How to Tame a Wild Fireman (22 page)

“Mind your own business,” growled Big Dog.

Fuck.
Patrick kicked over the stool and flung himself out of the room before he lost it and upset his father, as he’d promised his mother he wouldn’t do. Outside, he strode toward the ancient dirt bike he’d resurrected—­his very first, acquired at the age of thirteen. He launched himself onto it and savagely hit the kick-­starter with his heel. The comforting grind of engine cogs filled the air, drowning out the fury in his soul.

Why did his father have to be so stubborn? So impossible? He zoomed down the driveway, onto the main road, then zigzagged down empty back roads. What was he doing here, spinning his wheels, trying to take care of an old man who didn’t respect him? Maybe even hated him?

He skidded through a sharp curve, then righted himself, his nerves screaming with adrenaline. Damn, it felt good to dance on that edge again. He took the next few turns at a gravity-­defying slant, whooping with glee. When he passed the field where he and Lara had made love, he opened the throttle even further.

See if I care, Lara Nelson. See if I think about you anymore. See if I dream about you every other night and spend half the day thinking of all the things I should have said when you were kicking us to the curb.

He passed a tractor, a girl on a bicycle, a cement truck. Heads whipped around as he zoomed by, accompanied by a few angry shouts and brandished fists. By the time he got back to the ranch, he felt a million times better.

Megan was waiting at the stables, where he kept the dirt bike. She sat cross-­legged on a bale of hay. The orange-­striped barn cat had his chin draped over her thigh as she gently scratched the nape of his neck. She watched Patrick walk in, her expression unusually serious.

Sweaty and exhilarated, he took off his helmet. “No lectures, sis.”

“You underestimate me.”

“You may have a point there.” He propped his bike against the wall. “If I do it again, hit me.”

“I have some information for you.”

Instantly he sobered. “You got the detective’s name from Big Dog?”

“No. He won’t say anything about that, and he’s been locking his office at night so I can’t even snoop.”

Patrick’s shoulders dropped. Hell. At this rate he’d never see his only brother again, thanks to his ornery father. “Well, whaddya got, then?”

“I think Lara knows where he is.”

He spun around to face her.
“What?”

“When Dad was yelling at her about you, he said something about Liam’s phone bill. It made me think she’s probably in touch with him.”

He stood for a long moment, battling a storm of emotion. “Megan—­”

“You have to go. I know. It’s okay.”

“You sure?”

“I want to find Liam too.” She smiled at him wistfully. “I can handle a dose of undiluted Dad for a little while.”

He scooped her into a bear hug. “You’re the best sister in the world.”

Chapter Twenty-One

L
ara slid back the curtain and stepped next to the bed where Mr. Kline lay, eyes closed. He was eighty-­nine years old, in good health except for late phase dementia, and now suffering from injuries sustained from his latest unsupervised exploration of the neighborhood—­including a badly placed skateboard.

“How’s he doing?” she asked his daughter, Ruth, a harried-­looking woman who had Lara’s deepest sympathy.

“Not bad, I suppose. He doesn’t complain about the pain. He does think my son is stealing his mail, though.”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” grumbled Mr. Kline.

“I’m sorry about that,” Lara told him. “I thought you might be sleeping. How are you feeling?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He winked.

Lara gestured to the stethoscope around her neck. “Do you mind?”

“Pretty woman wants to test my heart? Twist my arm.”

She smiled at Ruth, who rolled her eyes slightly, and checked his heart rate. “You’re sounding pretty good, there, for an old guy.”

Mr. Kline’s answering laugh was a chorus of gurgling hacks, thanks to his history of cigarette consumption. This was the third time he’d been admitted, and each time the Klines had requested her.

She finished the examination, checked his bandages, and wrote out another painkiller prescription. Afterward, Ruth followed her outside the examination room and lowered her voice. “Dr. Nelson, we’re starting to talk about . . . you know.” She glanced toward the closed door. “Of course, it would be easier if we didn’t have to have the same conversation over and over.”

“It’s tough, I know,” Lara said. “Have you called any of those numbers I gave you?” Last time, she had loaded Ruth up with numbers of support groups and agencies that dealt with the elderly.

“It’s hard to find the time, but I went to one meeting. It made me realize how lucky I am. He’s still so sweet-­natured, you know? Maybe even more than he used to be. The stories some ­people tell . . .” She shook her head. “I’m lucky, that’s all. And I like having him with us. If it weren’t for the paranoia and the wandering, I wouldn’t think twice about keeping him. But . . .” Her eyes filled with tears.

Lara put a sympathetic hand on her arm. “Keep thinking about it. You don’t have to do anything until you’re ready.”

“Thanks. I really do appreciate it. You’ve been great.”

