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Still thinking about Belle as she lingered a moment to watch Michael’s game, he knew now what he’d always known—nobody compared. Nobody even came close. In fact, the skinny list of women he’d considered dating from time to time were either so boring, bland, or so inane, trite, or shallow he never got around to the asking-out stage. Truth was, he hadn’t dated because nobody seemed—well, like Belle. Not that he’d ever date her again, or do anything else with her, because he’d messed that up in the worst way a man could mess up the best thing in his life. But in a woman he needed personality and drive and, so far, he hadn’t found that in any way that suited him other than in Belle, and that didn’t count any more.
Which was fine, for now, as he wasn’t in any hurry to settle down again. Of course, some people, Belle specifically, would argue he’d never settled down in the first place. “Look,” he said, jumping into her path as she whooshed by him on her way out the door, “I don’t want to fight. OK? It seems like we’re always fighting, or just on the verge of it, and I don’t want us doing that.”
“Neither do I, but we’re so good at it,” she said, smiling. “I’d hate to give up on a good thing.”
He chuckled, in spite of himself. “That’s the thing I fell in love with, you know?”
“What?” she asked. “That I defend myself? That I stand up to you, face-to-face, and punch back?”
“Well, that could be part of the charm—for someone else. But what drew me to you was your fire. Just not so much of it. Anyway, that accusation a few minutes ago—it was a cheap shot. Totally uncalled-for, and I’m sorry. But sometimes—”
“Look, I do understand. It’s not easy being Michael’s dad, and it’s probably not easy being my ex—although I’m not sure why it isn’t, because I think I’m pretty easy to get along with.” This time her smile was a tease. “Anyway, I’ve got to make my house call and these ranch hands aren’t happy about it, so I just want to get out there and get it over with. Michael knows you’re going to spend the evening with him, and that I might be late. He understands. So …” She shrugged, then hurried out the restaurant door, leaving Cade to watch her until she climbed into her car and drove away.
Yep, she certainly had fire. And if he was not mistaken, the flames had shot up a notch or two since they’d divorced. It was not unattractive in her, he decided as he ambled over to Michael and watched him trounce the evildoers in his game. Trounce, like a pro.
Damn, if his kid wasn’t good at it! “So, Michael. Want to show me what you’re doing?”
Michael didn’t take his eyes off the screen, didn’t even miss a shot. “Um, no.”
The sting of that one word rocked him back a couple of steps. But that’s as far as he went. Then he stood his ground, the way Belle would, and watched his son accomplish the highest score ever achieved on that particular game machine without breaking a sweat. How the hell was he ever going to make the score with Michael, with or without sweat?
That was the question he’d been asking himself for years. It was also the question for which he couldn’t find an answer.
Then it hit him. Michael had called him Dad. Maybe prompted, maybe not. But—Dad. The most beautiful word he’d ever heard. So maybe there wasn’t an answer to his question, except patience. And time.
The big problem, though, was distance, and there was no way to get around that.
He looked so innocent sleeping. So beautiful. She’d always thought that. And in their last year together, after so much struggling, she’d thought it was a pity he didn’t sleep more often, because when he woke up, life changed. Fighting, bitterness—the emptiness of long, lonely hours by herself. Cade had caused her the kind of unhappiness she’d never thought would be part of her life. Yet she understood. Part of it came with his frustration over Michael. It hurt him, being ignored by a son he loved so deeply. But part of it was his absence, which was something she’d never understood and which, in retrospect, she wished she’d pursued with him until he’d explained it. His need, or lust, to leave had started mere weeks after they’d pronounced their vows, and had only got worse with time. She’d hoped it was a phase, some kind of life adjustment she just didn’t understand. But it hadn’t been, and when she’d asked him to explain, to help her understand, she’d been met with Cade’s characteristic wall of resistance. So after a while, being rebuffed every time she asked, she quit asking, essentially giving up as it was clear that she was moving forward with her life and her husband was moving away.
Oh, sure. Cade had his causes—causes she admired. Sadly, at the time, his family hadn’t seemed one of them. Maybe it was because she was strong and he’d believed she could hold things together in his absence. Maybe he found more satisfaction helping others than he did helping his family. All these years later she still didn’t know why. But now she didn’t dwell on it so much because her choice to move on without him, or get left behind, had been a good one.
