Spurs and Lace (Lonely Lace Series Book 1) Page 2

  His heavy boots clomped behind her. The tingles were a little hard to ignore.

  Where had she seen his face before?

  Chapter 2

  Two vehicles huddled together in the parking lot, snow drifted behind tires.

  Slate slammed his hat on his head and rubbed his wrists. He didn’t remember how he’d gotten inside the office, but the uppity She-Doc chafed him the wrong way and he didn’t want to believe that she’d dragged him in there herself.

  It didn’t matter.

  He needed a doctor and she was willing to come with him. He honestly didn’t know if the roads were completely impassable or not – his truck had some kind of battery or electrical issue and he hadn’t wanted to mess with it. Pig was guaranteed to be efficient and safe.

  If she crashed the car, they’d come back and get Pig. If she was going to crash, it’d happen quick since the first turnout had slick written all over it.

  Slate’s desperation to have her help surpassed his desire to throw her over the saddle and head out without her permission. Plus, to be honest, something about her raised his hackles and he wanted her on the horse so he could maintain some semblance of control. Control. The situation he found himself in had zero control up for grabs.

  Hopefully, the little guy at home was alright.

  Slate waded through the piling snow, coming to a stop beside a small Honda. Smirking as the good doctor high-stepped behind him, he shot a wistful glance at the other vehicle. A large Dodge Ram truck – one that would most likely crawl up the side of an iceberg and back down without needing to put on the brakes – made it difficult to return his gaze back to where the doctor had been. Wait, where’d she go?

  A light blinked on in the cab of the masculine rig. Slate snapped his eyebrows together. Her clipped tones and stiff posture suggested an uptight city girl. Slate had never met one who drove a vehicle the size of a tow truck. Did she actually drive it? Or were her handling skills strictly town driving?

  He muffled a laugh. Wow, he sounded like a sexist jerk. Not a normal reaction to a hot woman trying to undress him. If he’d had the time, he would’ve shown her exactly what hid underneath all his clothes.

  Climbing into the passenger seat, Slate pointed at the steering wheel. “Do you want me to drive?” He arched his eyebrow, unsure if he teased or not.

  Auburn hair, dark with wet snow, bobbed at her shoulders as she shook her head. “I’m good, thanks.”

  An Oh-Shit bar beckoned after he engaged his seatbelt. The truck deserved more than to be owned by a city girl who wouldn’t use it for what it’d been built for. Slate almost felt sorry for the poor Ram. The roads would be icy and she didn’t look like her arms were strong enough to steer the beautiful machine.

  The engine roared to life. She-Doc shifted, spun the wheel, pumped the levers, and pulled the truck out of its spot onto the disappearing road better than a stunt driver – drifting and all.

  Okay, so she made it out of the parking lot. He’d give her credit. The test would be when they got to Lacey Caverns’s first hill.

  A small watch face glinted from under the cuff of her classy wool coat. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a woman’s watch. Time seemed to stand still in the quiet world he’d been raised, where people didn’t worry about scheduled minutes or deadlines but rather followed the seasonal needs and demands of the animals and resources.

  Her green eyes had startled him when he’d awoken on the floor. He’d lost his composure and snapped at her. Slate cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I’ve been so rude. I’m not normally so blunt.” Worry over Mac took precedence. He had the feeling the doctor could handle herself. Like the truck.

  “It’s okay. I haven’t been as gracious as I would like either.” She spun the wheel and pushed at the brakes. The truck didn’t buck when she roared into the turn.

  “That’s the deadliest curve in all of Montana. Some say it even has ice on a hot summer day.” Impressed she hadn’t even slid on the notorious up-swing, Slate relaxed into the leather seat.

  The pixie chuckled, disarming Slate. He couldn’t remember what she’d done to annoy him, but the root of his angst dissolved under the mutual attempt at congeniality. Did she feel the spark that singed his skin where she’d touched him? Or could it be aftereffects of the cold – like nerve damage from the ice?

  Her tinkling laugh made him smile, a miracle considering the circumstances. The urgency of the moment seemed surreal in the warmth of the truck, next to the doctor.

