Spurs and Lace (Lonely Lace Series Book 1) Page 12

  “Was Ronan here earlier, Slate?” Amelia lowered a glass to the counter in the kitchen, worried eyes trained immediately on him. “Is he still pushing about Mac?”

  Slate shook his head. What did he say? Ronan was after the girl Slate might be interested in? Like he was in junior high and the girl he liked wouldn’t sit by him in math class.

  Amelia chewed her lip.

  “No. Actually, I was hoping I wouldn’t have to tell you and ruin the surprise, but I was going to give you guys a horse for Mac’s birthday,” he paused to allow for her gasp, shying away from the confused excitement in her eyes, “but I got a call from Tim over at Lacey Caverns after you drove off with Becky. Mini-Pig was tangled up in their fence and they needed help getting him off the wire.” He sighed at her palpable disappointment on the air. He knew what she was thinking, that the horse had to be put down. Most animals tangled up in barb were put down because it worked like a web and didn’t let the captive go. “No, the baby didn’t need to be put down. The doctor saved him. I just stitched him up, but he’ll be down for a while.”

  A bell rang from down the hall. Slate arched his brow. “I take it Mac’s doing better.” He walked toward the room. His nephew could dispel any sour mood Slate might have.

  Amelia rolled her eyes. “He’s been ringing that bell since he woke up this afternoon. I had to come back to the house after I dropped Becky off at Ronan’s. I’d forgotten my list and found him standing by the door. Alone. He was trying to get out to the horses.” She raised the side of her mouth. “Seriously, Slate? You left him alone?”

  “I couldn’t leave that horse out there, Amelia, and he was sleeping when I peeked in on him.” Slate reached the doorway and turned to his should-be-sister-in-law. “Look, I’m sorry I left him alone, I didn’t think anything would happen.”

  “I know. I’m just on edge. Ronan said he’d get his way, no matter what it took. I’m just nervous.” Amelia winced at the next round of ringing from her rooms. “I never should have given him that thing. I’ll never get it back and he’ll never stop. I’m doomed.”

  Slate pushed the door open.

  Mac froze in place, his arms above his head, bell in one hand, and smiled. A big grin, blue eyes wide. “Hi.”

  Slate laughed and rushed his nephew, lifting him above his head. “Hey, turtlehead. You look good.”

  Squeals intermingled with the bell pealing. Amelia raised her voice above the din. “Slate, you need to calm him down. Dr. O’Donald said I have to keep him calm until his stitches come out. They can still get infected.”

  Pseudo-solemn, enough to affect the boy, but not to take the fun out of the moment – come on, what kind of an uncle would that make him? – Slate lowered Mac to the couch. “Okay, kid. You scared the hair off my legs. Now my legs are as smooth as your mom’s. Cowboys can’t have shiny legs. Do you know what you’ve done to me? I could be a cowgirl now.”

  Mac giggled. “Uncle Slate. You’re not a girl. Silly.”

  And to keep his nephew’s opinion of him untainted, Slate kept to himself the tears he’d shed over the small child. “I’m glad you’re better.”

  The boy tucked his chin and his smile straightened to a small line. “Who was the pretty girl that made the fire go away?”

  “That was the doctor. Does your tummy still hurt?” She was pretty, another thing he didn’t think Mac needed to hear. At least right then.

  “No. I’m good. Can I see Pig?” Mac’s sporadic movement jingled the bell.

  Amelia groaned. “Not right now, honey. You need to try to eat something. I was going in to town to get you some ice cream, but I had to come back.” She eyed Mac’s shirt. “You need a bath. That shirt is filthy.”

  Slate touched her shoulder, nodding at the chocolate spots rubbed into Mac’s clothes and up into his hair. “I’ll run into town and get some food. You give Big Boy here a bath. By the time you’re done, I should be back. Alright?”

  Relief eased the creases from the sides of her mouth. “Thanks. I hate going to town.”

