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After looking at the cut again, he asked, “How many do you think?”
“Six? Seven?”
“Sounds about right.” He smiled, a gentle but encouraging light in his eyes. The man didn’t trust her to haul logs but he trusted her to sew up his body. Very strange. “You’re doing great. Just do that a few more times.”
She moved on to the second stitch, ignoring the warmth tickling her belly from his praise and his faith in her.
If this was a glimpse into what the coming month had for her, she wouldn’t be bored.
But she should probably invest in a big bottle of aspirin.
Wyatt unlocked Amanda’s back door and stepped into the mud room between the back porch and the kitchen. Amanda and her mother, Jolene, had twin cottages two hills down from the mountain. It was normal business for him to invade and use the shower whenever he pleased. Normal enough he’d forgotten to mention it to Imogen after she’d stitched his arm last night.
He didn’t want to be impressed with the way she’d handled his little test. She had skills and, more importantly, she had the touch. Soothing. And at odds with the chemistry that roused urges in him he should ignore.
His thoughts had swung between irritated attraction and worry about how she would be with the patients. At best, she was someone they’d get used to and come to care about who’d quickly abandon them. Like all the times Josh had been passed from one transitory doctor to another. Sometimes they’d changed every visit. It kept things impersonal. A revolving door that left people not knowing who to trust. He didn’t want that for his patients.
A few lights burned inside the cottage, enough that it looked like Imogen was awake, but when he knocked on the glass no one came. As tired as she’d been, there was a real chance she was still asleep, which would throw a wrench into their schedule. Wyatt waited another minute then let himself inside.
A quick check of the bedrooms assured him she was awake. The eventual sound of the shower told him where she was. He backtracked to the sofa and sat, mental images of her in the shower turning his thoughts back where he’d been fighting them since yesterday.
As pushy and stubborn as anyone he’d ever met, Wyatt couldn’t put his finger on precisely what kept her in his mind—other than her appearance. He’d only really ever dated stereotypical Southern women. Sweet, though sometimes he knew it to be an act. But not too challenging. Easy to understand, and because of that easy to be around. Easy on the eyes. Imogen may have that last bit, but there was nothing else easy about her. To be fair, she was a good nurse, so if she could handle the PR aspect of the position, she might be easy to work with.
The bathroom door opened and she came out, wrapped in a towel and swathed in billowing steam. Wyatt stared.
His presence caused her to gasp and clutch at the top of her towel, her hand folding over the place where one corner was tucked in, keeping it on. The action drew his gaze to her breasts, but the look on her face had him looking up again.
“You’re here. What are you doing here?” She checked the front seam of her towel, making sure she was decently covered.
“No shower on the mountain yet.”
When she didn’t say anything else, he added, “I knocked. Then I used my key.”
She frowned and nodded, turning toward the room she was sleeping in.
“Done in there?” Wyatt called after her.
“Yes.” She stopped and looked from the bathroom to him. “The water. There’s probably not much hot.”
She hurt. He could tell by the way she moved, stiffly and slowly. She’d been trying to steam the soreness out of her body. It hadn’t been a shower for cleanliness. Her hair was mostly dry, and secured in a fancy braid. Not a trace of the pink remained in the pale tresses. The baby-fine tendrils forming a halo around her clean face were damp and curling. A hot flush colored her skin, from the shower or her attire, he couldn’t be sure. Not that he really cared. His body appreciated the result.
Wyatt cleared his throat. “It’s fine. Be ready in half an hour.”
He tried not to watch as she walked to the future nursery where she slept, wanting to see every inch on display and not wanting it at the same time. Guilt won and he dragged himself to the bathroom. She was in for a long day and it had already started on the wrong foot, sore from the logs he’d practically dared her to move.
The cold shower, surprisingly timely and bracing, sluiced over him with a wave of painful shivers. Wyatt placed both hands against the wall of the shower and stayed still until he could stand no more.
Any other day, he would’ve said the sight of an attractive woman wasn’t enough to send his thoughts spiraling out of control. Any other day, he would’ve believed himself in control of his body.