  “Well, don’t be too impressed. Montana has nothing on Seattle and its Cali drivers.” She offered a pointed glance. “Calis as in Californians.”

  Slate arched his eyebrow. “I know what Cali means.” The thwap of the windshield wipers punctuated his words. Annoying how he jumped from wanting to laugh with her to glowering at her in disbelief.

  She-Doc shifted in her seat. “Right.” Discomfort filled the air. She glanced between the mirrors before breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Anyway, you need to know what you’re doing in a vehicle to get from point A to point B while maneuvering between three Lexuses, a limo, and most likely a Humvee, all driving at ridiculous speeds on Snoqualmie Pass.”

  He tugged on the shoulder strap of the seat belt. “Are you from Seattle?”

  She shook her head, hair flipping under her chin. “No, just medical school in Seattle. I grew up in Spokane.”

  So she was a city girl. He didn’t feel so bad about the generalization, especially since she seemed to think he was some stupid hick.

  Roaring, the Ram climbed the hill, pushing through feet of piled snow that flew around them like cotton candy.

  Trees climbed into the dark, swollen sky framing the road. Snow fell, white flakes diminishing vision further than twenty feet in front of them. Snow banks protected the forest.

  Silence fell again.

  The shoulder disappeared under the white blanket.

  The wheels left the road for a ditch.

  Unfazed, She-Doc engaged four-wheel drive with the push of a button and effortlessly recovered the pavement. Headlights bounced in line with the truck, illuminating large nickel-sized snowflakes flying through the air. “Can you tell me about the patient?”

  Mac. “He’s about three years old or so. His pain has been mounting. Fevers. Crying. It hasn’t been getting better. We tried acetaminophen and ibuprofen, but they haven’t made a dent in his temperature – or the pain.” Slate shook his head and swallowed. Damn kid meant more to him than he wanted to acknowledge.

  “Okay, I’ll do an exam when we get there. Fevers can be a tricky thing.” She focused on the driving wind and snow attacking the windshield.

  He shot a look at the driver. Her profile could have been stone for all the emotion she displayed, like on the tired side of bored. Slate had a mare that looked like that a while back. Once he’d bred her with Pig the look hadn’t returned.

  Her green eyes glanced his way. “Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s nothing serious. I’m pretty good at what I do.”

  “You remind me of a horse I own.” Slate had no reason to lie, plus what woman didn’t want to be likened to a beautiful animal?

  She spluttered. “I… what? You didn’t seriously just call me a horse, right?” The reassuring slant of her shoulders toward him disappeared. She arched against the seat and tucked her chin.

  “What’s the problem? I didn’t say you look like one. You look tired. And bored.” Slate sat up. How could she possibly have taken his comment the wrong way? He’d always been the talker. He should’ve kept his mouth shut like his little brother would’ve done. Damn, nothing was going the way he pictured.

  “Tired and bored? Sir, you don’t know me well enough to say such things. And if you did know me?” She clenched her jaw. “You wouldn’t say them.”

  He didn’t quite know how his words had become twisted, but he’d irritated the She-Doc. Disgusted with himself and the situation, Slate turned his attention to the fighting storm outside h
is window. He could keep his mouth shut.

  What did he care what she thought anyway? Get her to help Mac and then let her get home. He didn’t go into town enough to worry about seeing her or to care if she ground her teeth at his compliments.

  What’d she want, a man to liken her auburn hair to a sorrel mare’s? That wasn’t going to happen. Well, it might, but not from him – out loud.

  Dang it, now that he thought about it, her hair was thick and russet enough to match Sissy’s coat.

  Slate tightened his lips. If hearing that she reminded him of his favorite mare angered her, imagine what she’d think if he told her she had the same coloring as another in Pig’s harem. Slate adjusted himself in the leather seat. For Mac’s sake, Slate would keep his mouth shut.

  Out of nowhere, the wrought iron ripples reining above Lonely River’s drive glowed through the white sea. “This is me.” His brother had suggested placing the lights to work like a gathering of small lighthouses. It wasn’t the first time the beacons had saved someone’s life in the middle of a blizzard.

