant” and she might throw up. The ether had been applied. Time to do this.

  He chose and took his place at the head of the island. She pointed to Mac. “I need Mac pushed close to the edge, the case there opened and laid out, and the betadine and gauze ready. Betadine is in the red bottle. We’ll deal with the suture material when it comes time.”

  Mac slid across the smooth table on the blanket. One step down.

  Hands maintained in their separate roles, Slate opened the case with his non-sterile hand and laid out the tools one by one. Second step done.

  The betadine bottle’s cap opened with a whoosh, startling Becky. She only ever heard that sound in a well-lit operating room. The sharp incense stung her nose. Yep, betadine. Surgery. She was cutting into a kid on his kitchen table.

  Third step done.

  Too bad it was unethical to take a valium before cutting.

  “Splash the betadine over this spot, here.” She pointed to the section between his belly button and right hip. “Dye the whole area. I’ll swipe it with this gauze and then we’ll do it again.” He dumped one-third of a cup on the kid’s abdomen. Becky swabbed the palpated area in an outward circular direction with a slight applied force.

  Mac’s immovable form attested to the ether’s effectiveness.

  A repeat of the sterilization process and Becky approached her groove. “I need the scalpel next, probably the ten-blade. It’s in the purple wrapping.”

  Slate pulled off the purple cellophane with one hand and withdrew the sterile tool with his sterile fingers, careful not to cross contaminate. Becky’s eyes flickered to his. Scalpel in hand, she held his gaze a second longer. “Well done. Don’t worry. I can do this.” I think. The thin flat body of the surgical knife slid into her grasp like a bone that’d dislocated and suddenly was reduced to its original position.

  Her grip relaxed. She rolled her head on her shoulders and shrugged. “Alright, let’s get ‘er done.”

  Centered over the middle of the betadine circle she’d made, the stainless steel blade winked orange light at her. No one else was there. She had to do it. She could do it. One last thing before she started. “If you can’t stomach the blood because he’s family, you’re welcome to leave. But I need someone in here to help with the tools and stuff. It’s your choice, though. You can’t faint or anything, if you stay.”

  “I’m a vet. I’ve seen more blood and guts than you can imagine.” He scoffed, but swallowed. “I wouldn’t faint, either. I own a ranch and I hunt.”

  Becky smiled, grateful for a lighter tone to grab onto. She lowered the blade, hovering over Mac’s skin. “So a man’s man, then.”

  Slate laughed, unaware the time for making the incision had come.

  The feel of the blade slicing through skin narrowed her focus. The child’s face disappeared. The heat from Slate’s hands disappeared.

  Solid slice, about an inch long. Deep enough to penetrate the subcutaneous dermal layer but not too deep – she was going in to take out the appendix, not slice his organs. The scarlet line slashed across the small abdomen, dulled by the yellow-brown of the betadine dye.

  Slate’s gasp sounded from somewhere behind the rushing in her head. For a moment, everything went blank. What was she doing? This was a child. She had no idea what to do next.

  No, stop, Becky. Stop. You can do this. Find the appendix. Go from there. She pried the incision open and didn’t have to dig long. She’d penetrated the derma directly where she’d palpated and the angry throbbing small fingerlike projection couldn’t be missed.

  She sighed. “We’re in. I found it.” Confidence straightened her spine. She’d found the offending piece. Taking it out would be easy.

  Chapter 6

  He’d performed minor surgery on his horses before – setting bones and assisting with difficult foal deliveries. But he’d never seen anything like what She-Doc had done. Slate’s hands hadn’t stopped shaking.

  “Kids are always the hardest.” Wiping her hands with a towel, Becky joined Slate on the catwalk. Heat from the stone fireplace wrapped around them, warming the icy chill left behind by fading adrenaline.

  “Hardest of what?” Slate wrapped his fingers around the wooden railing. After her performance in the pseudo surgery room, he didn’t know if he’d be able to see her on anything but a pedestal. A wave ran through her hair where she’d tightly bound the ponytail during the procedure.

  “Surgeries. Sometimes, when you lose them, it’s the hardest thing in the world.” She stared toward the white mess outside the vaulted windows overlooking the living room. A smile softened the pinch between her eyebrows and faded the tired from her eyes. “But when you save one and they don’t hurt anymore, the gratitude you feel is overwhelming…
most especially when it’s a child.”

