Читать онлайн книгу «At Odds With The Midwife» автора Patricia Forsythe

At Odds With The Midwife
Patricia Forsythe
From high school crush to enemy number oneGemma has always been a rescuer. Birds with broken wings, abandoned baby raccoons, anything that needs help. But when it comes to her lifelong crush, doctor Nathan Smith, she has to curb her natural instincts. All of them. Nathan doesn’t trust midwives, and he doesn’t want her help.Back in town to restore the community hospital his father bankrupted, Nathan's just as determined to shut down the birthing center. How can Gemma Whitmire save her center and prove Nathan—and the other critics—wrong? And more importantly, how can she stop falling for him?


From high school crush to enemy number one
Gemma has always been a rescuer. Birds with broken wings, abandoned baby raccoons...anything that needs help. But when it comes to her lifelong crush, doctor Nathan Smith, she has to curb her natural instincts. All of them. Nathan doesn’t trust midwives, and he doesn’t want her help.
Back in town to restore the community hospital his father bankrupted, Nathan’s just as determined to shut down the birthing center. How can Gemma Whitmire save her center and prove Nathan—and the other critics—wrong? And more important, how can she stop falling for him?
“You’re a midwife.”
Gemma stared at him, at his sudden stiffness, the way his brown eyes had narrowed. Alarm bells clanged in her head, but she spoke calmly. “Yes, I am.”
“And you’re planning to open a birthing center?”
“Yes, in your father’s old offices next to the hospital.” She lifted her chin, held his gaze. There had been a time when she would have backed down, apologized, tried to explain her position. Those days were gone. “Exactly as you plan to establish a family practice and reopen the hospital.”
“Not exactly.”
“Both facilities are for people’s health.”
“No, the hospital cures people and keeps them well—”
“Fortunately, giving birth isn’t an illness.”
Their eyes met—hers defiant, his resolute. Gemma’s heart sank as she imagined the swirl of objections that were about to come at her. She’d heard them all before, fought them all before.
Somehow, it was disappointing to know she was about to hear them from Nathan.
Dear Reader (#u746e4187-45ae-54f9-a6b6-9912bde79c1f),
Although I was born and raised in an Arizona copper-mining town, both of my parents were from Oklahoma, where I still have many relatives. Visits to rural southeastern Oklahoma fill me with happiness and nostalgia as I recall summers there—swimming in the creeks, exploring with my cousins or lying on the bed on the screened-in porch listening to bobwhite quail whistling in the underbrush. Although the area has never really been my home, it feels like home because of all the loved ones I have there.
Gemma Whitmire has returned to her hometown of Reston, Oklahoma, to work as a midwife and to open a birthing center. At the same time, Dr. Nathan Smith, who has no use for midwives, has come home, too, with plans to reopen the local hospital that was forced to close due to his father’s embezzlement. He also hopes to make peace with his troubled family history.
I hope you enjoy Nathan and Gemma’s journey to overcome their differences and find their happy-ever-after.
Happy reading,
Patricia
At Odds with the Midwife
Patricia Forsythe


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
PATRICIA FORSYTHE probably would never have become a writer if a seventh-grade teacher hadn’t said that Patricia’s story characters were, well, crazy. Patricia didn’t think that was such a bad thing. After all, she has a large extended family of decidedly interesting and unusual people who provide ideas and inspiration for her books. In Patricia’s opinion, that only makes them more lovable and worthy of a place in literature.
A native Arizonan, Patricia has no concept of what a real winter is like, but she is very familiar with summer. She has held a number of jobs, including teaching school, working as a librarian and as a secretary, and operating a care home for developmentally disabled children. Her favorite occupation, though, is writing novels in which the characters get into challenging situations and then work their way out. Each situation and set of characters is different, so sometimes the finished book is as much of a surprise to her as it is to the readers. She is the author of many romance novels with many more to come.
This book is dedicated to my beloved little sister, Betty Forsythe. Even though she never had an easy life, she brought endless joy to everyone else’s.
Contents
Cover (#u51e91755-951e-5cb0-ab0e-3154bcefcb56)
Back Cover Text (#ub4893545-5c8e-54a6-b183-47b6c0669cd5)
Introduction (#uf2470f9d-582d-5e12-a330-406b8156ecb4)
Dear Reader (#u2797a682-7676-5e14-8809-dc870cbbfcad)
Title Page (#u9007ddf7-95d0-5cbe-aadd-e89ce75c9d89)
About the Author (#ua696fb38-0937-55b4-ad98-19beb09e22ae)
Dedication (#ufe0e5455-d78f-5404-908d-fdf2c299d4b7)
CHAPTER ONE (#u67cb40c5-4ba6-5e0e-addc-a0d8f5d35935)
CHAPTER TWO (#uf6ed6784-043e-5ff0-8f9c-7f4ff6f795f2)
CHAPTER THREE (#u84457cd6-f91f-545a-969f-9ace914575dd)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ua90cef1c-c480-5403-8984-83b626cf3f9b)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u746e4187-45ae-54f9-a6b6-9912bde79c1f)
FEET SLAPPING THE PAVEMENT—right, left, right, left—Nathan Smith pounded down High Street, turned west onto Main Street and took the hill that led out of town. He hadn’t been this way yet on his thrice-weekly runs, but there had been a time, when he was eighteen, that he couldn’t seem to take this hill fast enough. Driving the new SUV his dad had bought him for graduating as valedictorian, he’d gunned the engine, eager to leave Reston behind. Waiting for his university classes to start in the fall hadn’t even been an option. He’d enrolled in some summer courses so he’d have an excuse to leave days after graduation. He’d sped down Main Street until it became Highway 6 and, since then, had kept his subsequent visits home both rare and short.
He couldn’t quite believe he was back. His return to Reston had been challenging, not to mention exhausting. There were times he questioned why he’d come back, but he knew the answer. Guilt was at the top of the list, followed closely by its companion, shame.
He forced his mind to veer away from that. Even though it was the truth, if he focused on it for too long, he would never move ahead. In the project he’d started it was critical to keep going forward. There were more problems than solutions, many issues he didn’t yet know how to solve. Somehow, his nighttime runs on the quiet streets helped him see his way forward. Something about the rhythm of his feet, the focus on his breathing as he ran through the cool spring evenings, helped him make sense of the daily complications of his life and the Herculean task he’d taken on.
The full moon lit his way as he ran along the pavement, then he swerved to the edge when a car came by. He waved, not because he knew the driver, but because it was expected in this rural pocket of the world. Some bred-in-the-bone habits never died.
Half a mile out of town, he crossed the bridge over the Kinnick River and slowed to a walk as he caught his breath. He’d given up his running schedule when he’d sprained his ankle a few months ago and now, when it started to ache, he knew it was time to slow down or take a break.
As he fast walked past the old Kinnick Campground, he glanced to the left and saw a light. Pausing, Nathan stood, panting lightly and using the tail of his white T-shirt to wipe away sweat as he gazed into the darkness. The camp was deserted. The Whitmires, who had owned it during his growing-up years, had left town. He’d heard they’d come in to some money. The camp, with its private, well-stocked lake, where they had once hosted hikers, birders and fishermen, had been abandoned for the past fifteen years, though he was sure the local citizenry fished the lake as if it was public property.
Nate frowned at the overgrown bar ditches on each side of the road. He wasn’t sure he’d take the chance of fishing in the small lake. Weeds that had been beaten back for decades while the Whitmires were in residence had eagerly taken over the property, providing hiding places for field mice, bobwhite quail and the snakes that fed on them.
Whoever was at the campground now wasn’t of the four-legged variety, though.
“Squatters,” he murmured. He knew they camped out anyplace they could find, usually tucked back in these mountains, where they could grow marijuana, operate stills or cook meth. If that’s what these squatters were up to, he couldn’t imagine why they’d want to be this close to the highway. Of course, it was entirely possible that they were either crazy or desperate. He reached for his cell phone to call the police, but quickly realized the signal, always spotty in this area, was nonexistent tonight. He was going to have to find a better cell-phone service. It was critical for people to be able to get in touch with him.
Annoyed, he started to run again, but had taken only a few steps when he cursed under his breath and turned down the rutted lane instead. He couldn’t walk away from this situation—another lifelong Reston habit. Approaching slowly, he glanced around. In the glow from the full moon, he could see that someone had been working on this place. He stopped and sniffed the air. Fresh paint. That wasn’t something squatters would do, so maybe new owners had taken residence. That conclusion didn’t turn him around, though, but drew him forward.
He’d always thought there was something about the smell of fresh paint that promised a new beginning, a positive change. Change was something desperately needed in this town.
The Whitmires had lived in a small century-old log cabin that Ben Whitmire—who’d renamed himself Wolfchild—had updated and renovated by hand. Nate had never been inside, but his mother had described it as “primitive.” He also remembered an old tale about the place being haunted but didn’t know what form that haunting took.
Someone had cleared the weeds and brush that had no doubt grown up around the door and piled it into a massive stack for burning, or maybe to be picked up by the county and turned into mulch. Abandoned tires had been repurposed into planters with some kind of spiky plants growing in them. He applauded the use of the tires. It was better than having them end up in the landfill.
“Home improvement squatters?” he questioned, even though he was quickly talking himself out of the idea that unauthorized people were on the property. He followed the path around the cabin to the back, where the light was coming from. When he turned the corner, he could hear music that sounded like some kind of wind instrument caught in an endless loop. It was as though the same few bars were playing over and over, with an occasional flat note thrown in for variety.
Wincing at the repetitive sound, he glanced around to see a floor lamp set up outside the back door with the cord snaking inside. It cast a soft glow on the surroundings—and on what looked like a woman digging a grave.
The sight rocked him to a stop, and although she hadn’t seen him, Nate stepped behind a blossoming crape myrtle to see what she was doing.
A large, rectangular patch of sod had been turned over and she was busily breaking up the chunks of dirt, smashing into them with the side of the shovel blade. Too shallow for a grave. He shook his head at his own morbid thoughts.
As she worked, she sang words he couldn’t understand. They were out of rhythm with the music he could now see was coming from a tablet computer set up at the base of the lamp.
