by Kait Nolan
“The ass,” Miranda repeated, shifting mental gears from considering damage to major organ systems.
“Skewered right through his left butt cheek.”
“I assume he’s conscious then?”
“Oh, yes.”
Picking up the chart, Miranda reviewed the triage notes as she stepped into the room. Her patient lay face-down on the gurney, the neon-green-and-white-fletched shaft of an arrow protruding from his backside. Blood had seeped from the wound, staining his khaki cargo pants, but sufficient shaft protruded that she knew nothing vital had been hit, so she allowed herself to feel some amusement at the situation. What kind of story was she gonna hear about this one?
“Hey there. I’m Dr. Campbell. Why don’t you tell me what happened, Mr.—” She paused to check the name on the chart. “Greer?” She hurried to the head of the gurney. “Ethan?”
The Chief of Police turned his head to look at her, irritation written in every line of his face. “Doc. It’s been a shitty afternoon.”
“So I can imagine. Were you in a hunting accident?”
“In a manner of speaking. One of the idiots in the bowhunter safety class I was teaching didn’t follow directions and shot me. With my own damned bow.” Ethan narrowed his eyes, as if daring her to so much as chuckle.
Miranda pressed her lips together to keep her expression neutral. She absolutely should not laugh.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” he asked.
“I have one ER rotation a month. This happened to be my weekend.”
“Is that normal?”
“In small town hospitals, yeah. Anything truly serious comes in, we’ll call our head of emergency medicine or the necessary specialist, but for the run-of-the-mill stuff, we’re more than qualified to handle it. Not that I can say this is run-of-the-mill. In Chicago, I saw stab wounds, gun shots, car accidents, burn victims, any manner of construction accidents, and even a few bombing victims. But I’ve never seen an arrow before. Do you know what kind of tip is on it?”
“Bullet tip. Thank Jesus, I don’t store my arrows with the broadheads attached. You were in Chicago?”
Bullet tip could cause some damage, but extraction would be much simpler than any of the alternatives. She probed around the injury, refusing to pay attention to the firm curve of his ass, an effort made more difficult by Corinne’s silent “Damn!” and eyebrow waggle. Thank God they were both well behind Ethan’s line of sight. “Mmm, before I came home. I was doing a surgical residency. I’m going to have to cut your pants to get a better look at the wound.”
Ethan laid his head back on his arms, effectively muffling his voice. “Fine. I don’t think this situation can get any more mortifying. So you’re a surgeon who practices family medicine?”
She used scissors to cut the fabric free, folding it back to reveal a truly superb backside. It was really too bad someone had shot it. “No. I’m certified in family medicine. I knew halfway through my residency that I wouldn’t be happy as a trauma surgeon, which is what my mentor was convinced I should be. The way he saw it, I had a gift for it and doing anything else was wasting my abilities. He still hasn’t forgiven me for getting out and coming back here. You’re gonna need stitches.”
“Figured. Won’t be the first time. Beats recovering from a gunshot wound. I figure you were in that residency long enough to be better at them than the Army medic who stitched me up in Afghanistan.”
She asked the patiently waiting Corinne to prep sutures. “So you were Army?”
“Yep. Enlisted when I turned eighteen. Got out at twenty-one and went to college on the G.I. Bill.”
“And from there into the U.S. Marshals.” She kept talking as she slowly extracted the arrow and tossed it onto a tray. Grabbing a gauze compress, she covered the freely bleeding wound and applied pressure.
Ethan grunted.
“So what makes a big city guy move to a small town?”
“Why does everybody assume I always lived in the city?”
“Probably because you’ve played your personal history close to the vest. You’re new in town, so you’re a hot topic of conversation. Mostly all people know is that you were a federal marshal and you came from Dallas.” She’d certainly like to know more about him than that.
“I’m not in the habit of talking about myself.”
“I expect that’s the law enforcement training. Makes sense,” Miranda admitted, “but in the absence of the truth, people will make up their own stories.” She irrigated the puncture with disinfectant. “So why Wishful?”