Yet he still looked so innocent, sleeping. Like the man she’d fallen in love with all those years ago.
Belle smiled as she studied him. Michael looked so much like him. Same gray eyes, same dark brown hair, wavy with a little bit of curl. Same crooked smile. Except neither Michael nor Cade smiled much, which was a pity. Because it was a beautiful smile. One she’d wanted to capture in a family photo back when they’d been a family.
“It’s late,” Cade mumbled in his sleepy voice.
The sleepy voice—another thing she used to love. It was a little thick, a little gruff. “Going on to midnight.”
“Does it happen often?” he asked, propping himself up on one elbow.
“What? Me running around and leaving Michael here with a babysitter? Is that what you’re asking me, Cade? Do I neglect my son on a regular nightly basis?” She hadn’t meant to take offense, but sometimes Cade provoked that in her. Usually without much effort. Like now, when she was thinking about the things she’d planned with him—things she’d never have.
He stretched, sat up. Stretched again. “Actually, I wasn’t thinking about Michael. It’s you I was concerned about, being the only doctor for miles.”
“More like a hundred miles.” She backed off the anger immediately.
“Which doesn’t mean much, since it’s Texas miles, and there’s not much civilization from here to there.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to get so—”
“Defensive?” he asked.
She tossed her jacket over the back of the couch and stashed her medical bag in the coat closet on the top shelf. “That’s what we do to each other, isn’t it? Get defensive at first sight.” She turned to face him. “You were right earlier about not fighting. I don’t like being this way either, Cade. It gets easy to do, like a habit, and I don’t want Michael seeing it.”
“Then we’ll have to make sure we don’t.”
“Agreed. No more fighting,” she said, kicking off her shoes then dropping down into the overstuffed chair near the stairs. Said with a sly grin, “But clarify this for me, will you? Does the ban on fighting include low blows, subtle innuendoes, and casual jabs? And this means both of us, doesn’t it? It’s not like I have to quit fighting with you, but you still get to fight with me, is it?”
Cade chuckled. “You always came out swinging with the best of them. We did have our good moments, though, didn’t we?”
“Enough that I could probably count them on both hands.”
“OK, I’m going to count that as a casual jab, but it came damned close to being a low blow,” he warned her, smiling. “Which means you owe me.”
“There’s a penalty system connected to this truce? Do I need to have my lawyers go over the terms of the contract?” It was said with neither inflection nor expression.
“See, that’s the thing. Most people would take what you said as a serious comment because you don’t even crack a smile. But I know the sign, Belle.”
“What sign?”
“The arched left eyebrow.”
“I do not!” she said, feigning indignance.
“There it goes again, arching up, just for a split second. Subtle, but, oh, so readable.”
“OK, so maybe I underestimated the number of good moments we had together. Does that get me off the hook for the penalty?”
“Eyebrow up again. And no. You’re not off the hook.”
“Try collecting,” she challenged, shoving herself out of the chair and heading for the stairs.
This time it was Cade’s turn to arch an eyebrow.
It wasn’t the largest medical office, but it was modern—twenty years ago. Belle preferred to think of it as practical. She loved it, every last tongue depressor and cotton swab. She also loved the quaint little waiting room where non-communicable patients sat nearly knee to knee, and the ten-year-old TV was permanently on the rerun channel. On a positive note, Belle did make sure the magazine subscriptions were up-to-date, and the coffee in the coffee-pot was refreshed every hour. Oh, and tea for the tea-drinkers. A couple of her old-timer patients had suggested that a little additive to the tea and coffee would be nice, and she’d assumed whiskey. But she hadn’t dignified the hints with a response, and truly hoped her predecessor hadn’t indulged in the practice.
Today was a busy day, and her receptionist, Ellen Anderson, another employee inherited along with the practice, was nearly frantic answering the phone, serving drinks, and sorting through patient charts for insurance billing information. In Big Badger, it seemed like people required medical attention in droves. One day they trickled in, the next day they flocked. She couldn’t figure it out, and those she asked were pretty noncommittal on the subject. So this was a droves day, and Belle was ushering them in and out as fast as she could, given the nature of the various complaints.