The woman had curly red hair that flowed down her back and lifted when a breeze happened by. She wore cutoff jeans with black rain boots and a yellow tank top that revealed toned arms, streaked with dirt.
He needed to let her know he was there, but he was enjoying the sight of her working.
Turning around and leaving before she saw him was certainly an option, but now that he was here, he wanted to find out what was going on and, more importantly, who she was.
“Hello,” he called out.
She didn’t respond.
“Excuse me. Hello.” He took a few steps forward, but she still didn’t answer. Now he could see potted plants lined up, ready to go into the ground. She was planting something. At night.
Thinking that she might be hard of hearing, Nate stepped forward, reaching out a hand to wave at the moment she tossed the shovel aside and bent to pick up one of the potted plants lined up at her feet.
The woman turned her head, saw a hand coming at her and exploded.
Grabbing his arm, she stepped forward to throw him off balance. Then she swept out her foot to knock his feet out from under him.
Nate landed on his left side with a whoosh of breath. His hand slammed down on the sharp edge of the shovel blade, shooting pain up his arm.
The girl grabbed the shovel away from him with one hand and jerked earbuds from her ears with the other. She let them fall and they dangled from the MP3 player attached to her waistband as she moved back several feet and held the shovel out in front of her like a weapon.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you want?”
“I—I saw...” Nate stopped to catch his breath.
“You saw what? A woman alone who might like some company?” She tossed her head to get her hair out of her face and moved from one foot to the other, ready to do more damage. “Well, you guessed wrong, buddy. As you can see, even though I’m alone here, I can defend myself just fine.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” He rolled onto his side to sit up, but when he placed his cut hand on the ground, pain raced up his arm. Breath hissed between his teeth as he fell back.
“What’s wrong?’ she asked, finally seeming to realize he was hurt. “Do you need help? I can help you if you don’t try anything funny.”
“I can take care of it myself,” he answered testily. “As long as you don’t knock me down again.”
Dropping the shovel, but making sure it was within reach, she came down onto her knees beside him. She slid her arm under his shoulders and helped him into a sitting position.
Nate held up his hand and tilted it toward the pale glow from the lamp.
“Oh, that’s a pretty bad cut,” she said. “You must have hit it on the edge of the shovel.”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“And you’ve managed to grind dirt into it.”
He couldn’t see her face clearly since the light was behind her, but Nate imagined she was giving him an accusing look.
“Yeah, well, that sometimes happens when a crazy woman throws me to the ground.”
“Crazy? I was defending myself!”
“I was only trying to get your attention.”
“Why? So you could scare me to death?” She got to her feet and stepped back to watch him stand up, too.
“I saw the light and thought someone was up to no good.”
“Yes, someone was. You!”
Nate tried to smother his temper. “I thought someone was trespassing.”
“Again. You! This is private property. My property.”
He paused, staring at her, then walked around her so that she would have to turn to keep an eye on him. When the light hit her face, he recognized her. The red hair—though he didn’t remember it being quite this red—almond-shaped green eyes, the heart-shaped face.
“Bijou?” he asked.
“Do I know you?” She frowned at him.
“Nathan Smith,” he said.
Surprise flared in her eyes, followed by a fleeting emotion he couldn’t name. Embarrassment? Dismay? She lowered her eyes so he couldn’t read her expression.
When she didn’t say anything else, he went on, “I thought your parents had sold this place.”
“No. It’s always stayed in the family.” She gave a small shrug. “Obviously, no one kept it up.”
He glanced around. “This is a lot of work. What are you doing back here, Bijou?”
“I could ask the same of you, Nathan, and the name’s Gemma now. I changed my name the minute I turned eighteen.”
“What did your parents, Wolfchild and, um, Sunshine, think of that?”
She reached up and pushed her hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ears. “They realized that I was old enough to make my own decisions and they apologized for having given me a name that wasn’t cosmically suited to my personality.”
Nate hid a smile as he flexed his shoulders. He’d forgotten that her parents talked like that. They had been well-meaning oddballs in this community, but they hadn’t minded being out of step with everyone else in town. He hadn’t thought their daughter was very much like them, seeming to be more conventional—focused on school, friends and small-town life.
“Bijou is French for Jewel,” he pointed out, his gaze touching on those bright green eyes and richly colored hair.
“I know.”
Lifting his uninjured hand, he rubbed his left arm. He was going to be sore and bruised in the morning. “I’m guessing you chose Gemma since Wonder Woman was taken.”
One corner of her mouth tilted up as she lifted her eyebrows at him. He remembered that expression from years ago.
He held up his mangled hand. “Is there somewhere I can wash and bandage this before I head home?”
“Come inside. I’ll bandage it for you.”
“I’m a doctor. I can do my own bandaging.”
“I know that, and I’m a registered nurse, so I’ll do the bandaging. It’s my house and they’re my bandages.” Gemma paused to pick up the tablet and shut off the music.
Nate decided not to pursue the who-will-do-the-bandaging? argument. From what he’d seen so far, he would lose, anyway.
“That was...interesting music,” he ventured. “But you weren’t listening to it?” He didn’t have a very active imagination and didn’t know why she would listen to one kind of music to block out another.
“It’s Tibetan music. Frankly, I can’t stand it because it reminds me of the time my dad insisted we all needed to learn to play the zither.” She shook her head, a small smile on her lips. “Carly is absolutely convinced it’ll help the plants grow.”
He frowned. “Carly? Oh, yes, Joslin.” He vaguely remembered the two of them had been best friends, along with Lisa Thomas. Glancing around at her family’s property, he realized she had done what he couldn’t—kept her ties to their hometown.
“Come on,” she said briskly. “Let me look at that hand. It’s rude to keep the nurse waiting.”
Giving her a thoughtful look, he followed her inside. A nurse. In spite of her prickliness, this sounded promising.
“Don’t touch the door or the facings,” she said, pointing to what he could now see was a bright blue, glistening with newness. “I just painted them.”
“I know. I smelled the paint.”
While she scrubbed her hands at the sink, then bustled about, setting out a basin, a clean towel, disinfectant and bandages, Nate looked around the cozy cabin.
The living room held a dark blue sofa and chair with a huge, multicolored rug in the middle of the floor. A rock fireplace, probably original to the house, dominated one wall. A few sealed boxes were piled one atop the other along a wall, and a stack of paintings and photographs waited to be hung. A doorway opened onto a hallway, where he assumed the bedrooms and bathroom were.
The place was warm and inviting, not at all the den of hippie craziness his mother had claimed it to be. Also, it was rustic, but not primitive. Thinking about it now, he wondered why she had chosen that word.
“Come over to the sink,” Gemma commanded and he did as he was told, standing with his hand under warm running water. He was very aware of her gently clasping his hand in her own while she turned it this way and that, keeping it under the stream from the faucet. Nate liked being close enough to catch her scent, which was faintly flowery, no doubt heightened by the work she’d been doing out back.
He was about to ask what she’d been planting when she shut off the water and grabbed a handful of paper towels, which she placed beneath his hand to catch the drips, and directed him toward the table. Its scarred top spoke of many meals eaten by many generations. The chairs were a mishmash of styles, but all seemed to be as old as the table. Nate could imagine previous Whitmires sitting here, eating, talking, laughing. The place had a settled atmosphere. In spite of the modern furnishings, glowing electric lamps and the laptop open on a living room table, he could picture a woman in a long dress coming inside, removing her bonnet and pumping water at the sink to wash up. Maybe that’s what actually haunted the Whitmire farm—the ghosts of hardworking, happy people with established traditions going back generations. He shook his head at the fanciful thoughts. He never lapsed into daydreams like this.
Casting Gemma a wary glance, he ruefully decided that she wouldn’t know if this was out of character for him or not. They hadn’t seen each other in fifteen years.
“This cabin is nice,” he said, watching her pick up a rubber bulb syringe, fill it with warm water and expertly flush his cut with a disinfectant solution. “Your family farmed this land for many years.”
“More than a hundred, but my dad wasn’t interested in farming so he sold most of the farmland and established the campground.”
“But they stayed in this cabin, kept the family home.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” she said, glancing up and giving him the full attention of those remarkable green eyes. “They have roots here that they wanted to maintain. My parents may have been...unusual, but they knew how to create a happy home.”
Nate didn’t answer. For all of their wealth and position, his parents had never known how to do that. From his first memories, their home had been sterile, filled with icy silences. Funny, after all these years, he still never thought of the ostentatious house at the end of Pine Street as his home, only theirs. That’s why it was sitting empty, falling into disrepair. Why he’d rented a small house near the hospital and filled it with furniture he’d bought himself. He had yet to include anything from his childhood home.
“And how are your parents?” he asked. “I heard they had left town, and the campground was permanently closed.”
She gave him a big smile—the expression of someone talking about those she loved. “They’re very well. As soon as I was launched into the world, they took the money they’d inherited from my dad’s family and the sale of the farmland and took off. They’ve traveled the world ever since, helping out on building projects in places in need wherever they can. I see them a couple of times a year here in the States, or I go wherever they are.”
“It sounds...idyllic.”
Gemma laughed and her eyes lit up. “It sounds like what a couple of middle-aged hippies would do, but don’t tell them I said that.”
“I doubt that I’ll ever see them.”
“You might be surprised.” She lifted his hand and examined it closely for debris, then, apparently satisfied, she carefully positioned a bandage over the cut. “This is their home, after all.”
“Are you going to be here long?” Maybe she’d go out to dinner with him. There were no decent restaurants in Reston, but Dallas was only a couple of hours south and he knew there were plenty of fine dining places there. Besides, if she was as competent a nurse as she appeared to be, he might have a job for her.
“I’m back permanently.”
“Really?” More and more promising, Nate thought. “Is your nursing license current?”
“Of course.” She tilted another smile at him. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Afraid I didn’t bandage your hand right? Remember, you were on my property without being asked, while I was busy working.”
Deciding he’d better change tactics, he asked, “What were you doing out there, by the way? At first I thought you were burying a body.”
“Planting herbs.”
