Virgin River (Virgin River #1)(15)

That night Doc Mullins sat up in bed, book in his lap, listening. So—she was in pain. Desperate pain. And she covered it with that flip wit and sarcasm.

Nothing is ever what it seems, he thought, flicking off his light.





Three




Mel woke to the ringing of the phone. She checked the baby; she had only awoken twice in the night and still slept soundly. She found her slippers and went downstairs to see if she could rustle up some coffee. Doc Mullins was already in the kitchen, dressed.

“Going out to the Driscolls’—sounds like Jeananne might be having an asthma attack. There’s the key to the drug box. I wrote down the number for my pager—cell phones aren’t worth a damn out here. If any patients wander in while I’m gone, you can take care of them.”

“I thought you just wanted me to babysit,” she said.

“You came here to work, didn’t you?”

“You said you didn’t want me,” she pointed out to him.

“You said you didn’t want us, either, but here we are. Let’s see what you got.” He shrugged on his jacket and picked up his bag. Then jutted his chin toward her, lifted his eyebrows as if to say, Well?

“Do you have appointments today?”

“I only make appointments on Wednesdays—the rest are walk-ins. Or call-outs, like this one.”

“I wouldn’t even know what to charge,” she argued.

“Neither do I,” he said. “Hardly matters—these people aren’t made of money and damn few have insurance. Just make sure you keep good records and I’ll work it out. It’s probably beyond you, anyway. You don’t look all that bright.”

“You know,” she said, “I’ve worked with some legendary assholes, but you’re competing for first place here.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said gruffly.

“That figures,” she answered tiredly. “Incidentally, the night was fine.”

No comment from the old goat. He started for the door and on his way out, grabbed a cane. “Are you limping?” Mel asked him.

“Arthritis,” he said. He dug an antacid out of his pocket and popped it in his mouth. “And heartburn. Got any more questions?”

“God, no!”

“Good.”

Mel got a bottle ready and while it was in the microwave, she went upstairs to dress. By the time that was accomplished, the baby started to stir. She changed her and picked her up and found herself saying, “Sweet Chloe, sweet baby…” If she and Mark had had a girl, she was to be Chloe. A boy would be Adam. What was she doing?

“But you have to be someone, don’t you?” she told the baby.

When she was coming down the stairs, the baby swaddled and held against her shoulder, Jack was opening the front door. He was balancing a covered dish on his hand, a thermos tucked under his arm. “Sorry, Jack—you just missed him.”

“This is for you. Doc stopped by the bar and said I’d better get you some breakfast, that you were pretty cranky.”

She laughed in spite of herself. “I’m cranky, huh? He’s a giant pain in the ass! How do you put up with him?”

“He reminds me of my grandfather. How’d it go last night? She sleep?”

“She did very well. Only woke up a couple of times. I’m just about to feed her.”

“Why don’t I give her a bottle while you eat. I brought coffee.”

“Really, I didn’t know they made men like you,” she said, letting him follow her into the kitchen. When he put down the plate and thermos, she handed over the baby and tested the bottle. “You seem very comfortable with a newborn. For a man. A man with some nieces in Sacramento.” He just smiled at her. She passed him the bottle and got out two coffee mugs. “Ever married?” she asked him, then instantly regretted it. It was going to lead to him asking her.

“I was married to the Marine Corps,” he said. “And she was a real bitch.”

“How many years?” she asked, pouring coffee.

“Just over twenty years. I went in as a kid. How about you?”

“I was never in the marines,” she said with a smile.

He grinned at her. “Married?”

She couldn’t meet his eyes and lie, so she concentrated on the coffee mug. “I was married to a hospital, and my bitch was as mean as your bitch.” That wasn’t a total lie. Mark used to complain about the schedules they kept—grueling. He was in emergency medicine. He’d just finished a thirty-six hour shift when he stopped at the convenience store, interrupting the robbery. She shuddered involuntarily. She pushed a mug toward him. “Did you see a lot of combat?” she asked.

“A lot of combat,” he answered, directing the bottle into the baby’s mouth expertly. “Somalia, Bosnia, Afghanistan, Iraq. Twice.”

“No wonder you just want to fish.”

“Twenty years in the marines will make a fisherman out of just about anyone.”

“You seem too young to have retired.”

“I’m forty. I decided it was time to get out when I got shot in the butt.”

“Ouch. Complete recovery?” she asked, then surprised herself by feeling her cheeks grow warm.