“So, Mr. Biddle, you’ve had gout before?”
“Expect I did, Doctor. Some time last year, late in the spring, if I recall.”
“And did Dr. Nelson give you any specific instructions on how to take care of yourself?” Emmett Biddle’s gout was limited to his left big toe. “Diet, how much to drink, that sort of thing?”
“He did mention drinking water, I believe.”
Polite man, age seventy-nine. Sharp. Still a cowboy. In fact, he’d ridden in on his horse today. Tied it to the hitching post, which happened to come along with the medical office. Impractical, she’d thought at first, but Emmett Biddle wasn’t the first one to saddle up and come to an appointment on horseback. “And restrict or cut out your alcohol consumption?”
“Don’t recall that, ma’am.”
The twinkle in his eyes suggested otherwise. “Well, here’s what I’d like you to do. Drink eight to sixteen cups of fluid each day—half that has to be water, and the other half cannot be alcohol. In fact, avoid alcohol. Or limit it to one small drink a day if you have to have it. Eat a moderate amount of protein, preferably from healthy sources, such as low-fat or fat-free dairy—” She would have said “tofu” next, but there was no way Emmett Biddle was a tofu-eating kind of a man, so she skipped that. “Eggs and peanut butter are good, too. Also, limit your daily intake of meat, fish, and poultry to no more than six ounces.”
“Six ounces is only one big bite of steak, ma’am. What am I going to survive on if I can’t have my steak?”
“You can have it, just not as much.”
“Sissy portions,” Emmett grumbled as he slid off the table and picked up his cowboy boot, then bent down to tug it on. “Not fitting for a man to eat sissy portions.”
“You should probably try soft shoes, too, like a pair of athletic shoes.” Sandals worked, too, but she didn’t see Emmett in sandals. Texas men don’t wear sissy shoes, he’d probably tell her. “And here’s a prescription for an anti-inflammatory. Follow the directions on the bottle—one pill a day, with food.” But not steak, she wanted to say.
“It’ll help with the pain? ‘Cause it’s getting so I can barely walk. And getting up on my horse is kind of hard nowadays, too.”
“It will help, but if you don’t follow my advice, you’re going to keep on having trouble. And it could get worse.” She scribbled something in the chart, then opened the exam-room door. “I want to see you back here in two weeks. I’ll have another prescription for something you can take long term to help prevent the flare-ups. But nutrition, Mr. Biddle, plays an important part in controlling your gout.”
“My nutrition is fine, young lady. It’s kept me healthy seventy-nine years, with an occasional cold, and I’m not changing it for a toe ache.”
She hadn’t thought he would. Didn’t really blame him either. At his age Emmett deserved to do what he wanted. “Two weeks, Mr. Biddle. Don’t forget to make an appointment.”
She wasn’t sure what kind of noise he made on his way out, something between a grunt and a snort, but with a very clear message that she probably wouldn’t be seeing Emmett Biddle, once the medication worked, until his next flare-up.
“Gout?” Cade questioned. He was standing in the doorway to her private office, taking up most of the space within it.
An imposing figure of a man, Belle thought as she stopped short of squeezing by him. “Patient confidentiality,” she responded. “What do you want, Cade?”
He shrugged. “Just passing time until Michael’s out of school. Thought I’d stop by and see if you needed any help.”
“As in helping as a doctor?” Judging by his eyes, he seemed sincere enough. But Cade came within a hair’s breadth of loathing general practice. At least, he used to. “Is that what you’re offering?” she asked, not sure what to expect.
“If you need it. No pressure, though, Belle. I know this is your practice, and I’m sure you run it the way you see fit, but if you need help while I’m here—sure. I can do that when I’m not with Michael.”
That was a surprise. Cade seemed almost humble. Something new, in her experience. Admittedly, part of the initial Cade Carter charm had been his cockiness. She’d been attracted. But life had changed, their situations had changed, and his old cockiness didn’t work for her the way it once had. After she’d had Michael, she’d needed mellow and supportive. Almost what she was seeing now in Cade. “Well, I’m pretty busy most of the time. Between my practice and taking care of a number of ranches—house calls—it keeps me moving. But can you handle what you used to call mundane work, like gout?”
“Then it was gout. I thought so, by the way he limped.”