“In the dark?”
“It’s not dark. There’s a full moon, which is when these herbs must be planted.”
Maybe she wasn’t as different from her parents as he’d thought. “Oh? What kind?”
“Blue cohosh, for one.”
He frowned. “It grows wild all around here. You only have to walk into the woods and pick it.”
“I’d rather have it close by and if I grow it myself I can ensure the quality.”
She was watching his face carefully. Nate felt as if he was trying to communicate in an unknown language.
“And you need these for cooking?”
“No, for pregnancy, labor and delivery. Tincture of blue cohosh stimulates labor.”
Nathan went very still as those words sank in, the facts lining up before him as if they were printed on the very air.
“You’re a midwife.” His tone was flat.
* * *
GEMMA WHITMIRE STARED at the sudden stiffness in his face, the way his brown eyes had narrowed. Alarm bells clanged in her head, but she spoke calmly. “Yes, I am.”
“And you’re planning to open a birthing center?”
“Yes, in your father’s old offices next to the hospital.” She lifted her chin, held his gaze. There had been a time when she would have backed down, apologized, tried to explain her position. Those days were gone. “Exactly as you plan to establish a family practice and reopen the hospital.”
“Not exactly.”
“Both facilities are for people’s health.”
“No, the hospital cures people and keeps them well—”
“Fortunately, giving birth isn’t an illness.”
Their eyes met—hers defiant, his resolute. Gemma’s heart sank as she imagined the swirl of objections that were about to come at her. She’d heard them all before, fought them all before. Somehow, it was disappointing to know she was about to hear them from Nathan.
She hadn’t recognized him at first when he’d startled her and she’d thrown him to the ground. He’d been a small, skinny guy in high school, with dark hair worn long in defiance of his parents. He must have grown a good six inches since she’d seen him last, topping out at six feet, with wide shoulders and muscled arms. His hair was cut short, probably for the sake of convenience. But those eyes hadn’t changed. Deep-set and steady, they looked at her as if he was trying to see into her soul.
She had admired him when they were growing up, and had a major crush on him by the time they were in high school. She’d been crazy about his good looks, his serious gray eyes and the way his thick brows came to a slight peak as if he was gently surprised by life. Whereas the other guys she’d known had been jocks or cowboys, he’d been focused and smart. Apparently, he still was.
But he was also wrong.
“Giving birth is fraught with risks. Risks that are best handled in a qualified medical facility.” His voice was firm, as if he thought that stating his case strongly would have her immediately caving.
Not a chance. “Giving birth is a natural process, which women have been handling very well for quite a while now.”
“That’s true, but why take risks with women’s lives when excellent medical facilities and qualified personnel are available?”
“It’s not a risk and I am qualified personnel. I’ve been a registered nurse for ten years and a midwife for six. I’ve worked in every type of medical situation, every type of neighborhood you can imagine, even some pretty bad ones, which is why I know self-defense moves. Many times, a birthing center is the most affordable option for families, and you may not be aware of this, but Reston County isn’t exactly overflowing with wealthy people who can afford hospital births and care. Our new birthing center is the only option for expectant mothers since we don’t know when the hospital will be reopened, anyway.”
“It will be soon...”
“Besides that, more than ninety percent of this country’s births are in a hospital and we have such high maternal and infant mortality rates in the United States. It’s appalling.”
“I agree, but I can’t believe that dragging home births back from the past is going to improve the situation.”
“Which is exactly why they’re not being dragged back from the past. Nonhospital births are proven safe on a daily basis, both at home and in birthing centers across this country.”
He raised a skeptical brow. “Your birthing center has to have a transfer agreement with a hospital no more than thirty minutes away and a licensed doctor as medical director.”
“I’m working on both of those things with the hospital in Toncaville until you get the Reston County Hospital reopened.” She clapped her hands onto her hips. “And once our hospital is reopened, if you choose not to be the medical director for the birthing center, I’ll respect that and continue with a doctor from Toncaville—no matter how inconvenient that might be.”
He frowned, obviously not liking her tone. “You’ll have to be on duty twenty-four hours a day.”
“I know that.”
“You think one nurse-midwife is going to be enough for the whole of Reston County?”
“Of course not. I’ll be hiring other qualified personnel.”
“Good luck with that.” He jerked a thumb toward town. “I’ve got forty vacancies to fill in order to reopen the hospital.”
“I have my own sources for finding qualified people for the birthing center.”
“Oh? How? Did you send out flyers by Pony Express? Ask any of the locals who’ve ever helped bring a calf into the world to sign up?”
Gemma felt her temper heating up. Her chin, always ready to lead her into trouble, lifted. “I’ve hired people and will continue to hire people who lost their jobs when Reston Community Hospital closed eight years ago. My new employees are excellent, qualified people who live in this town and wanted to continue working here but couldn’t because their livelihood was snatched away. They’ve spent eight years driving to jobs in neighboring towns. They’ve missed their kids’ baseball and football games, school plays, band concerts, and birthday parties because they couldn’t make it home in time.”
Gemma watched emotions chase each other over his face—annoyance, anger and then shame.
Nathan’s eyes were fierce as he said, “And those people could have kept their jobs, continued to work here in Reston, if my father, the hospital administrator, hadn’t bankrupted the place and absconded with the money.”
CHAPTER TWO (#u746e4187-45ae-54f9-a6b6-9912bde79c1f)
ONCE AGAIN, HEAT rushed into Gemma’s face, but this time, it wasn’t from anger. She pressed her palms together and cleared her throat. “I wasn’t... I wasn’t going to say that.”
“You didn’t need to,” Nathan said, standing up. “Everyone in town knows it.”
Gemma stared at him in dismay. She hadn’t meant to bring it up. It had to be humiliating for him to return here, face the critics, try to make things right. “I... I’m sorry.”
The tight look on his face told her he wouldn’t welcome any more references to the issue, so Gemma cleared her throat and said, “Nate, good luck with the hospital.” She offered him a tentative smile, which he didn’t return.
Instead, he said, “Thanks. I’ll need it.” He turned toward the door and paused. “And thanks for the bandage.” Nathan left the way he’d come. She walked to the door and watched him jog away into the darkness, his white T-shirt leaving an impression in her vision long after he was out of sight.
Gemma stood for a moment with her shoulders drooping. She had known there would be opposition to the birthing center, but she hadn’t expected to start this battle quite so soon, and certainly not with Nathan. Her heart felt heavy with dismay and disappointment.
As she cleared away the basin and first-aid supplies, Gemma wondered why Nathan was back. Why was he reopening the hospital? The last she’d heard, he had an excellent job at a hospital in Oklahoma City. At least now she knew where he stood regarding the birthing center.
After a few minutes, she went back outside to finish planting her herbs, making sure they were firmly in the ground, each with a small trench around it. She could fill the trenches with water, or they’d catch the abundant rain they’d had so far this spring.
It was nearly midnight by the time she finished so she cleaned her tools, put everything away and went inside for a shower. By sheer force of will, she put Nathan out of her mind and focused on thoughts of the birthing center and the positive impact it would have on the women of Reston County.
* * *
“THIS WILL ONLY take a few minutes,” Lisa Thomas assured Gemma the next morning as she slid behind the wheel of her car and buckled her seat belt. “I can’t wait to see the Sunshine Birthing Center. It’s so great that you named it after your mom.”
“She’s pretty happy about it. I figured I owed her some kind of tribute for letting me bring home all those injured animals when I was little.” Gemma settled into the luxurious seat, so different from the utilitarian one in her elderly Land Rover. One of these days, she would get that seat replaced and not even think about how strange it would be with the well-worn interior. She couldn’t be without her rough-and-tumble Rover, though, not in this county, where roads more often resembled dried-up, rocky riverbeds.
“I’ll never forget the first bird whose wing you tried to bandage. Between the splint and the bandages, that crow couldn’t even stand up and constantly tipped over.”
Gemma grinned. “He lived, though.”
“Well, yeah, but he always flew kind of sideways after that—kept flying into your living room window.”
“He did that on purpose, remember? He’d become addicted to my mom’s homemade bread. He finally figured out that if he sat on the sill and tapped his beak on the glass, Mom would run out with some crumbs.”
Lisa laughed, the deep, throaty sound that was so at odds with her petite frame. As usual, she was wearing a beautifully fitted and professional-looking dress. This one was the same blue as her eyes, and she wore matching four-inch heels.
“She was as big a pushover as you were. That’s why he never left the area.”
“Well, that and, thanks to me, he flew sideways.”
Lisa grinned as she said, “Now tell me what you’ve accomplished toward the birthing center in the past week. Every time I go to one of those real estate conferences, I feel like I’ve spent time on another planet.”
She pulled onto the highway and headed into town, listening while Gemma told her about the latest developments.
“We have an office with very little in it except a desk and chair, computer and phone. I’ve hired Rhonda Morton to be our receptionist.”
“The mayor’s wife? She’ll certainly keep you up on all the local gossip.”
“That’s fine as long as she doesn’t gossip about any of our patients. I’ve also hired Beth Garmer and Carrie Stringfellow, but they’re my only nurses until we get our clientele built up enough—” She stared at the house where they had stopped. “Why are we at the Smiths’ place, Lisa?”
“Nathan wants to sell it. Apparently, the house actually belonged to his mom. When she passed away, she left it to him and it’s been sitting empty since his dad disappeared. I told him I’d look the place over and give him an estimate on what I think it might sell for.”
Lisa swung out of the car and opened the back door to tug out a fat briefcase and a big, black binder. “Although I don’t know what I’m going to use for comparative prices. This town isn’t exactly a hotbed of real estate activity and there aren’t too many houses like this one that come on the market. Even in this run-down state, it’s worth more than all the other houses on the block combined. Did you know the foyer is white Carrara marble? Of all things to find in rural Oklahoma.”
Belatedly, she seemed to realize that Gemma hadn’t moved a muscle.
Lisa leaned in and gave her a puzzled look. “Come on, let’s go.”
Gemma responded with a big smile. “I’ll wait in the car.”
“Are you crazy? You’ll roast!”