Lara smiled at her and hurried on, carrying with her that glow only a satisfying interaction with a patient could give.
This
was what she was meant to do; she felt it in her bones. When she put on that white doctor’s coat and slung the stethoscope around her neck, everything fell into place. Even though practicing family medicine had plenty of chaos and uncertainty, everything else made up for it. She loved being a rock for ­people at their most frightened. She loved feeling her way toward a correct diagnosis. She loved knowing that her hard work and knowledge made a difference for someone. She loved helping ­people.

And right now she loved the Goddesses for sending her back.

Although she did miss all the sleep she’d been getting back in Loveless. Not to mention the sex. And she shouldn’t have left Patrick that way, with those harsh words inspired by Big Dog. It wasn’t Patrick’s fault his father was an ass. He was completely different from his father, brave, caring, exciting . . .

Stop that
. For the thousandth time she shoved aside the memory of the time she’d spent with Patrick. Now that she was back to her regular life, it was all starting to seem like a weird dream. It was all so unlikely. Her and Patrick Callahan, making love in a moonlit field?

Yeah, right. Maybe the whole thing had been a hallucination inspired by years of sexual repression. She should probably go see a psychiatrist.

At midday, in line at the cafeteria, she eyed her usual cheese and pastrami sandwich. If the Goddesses were here, they’d be making everyone beet and ginger smoothies. They’d be shocked by what she and the other doctors usually ate. With a surprising pang of homesickness—­make that Haven sickness—­she grabbed a banana and a yogurt instead.

“Good to have you back, Dr. Nelson,” said the chief of staff, pausing next to her table. He was a burly, imposing man who somewhat reminded her of Big Dog Callahan.

“Good to be back.”

“You look . . . different.”

Must be all the sex
, she almost said. “I finally caught up on my sleep.”

He chuckled. “I’m still working on that. Have you decided what you’re doing next year? I hear there’s an opening at the clinic.”

“Yes, I have an interview set up for next week.” The job would be perfect for her. The clinic was always looking for good family practitioners. She knew the staff and respected them. She wouldn’t have to leave San Diego. And the pay, while not spectacular, would help put a dent in her medical school debt.

But . . .

She didn’t even understand why there was a “but.” But there was.

“Good luck with it,” said the chief of staff, moving on. “We like to keep the good ones close.”

Warmed by the compliment, she finished her lunch. Then, deciding it was a little too healthy for a resident—­they might laugh her out of the hospital—­she grabbed a ­couple of Kit-­Kat bars for dessert. This was her Friday, and she might as well celebrate with chocolate since nothing more interesting was likely to appear.

The only incident of note during her shift, other than a spate of stomach flu cases, was the arrival of a boy who’d been trapped in a burning tree house. She’d gone down to the ER to borrow one of their ultrasounds when the double doors burst open. A firefighter in full turnout gear strode in, a young boy in his arms. The sight was so dramatic—­usually paramedics brought ­people in on gurneys—­that everyone stopped and stared.

And she, Lord help her, felt a shock all the way to her toes. The fireman’s face was streaked with grime, but his blue eyes glittered past the dirt. It wasn’t Patrick—­of course not—­but Patrick would have looked just like this if he’d just pulled a boy from a fire. Which he’d probably done, many times.

She turned away, grabbed the ultrasound and wheeled it toward the elevator. As she and the machine rose toward the third floor, she ordered her heart rate to return to its normal pace.
Nothing’s changed because you saw a fireman
, she scolded herself. You’re going to see them on a regular basis. If you get all woozy every time, we’re going to have a problem.

She fixed her gaze on the institutional gray of the ser­vice elevator wall. It looked a little more drab than it had a few minutes ago. She took her second Kit-­Kat bar from her pocket and peeled back a corner of the wrapper. Yep, this chocolate didn’t taste quite as good as the first one had. In fact, her whole life, now that she thought about it, seemed a little more boring.

Her cell phone rang. It was Adam Dennison. “I had a brain wave. How about if I come over and make you dinner tonight?”

“Make me
dinner
?”

He lowered his voice. “I’ve been thinking about us, Lara. I missed you while you were gone. I want to do something special for you to welcome you back. A ‘purple feast.’ I got the idea from a magazine.”

“Excuse me?”

“The magazine said it’s a new trend. Nothing but purple food. Eggplant, grapes, port wine cheese, and whatever else I see at the grocery store in the indigo to fuchsia range. I bought a color wheel to help me coordinate.”

A headache niggled at Lara’s temple. “You really don’t need to do that, Adam.”

“I want to. I want to show you another side of me. You see me only as the dedicated doctor. But I can enjoy myself too.”

Lara closed her eyes, scrambling for a way out. “I might be working late.”

“That won’t be a problem. I rented some Colin Firth movies too. You can’t turn down Colin Firth.”

Lara frowned at the phone; nothing coming out of it seemed to make any sense. “Adam, what’s going on here? Have you suddenly turned into a chick flick fan?”

His voice went oddly vulnerable. “Give me a chance, Lara. That’s all I’m asking.”