“That diagnosis coming from a surgeon?”
“We surgeons do come into contact with other medical problems from time to time.”
“And you surgeons, according to the surgeon I used to be married to, don’t particularly care to deal with anything non-surgical.” She took a step closer, taking care not to get too close. “So can you really handle this, Cade? Because I could use help. But I don’t want it to become an issue between us, since we already have enough of those going on.”
“How about split the work? You get more time with Michael, I still get my time with Michael. We all win. It’s not an issue, Belle.”
“Do you have cowboy boots with you?” He’d had them back in Chicago. He’d always joked something about taking the cowboy out of Texas but not taking Texas out of the cowboy. Suddenly she could picture those boots paired with some nice tight jeans and a T-shirt that hugged his abs. Rugged. All man. Probably not the way she should be thinking about her ex, though. Still …
“I never come to Texas without them.”
She smiled. “Well, go and put them on and I’ll put you to work.”
“The cowboy look. Is that for you, or for—?”
“For image, Cade. That’s all. Just for the image. Now move. I need to get into my office.”
With that, he tipped his imaginary hat, then stepped aside. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever given in to the boots, have you?”
Instead of answering, Belle simply shook her head. “When you get back, I’ll have three patients for you. Then we’re going to take a ride out to Ruda del Monte. We’ve got about a dozen hands there, with a few assorted other employees, and I have a contract to do physical exams on all of them. Thought maybe now that I have help, we could get started this afternoon.” She smiled. “You still up for it, Cade?”
“See you in twenty minutes, Belle,” he said, then spun around and swaggered away.
She couldn’t help watching that swagger until it turned the corner and disappeared. So, what was she doing, letting Cade work with her? It was crazy. She had huge misgivings. But she also had a modest case of tingles. And that’s what worried her the most. Especially as, for the past five years, she’d been under the impression she was impervious.
“What a nice young man, that Doc Cade is,” Mrs. Kitty Peabody commented as she stepped into the hall, preparing to leave the office. “I’m glad someone’s come to work with you. You needed the help. So is he your boss, dear?” she asked, blinking innocently as she looked up at Belle.
Belle bit the inside of her lips, trying hard to plaster some facsimile of a smile to her face. “No, he’s not my boss. He’s my—” No need to air the dirty family laundry. “He’s my temp. He’s in town on business for the next few weeks, and he needed a place to work, so I took him in.”
“That’s a casual jab, if ever I’ve heard one,” Cade whispered in Belle’s ear as he stepped up behind her. He turned to Mrs. Peabody. “We were married to each other, years ago. She had a hard time getting over me.”
“Definitely a low blow,” Belle said, out of the corner of her mouth.
“I can see why she would,” Mrs. Peabody said to Cade. “If I were fifty years younger …”
Cade stepped forward and wrapped his arm around the woman’s shoulder. “If you were fifty years younger, I’d be sitting on your front-porch swing right now—you do have a front-porch swing, don’t you, Mrs. Peabody?”
The old woman raised her fingertips to her lips and giggled. “No, but if you want to come visit, I’ll have my grandson hang one.”
“You tell me when it’s up, and I’ll be the one to take the maiden swing.” He shot a free and easy wink in Belle’s direction as he escorted the woman to the reception area, while Belle stood there, staring, amazed.
“Who are you?” she asked a minute later when Cade came ambling back down the hallway. “And what did you do with Cade Michael Carter?”
“I’m simply a doctor who’s trying to get along with his partner.”
“Except I’m not your partner, Cade.”
“That’s right. I’m your temp, the one who showed up on your doorstep, begging for work.”
Said with the biggest, brightest grin she’d seen since she’d, well, divorced him. “You’re different,” she commented, moving past him, on her way into the exam room to look after three-year-old Bonnie Thompson, a little girl who was prone to getting hives.
“In a good way?” he asked.
“Guess time will tell,” she said, grabbing Bonnie’s chart from the rack on the door then stepping into the exam room. Once inside, it took her a full ten seconds to find her focus before she turned into a doctor again. “So, Mrs. Thompson, did you make that list of foods, soaps, and things Bonnie commonly comes in contact with, and when, then note the time of her outbreaks?”