“It’s not that hot.”
“Come on. Aren’t you curious to see inside the Smiths’ house?”
“Not really,” Gemma murmured as she joined her friend on the sidewalk.
Lisa held up her cell phone and took a picture of the front of the house before they walked through the sagging wrought iron gate and up the cracked sidewalk. Grass poked through—brave little spikes of spring in an otherwise lifeless landscape.
The general air of neglect was depressing. The front flowerbeds, which had once held Mrs. Smith’s prize roses, overflowed with dead plants.
“Going to need a major cleanup before it goes on the market,” Lisa said, stepping up to knock on the door.
A few seconds later, the door swung open. “Hello, Lisa. Thanks for coming, and...oh, Gemma.” Nate’s dark gaze swept over her, from her neon green toenails, to her cargo shorts and sleeveless Hawaiian-print camp shirt, to the loose swirl of hair she’d pinned atop her head.
He was struggling to control his expression. “Hello,” he finally said, stepping back.
She took off her sunglasses and perched them atop her head as she gave him a friendly nod.
Lisa strolled inside, seeming not to notice the tension between the other two.
“Gemma and I were on the way to the birthing center so she can show me around, but I knew you were expecting me to stop by this morning.” Lisa looked over the foyer as she set her binder and briefcase by the door. “Okay if I take some pictures?”
She didn’t wait for an answer, but strolled away, drawn into the once-magnificent home and toward the dining room. “Kitchens and bathrooms,” she called over her shoulder. “That’s what sells houses. Kitchens and bathrooms.” She disappeared around the corner.
Gemma and Nathan stood awkwardly for a moment before she pointed to his hand. “How is the cut this morning?”
“Better. It’ll heal.”
Since that topic of conversation had gone nowhere, she looked around at the nearly empty living room. A huge, clean rectangle of hardwood floor was bordered with scuffed dirt where a rug had obviously been rolled up and taken away.
“Looks like you’re clearing things out.”
“Yes. I sold all the furniture to a secondhand store over in Toncaville. Now I’m dealing with the smaller items—and the dirt.” He bent slightly to dust off the knees of the faded jeans he wore with an old blue T-shirt and battered sneakers. He reached up to smooth his mussed hair and came away with a cobweb. “And the spiders,” he added.
“I ran in to a bunch of those at my place, too. I didn’t mind too much until they tried to join me in the shower.”
“If I lived here, I’d have to pay rent to the spiders to even use the shower.”
She smiled, feeling an easing of the tension, and walked over to examine a grouping of family pictures on the wall. Most of them were formal family portraits, everyone looking stiff and awkward. Gemma studied the faces of Nate’s parents, both of them serious, almost grim. She could see Nate reflected in each of their faces, but staring at his father, she wondered what was on the man’s mind. Was he even then siphoning money from an institution that was so vital to the community where he lived? She had no answer, so she turned her attention to the other photos. A few were snapshots of Nathan as a small boy, alone, or with an older girl. In one photo, he appeared to be about two and she held him on her hip with one arm and tickled him with her other hand. It was a happy, spontaneous contrast to the other pictures, but somehow it made her sad.
Gemma frowned, trying to pinpoint the reason for her sudden melancholy. “That was your sister, Mandy, wasn’t it? I remember that she was very beautiful, and—”
“And she died when I was twelve.” Nathan stepped forward and took the picture from the wall. He pulled a rag from his back pocket, wiped the picture clean and then placed it inside an open box on the floor.
“I know. I’m very sorry. I remember she used to come to our place and hang out with my mother.”
Nate frowned at her. “What? When?”
Gemma paused to think. “It must have been during her senior year in high school. You and I were in second grade. I remember seeing her and my mom out in the garden, and sometimes working in the kitchen. I think Mom taught her to bake bread.”
Nate didn’t respond but stood looking down at the photo he’d placed in the box.
“Is something wrong, Nate?”
“No. No. It’s ancient history now.”
Lisa called to him from the kitchen and he left Gemma standing where she was, gazing at the family pictures and thinking that even ancient history never really disappeared.
* * *
NATE STOOD BY the picture window in the living room and watched as Gemma and Lisa headed toward Lisa’s sporty little car. As they climbed in, Lisa said something that had Gemma throwing back her head and laughing as she tugged open the door and dropped into the seat. He tucked his hands into his back pockets and let his shoulders relax as he watched the curve of her neck and the way her ponytail bounced.
Gemma was everything this house wasn’t—warm, inviting, happy. Somehow, having her here, if even for a short time, had made the place even more depressing.
As they drove away, he turned back to the living room, his gaze going to the wall of family pictures—although, in his mind, family hardly described the people who had lived in this house, especially after Mandy’s death. He and his parents had been like three separate planets, each in their own orbit, never touching, rarely interacting. The Smiths had been the exact opposite of the Whitmires, whom he had often seen together in town—a tight, happy little unit of three. He remembered watching them with longing, wanting what they had, knowing he would never have it.
Mandy must have wanted the same thing. He hadn’t known she was close to the Whitmires. It ate at his gut to know she’d had a whole life, areas of interest he hadn’t known about, but he’d only been a kid, so how could he have known? He wondered if his parents knew. Maybe, judging by the frequent negative comments his mother had made about the “hippie crazies.”
Nate shook his head, pulling himself back from the past, where he’d been too often since returning home. Whatever happened now, it was up to him to create it. He had a huge job before him and it would be helped along by selling this mausoleum. Who knew? Maybe it would be purchased by a happy family with parents who didn’t mind how much noise a kid made running up the stairs, or building some crazy construction in the backyard.
Cheered by the thought, he turned toward the staircase and the last of the stored items he needed to sort through. There were a few sealed boxes in his mother’s closet that he would have to look at someday. They probably contained nothing more than old business papers, but maybe there was some family history that might actually spark a sense of family in him. He snorted aloud, marveling at his need to be proud of people he’d made a point of not obsessing over.
He would finish this task, have the place cleaned and painted, then sell it and move on with his life.
* * *
“I DON’T KNOW why I let you talk me into this,” Gemma groused as Carly Joslin took another bump in the road at warp speed. Her truck was headed back to Reston and the organizational meeting for the reopening of the hospital.
“I’m wondering the same thing,” Lisa added, looking from one best friend to the other.
The three of them were crowded into the front seat of Carly’s truck, as they’d been so many times before.
“Oh, come on,” Carly answered, taking her eyes off the road to tilt her head and grin at Gemma, who was hanging on to the door handle for all she was worth. “It’s like old times—taking my dad’s truck, although now it’s my truck, driving to Toncaville for lunch—”
“Dragging you out of antique and junk shops,” Lisa broke in.
“Arriving back late, getting in trouble,” Gemma added.
“Only we won’t be getting in trouble this time. We’re no longer crazy teenage girls...”
“We’re crazy thirty-two-year-old women, and at least two of us should know better than to go anywhere with you on the day the county is doing brush and bulky-trash pickup,” Lisa said.
Gemma glanced over her shoulder at the “treasures” Carly had already collected along the highway and placed in the truck bed. Twice a year, May and November, the county sent big dump trucks around to collect yard clippings to be ground into mulch, and items too large to fit into trash bins. People put out a wide assortment of throwaway items, which Carly would gleefully collect and repurpose—or “upcycle,” as she called it. She hauled it all home, stored it in the barn and garage and worked her way through it until the next brush and bulky pickup. To her it was like getting two extra Christmases each year.
Lisa glanced back, too, and Carly met their skeptical looks with an unrepentant grin.
“What are you going to do with an old bicycle frame, minus tires and handlebars?” Lisa asked.
“Are you kidding? It’s beautiful. I’ll paint it—maybe fire-engine red—and spruce it up. Imagine how cute it’s going to look in someone’s front yard with live flowers in the basket...”
“Conveniently placed for the next brush and bulky pickup,” Gemma said drily.
“It’ll be a work of art.”
“Yes,” Gemma said with a sigh. “When you’re finished with it, it probably will be. But some of that other stuff...the washing machine, for example.”
“That wringer-type washing machine is in pretty good shape considering it probably saw its heyday when Herbert Hoover was president.”
“But what on earth are you going to do with it?”
Carly gave her a smug look. “Remove the rust, oil all the parts, polish it up. Believe it or not, there’s a whole society—mostly men—who collect washing machines. After I fix it up, I’ll sell it to one of them.”
Lisa stared at her. “Men who collect washing machines? Someday you’re going to be struck by lightning for the fibs you make up.”
“It’s true! They’ve got hundreds of members—all around the world.”
“That’s crazy,” Gemma said.
“Yup, but profitable, and besides, I’m a little crazy,” Carly answered. “I’m surprised you still let me take the lead on these things.”
“You’re the one with the truck,” Gemma reminded her sweetly. “And I needed a new lawn mower, which, now that I think of it, could have fit in the back of my Land Rover.”
“But we wouldn’t have been able to collect nearly as much useful stuff—”
“Good!” her friends said in unison.
“And I could have found you an old lawn mower, fixed it up and—”
“No.”
“Well, in any case, you don’t have to do your own mowing. You could hire someone to... What’s that?” Carly slammed on the brakes at the same time she whipped her head around so fast, Gemma could hear her neck crack.
“It’s nothing,” Lisa said. “We need to keep going. We’ll be late for the meeting.”
“That’s a chair.” Carly pulled over to the mound of discarded furniture someone had piled up at the end of the road that led into the Bordens’ place. “We’ve got plenty of time to get to the meeting. I don’t want to miss it since I hope to sell produce to the hospital kitchen.”
“The chair is broken.” Gemma knew it wouldn’t do any good, but she had to try. She exchanged an exasperated look with Lisa. “You don’t need a broken chair, Carly.”
But Carly had already turned on her hazard lights to alert approaching traffic, catapulted from the truck and freed the discarded piece of furniture from a tangle of wire and sheet metal, easy for her since she was tall. She was also strong from years of working outside. Her long black ponytail swung as she held up her find.
Gemma wasn’t the least bit surprised to see Carly’s dark brown eyes shining in triumph as she examined it. No archaeologist unearthing a history-changing artifact could be more excited than Carly was at this moment.