  Small solar-powered lanterns hung from trees lining the heated driveway. The Ram’s studs clicked on the wet blacktop.

  She-Doc broke the silence. “Why isn’t the snow sticking to the drive?”

  “Radiant heating. My brother’s idea for guests. Long pipes run under the blacktop and hot water runs through them. The house and garage are heated the same way.” He refused to look at her, certain she expressed disbelief at the seemingly indulgent extravagance. Slate had never understood the concept of heating the outdoors, but in the beginning he and his brother had been partners in the guest ranch and outfitter setup. Slate had acquiesced on the little things, grateful they worked together at all. Any second with Robbie was a second he could feel whole.

  “Guests? You have a dude ranch or something like that, right?” She formed a polite smile around the formalities, the little talk, between people who didn’t really care.

  He tapped his finger on the arm rest of the door, suddenly anxious to get away from her. Dude ranch, the term annoyed him more coming from her, like a belittled idea.

  Slate pointed toward the belled out parking area close to the double entryway. She rolled to a stop under the port a cache and leaned forward in her seat. Her jacket separated when she pressed against the steering wheel. Her breasts enhanced under her taut shirt. A half-awed sigh escaped from her pouty lips.

  “Ready? Mac’s in the kitchen.” Slate opened the door, erasing the warmth of the cab and the heat of his thoughts with the introduction of one blustery gust. He jumped from his seat.

  She-Doc slid from hers and leaned the chair forward. A soft grunt reached him.

  “You okay over there?” He closed the passenger door and rounded the hood. Had it been his truck, he would have opened her door.

  She struggled with the straps of a large messenger bag. Black leather spanned across her waist and obliterated her slim hips. Why the hell was he noticing her breasts so much? They weren’t large by any standard and he’d always assumed he was a breast guy. But the modest round size morphed his mouth into a desert.

  He reached forward. “Here, let me.”

  But she jerked back, a death grip whitening her knuckles. “I’m fine. Thank you. Lead the way.”

  Radiant heating be damned, her eyes could spark a fire. Was that anger or desire? Slate turned away. Of course it had to be anger. He’d been watching too many Lifetime movies with Amelia.

  He pointed at the house. “This way.” He’d insulted her left and right. Plus, he’d just ogled her on his driveway. She probably thought he wanted to swallow her whole.

  Brick steps framed by log columns led the way to the large wraparound deck. Slate refused to look her way. He didn’t care if she could keep up. Oh, wait. Mac. Of course, Slate cared. He had to care. His whole world was wrapped up in that little boy.

  Infuriating how the silence between them spoke more than words. Insults slung like crossbows in the air thick with awareness. They orbited around each other, careful not to touch as they crossed the threshold, but never more than a few feet away. He knew she was there even if he couldn’t hear her or smell the strawberry vanilla of her shampoo. He knew. His body knew. Damn body.

  Over the landing and across the catwalk overlooking the spacious game room, Slate led the She-Doc. Urgency grew with every step. And grew. Until he was almost running on the hardwood floor.

  The baby wasn’t crying anymore. When Slate had left, Mac had screamed and cried for almost seventeen hours. And now he was quiet? Slate hadn’t been gone more than an hour or two. How much worse could Mac have gotten?

  Chapter 3

  The luxurious log rancher-style home knocked her on her butt. Did she have a Beverly Hillbilly man in her truck? He didn’t seem affected by the warm lights highlighting the intricate dry rock bricking the entryway, the warm glow of wood, or the bronze statues on either side of the foyer depicting elk and stallions. He ignored the glass river streaming above their heads filled with chiseled fish captured in varying poses of life.

  Becky was worried about this “Mac” as well, but come on – how many chances would she get in her life to see a castle in the mountains where civilization didn’t exist. Couldn’t exist. And just how sick could the little boy be? A fever, they most likely needed to give him some cool compresses and remove all the blankets and fleece pajamas. Moms liked to over-snuggle their kids.

