Along Came a Cowboy (24 page)

Jenn mounts Sweetie and grins down at me from the saddle. “Get ready to be impressed!” She gently nudges the mare and they head toward the barrels.

The sun is still a low orange ball barely peeking over the horizon when we take the horses out to rinse them off and brush them down.

“You're getting faster every day.”

“And we didn't knock the barrels over once this morning, did we, Sweetie?” Jenn pats the mare on the neck.

Dirk comes around the side of the barn. “Want me to finish grooming for you?”

I glance at my watch and nod. “That would be great, thanks!”

“Thanks,” Jenn echoes. I notice their hands touch when she hands him the reins.

Oh boy. “Why don't you run on up to the house and get your stuff? I'll drive around and wait for you in the car.”

She frowns. “I thought you'd come in with me. Grandmom was making scrambled eggs and bacon, and I told her to make enough for you.”

“I'm all dirty. . . .”

She rolls her eyes. “Like they care. This is a ranch, remember? They're used to it.”

I know she's right, and I can't think of another excuse. “Okay, but we'll have to hurry. I still have to get in the shower before work.”

As I drive around to the front of the house, I keep the windows down. An early morning breeze flutters through the pines, and high in their branches, birds cry out greetings to the new day. I would so love to have a clinic out here. It wouldn't be a far drive for my patients, and the peaceful countryside would be a balm for them and for me.

“Come on,” Jenn says, waking me from my daydream. I barely have the car in park before she's jumping out. “Breakfast will be cold.”

She bounds up to the front door and yanks it open. “Grandmom? We're here.”

I smile as I follow more slowly. It doesn't take that kid long to feel at home somewhere. I feel a twinge of guilt. She should have come to stay a summer here long ago.

“Come on in. We're in here,” I hear my mom call.

When we walk into the kitchen, my dad points at the small television on the counter. “I think you're going to be on TV.”

“Me?” Jenn says.

My heart sinks. “No, me. Right?”

Dad nods. “Blair Winchester just said she'd be right back with some”—he frowns—“ ‘very enlightening' footage of Shady Grove's favorite chiropractor. I think she means you.”

I cringe at the thought of her “very enlightening” footage. “I'm sure she does.” Never mind that since Dr. Burt retired, I'm Shady Grove's only chiropractor. Blair has a way with words. And a way of always landing on her feet. Even when she makes a major faux pas, that woman is going to turn it into profit.

Mom looks toward the screen where a man is bragging about saving a bundle on his car insurance. “What does she mean? Is this another one of your committee meetings?”

“Not exactly. She crashed my date last night.”

The theme song for the “Get Real, Shady Grove” segment of
Wake Up, Shady Grove
begins, and Mom shushes us.

We stand in a semicircle around the little screen as the camera pans to Blair's elaborately made-up face split by a picture-perfect smile. “Good morning, Shady Grove. Last night we got a hot tip from a very reliable source that those camera-shy centennial committee members were meeting at Chez Pierre without telling us.” She frowns. “How can ‘Get Real' bring you the coverage of the centennial celebration that we promised if our own committee members won't cooperate? So this reporter took matters into her own hands and went to the meeting.”

The camera cuts away to a video of Jack holding my hand at our table at Chez Pierre. My mother gasps, and I see a grin flit across Dad's face. I'm afraid to look at Jenn.

Onscreen, Blair walks up to the table, and I brace myself for her ridiculous accusations about us spending town money on a
French restaurant. While the video shows Jack arguing with her and even me reluctantly telling her when the meeting is, we can't hear a word of it. Instead, we hear a voice-over of Blair. “Even though our reliable source was mistaken about the nature of the meeting at Chez Pierre, we did find something newsworthy. Apparently what started as collaboration on our centennial committee has flamed into a sizzling romance between our good doctor and the handsome cowboy who signed a contract with the city to put on the rodeo for our celebration. Can we say ‘conflict of interest'?”

“Can we say ‘yellow journalism'?” I mutter.

My mother reaches over and snaps off the TV. “The nerve of that woman.”

Dad's face is dark and stern. “I've a good mind to go down there and tell them—”

I glance at the clock on the wall. “Jenn, we're going to have to go.”

“Oh, I almost forgot. Breakfast is ready.” Mom grabs the bowl of scrambled eggs and the plate of bacon from the stove and hurries to set them on the tiny kitchen table. “I thought we'd eat in here this morning since it's just the four of us.”

“My bag is already packed,” Jenn says, her eyes pleading. “Don't we have time to eat?”

I want to go lick my wounds in private, but short of making a scene, I don't see how I can get out of this cozy breakfast. “Sure. Let's go wash our hands and dig in.”

When we're all seated around the tiny table, Dad reaches for Mom's hand on one side and Jenn's on the other. Jenn quickly slides her hand in mine. Mom and I look at each other for a millisecond then clasp hands. Holding hands at the little kitchen table during prayer has always been a Donovan family tradition. But I haven't eaten at the kitchen table since I left
home almost sixteen years ago.