The girl’s mother shrugged. “That takes a lot of time, Doctor. I have three other children, and my husband is on the road half the time. I wanted to. Even bought a notebook, and started, but …”
She held the notebook out for Belle to see. First page, marked day one. No entry other than oatmeal, orange juice. Not much to go on. “Does Bonnie drink orange juice every day?” she asked, picking up the child’s arm to look at the red welts popping up below her elbow.
“Yes. In the morning. She loves it!”
“Bonnie,” Belle said, “will you pull up your shirt so I can look at your tummy?”
Bonnie obliged quickly, and Belle found exactly what she expected to find. More welts. The same with the child’s back and bottom. Not severe, not infected. But definitely hives that seemed to come and go at will. “For now, keep her off orange juice. And I know I’ve asked you to switch detergents, but this time I want you to double-wash Bonnie’s clothes separately, first in a detergent without fragrance or brighteners, then the second time in clear water.”
“Did I mention that I have three other children to take care of?” the woman asked, almost irately.
“You did, and I sympathize. But unless you want Bonnie to keep itching, we’re going to have to get aggressive about finding out what’s causing her allergy.”
“Dr. Nelson gave her pills,” Mrs. Thompson replied.
“And I’ve prescribed medication as well. But she can’t go on taking it forever. So I want to find the cause of the problem so we can avoid it altogether.”
“What about some kind of test? Wouldn’t that be better than guessing?”
Guessing often played a part in medical diagnosis but Mrs. Thompson didn’t want to hear that. Of course, Belle hadn’t wanted to hear guesses either when Michael had been undergoing his diagnosis. “The tests are expensive, Mrs. Thompson, and unless something has changed, you have no medical insurance. If you want to pay out of pocket, that’s fine. I’ll have Ellen schedule an appointment with an allergist. Or you can do it the way I’ve suggested, which may take a little longer but in most cases can give us the same diagnosis.” In the meantime, she didn’t have time to waste arguing with a mother who didn’t want the inconvenience of a little extra effort. It angered Belle. Really, truly angered her. Because if there was such an easy, simple fix for Michael, she’d be all over it in a second. No questions, no resentments, no holding back. But hives and Asperger’s were two entirely different things and, in most cases, hives could be cured.
“Why the scowl?” Cade asked, as he hung up his borrowed white coat.
Belle shrugged. “I guess I don’t get it sometimes. One of my patients, a little girl with an unspecified allergy, is getting hives. She’s not sick, they’re not causing her any problems, and I’m keeping them under control with a couple of different meds. But her mother—”
“Let me guess. Not a mother-of-the-year candidate.”
“She’s a good mother, but she doesn’t do enough. Seems put out when I give her suggestions. Wants an easier way out.”
“In other words, not up to your mothering standards?”
“I’m not an über-mom, if that’s what you’re getting at.” She handed her last patient chart to Ellen to file away, then picked up her medical bag, ready to hit the road. “But if there was something I could give to Michael to fix the problems he has, I’d move heaven and earth to give it a try.”
“I know you would,” Cade said, donning his cowboy hat then tipping the brim at Maudie, who practically melted when he followed it up with a wink. “But trust me. Not all mothers have that higher purpose. There are some mothers who weren’t meant to be. One of nature’s practical jokes, I think. But you’re the kind of mother every child should have.” Said in all sincerity. “The kind I wish …” His voice trailed off, and he ended the sentence with a sigh.
“Your flattery scares me, Cade,” Belle said, wondering where that comment had come from. And that sigh, as well as the look in Cade’s eyes when he’d made it—did she see sadness there?
“Then you’re out of practice,” Maudie quipped, breaking up the serious moment and clearly aligning with Cade as she scooted by on her way to the supply closet. “Because most people would be pleased with a compliment from someone like Dr. Carter.”
“Cade, please,” Cade said. “No need to stand on formalities here.”
For the second time Maudie almost melted. Her normally steely eyes turned mushy, and her thin lips unfolded into a generous smile. In fact, she was so smitten with the man she was nearly batting her eyelashes at him. Quite unlike anything Belle had ever witnessed in her office nurse until Cade. Now she was concerned. More than that, she was suspicious. What in the world was Cade up to, ingratiating himself that way in a place he didn’t need to ingratiate himself?
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