“Clay’s my best friend from college. And I wanted to slow down some. Work a job where not everything is high stakes life and death.”
Miranda wondered how the fun, flirty musician had gotten to be friends with the very serious Ethan Greer. “I get that. It’s part of why I walked away from being a trauma surgeon.”
“Yeah? What was the rest?”
“I cared too much.” Glancing at Corinne she asked for a local anesthetic.
“I don’t need anesthetic.”
“I’m about to be sewing up a hole in your backside. You’re gonna want a local.”
“I didn’t have one in the field in the Army.”
“Well, bully for you and your manliness, but this is not the Army and we are not in the middle of a war. I need you to stay still and a local anesthetic ensures you will be.”
“I can hold myself still,” he insisted.
Miranda looked at Corinne. “Can you give us a minute?”
“Of course, Dr. Campbell.”
She waited until the nurse slipped out of the room. “Okay, what gives? Your chart doesn’t list any allergies.”
“It’s not an allergy.” Ethan’s voice was tight. “I just…don’t like needles.”
“You got shot in the ass and barely did more than blink, and you’ve got an issue with a little bitty needle?” She didn’t know why she was pressing him. It wasn’t as if he was the first person she’d treated with a needle phobia. But it was just so…unexpected. He was ex-military, a former U.S. Marshal who’d spent a decade facing who knew what. He wasn’t lacking in courage.
“I didn’t say it was rational.”
She’d done a pretty decent job of putting Ethan out of her mind the last few days. Of reminding herself that he fell firmly in the category of look, don’t touch. But this tiny show of vulnerability tugged at her, reminding her that underneath the alpha male exterior, he was a man with fears, desires, and complexities. Damn if she didn’t want to know more of them. Know more of him.
Miranda circled around to the front of the gurney and crouched until she was at eye level. His eyes were darker today, like rain-washed slate. “Ethan, you’ve got a puncture wound. Whether you have a local anesthetic or not, you’re gonna have to have a tetanus shot.”
His face went a couple shades paler before he pressed his brow to the gurney and swore.
She couldn’t stop herself from laying a hand on his shoulder in comfort. The muscles beneath her palm were hard as iron. “Try to relax.”
He sucked in a breath and seemed to force the tension out on a slow exhale.
“Better. I’ll be fast. Just…don’t look, okay?”
Taking pity on him, she used some numbing agent at the site to minimize the stick. Maybe she could distract him with conversation.
“So, what happened with the Great Rib Caper? Or are you at liberty to say?”
He snorted. “By the time I got out there, Buddy had already called the station back. Apparently he fell asleep in his recliner and his wife took them off the grill to keep them from burning.”
Miranda laughed and slid in the needle, injecting the anesthetic. “I gotta say, I was hoping for the barbeque espionage version of things. It’d liven things up a little.”
“I’m okay with the real resolution. He was so embarrassed, he sent me home with some of the ribs for dinner. I haven’t had Abe Costello’s, but I’d say Buddy stands a fighting chance in the cook-off. They
were damned fine ribs for not being from Texas.”
She began carefully suturing the puncture. “Are you telling me you’ve got barbeque prejudice, Chief?”
“Damned straight. Barbeque is meant to be beef, with sweet sauce. Nobody does it right this side of the Mississippi River.”
“That is not gonna be a popular opinion.”
“I’ll concede pulled pork can be tasty, but it doesn’t hold a candle to a good brisket.”
“I do love a good brisket.” Miranda snipped the end off the last stitch. “All done.”
Ethan turned his head to look back at her and cracked an eye. “Really?”
She smiled at the look of suspicious hope. “Really.”
“Damn, Doc, you’ve got quite the bedside manner.”
Okay maybe it was the fact that his very fine ass was exposed, but that sounded suspiciously like flirting. Miranda liked it. “I try. You’re gonna be fine in a couple of weeks. It should go without saying that you should avoid any heavy lifting, unnecessary bending or squatting, or anything that might strain your stitches. I’m prescribing you a course of antibiotics. I’ll want to see you in two weeks at the clinic to check on how you’re healing, but barring complications, you should be back to normal in no time.”