It figured this would all happen on a week they were scheduled in towns with the dinkiest motels in history. He’d grown accustomed to sharing a double room with Amanda. It worked fine with cousins sharing; Amanda was as close as a sibling. As far as he could tell, the further along in her pregnancy she’d gotten, the more she liked having someone close by. But with Imogen…could that be a bad idea?
Nah. Well, probably not. They were adults. And after her first day deep in the mountains Wyatt doubted either of them would be feeling particularly lustful. Sometimes he felt almost as sensitive to the behavior and opinions of non-locals as his patients were, and he already knew what they’d think of Imogen. If only he’d managed to get a temp hired yesterday. The option of firing her spectacularly, distasteful as it was, might be just what had to happen.
“Imogen, we’re almost there.”
The voice, a low, manly rumble, distracted her into wakefulness. And his scent…She’d thought she’d dreamed it. He smelled good, the whole front of the bus smelled like him. Her sleep-addled brain mixed with hormones surged in response to his extremely appealing pheromones. She didn’t figure out what he’d said until she’d blinked away all that fog from her brain. “How long?”
“You’ve been asleep about two hours, and we’re about half an hour out. We probably won’t see as many patients today—the Trout Derby is on—but just in case, I want you prepared,” Wyatt answered, while steering the big silver bus slowly down yet another winding country road—both doctor and driver of this practice on wheels. “I need to go over what’s expected of you first, so wake up. Have some coffee.” He handed her a thermos so she could refill her cup and drink herself sentient.
While she was waking up, he went through a list of common-sense expectations any nurse fresh out of school could have anticipated. Imogen only really felt awake when he got to the weird stuff.
“Wait…What?”
“Someone, probably an older lady, will come early and bring us something she made—food, usually baked goods of some description. Take some, even if it’s just a little, and eat it. Thank her. If you’re feeling conversational, ask for the recipe. Be courteous, be nice, even if it seems weird. Most of our patients are children, who you probably can’t offend, or the elderly who you can. Treat them like you would your grandparents.”
“I never knew my grandparents, Wyatt, but I would never be rude to a patient.” She really did need to wake up if she was going to maintain a professional attitude with him. All about family, right out of the gate. “And just so you know, I’m great with kids. And I don’t run around hitting those of voting age with sticks and telling people they have ugly babies.” Although after yesterday it might be unsurprising he thought the worst of her. She’d hoped her agreement to stitch him up would have negated their earlier interaction.
“Don’t be dramatic. I’m not saying you’re going to be rude, what I’m saying is that your definition of rude and the local definition will be different. Polite, distant professionalism is worse than rude here.” He glanced at her long enough to establish eye contact and nodded once, then took his eyes back to the winding road.
“They want to treat us like family—and it won’t be that way off the bat, but it’s the goal. They’ll listen to and respect care instructions if they think of you as family—someone here for the long haul. When they feel comfortable, they’ll talk us up to their friends and families, and the number of patients will increase—which is crucial to getting the funding approved.”
His dark eyes had been warmer yesterday, when he had been walking her through the stitches. Where had that guy gone? “Won’t that kind of behavior from a stranger seem fake?”
“Not if you do it right. Try to be Amanda,” Wyatt suggested, glancing her way again.
Message received. You’re not good enough.
She could read between the lines. Why can’t you be like Amanda? My last nurse was better.
My last girlfriend was prettier.
My last girlfriend knew how to make jam.
Imogen rubbed her head and drank more coffee. Coffee, good for more than waking you up. Also a great scapegoat to blame when your hands trembled.
Ignore it. He didn’t think she could do the job. Fine. She had a month to prove him wrong. This judgmental stuff wasn’t about her as a person.
He’s not Scott.
The little mantras calmed her enough to get her hand under control, but Imogen still couldn’t bring herself to look at him, knowing her eyes would be glassy and wet. Instead, she focused on the window. “Amanda is effusive with everyone.” As the landscape rolled past, her vision cleared and her mind followed. “She’d take candy from a stranger then invite him home after announcing she lived alone and the nearest neighbor was a mile away.”
“She’s not that bad.” Wyatt chuckled. Like any of this was funny. “But you had it right about the friendly-to-strangers bit. Not insanely trusting but friendly.”