  “I know.” And Slate hated the town’s people for making her feel like a large red A had been tattooed across her forehead. Small towns had a peculiar way of exhibiting community love and loyalty. But more than them, it was Robbie’s fault for her situation and Slate had been sworn away from hunting his brother down and bringing him back. If Slate lost the ranch, promises be damned and he’d declare it open Robbie season.

  ~~~

  The married shop owner, Sandra, leaned across the counter, cleavage marking the path she wanted all the men’s eyes to roam. A finger crooked in the air, in a half wave. “Hey, Slate.” She winked.

  Slate offered a half smile and avoided the trap she offered. Robbie had been down that road a time or two before he’d turned twenty, but her husband had been on the road more. Now, he worked the store full time and she had to entertain herself with more discretion.

  Ice cream in the back of the store, Slate passed through the aisles reaching his mid-chest. Nobody else occupied the building. He’d better hurry. Last time he’d been in the store alone with the shopkeeper’s wife, he’d nearly lost his pseudo-virtue. The woman’s hands had to be made of super glue.

  Ice cream, ice cream. When had the flavors exceeded strawberry, vanilla, and chocolate? What kind did Mac like? Chocolate chip, cookies’n’cream, neopolitan, cookie dough, brownie chunk, tin roof, and all kinds of sherbets. Ugh. Slate crossed his arms and stared into the glass case.

  “Can I help you find something, Slate? Seems a little cold out for ice cream.” Sandra purred as she rubbed against his arm.

  Slate shivered, and not in a good way. He shook his head and reached inside the freezer, grabbing whatever he touched first. “Uh, no, thank you, Sandra. Mac’s sick and I need to get back really fast.” He glanced at her unmoving shape and added, “I’m not sure what it is, but I think he’s really contagious.”

  Stepping back, Sandra fluttered her hand at her expansive flesh. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Let’s get you rung up.” Her gaze strayed to his lap and a sincere look of regret flashed across her face.

  “Uh, thank you.” Slate swallowed. Close call.

  Ice cream packaged and in hand, Slate emerged from the shop and turned up his collar. The wind had picked up, blowing drifts of snow around streetlights and doorways.

  Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the patchy clouds. The forecast had called for more snow, but not until the next night. The Colby town’s people had a few hours to get their visiting in during the respite.

  Slate hunched his shoulders toward his truck parked in front of the clinic. Yep, he’d taken the chance he might see her, thank her, but the curtains had been drawn and the closed sign hung in the door. He craned his neck to see around the cab. And froze.

  Ronan separated the curtains and tucked the panels into the hooks. He paused when his eyes found Slate’s.

  What was the jack-hole doing there? He should have dropped Becky off an hour or so ago. Maybe he’d been in the clinic this whole time. Alone. With She-Doc.

  A slow smile drew itself across R.J.’s face. Becky walked into view but further back from the window, behind the counter. She pointed to the phone and said something. Ronan arched his eyebrow and tilted his head in Slate’s direction. He left the window and approached the counter.

  Slate’s heart pounded in his chest. His breath sped up and he watched, unable to move as Ronan sauntered behind the desk and stood behind the doctor. His eyes met Slate’s and he leaned down and kissed her exposed neck.

  Heat erupted from Slate’s chest. What the hell! He tossed the ice cream in the truck bed and hurtled himself around the vehicle at the door. Even though the sign said closed, the door opened easily and Slate poured through the opening.

  “…you doing, Ronan?” Becky had backed away from Ronan and faced him, but turned to watch Slate’s entrance. At Ronan, she bit out. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but I don’t think it’s appropriate.”

  Closing the do
or, Slate jerked his chin toward the window. “You heard her, Ronan.”

  “Get out, MacAllister. This is between me and the doc. You’re not welcome here. Is he, Becky.” He stepped closer to the doctor who missed the motion with her eyes trained on Slate.

  Jealousy bubbled in Slate, green and red with a dash of bitterroot. He wasn’t certain Becky didn’t want Ronan’s advances. He wasn’t sure she wanted his. But he’d be hanged, if Ronan was going to get a chance at her when Slate hadn’t even made an attempt himself.

  The rationale coaxed his heat to a slow simmer and he released the firm fists at his sides. He breathed and nodded. Then looked from Becky to Ronan.

  Ronan stepped closer. Put his hand on Becky’s shoulder. And winked.