“It’s Duncan Phyfe style.” She turned it this way and that, checking it from all angles and testing the joints. “The arms are sturdy. I can make this into something useful.”
“Yes,” Gemma said, joining her. “Kindling wood.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Only the legs are broken. This would make an adorable swing to hang from a tree limb, or a porch beam.”
Gemma tilted her head back and looked at the clear blue sky. “Repurposing, thy name is Carly.”
Thrilled with her new treasure, Carly placed it in the pickup bed beside the box holding Gemma’s yet-to-be assembled lawn mower. “If I attach a seat belt, it would even be suitable for little kids.”
When she started to turn back to the junk pile to look for more gems, Lisa leapt from the truck. She and Gemma each grabbed an arm, marched their friend in a circle and then took her straight back to the driver’s side.
“Wait!” Carly protested, straining to look over her shoulder. “There might be something—”
“Yes,” Gemma answered. “Tetanus.”
“Snakes,” Lisa added. “Copperheads, cottonmouths, timber rattlers.” She pointed to the pools of water in the bar ditch beside the road, evidence of the recent rains. “Remember they like moist places.”
Carly grimaced. “Oh, yeah, right.” With a slight shudder, she climbed behind the wheel. Gemma and Lisa hurried around the front of the truck and climbed in. After they fastened their seat belts, they resumed their drive to Reston.
“You wait and see,” Carly said smugly. “I’ll make that chair into something adorable and useful.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Gemma answered. “But has it occurred to you that it might be a good idea to begin getting rid of some of the chairs you’ve refurbished over the years? You’ve got enough for a symphony orchestra.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Not by much,” Lisa added. “You’ve made each chair into a unique collector’s item. If you wanted to, you could open a shop in Reston or Toncaville, or somewhere else nearby.”
“But I don’t want to. I don’t want to be tied down. I wouldn’t be able to work on refinishing furniture at my own pace or go out looking for new pieces. Owning a shop means having to deal with the public. The way it is now, I advertise the items I’ve got for sale online and people come find me, or call me up and place an order over the phone. Besides, what about my farm? My organic produce won’t plant and harvest itself.”
Lisa threw her hands in the air. “But with a shop your sales would go through the roof. People like to come in and browse. I know you’re the ultimate do-it-yourselfer, but you could work on the farm in the mornings, then have a place in town with a back room. You could work on your projects, hire someone to work the front, arrange your merchandise. You’d be providing a job for someone. Maybe two people. A shop like that would be another way to attract tourists here. The kinds of projects you do? People from Dallas would eat that up with a spoon. They’d gladly drive up here to shop, enjoy the rustic experience, eat lunch, spend money.”
Carly sent her a sidelong glance. “You planning to run for mayor, Lis?”
“I might. Someday. There’s a lot that could be done in Reston if people would get their heads out of the past and think about the future.” Lisa had the bit between her teeth now and was going to run with it, doing her best to convince Carly of the rightness of this idea.
“The Smiths’ house, for example. It’s been sitting empty all this time, but it’s sound, only needs upgrading. The place has six bedrooms. It would make a perfect bed-and-breakfast.”
Gemma raised an eyebrow. “I’ve had two encounters with Nathan Smith since I’ve been back. Neither one of them gave any indication he was interested in running a B and B. Besides, didn’t you say he’s anxious to sell?”
Lisa gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “It was only a suggestion of what could be done with that property. And furthermore, if you reopened your family’s campground, you could attract tons of visitors. And the pavilion would be perfect for weddings and receptions.”
“If nobody minds the giant hole in the roof,” Gemma added.
Lisa didn’t even pause for breath. “Your lake has hardly been fished in years. The trout are practically begging to be caught. Fishermen would be buying tackle at Wilson’s Hardware, fuel and groceries at Crossroads Gas ’n’ Stuff...”
“Not gonna happen,” Gemma responded with a firm shake of her head. “I’ve got my hands full with opening the birthing center. I can’t take on anything else.”
“Well, keep it in mind for the future. That’s exactly what I’ve been talking about—planning for Reston’s future. This could be a prosperous little town if people would get behind a few of these projects.”
“Which you’ll think up and organize,” Carly said.
“Of course. Somebody has to be in charge.”
“You did do a good job of convincing the mayor to find a buyer to renovate and reopen the Mustang Supermarket,” Carly said.
“Having three grocery stores in town benefits everyone. Competition is a good thing.”
“Having three retailers to buy my produce is also a good thing.”
Smiling, Gemma settled back and only half listened to her friends. This was one of the reasons she had been so happy to move home to Reston. Besides providing a useful service to women in this rural area, she was getting to reconnect with her two best friends. Even though neither of them had anything to do with the medical field, they would be her staunchest supporters as she opened the birthing center.
Unlike Nathan Smith, Gemma thought with a sigh. His feelings about it were crystal clear and his attitude made her feel both wary and disappointed in him. She didn’t know why she’d expected more from him. After all, she didn’t really know Nathan anymore.
“Wow,” Carly said, leaning over the steering wheel to gaze ahead as she slowed to a crawl inside Reston city limits. “An actual traffic jam.”
A line of cars and trucks waited, turn signals blinking, to pull in to the high school parking lot. Junior Fedder, the deputy sheriff—short, dangerously obese and sweating profusely in the late-afternoon sun—stood at the entrance, directing traffic.
“I think that’s the most movement I’ve seen out of Junior since that day last fall when Tyler and Bradley Saxon put a dead skunk on top of the furnace in the high school basement. Junior chased those two all the way down Main Street, but they finally lost him when he collapsed in front of Wilson’s Hardware. Fortunately, he fell into a wheelbarrow so Frank Wilson was able to get him back to the sheriff’s office.”
As she listened to Carly’s matter-of-fact recital of this story, Gemma began laughing so hard tears rolled down her face. “In the...whee-wheelbarrow?” she choked.
“Yup. Frank’s wife, Tina, ran alongside, fanning Junior with a newspaper and spraying him with a plant mister.” Carly grinned and waved at Junior as the truck crept past him and into a parking place. “It was a new, heavy-duty wheelbarrow that Frank had assembled and put on display. He sold out the next day when everybody saw how much poundage one of those puppies could carry.”
“You lie.”
“No, it’s true,” Lisa assured her. “Carly bought one.”
Still laughing, Gemma all but tumbled from the truck. “Oh, how I’ve missed this town,” she said, looking up at that moment to see a solemn Nathan Smith, briefcase in hand, heading toward the auditorium. He glanced her way, nodded briefly and kept walking.
The chattering crowd fell silent and stood back to let him pass. Gemma saw him pause and glance around, then mount the steps purposefully. As far as she could tell, every eye was on him, but no one had greeted him.
“Come on,” Lisa said. “Or we’ll never find a seat.”
As it turned out, someone had saved seats for them near the front so they had a good view of the proceedings. Gemma looked around, recalling happy memories of her time at Reston High School. In spite of her unusual parents and her own obsession with finding and patching up wounded animals, she had never felt like an outsider and had enjoyed her years here. She was happy to see that, except for a fresh coat of paint and recently reupholstered seats, the big auditorium was still the same.
Two rows of chairs were on the stage and each was filled with someone important to the reopening of the hospital. County supervisors and city planners were in the back row. In the front row, white-haired, sleepy-looking Brantley Clegg, who ran the bank and would be handling the finances, sat on the far end beside Harley Morton, the mayor of Reston. Nathan, somber in a black suit and tie, was next. He sat arrow straight in the hard folding chair, his hands on his knees, his gaze on the audience, although Gemma didn’t think he was actually seeing anyone.
Beside him were Tom and Frances Sanderson, wealthy landowners and cattle ranchers who had given a huge sum of money to the project. When Frances saw Gemma, she elbowed her husband and the two of them gave her happy waves. Gemma waved back. Nathan saw this interaction and shot a swift glance from the couple to Gemma.
Gemma’s smile faded. Nathan would find out soon enough how it was that she and the Sandersons were so well acquainted.
“Wow,” Carly said under her breath. “I wouldn’t have known Nathan. He’s so much taller, and in great shape. He looks like—”
“A sexy undertaker,” Lisa finished for her. “I noticed that the other day when Gemma and I were at his house. Very solemn.”
“I don’t ever remember him being a barrel of laughs,” Carly said. “And now he looks like he’s made up his mind to run his head into a brick wall.”
Gemma studied his face. Carly was right. He didn’t appear to be looking forward to this at all. He must have felt her gaze on him because his eyes met hers. Her heart gave a little kick of anticipation but she didn’t want to analyze the reason for it.
She pulled her attention from him as Mayor Morton approached the podium and went through the usual ritual of tapping the microphone attached to the antique sound system to make sure it was working, then leaning in so close to speak that it released a loud squawk. The audience groaned and several people clapped their hands over their ears.
“Oh, uh, sorry, folks.” The mayor looked contrite as he jerked back. The microphone went dead and he was perplexed for a minute until a boy who couldn’t have been more than fourteen jumped onto the stage and fiddled with something under the podium, then picked up the microphone and handed it to the mayor.
“Oh, thanks, Owen.” The mayor nodded and finally seemed to be in his element. He looked up and fixed his good-neighbor-and-good-politician smile into place as he surveyed the audience. “We’re here as a community to reveal the plans for reopening Reston County Hospital. We’ve got a slide show to explain our plans and we’ll take questions afterward.”
“I’ve got a question right now,” a voice called out.
Everyone turned to look at the speaker.
“Cole Burleigh,” Gemma said, her lips tightening in a line of annoyance.
“Oh, for crying out loud, who kicked over a rock and let him slither out?” Carly asked as Lisa clicked her tongue in disgust.
Cole looked around the big room to make sure he had everyone’s attention. He didn’t look much different than he had in high school, except that he had filled out, and if he wasn’t careful would soon begin running to fat. His blond hair was still thick, his brown eyes just as calculating. They narrowed as he pointed to Nathan and asked, “I want to know if Dr. Smith’s briefcase is packed full of all that money his dear old daddy stole.”