“I don’t know how to be Southern and candy-sweet.” Distance. Keep distance. Keep calm. He didn’t know any better. His opinion didn’t matter. Do the job. Go home. Pretend to drink the Kool-Aid, just don’t swallow it.
“All I’m saying is be nice. Friendly. Think of something to say to personalize your interactions. Compliment patients, ask their advice, engage them somehow, and don’t use any of your annoying tricks.”
“Back to thinking I’ll purposefully antagonize the patients? I have some training, you know.” She took a deep breath, counted to ten and smiled past the lump in her throat. She could fake a smile. It was the least offensive mask she had, even if perhaps not the most healthy. “Anything else?”
Wyatt looked at her a little too long, but the road demanded his attention and, let off the hook, she looked back out the window.
“Two more things,” Wyatt said. “One: there isn’t much black and white out here—the law, and how stringently it’s followed, is fluid. Don’t get involved unless something is likely to harm the patient or someone else.”
“Like?”
“I’ve treated and not reported a hunting accident before,” Wyatt answered without hesitation, so matter-of-factly that he might have simply expressed his love of potatoes.
“A shooting?” That just seemed wrong. Dangerous.
“Shot himself in the leg, but missed any major trauma.”
“That’s…”
“Illegal. I know.” He didn’t seem fazed by it, though. “The patient was hunting in the off-season, which is to say: illegally. But the way I see it, and the way pretty much anyone in the area would see it, a man has a right to feed his family. Happened on his land. He’s not well off, but he’s making the most of what he has. I wouldn’t want him punished for making sure his kids didn’t go without.”
“That’s why you wanted me to stitch you up…” Imogen murmured, realization coming in a flash.
“That’s why I wanted you to stitch me up.”
“He could have lied about being the one to shoot him, you know.” People lied all the time.
“I know, but he wasn’t.” Wyatt still seemed unfazed, and so sure of himself. Ego.
She nodded, still processing this information. The idea of putting her license on the line didn’t appeal, but she could understand his logic. There was a certain kind of nobility to the decision, whether she would’ve made the same call or not. “At least it won’t be boring.”
“Last thing. If you have questions or concerns about one of my calls, make them in private—later, ideally. I need you to trust me and follow my orders without hesitation.”
“I’ll try,” Imogen murmured, mostly because she wasn’t ever sure exactly what she was going to do from moment to moment. And even if she’d never questioned a doctor’s call in front of a patient before, she wasn’t feeling too sure of anything. The job. Why she’d come. Him. Her worthiness as a nurse or a person. Amazing how fast all that could come rushing back. And she had thought she was past someone having the ability to make her feel so off. So small.
He turned the bus off the road and into a gravel lot beside a tiny white church, the kind quickie-wedding places and photographers liked to clone for ambiance.
“Do better than try.” He sounded distant suddenly, and more than a little icy. Dr. Beechum had just arrived. A new mask came down, and Imogen didn’t know which Wyatt was the real one—the one who walked her through stitches, the surly wild man on the mountain, or this icy man now walking to the back to start setting up.
Ditching her cup, she rubbed some warmth back into her suddenly chilled hands.
She hoped it was the last of his masks she’d have to watch out for.
She’d learned early on that when the masks came off, the monsters came out.
CHAPTER THREE
“EMMA-JEAN?” Like an immigrant to Ellis Island, Imogen had been renamed. And this time it wasn’t a patient mangling her name.
The first couple of times she’d heard her name mispronounced by patients, Imogen had wanted to correct them. But in the spirit of following Wyatt’s Grandpa Law she’d held back. That and because the patients seemed no more interested in talking to her than they might be to a wandering taxidermist who offered to kill and stuff their favorite pet for them.
Most of her smiles went unreturned. No one even wanted to talk about the fabulous weather, how green and lush everything was, how wonderful it smelled outside, with the honeysuckle blooming, or pretty much anything else she brought up.
Her efforts to find common ground with one older gentleman had even resulted in her being called a “damned dogooder” for offering him a cup of coffee. Further alienating the patients wasn’t high on her frustrating list of things to do. Coffee had been her go-to for common ground. Who didn’t like coffee?