The elevator door opened and Lara wheeled out the ultrasound machine while balancing the phone on her shoulder. What was holding her back? Adam Dennison was probably a much more appropriate choice than Patrick Callahan. He was one of the most sought-­after doctors at the hospital. Brilliant, good-­looking, ambitious . . . compulsive.

She closed her eyes and tried to imagine getting wild with Dr. OCD in an empty field. He’d carefully spread out a sheet of plastic, then maybe a comfortable foam pad. Or maybe he’d put up a tent. He’d probably spray the perimeter for bugs and use a lint roller to remove every speck of grass from his clothes.

But then, she knew she would have been the same way—­cautious and safe—­until Patrick came along.

She couldn’t get involved with Adam. Not after Patrick. Even if she never saw Patrick again, he’d ruined her for someone like Dr. Adam Dennison.

“It’s not a good idea,” she finally said. “I mean, we’re coworkers. It would be horrible if things got awkward.”

“I don’t know what you mean. Haven’t we been headed in this direction all along?”

They had? Had she somehow managed to give him the wrong impression? ”Well, I thought we were good friends—­”

“Exactly. We’re friends with the potential for much more. As long as we’re honest and keep the lines of communication open, we’ll be fine.”

She really had to find out what magazine he’d been reading. He’d never mentioned “lines of communication” or purple feasts before in her memory. Still, he had a good point. Communication was important. She should probably communicate a huge, testosterone-­drenched detail by the name of Patrick Callahan. She opened her mouth, but he spoke first.

“I’ll be there at seven. Your key’s still under the mat, right?”

Damn him and his OCD memory. He must have remembered that detail from the time he’d driven her home after a bad reaction to a flu shot. But maybe it was for the best. Tonight she could explain in person that they weren’t headed for any kind of a future together.

“Thanks for the offer, Adam. It’s really very sweet. I’ll see you tonight. I have to go now. I’ve got a patient.” She patted the ultrasound machine as if it were human and hung up.

As she tended to her last two patients, the conversation with Adam kept running through her mind. Everything he said sounded so
reasonable
. They were grown-­ups. They didn’t do drama. In fact, in that way they were perfect for each other. That’s why they’d always worked well together at the hospital. They liked things orderly and consistent and logical. No chaos. No . . .
intensity
. No excitement.

So why couldn’t she even think about kissing Adam without flinching, whereas thoughts of kissing Patrick kept waking her up at night?

Darn him.

On the way
home she took a call from Mr. Standish, her aunt’s lawyer. Cars whizzed past her on the dark freeway as she listened to the rat-­a-­tat voice on her speaker phone. “I found a realtor who knows eastern Nevada like the back of his hand. He says he can sell the property in a fruit fly’s heartbeat, as long as you don’t care what happens to it.”

“Well, I do kind of care. I mean, I don’t want to sell to just anyone.”

“What if they want to tear down the existing structure?”

The existing structure?
Was that real estate code for her childhood home? “Absolutely not.”

“Okay, then what if they want to add on . . . say, make it a dude ranch operation? Add cabins and horse manure? Maybe a few cowboys and girls?”

She wrinkled her forehead, trying to picture it. Dynah might like that. “I guess, maybe.”

“Well, he’s going to call you. You can work it out with him. But never fear, we’ll get this thing sold and get you a tidy little profit.”

“To be shared with the Goddesses.”

“You can share it with God, your janitor, a pet shelter, whatever you want.”

Luckily, he hung up before catching her involuntary burst of giggles. She’d forgotten that most ­people didn’t refer to other ­people as “Goddesses.”

Oh, Aunt Tam. Your legacy lives on. Even though it may become a dude ranch.

By the time she turned the key in the door of her condo, she was bone-­tired. Which was why her first thought was that she had to be hallucinating.

Patrick Callahan IV sat in her one good piece of furniture, an armchair upholstered in sleek lipstick red. Dressed in his usual jeans and T-­shirt, this one black with the white outline of a lizard, he sat with one ankle crossed over the opposite knee. Adam must have insisted he take off his shoes, because on his feet were blue athletic socks with holes worn in the heels. Dark stubble dotted his jaw; he looked as though he’d driven all night to get here.

The entire room vibrated with his blue-­eyed, red-­blooded, utterly masculine energy.

Adam sat on the couch, wearing an apron with the words,
LAUGHTER ISN’T TH
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He was watching Patrick as if he were an unpredictable zoo specimen. Lara couldn’t tell if he looked horrified or fascinated. The holes in Patrick’s socks had probably given Adam a heart attack. On the other hand, there was no ignoring Patrick’s incredible, potent charisma. Just sitting there, he made the entire room tilt in his direction. It was nearly impossible for Lara to drag her gaze away to meet Adam’s.

Patrick jumped to his feet. “Lara. I have to talk to you.”

Adam got to his feet too. “Should I have warned you, Lara? He said he was a friend from Loveless.”

Patrick gave Adam a hard look. “I am a friend from Loveless.”

“He is,” agreed Lara. “Psycho.”

Adam frowned, looking highly offended.