“Appreciate it.”
“I’m gonna round up some scrub pants for you. These are a loss.” She started for the door.
“Doc?”
“Yeah?”
His sheepish expression made him look younger, more approachable. “I’d appreciate it if you could maybe not mention the needle thing.”
Her lips curved in a slow smile. “Doctor-patient confidentiality. Your secret’s safe with me, Chief.”
“I swear to God, I’m gonna kill him this time.”
“Now, Mrs. Ramsey—” Ethan began.
The older woman interrupted, “How many times do I have to tell you? Call me Maudie Bell.”
“Miss Maudie Bell,” he corrected. “I understand you’re frustrated—”
“Frustrated? Frustrated? That…that jackass trampled my prize roses!” She gestured to the offender, now nuzzling at winter grass on the far side of Miss Maudie Bell’s yard. The jackass in question was, in fact, a shaggy-coated gelding named Houdini, who had a tendency to go walkabout.
“He’s a menace,” Miss Maudie Bell declared.
Did she mean the horse or his owner? “I’ll round up Houdini and go have a word with Chester.” Again. This was the third time in as many months he’d had to get involved, and that was just counting the times he’d lost at Rock, Paper, Scissors with whichever of his officers was on duty. More often than not, calls from Miss Maudie Bell and her friends—affectionally known around town as The Casserole Patrol—were minor matters, excuses for the trio of blue-hairs to ogle “those fine lookin’ boys in blue.” But not today.
“A word is not gonna cut it, Chief. Not this time. Do you have any idea how much time and effort I put into those roses? The Belle Doria is extremely rare! I grew those from cuttings from my own dear mama’s garden. It’s not like I can just go down to Wishful Nursery and Garden Center to get replacements.”
Ethan winced. “I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am.”
“I want to press charges for destruction of property. If Chester can’t get his fence fixed, he’s got no business keeping horses.”
“On that we agree.” It was a damned miracle none of the horses had been hit by a car yet. “Let me catch Houdini first and get him secured, make sure none of his buddies got out this time. Then I’ll see what’s what and take whatever steps are necessary to see this doesn’t happen again.” He had no idea yet what that would be. First time had been a warning. Second had been a fine. Obviously, neither tactic had been sufficient to motivate Chester Harkin to take care of business. Ethan didn’t think charging the man was going to make a whit of difference either, so clearly he was going to have to engage in some creative policing to keep the peace.
Returning to his police cruiser, Ethan popped the trunk and pulled out the lariat. When he’d taken the job as Wishful Chief of Police, he hadn’t imagined the roping skills he’d honed in his youth would come into play, but after the first call about Chester’s horses, he’d learned to be prepared. Stretching out the loop, he made his way across the yard to where the gelding continued to graze. If he were lucky, he’d be able to walk straight up and slip the lasso over Houdini’s head.
He wasn’t lucky.
As he got within about twenty feet of the animal, Houdini lifted his head, ears quivering. Ethan began to murmur in a low voice. “Easy. Easy now. Adventure’s over. Time to head on home.”
Houdini’s ears twitched, and he snorted, his breath clearly visible in the frigid January air.
He was gonna bolt. Ethan could feel it. He kept talking in that soothing tone, even as he began to swing the lasso. When Houdini wheeled, he let it fly. The loop settled around the horse’s neck and Ethan pulled it taut. Houdini reared, dragging Ethan a few stumbling steps forward that sent pain shooting through his injured butt cheek. He prayed he hadn’t popped his stitches. Much as he wanted to see Miranda again, anything involving more needles was a hard pass.
“Settle down, you big bastard.” Ethan moved with the animal as he danced in place, making a half-hearted bid for control. But Houdini knew the jig was up. With a few stomps of irritation and a toss of his head, he subsided. Ethan closed the distance between them, until he could lay a hand on the muscular neck. “There now. That’s the way.”