With a deep breath and after a few seconds to unclench her hands, Imogen turned to face Wyatt, who’d called her new name. He looked smug. He also looked like he needed someone to stomp on his toes. Someone like her. Later. After she played his stupid game.
“Yes, Doctor?”
“Next patient.” He could’ve just said that, but that would have deprived him of the perverse pleasure he took in her predicament.
She stepped off the bus and made for the serene little church, today’s waiting room, feeling not at all serene. Red carpet, wooden benches carved on the ends with crosses, an open stage in the front for the kind of preachers who needed room to wander. So quaint and peaceful it almost took the edge off her day. Her little oasis away from Wyatt.
Inside, a handful of people sat—most of whom had spent the day there, chatting while people came and went from the bus. She snagged the sign-in sheet from the table beside the door and called the last name on the check-in sheet. “Mr. Smith?”
Day almost over. Just one more patient.
An older man stood with some effort and as he turned to look back, ice lanced through her middle.
Blue skin.
Oh, no. His skin tone rivaled a blueberry, bluer than anyone she’d ever seen. She’d coded patients in her time, she just hadn’t expected it to happen on this job.
Fear, bright and blistering, sent her running for the man. “Sir, it’s going to be okay. Sit back down. Breathe for me. Sit. Yes.” She urged him back onto the wooden pew, ready to throw him on his back to give CPR.
Assess. Breathing somewhat labored, but he still breathed. He looked a little alarmed but not panicky. Didn’t exactly add up. She needed Wyatt. Blue skin was a bad sign. “Someone get Dr. Beechum.”
Everyone in the room stared at her, shock and horror on their faces—and not one of them equipped to run for Wyatt.
With the man seated, she confirmed his pulse was more or less regular then held up one hand to signal he should stay, and barreled for the bus. The door had barely opened before she started shouting, “Wyatt! A patient inside is cyanotic. I think he’s coding…”
Wyatt grabbed a tank of oxygen and a mask, and ran behind her.
She was nearly at Mr. Smith’s side when Wyatt took her by the elbow and thrust her behind him. “Oh, sir, I’m so sorry. My nurse is new—Emma-Jean, Amanda’s friend. Don’t think she’s ever encountered anyone with methoglobinemia before.”
Her breathing sounded so loud in her ears Imogen couldn’t even be sure she understood what Wyatt was saying. The man wasn’t coding? Blue skin happened when someone was deprived of oxygen. Blue skin was never good.
The two men exchanged a few quiet words and the next thing she knew, Wyatt was peddling her backwards, out of earshot, his big body blocking her view of the bizarrely colorful man. “Take a walk, Emma-Jean.”
“Please tell me what’s going on. That man—”
“He’s descended from the Blue Fugates of Troublesome Creek.” Wyatt leaned close as he spoke, like she knew the people or the creek. It was a hell of a time for him to invade her space and fill her nose with his good smell. It just got warmer and fuller the longer the day wore on. And with her adrenaline surging, her senses only multiplied her reaction to it.
“Take your phone, walk up the hill and run a search on it. Come back in a half hour, I’ll explain if needed.”
“I’m sorry. I thought…”
“I know.” His voice gentled but he still looked grim. “You’re embarrassed, and so is he. Take a walk.”
Imogen nodded, and though she wanted to apologize to the man for causing a scene, she slipped to the exit with as much dignity as she could muster.
She felt the burning in her eyes before she got to the door but managed to hold back a well of frustrated tears—they got no further than her lashes. Horrified didn’t begin to cut it.
Shaking started deep in her shoulders, after-effects of adrenaline. A simple walk up the hill wouldn’t suffice. She had to move.
Once clear of the building, Imogen broke into a jog. For a few minutes the scorching embarrassment from nearly coding poor Mr. Smith deadened the soreness that had racked her body since yesterday.
Wyatt’s repeated warnings that she wouldn’t fit in had sounded like a bunch of excuses before today. All her efforts to engage the patients, all the resisting of correcting the pronunciation of her name, all her good work…gone, in the wake of one well-intentioned mistake.
It figured that he’d be right about her fitting in but wrong about her having cell reception at the top of the hill. No bars again. The mountains rejected both her and her cellphone. What was she even doing here?