  She stumbled over her own feet and cursed under her breath. She needed more sleep.

  Slate had come to a stop on the edge of a kitchen. Becky halted before she plowed into his immovable mass. Like a dressed statue that belonged somewhere else in the house.

  Edging around what had to be six-foot-five of masculine irritability, Becky tossed her own sass in the squint of her eyes and arch of her brow over her shoulder. He didn’t look her way, stared, instead, in the direction of a nook the size of her entire apartment over the Roylance barn.

  PA Tim had better not be at a place this exquisite. She’d be pissed.

  Heavy breathing cut through her distraction. Labored.

  Becky forgot about her attraction to Slate and everything that had nothing to do with being a doctor. The professionalism she’d struggled with on the way there and while dealing with the man who’d fetched her snapped into place.

  “That’s not good.” She rounded the Kauai-sized island counter and pulled her bag from her shoulder. The backbreaking weight almost doubled her over, but the sight of the red faced, exhausted little boy rushed adrenaline through her.

  The little angel rested on a couch past the kitchen in an informal sitting area.

  He was the reason she’d been brought. And it really did appear to be life or death.

  Becky’s heart broke for him. His splotchy cheeks and swollen lids suggested he’d lost a fight with tears and screams. His dark black hair contrasted sharply with the burnished gold strands of the woman kneeling beside his resting form. If what he was doing could be called resting. Each breath rasped and moaned. Becky didn’t need a stethoscope to hear the damage he’d caused to his throat.

  She met the anguished look in the mother’s brown eyes.

  The child seemed so small.

  Becky knelt beside the fragile woman and replaced the mother’s hand on the top of the boy’s – Mac’s – head, out of the way of Becky’s examination but still in contact. Moms who touched their ailing children made administering medicine a thousand-and-one times easier for physicians, somehow kept the children calm – and the moms.

  Even though she didn’t need the hearing device for his breathing, Becky withdrew the black cord and breathed onto the chilly round piece. In low tones directed at Mom, Becky asked, “How long has he been like this?”

  “Sleeping about an hour. His fevers have been getting higher and higher over the last two days.” Her voice shook, matching the tremor in her fingers while she stroked the side of his cheek.

  Pressing the stethoscope to his chest,
Becky listened, a finger in the air to hold the silence. She hadn’t been a doctor long, but she’d been top of her class at University of Washington Medical School and her surgery residency had garnered job offer after job offer. She didn’t have the experience of Dr. Roylance but she had a feel for medicine.

  She pulled her hand from the front of the child’s chest and sat back. “I need to hear everything he’s been doing. What’s the highest fever he’s had?” She lifted the flap on her bag and slipped the thermometer from a front pocket.

  “The highest was just after he fell asleep, 105.6. He throws up the ibuprofen and Tylenol we keep trying to give him.” Amelia sniffed.

  The forehead thermometer glided across his toddler skin. Beeped. 106.0. High enough for Becky. Over her shoulder, she called to Slate. “I need a bucket of ice, three washcloths, and a cup of water.” He’d do it. Somehow she recognized it as fact. She turned back to the mother. “Okay, we’re looking at 106 right now. That’s too high. Has he been saying anything hurts? Aches? Has he given you any indication of what might be wrong?”

  Amelia’s tears started anew. She motioned with her hands in jerky gestures toward her body. “At first his tummy hurt and then the last six or seven hours have been spent with him screaming and he’s held his hand here.” She pointed to the lower right quadrant of the abdomen.

  Slate returned and tucked the items on the couch at Mac’s feet.

  Offhand, Becky nodded her thanks. She fought the urge to close her eyes and swallowed instead. High fever and searing pain worsening at an accelerated rate in the right lower quadrant. She lifted his small shirt. His distended belly and half-fetal position slammed the possibility of appendicitis to the forefront of Becky’s mind. But she had to be sure.

  To herself, she mumbled, “I’d give anything for an ultrasound machine, right now.”

  “Ultrasound? I have a portable machine on-hand in case of ranch emergencies.” Slate interrupted her thoughts, his eyes earnest.