Along Came a Cowboy (2 page)

Still, it's my job to educate patients and their families about their health. I turn back to Norma. “After you put them in a room, pull Alma's X-rays for me, okay?”

Norma starts to leave then smacks her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Oh, I almost forgot. Lark Murray is on line one.”

I glance at the phone. Sure enough, line one is blinking. “Thanks.”

Never mind that we let Lark sit and wait while we sneaked a peek at Alma's cowboy son. Norma marches to her own drummer, and I run along behind her trying to stay in step.

I reach toward the phone, and for a split second, I consider having Norma take a message. Lark is one of my three closest friends. I'm a few years younger than the rest and came late to the Pinky Promise Sisterhood group they formed in childhood. But ever since the night they found me crying in the bowling alley bathroom, the Pinkies have been family to me. We share
our deepest secrets and craziest dreams and—now that we all live in Shady Grove, Arkansas, again—regular face-to-face gabfests.

And any other day of the year, I'm happy to hear from any of them. But this particular anniversary day is always filled with awkward conversations. They never know what to say, and neither do I.

I snatch the handset up before I give in to my cowardice. I'll just make it short and sweet. “Hey, girl.”

“Rach, I'm so glad I caught you. I was afraid you'd already started with patients.”

“No. Sorry you had to wait.” Here it comes. The gentle “You okay today?” Or the “Just called to say hi and wish you a good day for no particular reason.”

“I can't take this anymore.” Her voice is trembling.

Okay, I wasn't expecting that. “What?”

“The waiting. Why do they make us go through an inspection worthy of a Spanish Inquisition if they're not going to give us a baby?”

I release a breath I didn't know I was holding and sink back onto my chair. Lark is focused on one thing and one thing only these days, so thankfully this call isn't about me. “They're going to give you a baby. They'd be crazy not to. These things just take time.”

“You sound like the caseworker.” She sighs. “I called her last night even though Craig didn't think I should.”

“Lark, honey, I know it's hard to wait now that you've finally decided to adopt. But you're going to have to. God has—” My throat constricts, but I push the words out. “God has the perfect baby for you.”

“It doesn't feel like it.” She must be upset, because that's definitely a bit of a whine, something she never does.

“Has He ever let you down?”

“No. But maybe I was right before. Maybe it's just not His will for me to be a mom.”

I thought we'd settled all that a few months ago when she showed up on my doorstep late one night with a suitcase because her husband wanted to adopt. Still, I can totally relate to old insecurities sneaking back in when you least expect them. “You're going to have to think about something else for a while, Lark. Are you helping Allie today?”

“I'm supposed to. I was thinking about seeing if she can make it without me though.”

“How are y'all coming along?” Our Pinky friend Allie Richards recently won the Shady Grove Pre-Centennial Beautiful Town Landscaping Contest and consequently landed the town landscaping maintenance contract for the year. She has some real employees now, but during the contest her crew consisted of Allie's brother, Adam, Lark, me, and our other Pinky, Victoria Worthington. So we all have a vested emotional interest in TLC Landscaping.

Lark sighs. “We're swamped trying to get everything in perfect shape before the centennial celebration really gets going. I guess I really should work today. I know Allie needs me.”

Good girl. “You know what your granny always said—a busy mind doesn't have time to worry.”

“You're right. I'm going to have to trust God to handle this and go get ready for work. Thanks for talking me down off the ledge.”

“Anytime.”

“See you tonight, Rach.”

“I'll be there.” When the connection is broken, I close my eyes.

Lord, please give me strength to face today.

I open my eyes and push to my feet. Time to cowgirl up.

As soon as I walk into the adjusting room, Alma stands. “Dr. Donovan, I'm sure you remember my son, Jack.”

Jack holds his cowboy hat in his left hand and offers me the right. I promise I expect him to say, “Ma'am,” and duck his head. “Dr. Donovan,” he drawls, and from the boy who used to pull my braids, the title sounds a little mocking. “Nice to see you again.” As we shake hands, he flashes that heartbeat-accelerating smile again.

“You, too.” His hands are nice. Slightly calloused. Working hands, but not so tough that they're like leather.

I look up into his puzzled brown eyes and then back down at his hand, which I'm
still
holding. Behind him, his mother beams as if she has personally discovered the cure for every terminal illness known to humankind. I jerk my hand away. Should I tell him that I always notice hands, since my own hands are what I use most in my profession? Or would he think that was a pickup line? I'm sure he's heard some doozies.

Better to ignore it. I slap the X-rays up on the view box then focus my attention on Alma as I point out the key spots we're working on.

When I finish, Jack crosses the room in two steps and points to the X-ray. “This increased whiteness is arthritis, right?”

My eyebrows draw together. “You've had experience with X-rays?”

He shrugs and gives me a rueful grin. “Occupational hazard.”

Of course. “In any case, you're right. It
is
arthritis, but no more than normal for someone your mother's age.”

“Thankfully, Dr. Donovan keeps me going. Otherwise I'd be like the Tin Man in
The Wizard of Oz
,” Alma pipes up from her chair in the corner.