  And that was all it took. Slate’s simmer boiled over and he launched himself at Ronan. Becky had moved to the side, forcing Ronan’s hand to fall and placing herself just out of the way of Slate’s rush to his neighbor.

  He crashed into R.J. with a bang and both men grunted as they fell into the room.

  Chapter 19

  Becky cursed and righted herself from Slate’s momentum as he rushed by her. She pushed off the wall and followed the roiling mass of men wrestling and working themselves around the clinic’s front room.

  “I’m gonna kick your—”

  “—not if I kick yours first, you arrogant son of—oof!”

  “She doesn’t want you.”

  “Ha. She. Doesn’t. Want. You.”

  Twisting, a thud, feet meeting the ground and pushing, another thud. Becky tried to keep the men straight, but the flannel shirts, denim jeans, and jackets flopping around hid their identities.

  Her stomach hurt. They couldn’t be fighting over her. That was ludicrous. Yet their words declared something else which didn’t make sense. She hadn’t been properly asked by either one and damned if she’d go with a man who won a fight, like a damn doe or something.

  Becky tightened her lips and pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth. And blew. A shrill whistle cut across the fight. The men stilled.

  A finger jutted toward each man. She leaned forward, jaw tight. “I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I sure as hell refuse to allow fighting,” She spat the word, “in my clinic.” Felt good to say “my clinic”. “Get up. Whatever your problem is, we can work it out like humans instead of rabid dogs.”

  Slate pushed away from Ronan and glowered. Becky inventoried his features, taking in the swollen cheekbone, goose egg over his eye, split lip and lacerated knuckles. Shocked, she glanced at Ronan, certain he’d won.

  But a large cut down the center of his forehead bled with the demands of a creek and Becky gasped. “Ronan, oh my word.”A trickle of blood escaped his nose and a rug burn brightened his cheek.

  Becky stepped forward. “Okay, that’s enough. Let’s go. Into the back, I’ll fix you both up. Come on.” She moved between them and waited as they separated and stood. A hand on each arm, she led them to the back triage area set with multiple exam tables for light superficial needs.

  “Take a bed, gentlemen. I’ll grab the supply table.” On wheels, the three-shelved table had everything she needed for emergent patients, excluding a radiology unit, but she had one of those in the next office. The left rear tire squeaked, jerking back and forth as she pushed the table forward.

  Ronan’s injuries appeared worse than Slate’s. Add Becky’s confusion over what happened to the mix and she focused on the former and worked to control her awareness of the latter.

  She wasn’t drunk. Her embarrassment about the night before held her at bay for a moment from Slate. Plus, no small amount of impressed awe filled her over how he’d handled the horse’s injuries. He’d been so calm. Even with Ronan tossing attitude left and right and nearly killing the foal, Slate had kept his cool. Impressive.

  On adjacent tables, the men sat on opposite ends, backs facing each other. But Slate faced a mirror and Becky glanced his way as she made her way to Ronan. Slate’s jaw clenched and his shoulders stiffened.

  “Couldn’t stay away, huh, Becky?” Ronan barely moved his lips, but the volume carried to Slate. Blood trickled over his blond eyebrow to cover his closed eyelid.

  Becky smacked Ronan’s wrist with her fingertips. “Enough. I’m coming to you because you had your ass handed to you. That’s it.” Slate scoffed and Becky called to him. “Really? Look in the mirror, doll, you don’t look much better. Less blood, but that’s about it.”

  Yanking on gloves, Becky cleaned Ronan’s wounds and stitched up where it was needed. She anesthetized, bandaged, and wrapped as well. Fifteen minutes later, she snapped her gloves off and tossed them onto the pile of dirty gauze and used suture material. “Okay, you’re done. Have Tim check that out in the morning for redness or swelling. I’ll call and see if there’s a need for me to do a physical exam.”

  He broke his silence and curled his lips which hadn’t been damaged in the fight. “I’d be happy to have you give me a physical, Doc. We could do it after dinner.”

  Becky thrust her hand on her hip and huffed. “You’re done. I’ll call you.” She rounded the corner pulling the tray behind her.

  Ronan slid from his table. “Looking forward to it.” He replaced his hat and tilted the brim her direction. “Ma’am.” He looked toward Slate and his eyes hardened. “MacAllister.”

  “James.” Slate growled, his glare ricocheting off the mirror.

  The door shut behind Ronan. Becky blew out air she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. A few more steps to Slate. Two. The tire squeaked in the utter silence between them.