From somewhere behind, Miss Maudie Bell clapped. “I didn’t know I’d be getting a show!”
Ethan hoped that didn’t mean he’d just upped his chances of being asked for by name for future incidents. Tipping his head to Miss Maudie Bell in a nod, he led the horse down her drive and along the county road to his proper home a quarter mile away. It was pretty country out here, with all the rolling, tree-studded hills. So different from the wide-open expanses of Texas. Once everything greened up in the spring, it would be quite the view. Maybe he’d look for property out this way, once he was settled and in the market to buy instead of rent.
He noted that wherever Houdini had escaped from this time, it wasn’t the same patch of fence as before, though the patch job Chester had done wasn’t going to hold for any real length of time. The fence needed serious work, period. The barn and house were in better shape. Both worn around the edges and in need of fresh paint and some touch ups, they seemed to be solid. Still, the place was riddled with signs of neglect.
Turning Houdini loose in the paddock by the barn, Ethan trudged up the porch steps and knocked on the door. Chester took a long time to open it and when he did, Ethan immediately noticed the slow, pained movements.
“Mr. Harkin, do you know why I’m here?”
He sighed. “Expect that woman down the road’s got it into her head to complain again.”
“Your horse got out again. And this time it wasn’t just a matter of public safety. He destroyed Mrs. Ramsey’s roses. She wants to press charges.”
Chester blustered. “They’re just flowers.”
“They were extremely rare roses she grew from clippings her mother gave her.”
Something flickered in the old man’s gaze. Regret? “I didn’t intend that.” Absently, the old man rubbed at the knuckles of one hand. Each joint was swollen, his arthritis, no doubt, pretty vicious with this unseasonable cold.
Ethan didn’t want to charge the guy. “I know you haven’t intended any of this, but the fact of the matter is, your fence needs serious repair. So here’s how this is gonna work. You’re going to pay to replace Mrs. Ramsey’s roses.”
“You just said they were rare.”
“I expect Cam Crawford down at the nursery can help us track some down. Meanwhile, I’m going to come out on Saturday and help you fix your fence so it’ll keep your horses in.”
“You’ll do what?”
“Fixing fences properly takes two sets of hands. I don’t see another one han
ging around here. So I’ll do it in the name of keeping the community and your animals safe.”
The radio at his shoulder crackled. “Chief, we’ve got a robbery in progress at the salvage store.”
“Acknowledged. I’m en route.” Ethan looked back at Chester. “I’ll be here Saturday. You’d best be ready to work. And keep your horses up in the meantime.”
Chapter 4
The Mudcat Tavern was packed. It always was when Clay Turner performed. Every unattached female in Wishful under the age of fifty seemed to be crammed into the bar. Miranda cast a glance at the stage, where Clay was already wowing the crowd with a David Nail cover. He was a total heartthrob with that gorgeous voice, that twenty-four carat smile, and those bedroom eyes. They’d had a helluva good time dating back in high school. It was just too damned bad they hadn’t had any real chemistry. Still, he put on a great show, so she’d come out tonight to meet Norah and Cam for dinner.
She found them bent head-to-head, his light to her dark, at one of the high-top tables toward the back. With eyes only for each other, they didn’t even seem to notice all the patrons around them. The romantic heart Miranda pretended she didn’t have turned over at the sight. They were so good together. She couldn’t be happier that they’d found each other, but she still felt a pang of envy. It’d been forever since she’d been in a real relationship. Not since she’d left Chicago. She didn’t actually miss Stephen—after the things he’d said, she was still inclined to plant a foot up his ass—but she missed having someone to hang out and share her day with.
That’s what friends are for. She plastered on a smile. “Hey lovebirds.”
Cam slid off his stool and slung an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in for a squeeze. “Hey there. Got you a beer, and there’s an order in for chili cheese fries.”
“Aww, you love me.” Slipping an arm around his waist, Miranda squeezed back.
“You are my favorite cousin.”
“Because I introduced you to the love of your life?” She winked at Norah, who still sported a sappy grin.