  The doctor was an enigma. Hard and unyielding, humorous and stoic, unsure yet confident, matter-of-fact and so sensitive and all that in just a couple hours of knowing her. He’d scratched the surface. What more was there?

  Slate focused on the snow whirling outside as well. He cleared his throat. “So, he’s going to be okay?” The child had been stable as She-Doc had stitched him up and declared the surgery complete. For all his bravado, Slate had excused himself from the room to splash cold water on his already dripping face.

  He’d left her to clean up and retrieve Amelia. Some man he was. Crossing his arms over his chest, Slate tilted his body to face her. “I’m sorry I left you alone. That kid means a lot to me. To this family. And… well, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done to sit by and watch him go through that.” His jaw ached from the tension of clamping his teeth together. His eyes burned –had to be from the smoke, well there wasn’t smoke, but he’d be damned if he’d admit to tears stinging his eyes.

  “It’s okay. I just needed to give him a final shot of antibiotics.” The auburn haired She-Doc rested her hand on his elbow. His skin tingled in response. “I was going to thank you for leaving. I’m not used to people watching me – not the loved ones of the patients. You made it easier to relax. And thank you for your help. You did a terrific job.” And with a few simple statements she’d erased all his shame. A rare person could make you feel good when you knew you should feel bad. His mother had been like that.

  Robbie could do that.

  “Are you okay? Don’t hesitate to sit down and rest. That much worry can cause undue stress on the body. I would suggest something with sugar to relax you.” Becky watched his face, her arms tense like she was prepared to catch him, if he fell.

  Slate didn’t have an answer, but the anxiety in her face suggested his expression had been less than reciprocating to her kind gesture. He shook his head. “No, I’m fine. It’s nothing. You remind me of my mom.”

  Becky pursed her lips. A spark in her green eyes should have warned Slate, did warn him, but he mistook it for the tenderness of the moment. She arched her eyebrow. “Did this mother remind you of a horse, too?”

  Confused, Slate dropped his gaze. Her pinky finger tapped on the lapel of her jacket, tucked into her jean pocket. Was she irate again? The woman’s moods astounded him. He held out a hand and dropped the other arm. “I was merely complimenting you, again. My mother was a great woman, rest her soul, and I’ve never said anyone reminds me of her. You do. Spitfire and all.” He spun on his heel, shaking his head.