“To hear Mom tell it,
you're
the Wizard of Oz,” Jack mutters, still standing beside me. He turns to Alma. “Your X-rays are normal?”

Her eyes open wide. “Yes.”

“Totally normal?”

She blinks at him. “Isn't that wonderful?”

“Yes, but—”

“I thought you'd be pleased to know your old mom was going to be getting around without a walker for a few more years.” Alma's voice is soft and sweet.

He frowns. “You know I am. But since Dr. Donovan has apparently already explained these X-rays to you, you could have told me that on the ph—” He stops, apparently realizing that I'm like a reluctant spectator at a tennis game, watching their verbal volleying.

“But this way you can see for yourself,” Alma says with a satisfied smile.

He opens his mouth then closes it and nods.

Game, set, match to Alma.

I turn back to her. “Any questions?”

She smiles. “Not a one. Thank you so much for taking the time to go over this with us.”

“I'm always glad to help you understand your health better.”

“I'm going to go freshen up before we head home,” Alma says. And just like that, she's gone, leaving me with her son. No doubt the whole point.

“Jack,” I say in what I hope is a coolly professional voice, “thank you for coming by.”

He nods. “I'm sorry we wasted your time. I don't know why I'm surprised this was a setup. Our mothers have been singing your praises ever since I got back in town.”

“
Our
mothers?” My mother and I barely speak, and I'm
certain she's never sung my praises a day in my life. At least not since I was a teenager.

“They make you sound like Mother Teresa and the Alberts all rolled into one.”

I raise a brow. “The Alberts?”

“Einstein and Schweitzer.”

I can't keep from laughing. “Now that's an appealing combination. And don't forget the Wizard of Oz.”

“They're probably not far off, actually. It's just that—” He runs his hands around the brim of the hat he's still holding. “Thanks for being a good sport.” He grins. “And at least now when we see each other at the diner, we can say hello.”

A hot blush spreads across my face. The curse of being a redhead. I blush easily and at the oddest times. It's not like he knows I was admiring him the other day while I was waiting for my food. At least, I sure hope not. “True.” I open the door and step back for him to go through.

“I guess I'd better go. I'll just wait for Mom out here,” he says dryly and saunters down the hall.

“Not a moment too soon,” I mutter under my breath and retreat to my office for a few minutes. The last thing I need is a blast from the past. Especially in the form of a rugged, sweet-smiling cowboy.

I
'm mulling over the things Jack said, particularly the part about my mother, when Norma sticks her head in the door. “Problem.”

“What's up?”

“The mayor's fifteen minutes early. And Mrs. Tillman walked in a minute after him, but she's on time and her appointment is before his. If I take her back to a room first, he'll be mad, but if I take him back first, that's cheating, I guess?” Her tone goes up on the last two words.

I take a deep breath and smile. I'm actually glad to have normal office things to think about. Too many of my thoughts the last few minutes have been in a Western motif. “Tell Ron that Mrs. Tillman's appointment is first and we'll be with him in just a few minutes.”

“But he's the mayor.”

“In this office, he's a patient. And he's no more or no less important than anyone else.”

She nods. Like she's never heard me say that before.

When I finally get to him, our esteemed mayor is perched on the long padded bench in the waiting cubicle, huffing and
puffing like the big bad wolf.

“Good morning, Ron.” I motion him into the adjusting room.

He grunts as he hobbles past me. “Easy for you to say.”

Beneath his crusty exterior is another equally crusty interior. If life in Shady Grove were a sitcom, there'd be a heart of gold buried somewhere in the mix. But this is real life, and with our mayor, I'm not so sure.

He takes his glasses off and slips them in the eyeglass holder mounted on the wall. Then he turns back to me and squints. “A person doesn't get to be Citizen of the Year by keeping the mayor waiting.”

I cough to cover a laugh. “I told you last time you brought that up that I have no desire to be Citizen of the Year.”

“Ah, save your ‘It's just an honor to be nominated' speech for someone who believes it. Everybody wants to be noticed,” he grumbles.

Not everybody. I've spent my adult life blending in, trying to be all I can be while not being noticed. Unfortunately, I ended up with too many patients who are members of the Shady Grove Civic Club. So according to Ron's top-secret info, I've been nominated for Citizen of the Year. I'm not holding my breath.

“You mark my words: This centennial celebration is going to be the death of me.” He slowly moves toward the table.

I bite back a smile. “You sounded so excited about it just awhile ago at the big kick-off.”

“That was before Alma Westwood started driving me crazy.” He limps the last few feet.

“Are you hurting this morning, Ron?” He's seventy, but he can normally outwalk most men half his age.

He ignores my question with a wave of his hand. “She even
cornered me out here in your waiting room just now and started yakking about it. Who has a yearlong celebration anyway? Why couldn't we settle for a week like normal towns?” He cuts his gaze to me as he steps up on the foot pedestal of my hi-lo table. “You know, you'd be the perfect person to get me out of this pickle and do your civic duty at the same time.”

“You're still trying to get me to be on the committee?” I grin again and shake my head. “My answer is the same as last time you asked. You'll have to find another sucker.” I put one hand on his shoulder and kick the pedal to lower the table. Back to business.