We bow our heads, and Dad says a beautiful blessing over the food. I love hearing him pray. He always says what I wish I could think to say.

Mom releases my hand when he's done and passes me the eggs. “They may not be salty enough.”

“Thanks,” I murmur and dip out a small helping.

Mom picks up the salt shaker and looks at Dad. “I think maybe you should go down to Channel 6, Alton. She should have been embarrassed for ruining Rachel's date like that, instead of—”

“She didn't ruin it.” As I say it, I realize how amazing it is that she didn't.

My dad stops in the middle of buttering his biscuit and gives me a level gaze. “That's good to hear.”

Heat rushes up my face. “I mean. . .” I don't know what I mean.

“Can she get away with that? What about that thing about ‘conflict of interest'?” Jenn asks, worry shining in her eyes.

I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile. “The media has a lot of leeway. But I've seen Blair operate before, so this really isn't a surprise. Let's think positively. Hopefully no one will pay any attention to her inane reasoning.”

By midmorning I've managed to make myself believe my own reassurances. No one has mentioned “Get Real, Shady Grove.” Well, no one besides Norma, of course. I got an earful from her as soon as I cleared the front door of the clinic. But thankfully, my patients obviously have better things to do than watch a reality segment on the local morning news.

I smile brightly at the elderly woman waiting for her
adjustment. “Mrs. Swanson, come on in. How's your shoulder doing?”

“Pretty good. But my lower back is killing me.”

I nod. “Been working in the garden again?”

A sheepish smile spreads across her wrinkled face. “You caught me.” She shakes a playful finger under my nose. “Speaking of caught, are you sure you've got your mind on my aches and pains instead of that handsome cowboy you're so crazy about?” She trills a laugh at her little joke.

I force an anemic chuckle. “Mrs. S., all I have on my mind right now is you.”

By the time my final patient for the day, elderly Mr. Duncan, arrives for his appointment, my good humor has gone from anemic to nonexistent. How could so many people watch “Get Real, Shady Grove”? Don't my patients have lives?

Still trying to think positively, I remind myself that Mr. Duncan is usually so busy listing his aches and pains, we don't discuss anything else. Why should today be any different?

Sure enough, as I write his complaints in his chart, my hand almost cramps. Just about home free.

“Let's get you fixed up,” I murmur and lower the hi-lo table.

“So, young lady,” he wheezes as he lies facedown on the adjusting table, “went out and got yerself a feller, huh? About time, I'd say.” His raspy chuckle echoes through the room.

So much for home free. “It was just a date,” I mutter.

“Huh?” he yells.

“Nothing.” I refuse to let Blair ruin my professional life as well. I work on him in silence. Then when he's standing again, I smile. “You get to feeling better, Mr. Duncan.”

He takes his hat from the hook on the wall and puts it on
his head. “I always do feel better after I see you. You're a fine doctor.”

For the first time in hours, calm rushes over me. “Thank you.”

He clasps my hand in his bony fingers. “I had a wonderful marriage for fifty years before my Sally went to be with the Lord,” he wheezes. “Don't let some busybody reporter stop you from grabbing happiness if you get a chance.”

My throat clogs with tears and I nod then reach out to pat our clasped hands with my other hand. “I won't. Thank you.”

When he's gone, I sink down at my desk and rest my head on my arms. I don't have to let Blair keep me from happiness. I'm doing a fine job of that myself.

After I wallow a little, I pick up the phone and punch in Jack's number. He answers on the first ring. “Don't even think of backing out tonight.”

“My throat,” I croak, mostly joking.

“You'll have to try something else. I can do all the talking, but you still have to be there.”

“Jack, I can't do it. Did you
see
that show this morning?”

“No, but I heard about it. I know how you feel.”

“You do? So you've had patients teasing you about your ‘romance' all day, too?” My face grows hot just saying the word to him.

“Well, no,” he admits. “But so what? Romance is nice.” His voice is husky. “And at least no one took Blair's accusations seriously. She ended up looking foolish just like you said she would, don't you think?”

I fumble with the calendar on my desk and think about his words. “I guess so.”

“I know so. So I'll see you at Coffee Central in an hour.”

“Jack.”

“Yeah?”

“We have to get along on everything. We can't give her any ammunition for tomorrow morning's show.”

He chuckles. “Are you sure we shouldn't argue to refute what she said this morning?”

I groan. “Does this have to be so complicated?”

“Not if we ignore Blair and concentrate on the job at hand. Listen, I'll figure out a way to distract attention from us. Trust me.”

He makes it sound so simple that I feel silly arguing. “Okay, but be warned. I may contract some dread disease between now and then and not show up.”

“Then I'll just have to come get you. You can run, but you can't hide. I'll
always
find you, Rachel.”

Promises, promises.
Thankfully I use a little discretion and don't say that aloud. I'm in enough trouble as it is.