  Becky busied herself setting up the sterile tray. He wouldn’t need stitches until after she’d cut into his hematoma and relieved the collection of blood under his skin. She faced him and found his eyes on her. Steady.

  The swelling hadn’t gone down in the time it’d taken her to fix up Ronan. In fact, a few new wounds seemed to have popped out of nowhere. His soft lower lip had a split down the side. She wanted to reach up with her finger and touch his chin, offering comfort instead of medical attention. “You look like hell.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Huh. Tender words for me but not for Ronan?” Slate sneered the name.

  Heat flooded Becky’s cheeks. She tore open the glove packet and yanked on the contents. “I don’t care what’s going on between the two of you. I understand it’s all big and dramatic but I have enough of that in my own life. I don’t need it from you.”

  In righteous anger, Becky held her smile when Slate hissed at the iodine swab she applied to his knuckles. Close attention to his face would need to wait until she could collect enough self-control. The man was infuriating but the memory of his lips on hers was still too fresh.

  He spoke with a taunting tone but the volume suggested more intimacy. “Are you still mad that I didn’t take you up on your proposition?”

  Becky jerked back. “I – uh – no, I wasn’t thinking that at all.” But of course, he would think it was all about him and his unattainable sex. Alcohol and hydrogen peroxide bottles sat on the table. She poured each into a dish, right one to disinfect the tools and the left to disinfect his skin. She gripped a wad of gauze pads in a clamp. “I don’t think about you every second of every day, you know.”

  “You do when I’m sitting right in front of you.” The smile in Slate’s voice mocked Becky.

  She dunked the gauze into the dish on the right and shook the excess liquid into the bowl. “Actually, I was considering Ronan’s offer.” Tilting her head, she smiled past his shoulder – the brat was taller than her even sitting on the table. She lifted the gauze and moved toward his lip. “But then again, you probably think that’s all about you, too, right?”

  The uninjured side of his mouth lifted. “You and I both know it is.”

  Becky pressed the gauze to his mouth.

  Slate jumped, slapped her hand from his skin and yelled. “What the hell was that? Sonuva – are you trying to cauterize me chemically?”


  “What? Peroxide? That doesn’t hurt. You are a serious baby.”

  “My ass that’s peroxide. It reeks of alcohol.” Slate narrowed his eyes, his lips pressed together.

  Lips parted, Becky lifted the gauze to her nose. And winced. Laying the gauze down, she grabbed a damp towellette. “Oh, Slate, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to douse it with alcohol. Shoot. Are you okay?” She touched the cloth to his cut and murmured. “It’s just sterile water. Rinse out the alcohol.”

  He lowered his hand but watched her, closing his eyes when she reached his forehead.

  Guilt ate at Becky. He hadn’t deserved that. Her only defense, and one she refused to vocalize, involved his distracting presence.

  The angle of the cut on his brow forced Becky to lean closer. Blood had dripped behind his ear and back into his hairline. Her stomach twisted and her breath hitched. But not because of the blood. He smelled delicious with a touch of sweat on top of his clean hay and masculine aroma. She shifted her feet, inadvertently moving even closer. Crap.

  She lowered her voice and allowed her anger to lapse. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m mad.”

  Slate laughed, opening his eyes. He reached up and gripped her wrist, diminishing her hand in his elegant, large fingers. “So, now that you hurt me, you’re sorry?”

  He had her pegged. She grinned. “Well, I felt bad for you, but now I don’t. I need to stitch you up.”

  “I don’t think so. You’re trying to kill me. I’ll take it from here.” His blue eyes had flecks of turquoise. His eyes focused on her lips. “Too bad my lip has been burned. I’d consider taking you up on your proposition.”

  Dang, if she wouldn’t consider it, too. But she’d offered and he turned her down. That wasn’t going to happen again. And at that point, how much would be interest and how much would be his need to protect Amelia and Mac?

  The mood fell to the floor like a rock. Becky pulled back and pretended to be engrossed in the suture material. “Okay, then here’s the gauze and the sterile bandages. A mirror over there in case you need it. I have to make some chart notes and I’ll bring you a waiver to sign that you refused medical attention.” Her stomach ache moved up to encompass her chest. Maybe she’d die of a heart attack before embarrassment took her down.