The Rogue (The Moorehouse Legacy #4)(51)

“If a woman…” Spike cleared his throat. “If a woman doesn’t get her period, does that mean she can’t get pregnant?”

“Nope.”

The anxiety that had plagued Spike for the last month and a half sat up and howled. “But what if she isn’t ovulating?”

“How does she know she’s not?”

“Because she’s an athlete and her body fat is so low—”

Doc John shook his head and pushed Spike’s hand back under again. “No, I mean, how can she be sure? The human body has a way of doing what it wants. There’s only one sure way to prevent pregnancy and that’s abstinence.”

Spike felt the blood drain out of his head. He’d known this, damn it. He’d known all of this. He should never have—

Doc John glanced up and offered a smile. “I don’t mean to personalize this, but you might ask her to take a test if you two are worried.”

“She was really sure it was okay.” God, he sounded lame.

Yeah, but as he thought about the situation, there was something even worse. He realized he would love to have made her pregnant. And how appallingly desperate did that make him?

Doc John shrugged. “You mentioned she’s an athlete with low body fat? Then that increases the likelihood that she isn’t ovulating, especially if she’s not getting a period. But nature can find a way. Go buy a test at the supermarket. Put your mind at ease.”

This was said as if he and Mad were a couple. Who lived close to or maybe even with each other. Who were there to support one another.

He felt like throwing up he missed her so badly.

Except then Doc John poked at his wrist and he just plain felt like throwing up.

When Spike left a half hour later, his forearm hurt so badly he could barely see straight. The physical stuff, though, was a minor inconvenience compared to the tortures his head was going through. He drove home in a daze, knowing that he’d be no good to anyone in the kitchen at White Caps and not just because he couldn’t lift a sauté pan to save his life.

The apartment he’d been living in since he’d come to Saranac Lake was on the top floor of yet another one of the town’s Victorians. He had two bedrooms and a kitchen and a living room and he liked the place. There were windows in every room and the floors were hardwood and it was a quiet building.

As he drove up to the house, he saw that lights were on at the top and he was glad. His nomadic sister, Jaynie, had been staying with him for the last couple weeks, and tonight, he’d just as soon not be alone.

He parked around back, parallel to the picket fence, but then just sat there in the truck. A compulsion he’d been trying to fight since Memorial Day got too hard to battle any longer. He shifted his hips and dug his cell phone out of his jeans pocket.

After he was finished talking to Sean, Spike hung up and did some more staring.

The night after he’d left the Maguire mansion, he’d called Sean, wanting to know why the guy hadn’t thought to mention the stuff about Mad’s mom. But Sean had been out of the country in Japan still, and by the time the man had returned only days ago, it seemed unnecessary to rehash all the ins and outs of the disaster.

No, tonight, Spike had wanted to know only one thing and Sean had told him.

His buddy hadn’t seemed too surprised by the question, either.

Eventually, Spike got out of the truck and used the rear stairs. When he opened the back door and walked into the kitchen, he heard the sound of typing. Immediately, it was cut off.

“Spike—”

“It’s just me—”

He and his sister spoke at exactly the same time. She never had gotten comfortable with being alone and he was always careful to shout out as he came into any place he knew she was in. Especially if she was by herself.

“You’re home early,” she called out from the front of the apartment.

“Yeah.” He shut the door and went to the fridge. Orange juice would be good right now. Cold. Sweet.

As he poured himself a glass, his sister came into the kitchen. “What—Oh…are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He glanced over his shoulder.

Jaynie was standing in the archway, a slight woman in her very early thirties, wearing shorts and a T-shirt that were at least two sizes too big for her. She also had a sweatshirt across her shoulders, even though they had no air-conditioning and it was hot. With her dark hair pulled back and her wire-rimmed glasses, she reminded him of a sparrow, quick and brown, hypervigilant.

“Spike, what happened to you?”

“Nothing a few days off won’t cure.” He swallowed the orange juice under his sister’s stare. “Jaynie, I’m okay. It’s just a little burn. How’s the work going?”

She held his eyes for a moment. Then seemed to accept the fact that he wasn’t going to talk about what he’d done to himself.

“Well…I’m slow at it. Medical transcription is like holding water in your hands. Words keep slipping through no matter how fast you go. But it’s better than some of the things I’ve done and the pay is okay.” She pushed her glasses farther up on her nose. “You know, I wish you’d let me give you something for the rent.”

“And I wish you’d try and stay here for more than a month or two. Hell, move in permanently. I told you, I really like the company.”