A murmur ran through the crowd as people turned to watch Nathan’s reaction. His color deepened and he started to rise to his feet. The mayor waved him down as he turned back to Cole.
“This is neither the time nor the place for that, and—”
“Why not? It’s why everyone is here, after all.”
CHAPTER THREE (#u746e4187-45ae-54f9-a6b6-9912bde79c1f)
A WAVE OF assent rippled through the audience and Gemma’s heart sank. Cole was right. People were interested in the new hospital, but they were at this meeting to try and find out if Nathan knew the whereabouts of his father and, more importantly, the missing money. She watched as people she’d known her entire life—whom Nathan had known for that long—stared at him with hardened faces.
“We’ll take questions after the presentation.” The mayor floundered. His gaze darted around the room as if he was looking for support, but he must not have found it if his increasingly worried look was any indication.
“But we want to know now,” Cole responded. His gaze swept the room, as well. It was obvious he was loving his role, playing to his audience.
Nathan stood and placed his hand on the mayor’s arm. “It’s okay, Harley. I’ll tell everyone what I know.”
Mayor Morton appeared to swallow a huge lump as he nodded and stepped back.
Nathan took the microphone with one hand and smoothed his tie with the other. Gemma felt a spark of pride when she saw that his hands were steady.
“My briefcase contains cost projections and spreadsheets for the reopening of the hospital—”
“Do they equal the same as what ole George stole?” Cole asked, his lip curled into a sneer.
“I don’t know,” Nathan answered in a grim tone. “I know in general terms how much it was, as all of you do, but I never heard an exact figure of how much my father took.” He glanced at Brantley Clegg, who straightened in his seat and raised his voice to state a figure that had the entire room gasping. Even Cole seemed momentarily taken aback.
Nathan nodded at the banker then turned again to the audience. “I don’t know where my father is. I haven’t heard from him since he disappeared—”
“A likely story,” Cole began, but when he looked around this time, he could see that he was losing his audience. People were so shocked by the full scope of George Smith’s treachery that they had lost interest in Cole. Gemma saw someone reach up and tug Cole back into his seat. He sat but crossed his arms over his chest and glared straight ahead.
Nathan waited a few seconds until the crowd settled before he went on. “I’m profoundly sorry for what my father did. I promise you I knew nothing about it. However, I think it’s reasonable to assume that some of that money went to pay my medical school fees. I had partial scholarships, but there are always more fees that need to be paid.”
He looked down into the audience and Gemma sat up so he would look at her. She clenched her hands in her lap, wishing her strength could flow into him. In spite of the animosity that simmered between them, she wanted him to know she wasn’t against him.
Nathan’s gaze fixed on her for a second, then he took a breath and said, “I worked at a hospital in Oklahoma City for a few years, but I decided I had to come back here and try to make some kind of restitution. Setting up a family practice where there isn’t one, reopening the hospital, getting the necessary funding, providing quality health care for the people of this county—that’s how I’ll pay you back. Also, I’m selling my family home. That money will go into the hospital fund, as well.”
“Maybe that won’t be good enough.” Cole spoke again, obviously trying to regain the upper hand.
Fed up, Gemma bounced to her feet. Her red hair whipped around her shoulders as she spun on her heel. She clapped her hands onto her hips. “Cole, none of that money came out of your pocket. Why don’t you just be quiet? Nathan didn’t have to come back here and try to make amends, but that’s what he’s doing. Reopening the hospital will benefit everyone.”
Cole glared at her as a murmur of agreement rustled through the room. She turned and sat down, avoiding Nathan’s eyes.
Tom Sanderson stood and approached the podium. A big, strong man in his fifties, he didn’t suffer fools gladly. With a nod to Nathan, he took the microphone in his tough rancher’s hand and said, “Gemma is right, Cole. Frances and I have provided a large share of the funds to get the hospital going again. We’ll have a much better accounting system in place, one that will be harder to defraud. If we’re not worried about it, you shouldn’t be, either.” He replaced the microphone in its stand, then clapped Nathan on the shoulder. Nathan sent the older man a grateful look as they both took their seats.
The momentary lull gave the mayor the chance to hurry back to the podium and say, “Yes, well, all this can be discussed at length, um, later on. Right now, let’s see the slides we’ve prepared.” He nodded at the kid who’d fixed the sound system. “Owen, go ahead.”
As a large screen lowered from the ceiling and the people on the stage turned their chairs to see, the young man competently checked his computer and projector. Within a couple of minutes, the presentation began and the audience settled down.
* * *
GEMMA WATCHED THE presentation and tried to make sense of the storm of emotions that buffeted her. She felt disappointed in the people, although she supposed their reaction was natural. George Smith’s treachery and the subsequent closing of the hospital had affected everyone. It was the depth of their anger, the way they hadn’t moved past it, that was troubling. Or maybe they had moved past it but felt they were being dragged backward once again.
And there was Nate. He was definitely being pulled back while attempting to forge ahead, trying to rebuild a vital part of the community while being resented by many of the locals. It didn’t help that he was about as approachable as a daddy snake in a nest of vipers.
Her heart ached for him. In spite of his opposition to her birthing center, she felt protective toward him. She knew it made no sense, but when she looked at him, she still saw the boy he’d been, the one she knew. At the same time, she saw the man he’d become, whom she knew not at all.
* * *
NATHAN WATCHED THE SCREEN, but his mind wasn’t on the presentation, which he’d seen a dozen times already. This was turning out to be even harder than he’d thought it would be. He’d hoped people wouldn’t blame him for what his father had done. It appeared some of them didn’t. That was a start.
While slides clicked by, interspersed with video interviews with county officials and citizen-on-the-street chats about the hospital, Nathan replayed the scene in Gemma’s backyard with her digging, listening to music and singing along.
Somehow, the scene changed and became a sunny afternoon in that same backyard, but it had been different, full of pens and cages.
He and Gemma had been about ten years old. She had gushed about the baby raccoon she’d found abandoned and taken home. He wanted to see it. His mother never allowed any pets, not even a goldfish.
At the Whitmires’, he’d been astounded by the variety of animals in her personal menagerie. Her father, Wolfchild—Nathan recalled snickering whenever he heard that name—had built all the pens and cages. He had glowed with pride as Gemma had shown the animals. There had been several puppies and dogs, abandoned on the road outside the campground, and cats and kittens left behind. The citizens of Reston County had quickly figured out that the Whitmire family were pushovers when it came to unwanted animals. It was public knowledge that Gemma would find good homes for all of them.
There had also been a fawn wounded by an arrow, several birds with broken wings or legs, along with the baby raccoon, who had been darned cute. They’d all needed rescuing and Gemma had...
Nathan sat up so suddenly, many people in the audience stared at him.
Did Gemma think he needed rescuing like some wounded animal? His gaze went straight to her and she met his eyes with a questioning look.
Sitting back, he crossed his arms over his chest. She was wrong, and he would make that clear the first chance he got. But right now, he had to deal with the rest of the town.
He understood why the people of Reston were mad at his father. He was, too. He had tried to find George, tried to figure out where he’d disappeared to along with the money. What he’d told the audience at this meeting was true. He’d never known the exact amount because he didn’t want to know how great a larceny his father had committed. He’d never known that George had a gambling problem that had gotten completely out of hand when Mandy, and then Nate’s mother, died. Nate admitted, to his shame, that he hadn’t known what his father was capable of because he hadn’t really known his father. All he’d known was that George spent long hours at work and never took a vacation—rarely a day off. Now Nate knew why. It was called cooking the books and his dad was a master chef.
The county sheriff and some state investigative agencies had searched for George and had tracked him to Las Vegas, but the leads had petered out. They speculated that he’d changed his name and obtained false identification. They would wait until he resurfaced—but that hadn’t happened in all of these years.
Wherever George was, he had almost certainly gambled all that money away. If he’d been a lucky gambler, he probably wouldn’t have needed to steal in the first place.
Harley returned to the podium and asked, “Does anyone have any questions?”
Of course they did and the next hour was spent in heated discussions about money, personnel, building and equipment upgrades, contract bids for the work, and a dozen other issues. The county supervisors, city manager and banker all answered questions. Finally, someone brought up the other issue Nate had been dreading.
“What about the birthing center?”
* * *
HARLEY’S GAZE WENT directly to Nate. Gemma watched consternation flit across his face. It was obvious that he didn’t want to answer that question.
“Dr. Smith, how will the birthing center be involved with the hospital?” Harley asked.
“The same as with any other hospital. When complications occur, the mother will be transferred to the hospital—”
“Although such occurrences are rare,” Gemma broke in, springing to her feet. She hurried up the stairs and across the stage to the podium. Swinging in beside Nate, she eased Harley aside, confiscated the microphone and gave a bright smile as she said, “With every mother and baby, our goal is to make sure they receive the best care possible. We ensure this by frequent checkups and careful monitoring throughout the pregnancy, along with a comprehensive birth plan and education.” She cast a quick glance at Nate. “As you probably know, in Oklahoma, birthing centers can only deal with low-risk pregnancies. We will make every effort to guarantee that a low-risk pregnancy stays that way. We will answer any and all questions the parents may have, and we’ll make it as safe and as memorable as possible. After all, birth is a once-in-a-lifetime event,” she concluded to chuckles from the audience.
Nate retook the microphone and kept his gaze on Gemma as he said, “The birthing center will be monitored by the medical staff at Reston County Hospital.”
“Well, doesn’t Reston County Hospital have to actually open first?” Gemma asked sweetly, leaning in and raising her voice. “The Sunshine Birthing Center will be open within a few weeks. Until Reston Hospital reopens, we’ll transport patients to the hospital in Toncaville if necessary, and our medical director will be one of their physicians. We’ll hold an open house so everyone can visit our facility and if we have any expectant mothers—and if I remember correctly, there are always expectant mothers around here—please feel free to call and make an appointment. Even if you ultimately choose not to use our services, we’re happy to talk to anyone.” She gave the center’s phone number and as she did, Nathan clenched his jaw.