The surge of energy left as quickly as it had arrived, and rather than walk back down to the bus and chance an encounter with the blue grandpa, she hopped over the ditch on the shoulder of the road, walked into the trees and sat.
Day One—Epic Failure. Would he even allow her to attempt Day Two? Should she count herself lucky if he went ahead and fired her spectacularly later?
When Mr. Smith had been gone for twenty minutes and Imogen still hadn’t returned, Wyatt stored any loose items and started the bus. Not the greatest day on record, but at least she hadn’t started chest compressions and broken Mr. Smith’s sternum.
Wyatt considered the thought and dismissed it. Imogen might be a little culturally clueless for the region, but she was a good nurse. When the situation had failed to compute for her, she had come for him. It had been the right call.
He found her sitting beside the road, right where he’d told her to go, knees up and hand to forehead, propping it up. With little enough traffic on the country road, he stopped. A few seconds later he heard the bus door open and close, and finally she joined him.
“You all right?” Wyatt asked, not starting the bus again yet—no one waited behind them and he wanted to look at her. No anger, though the set of her shoulders and her refusal to look at him said enough. Dismay. Disappointment. Maybe even defeat.
“I’m fine. Can we go?”
She wasn’t fine, but was obviously not ready to talk about it. When they reached the motel and had settled in, he’d try again.
She buckled in and he got the bus moving, letting her soak up some peace as they made the forty-five-minute drive to the nearest little town and the motel he usually stayed at.
Family-owned motels were what Wyatt preferred. They were tiny, but they were also friendly, not connected to the interstate so they felt safer, and the owners happily learned his route and saved a room for him. The colors the rooms sported had probably been hideous even when new, but for some reason their homeliness tickled him. Something he appreciated after years of a cosmopolitan lifestyle. They were also extremely clean. Another selling point.
Pulling off into the gravel lot of his usual stop, Wyatt realized two things: no Wi-Fi, so he was going to have to get Imogen to talk at least enough to explain what happened with Mr. Smith; and the Trout Derby might have filled his usual room. Ten rooms in the whole building, and by his count there were ten vehicles in the lot.
Shutting off the ignition, he climbed out of his seat and headed for the door. “Wait here. I’ll make sure they still have the room waiting.”
Imogen had given no indication she intended to move, but he said it anyway.
“Okay.”
One-word answers from the talkative woman…From the number of cars, if they had a room saved, it was going to be just that: one room, which was what they always saved.
Imogen watched Wyatt cross the lot and enter the office before it dawned on her that he’d said “a room.” Singular. One. Did he intend on staying in the bus?
She should stop him before he spent money on the wrong accommodations. Moving quickly was off the menu for the foreseeable future—her body ached more than ever after sitting still for so long—but with a cup of effort and a bushel of unladylike noises, she peeled herself off the seat and made her way off the bus.
Wyatt stood at the counter, talking and laughing with the rosy-cheeked, grandmotherly innkeeper, charm personified. Another new mask. Were they gossiping? He had never once tried to charm her. Because he didn’t want her working for him. And maybe he also just didn’t like her. She didn’t rate Charm Face. Well, she didn’t particularly like him either, so whatever.
“Dr. Beechum.” Screw him and his renaming her. She’d still say his name however he wanted—regardless of the spelling. It was called being a professional. “Pardon me, did you say a room?”
When he turned to look at her, the smile left his deep brown eyes. “Yes, and Miss Arlene has saved the room for us.”
“To share?”
“Double room.”
“To share?” she repeated, leaning heavily on the second word to drill its importance into him. Why couldn’t she have promised Amanda that she’d just come and take care of her, not her job? Then she wouldn’t be stuck about to share a room with a man who…who…who…was bossy. And stuff.
“Amanda never minded.” He cleared his throat, smiled at Arlene And leaned away from the counter to approach Imogen.
“You’re her cousin! She has to like you well enough to share a room. And she’s Amanda. Even if she minded, she wouldn’t mind.” Why was she yelling? Imogen stopped the flow of words and rubbed the tension from her forehead. Maybe she’d just sleep on the bus. There weren’t any blankets, but there were pain relievers and really uncomfortable vinyl exam tables.