  Hell if he’d pursue anything with a woman like that. He’d loved his mama, but damn if she didn’t cause his daddy a world of pain and then some.

  ~~~

  A hush blanketed the kitchen. The quietest he’d ever heard the room. Redecorated so many times over the years he’d lost count, Slate barely recognized the modest hub of the main house it’d been when they were dirt poor – before the discovery of the now-empty mine and the extensive remodels.

  They’d lived on three acres, which in Montana was enough land to grow a bee’s nest on. People didn’t even give you attention if all you owned was a measly three acres. Like a speck of sand on a beach. Ridiculous.

  But the mine had changed things around and dumped them upside down. Grew three acres into tens-of-thousands.

  Amelia’s hair hung to her chin, the short cut perfect for her heart-shaped face. She stared at Mac, his chest rising and falling in the dim light from above the sink. Tears shined on her cheeks and not for the first time did Slate long to bash his fist into Robbie’s face. Just once. Okay, maybe two or three times. Who left a woman who loved you so much, she took the abuse over and over?

  “Hey there, Ames. Doc seems optimistic. How you doin’?” Actually, Becky hadn’t said a thing, but he couldn’t come in with nothing, no reason for hope. Plus, a little distraction from the spit-fire that was, by the looks of the growing storm outside, his guest. Double damn.

  Amelia didn’t move, didn’t seem to notice the bemused air about Slate. She only had eyes for the boy. “I wish Robbie were here, especially for things like this. I’m sorry you had to do what you did, Slate, but I’m glad you were here. Thank you.” She sniffed and gripped Mac’s hand. “I’m glad she was here.”

  How did Slate answer that? He was glad for Mac’s sake, but Slate had the sinking sensation She-Doc wasn’t going to be easy to have around.

  Chapter 7

  Becky placed the last clamp in the red hazard bag labeled biological waste. One more tool in her arsenal Dr. Roylance scoffed at. He’d probably toss the scalpel into the dishwasher along with the dinner spoons. For the love of Pete.

  Howling wind outside the sliding door startled her. She’d wrapped everything not staked down on the kitchen counter into a large towel and followed the hallway to a back utility room after Slate had abandoned her. She was grateful. Mac was fine at that point. She did all she could do, but the one thing she did after each surgery was – vomit. She sure wasn’t going to do that in front of the attractive-but-taken rancher. No matter how much she told herself she didn’t care what he thought.

  Tossing the wrapped tools on top of the knotted bright red bag in her satchel, Becky licked her lips. The small boy was in the stage of growth between toddler-hood and boyness. She hoped he lived long enough to see kindergarten.

  Her hands shook.

  Any minute her adrenaline would ebb. She’d already thrown up, already spoken with Slate – damn his attractiveness – already seen the snow blowing helter skelter.

  Thank goodness for her Dodge. The truck could drive up an ice covered tree in the dead of night and laugh at the top.

  She needed to get away from Slate and his happy little family. Too much rubbing her nose in loneliness going on. Strap slung across her shoulder, the bag’s swinging motion jammed its weight into her hip, smacking the tiger ball in her pocket deep into the muscle of her leg. Becky clamped her eyes shut with pain.

  “Are you okay?” He belonged to another woman. Then why did his voice cause the small hairs on the back of Becky’s neck to stand on end in surrender?

  Becky snapped her eyes open. He claimed the doorway, framed by the light. His shoulders tapered down to the crux of a V at his waist. Flannels didn’t cover muscle like that. She doubted much could. “I’m fine. Just gathering my things. I don’t want to intrude on y’all too long.”

  His eyes were hidden in shadow but the tilt of his head spoke the disappointing words before his mouth could. “The storms too bad, Doc. You’ll need to stay tonight, maybe tomorrow.”

  No. Absolutely not. She’d rather ride Pig into town. Naked. Her not Pig. What did it matter? She was thinking about being naked with Slate in the room. Pig wasn’t the one she could see herself naked with. “I’m good. I have the truck.”

  He shook his head and ventured further into the room. But his gaze wasn’t on her. The stalked feeling was in her head and had nothing to do with what he was actually attempting. She shivered.

  “You’re cold. This is inside, too. Imagine how cold it is out there. No cell reception in this kind of weather. If your rig gets stuck, it’s big enough it’d eat through the gas in no time. You’d freeze.” His silhouette loomed in front of the slider. Becky couldn’t look away – bear to molasses, molasses with a dimple.

  He turned, his features thrown into relief with the golden light from the hallway. “No, I think you’d be better off staying here. We have plenty of room. We don’t use the lower level rooms during the winter. Not many tourists this time of year. We lock it up, but the upper floors are open. There aren’t any guests right now. Take your pick and we’ll gather together for a late dinner.” The hard profiled angle of his brow softened with a curl of his dark hair. “When will Mac wake up?”

  “Any time. But when he does, he’ll be nauseous and may even throw up. He can’t stand for a while and will be very disoriented and dizzy. Once he wakes you may want to m
ove him to the couch and give him something sweet and soft to start with, like Jello or pudding. And Slate,” Becky slung her pack onto her shoulder. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m heading into town after I check on my patient.”

  After a prolonged pause, he nodded and left the doorway, light spilling in to fill the hole he’d created. Dang the man for his draw on her. She didn’t even know him. Sure, she knew of him, but not the details – just the most important one – he was married, had never been discussed.

  Becky breathed in a deep and quasi-calming breath. Forget it. Just get out. Nothing about him was available, yet she wanted to flirt with him which was totally inappropriate for her profession, position, and his marital status. Things would only get complicated. The best thing she could do was get out.

  Simple.

  Pay the student loans and medical bills. Go back to the city. Get a respectable job where she didn’t have to use archaic anesthetics to put her patients under.

  She left the room and followed the hallway to the kitchen.

  Amelia huddled near her son.

  Becky stopped beside the island and pulled out her stethoscope which she’d left hung around her neck. “Any movement or change in breathing?”

  Amelia shook her head and stared at the small chest rising rhythmically in front of her.

  The bag clunked onto the wooden floor. Standing to Amelia’s right, Becky kicked the bag aside and pressed the round piece to Mac’s chest. Steady. “Good rate. His breathing sounds fine.” She ran the stethoscope down over his bowels, pressing the smallest amount. The boy didn’t stir. “Normal bowel sounds, that’s good. I think he’s going to be just fine. Just in case though I need your number and I’ll give you my cell phone, pager, and land line as well as the clinic’s just in case you need anything.”