Belatedly seeming to sense the tension, the mayor stepped in between Gemma and Nathan. “Um, that’s all the time we have right now, folks. I’m sure you’ll have more questions. Call my office and we’ll try to help you as best we can.”
Gemma was disappointed in Nate’s reaction, although she didn’t know why it surprised her. She was ready to leave, to rejoin Carly and Lisa, but she found herself gathered into a hug. She looked up into Frances Sanderson’s smiling face.
Laughing, Gemma returned the hug.
“Gemma, we’re so happy to see you back in Reston, at last,” Frances said. Curvaceous and beautiful with shoulder-length silver hair, she was dressed in a crisp white shirt, black jeans and chunky turquoise jewelry.
“It’s only because of you that I’m here.”
“It’s only because of you that we have a healthy grandson,” Frances countered. She glanced up when Nathan paused beside them and treated him to one of her sparkling smiles. “Dr. Smith, you’re very fortunate to be able to work with Gemma.”
Nathan looked at her, then at Gemma, who hid a smile. He probably didn’t know Frances very well and wasn’t aware that she rarely acknowledged negative situations, choosing instead to see the world through rose-colored glasses.
“Um, yes,” he agreed, but his dark eyes said something completely different.
“Tom and I are having our annual Memorial Day picnic at our place and we’ve invited all the hospital and birthing-center donors and potential donors. Of course, we want you to come. We intend to wring every last cent out of them and having you there will make us look legitimate.” She told them the time, wiggled her fingers at the two of them and went to rejoin her husband.
Maybe Frances was more shrewd than she appeared.
“The Sandersons are contributing to the birthing center?” Nathan asked, his gaze following Frances as she charmed her way, one by one, through the people on the stage. Tom followed in her wake, shaking hands and exchanging a few words with everyone. Gemma knew that was one of the reasons the two of them were so successful—they worked as a team.
“So far they’re the major contributors.”
“Because you saved their grandson?”
Gemma crossed her arms at her waist and tilted her head to the side as she considered him. “Careful, Nathan, your skepticism is showing. I am a trained and experienced midwife.” She couldn’t control the testiness in her voice.
“So you keep telling me.” He glanced away, then back again. “Thanks for shutting down Cole.” The words came out as if they were dragged from him. He turned away, grabbed his briefcase and hurried from the stage.
Gemma pressed her lips together and looked down as she slowly followed him off the stage. It was as if he couldn’t stand to be around her, but it wasn’t strictly because of their professional differences. This was deeper, more personal.
* * *
YVETTE BURLEIGH WATCHED the crowd exiting the auditorium. She’d made the mistake of leaving Cole alone while she went to the ladies room. He had wandered off with some of his like-minded cronies. Now she couldn’t find him and she’d left her truck keys at home so she couldn’t even crawl inside, prop up her feet and wait for him. Her ankles were swollen, her back hurt, the baby was doing gymnastics on her bladder and if he didn’t stop it, she was going to need the bathroom again before they got anywhere close to home. She patted her belly. Sometimes that calmed her unborn son. She moved into the shade and took a deep breath. Settling her back against the wall, she tried to relax.
On a daily basis, she found herself swinging between elation about the baby and profound depression fueled by fear that she would be a terrible mother. Her own hadn’t been much of a role model, bouncing in and out of Yvette’s life as she’d grown up and been passed from one relative to another and then to foster homes. Yvette was terrified she would do that to her son, except that her baby would know who his father was—a man with a stable family. Cole’s mom and dad were bossy and overbearing and most of the time she was scared of them, but they were thrilled about the baby. They were planning to purchase nearly every top-of-the-line item their grandson would ever need and Yvette had been completely left out of all the discussions, shopping and decisions. Apparently, her only part in this was to produce the actual baby.
Having grown up in unstable and sometimes dangerous households, she hated conflict and didn’t want to get into any arguments with her in-laws. She wished she had a friend or two, girlfriends she could go shopping with to choose things for herself or for her son, but there was no one.
And then there was Cole.
He had a good job helping run the family sale barn, where livestock was auctioned off to the local ranchers. Her son would never want for anything except maybe tenderness and gentle understanding from his father. She didn’t know exactly how a father was supposed to act, but thought it wasn’t like her loud, arrogant father-in-law, or her convinced-he-was-right husband.
Knowing all of that, she was happy and scared and worried all at once.
Hormones, Yvette thought. All this confusion was nothing but hormones, but that didn’t make it easier to handle.
“Hello, Yvette. How are you?”
Her eyes sprang open and she stood up straight. Carly Joslin strolled up with Lisa Thomas and the woman Yvette now knew was Gemma Whitmire—the one, along with Nathan Smith, who Cole hated and wouldn’t say why.
Embarrassment flushed Yvette’s face. She knew her husband had made a fool of himself. He didn’t seem to be bothered by it, but she was. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last. It was mystifying to her. Even though he seemed to think his opinion was the most important one, he usually wasn’t like this at home, but whenever they were out in public he turned into a different man, one who had to be the authority on everything, the loudest voice, the know-it-all. They’d met online, had been married less than a year and she feared she’d made a dreadful mistake. She was ten years younger than he was. There was no one she could talk to about her marriage. She wasn’t from Reston, had few friends here, and her family—what was left of it—was hundreds of miles away.
She knew Carly and Lisa wouldn’t say anything about Cole’s antics, but she didn’t know Gemma so she braced herself for whatever she might say. The other woman seemed pretty outspoken and sure of herself if the way she’d grabbed the microphone from Dr. Smith was any indication.
Yvette liked that. She admired strong women, mostly because she knew she wasn’t one.
Carly introduced the two of them and Gemma gave her a warm smile. “Congratulations on your upcoming birth,” she said as she ran a practiced eye over Yvette’s belly. “You’re about seven months along?”
“Yes.” She rested her palms on her stomach and her son gave such a strong kick, her hands bounced. Everyone laughed. “He’s pretty lively today.”
Gemma pulled a card from her handbag. “Since you’re so far along, you’ve probably got a doctor and a birthing plan all ready to go, but if I can do anything to help, please call.”
“Oh, thank you.” Yvette took the card and tucked it into her pocket, then glanced up in time to see Cole bearing down on them, his face hard. “I’ve got to go. It was nice meeting you, Gemma,” she said hurriedly, turning away and moving rapidly toward the truck.
Cole detoured away from the women and was at the vehicle before her, unlocking the door. He braced a hand under her elbow, helping her in even as he growled, “Why were you talking to them?”
“I was being polite. Carly and Lisa are always nice to me...”
“Stay away from Gemma,” he ordered, slamming the door, then stalking around to the driver’s side and jerking the door open.
“That might be hard to do, Cole. This isn’t exactly a big city.”
He started the engine and put the truck in gear. “You can if you make a point of it, Yvette.”
Her lips tight, she looked out the window as tears filled her eyes. She’d made a terrible mistake and she had no idea how to fix it. She knew she could leave, but where would she go? How could she support herself and the baby? If Cole and his parents even let her take the baby. She had only a high school diploma and no job skills outside of the do-you-want-fries-with-that? variety.
She wished she could talk to Gemma. She had so many questions about the baby and about childbirth that her doctor tried to answer, but he was too busy to spend much time with her. Dr. Smith seemed nice enough in spite of what Cole said, and he seemed honest. Cole wouldn’t allow her to talk to either of them. She didn’t know what she was going to do.
* * *
GEMMA PUT A hand to her throat as she stared after Cole’s truck in dismay. “Oh, my goodness. Is that girl even a day over nineteen?”
“Not by much,” Carly answered, and told Gemma what she knew of Cole and Yvette’s courtship and marriage.
“She looks exhausted, overwhelmed and...”
“Terrified,” Lisa supplied. She also studied the retreating truck with a worried look. “You don’t think Cole is...”
“Abusive toward her?” Carly mused, then shook her head. “I don’t know. I hope not.”
“I hope she calls me,” Gemma said. “I know I can help her.”
Her friends exchanged a look. “Still rescuing kittens,” Carly teased gently.
“Yup. I’ll never change.” For some reason, Nathan’s solemn face came to mind. She wished things were different, were better between them, but maybe that was something that also wouldn’t change.
“Come on,” Carly said. “I did promise to assemble your lawn mower since I’m the gardening expert in the group, but do you two mind if we take a quick drive down Sky Mountain Road? There are a bunch of houses along there that might have put out—”
“No!” Gemma and Lisa answered in unison.
Laughing, the three of them climbed into the truck and headed toward Gemma’s.
* * *
NATHAN WATCHED GEMMA drive away with her friends and envied how easily she had slipped back into daily life in Reston. He wondered how long it would be before that happened for him. Or if it ever would.
Even though he was trying to do the right thing by the people of his hometown, they resented him because of what his father had done. He knew it was going to be a long, hard road to win back their trust. He wanted to do it on his own, though.
Fortunately, he’d had a minute to catch his breath and collect his thoughts when Gemma had jumped to his defense. He was grateful to her for telling Cole to shut up, but it rankled that she’d had to. He didn’t want her to rescue him.
A hand clapped onto his shoulder and he glanced up with a start to see Tom Sanderson grinning at him.
“Dr. Smith, I want you to meet my son, Trent.” The man beside him was a carbon copy of his father, but thirty years younger. Nate and Trent shook hands as Tom continued. “He couldn’t make it to the meeting. My wife is heading home so I’m going to fill Trent in on what happened. You want to join us? You look like a man who could use a beer.”
Nate looked from father to son. The family had moved to the area about five years ago, so they didn’t have any firsthand knowledge of George Smith’s crimes. Old friends might have abandoned him, but it was probably time he made some new ones.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “I sure could.”
CHAPTER FOUR (#u746e4187-45ae-54f9-a6b6-9912bde79c1f)
“WHAT DO YOU THINK, GEMMA?” Lisa asked, setting the small carved figure on an end table and positioning it just so. Gemma’s mom had sent it from Botswana, where she and Wolfchild were helping build a school.
The figure was a precise circle in ebony, with the mother’s head bent down toward her child, arms cradling the baby, whose face was nestled into her neck.
“It looks good there, but I think it would make the perfect logo for the Sunshine. I could have it on the reception desk, and also painted on the sign. I’ll have to find someone to do the artwork, though.”
She glanced hopefully at Carly, who was relaxing on the sofa with a glass of iced tea. She shook her head. “Sorry, Gemma. I can put colors together and paint a basic design, but something that detailed is outside my skill set.” She tilted her head as she considered it. “Although I guess I could learn.”
“Marlene Fedder,” Lisa suggested. “Junior’s mom. She took up painting about five years go, and she’s really good.”
Lisa set down the piece. Carly picked it up and ran her fingers over it, letting them rest on the back of the baby’s tiny head. Sorrow touched her face before she handed the carving back to Lisa and resumed sipping her tea.
Lisa and Gemma exchanged a look, but didn’t comment. Lisa rewrapped the piece and fitted it back into its box, then she ran her hand over the tabletop.
Gemma saw the gesture and smiled. “It’s clean, Lisa. You polished it five minutes ago, remember?”
Lisa answered by wrinkling her nose. “Can I help it if I like clean surfaces, uncluttered spaces?”
“You’ve earned that quirk,” Gemma assured her. Lisa had been raised in the home of her loving hoarder grandparents and was determined to never go down the path of too many possessions taking over her life.
“We should celebrate the last of your unpacking,” Lisa said, curling up on the sofa opposite Carly and pulling her feet beneath her.
Gemma sat sideways in the armchair, her legs dangling over one arm and her head resting on the other.
“Let’s order a pizza from Crossroads,” Carly suggested. “That’s one of the good things about living in a small town. You can get gas, groceries, new socks and a pizza all at the same four-hundred-square-foot store.” Before Lisa could object to the number of calories in a typical Crossroads pizza, she held up her hand. “Try to think of it as a crust-based salad. They do buy my onions and peppers, you know.”
Lisa rolled her eyes, and Gemma laughed. While her two friends haggled over the pizza toppings, she relaxed and thought over the events of the past few days. When their dinner had finally been ordered, she said, “At the meeting yesterday, did either of you know there would be that much hostility toward Nathan?”
Carly shook her head. “No. I thought people would be too excited about the reopening to care about anything else.” She shrugged. “But I’m probably not the one to ask. Most of my conversations center around vegetables or reclaimed furniture.”
“I thought people might be hostile,” Lisa admitted. “A few have made comments. Everyone was curious. I think most of them expected him to come in driving a Rolls-Royce, move into the family mansion and lord it over the rest of us.”
“Probably what Cole Burleigh thought,” Gemma said.
“Looks like the good people of Reston suspected he’d profited a lot more than he did, maybe even colluded with his old man,” Carly said.
“Well, then, they just didn’t know him.” Gemma spoke more sharply than she intended to and her friends gave her assessing looks.
“That’s the second time you’ve come to his defense,” Lisa pointed out. “Wasn’t he the one who had nothing good to say about your chosen profession?”
Gemma squirmed uncomfortably and focused on the ceiling. “I’m used to that. Almost every midwife is.” She paused. “He didn’t have to come back here. No one expected him to...make up for his dad’s crimes.”
“And?” Lisa prompted.
“I don’t know why he’s doing it.”
“Because it’s the right thing?”
“Maybe to prove he’s not like George,” Carly added.
“I guess so,” Gemma admitted. “But he had a good job in Oklahoma City. No one there knew or cared about his father, or Reston. Whatever his reason, I think it’s tearing him up.”
“How can you know that after seeing him exactly three times?” Carly asked.
“It’s a...feeling I have.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her friends exchange a look, one she knew well, that said, “Gemma is on another rescue mission.”
She pretended not to notice.
* * *
“YVETTE, THIS IS the changing table I picked out for you,” Margery Burleigh announced in tones that seemed to invite applause. “Bob assembled it.”
Yvette thought that much was obvious since he had bandages on three fingers. He had brought the table in on a hand truck and now waited, red faced and panting, for his wife to give him further instructions.
Forcing a smile, Yvette looked at the oversize, curlicue carved piece of furniture and wondered how they would fit it into the nursery. It was too big, and...overwhelming.
In fact, it reminded her of Margery—outsize and overdressed.
Her mother-in-law seemed to think her place in the community was much more important than it really was. She considered herself to be an expert on everything, including childbirth and child raising, though she’d only ever had one son, and that when she’d been past forty. Now in her seventies, she was set in her ways and unlikely to change. She drove a Cadillac and dressed up every day in spite of living on a place with livestock, and raising her own chickens. Yvette had never seen her in a pair of jeans, and suddenly had a momentary vision of the big, ugly changing table dressed in denim.
“Um, thank you,” Yvette finally said. “It certainly looks...useful.”
If Margery was annoyed by the faint praise, she simply breezed right past it. “The crib you said you liked in that online store won’t do. You’re going to get the one that matches this changing table and can convert into a toddler bed, then into a full-size bed later on. When the other children come along, we’ll get them ones to match.”
“Other children?” Yvette asked faintly. How many was she expected to have? Besides, she had already ordered the crib she wanted.
“It’s not easy being an only child. Ask Cole. I couldn’t have any more babies or we would have filled the house up.” Margery seemed to recall something and fixed her piercing, critical gaze on Yvette. “You do already know that. You’re an only child, right?”
“Yes, I am.”
“That settles it, then,” Margery exclaimed as if they’d been having a heated argument. “You’ll want a big family.”
Yvette wondered how Margery could possibly know that. She never asked what Yvette wanted or thought, or hoped for. She simply made ironclad statements and stared down anyone who tried to argue with her. Bob went along with whatever she said and backed her up. Cole was intimidated by them, although he could be exactly like Margery.
Margery turned her attention to her husband. “Go ahead, Bob. What are you waiting for?”
“For you to quit flapping your gums,” he answered.
Dismayed, Yvette watched him wheel the latest monstrosity down the hall and into the nursery with his wife sailing along behind, handing out orders.
Cole had disappeared somewhere, probably because he knew his parents were coming over. No doubt, he was steeling himself for their upcoming trip to a rodeo in Tulsa—just him and his parents. Yvette was expected to stay home and represent the family—and Burleigh Livestock Sales—at the Sandersons’ barbecue.
She wasn’t quite sure why Bob and Margery weren’t on the hospital committee, or part of the fund-raising campaign, except that if Margery couldn’t be in charge, she wouldn’t want to be involved. From what Yvette had seen, Frances Sanderson was far more likely to charm people into giving than Margery, who’d try to bully people’s wallets out of their pockets.
Yvette had liked what she’d seen of Frances and Tom, and was eager for the weekend. She was also looking forward to peace and quiet in the house and not having another baby item foisted on her.
She wished she was brave enough to tell them no, she didn’t want all the items Margery was buying, but she wasn’t.
* * *
THE MUSTANG SUPERMARKET had recently reopened under new management. The outside looked great, if orange and brown were a person’s favorite colors, Nate thought. At least it was clean with shining windows and a freshly resurfaced parking lot—which had a puddle in the middle big enough to swallow a compact car.
The puddle had always been there, filling up with every rainfall for as long as he could remember. He didn’t know why they hadn’t graded the lot before refinishing it. Maybe someone had objected. The puddle was as much a part of Reston as the First Baptist Church, the Elks Club and the high school gym.
Nate stepped out of his car, slammed the door and stared at the puddle, recalling a time when he’d spied the water, made a break for it and jumped in, feet first. He’d been about five. His mother had been horrified. Since she didn’t want to get drenched in dirty, sloppy water, she’d sent Mandy in to get him. Mandy had been giggling uncontrollably, which he now saw had been equally humiliating for his mother. She didn’t like the attention a muddy little boy and a laughing teenager would bring. She had hustled them back into the car and hurried home without getting the groceries they’d come to buy.
Glancing up, he saw that all movement in the parking lot seemed to have slowed. People who had been walking in to the store, or out to their cars, had paused, their faces turned toward him, watching as he pocketed his keys and started toward the entrance. He nodded to people as he went along and that seemed to break the spell as everyone went back to their own business.
He wondered what his mom would think of this kind of attention.
At the sound of hurrying footsteps, he looked back to see Gemma bearing down on him.
“Good morning, Nate,” she sang out, giving him a big smile.
With her red hair flying around her face, and her lemon-yellow summer dress, she looked like a burst of sunshine—a good match for the name of her birthing center. All eyes were on her as she walked quickly toward him—as were his. It wasn’t simply that she was attractive. She was absolutely full of life.
“How are things going?” she asked when she caught up to him.
“Um, fine.” He realized he needed to quit staring at her, so he pulled a shopping cart out of the lineup and went inside, taking a moment to appreciate the scents of new paint and the pine cleaner used to wash the floors.
Gemma grabbed a carry basket and looped it over her arm as she fell into step with him. “I only came in for a couple of things,” she informed him as if he’d asked. “You should try the deli. They make excellent sandwiches. Carlin Houck runs it. You remember her, right?”
He gave her a dry look. “Well, I’ve known her since kindergarten, so I think so. I may have been gone a long time, but I don’t suffer from amnesia.”
When her cheeks reddened, he softened his tone. “I’ll try the deli.”
People were giving them sidelong looks or outright stares, obviously eavesdropping as she continued to chatter on about the wonders of the Mustang Supermarket. A number of people smiled at her enthusiasm.
When Mrs. Arnstein, their high school math teacher, saw them, she hurried up and gave them each a hug, then stood back to look at Nate.
“It’s wonderful to see you. I’m glad you’re back.” She beamed approval at him.
“I’m glad to see you, too, Mrs. Arnstein,” he said, and meant it, touched by how happy she was to see him, unlike nearly everyone else in town. If it hadn’t been for her patient tutoring, he never would have passed his junior year. They chatted for a few minutes and when she left, he felt a warmth he’d barely known since he’d returned to Reston. He looked at Gemma, who was watching him as if he’d done something brilliant.
They continued on, with Gemma waving to people or stopping to speak with them as she accompanied him up and down the aisles. It was almost as if she was acting as his... What? Bodyguard?

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/patricia-forsythe/at-odds-with-the-midwife/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.