Along for the Ride (11 page)

“Oh, yes, Mr. Ross. With the
terrible
pain, you poor old thing.” The woman smiled sympathetically and nodded, lightly dropping a stack of folders on top of the cabinet and glancing his way. Her voice was lushly laced with the lazy drawl he’d come to associate with these small towns.

Oddly, her honeyed voice was almost sort of appealing. Except that Griff hated sympathy almost more than the pain itself.

“I’ll live.”

The woman’s glance deepened into an open appraisal, her cornflower blue eyes widening. “I’m so awfully sorry, but the doctor’s going to be few minutes.”

“I’ll wait.” Griff hoped his terse tone communicated sufficient urgency to the gypsy who was now gaping at him as if he were on display at the zoo.

Self-consciously, he lowered himself into an old chintz armchair. A musty though not entirely unpleasant smell rose from the down-filled cushions as he sank slowly into their depths.

Griff had become accustomed to being stared at. Three months in corn country would do that to a guy. A civilized guy, at any rate, one who’d spent most of his life in some of the most sophisticated cities in the world. Someone whose wardrobe included more than overalls and baseball caps bearing tractor logos.

A door burst open and a second bizarrely dressed female lurched into the room, muttering under her breath and slapping at her ankle, hopping with the effort. This one looked about twenty years the other one’s junior, but they were clearly related; same coppery hair and finely sculpted cheekbones.

She held a huge volume in one hand and peered hard at the page.

“Says here fire ants is a whole different thing.”

The first woman winked at Griff and edged out a smile. “Well now,
there
you are, Sugar,” she smiled. “Got us a patient. You’re just going to have to leave off that bug research for later.”

Griff cleared his throat and spoke carefully through his clenched teeth. “I’m here to see Doctor Atkinson.”

The second female looked up, surprise in her eyes as she noticed his presence. Her gaze was the same clear blue, the quirked corners of her generous mouth identical to the first woman.

“Huh,” she said, a note of disapproval in her voice. “You’re the one who wanted to be fit in at the last minute. And Rosie, if they were biting
you
on the backside, you might not be so cavalier about the matter.”

Griff fought back exasperation, even as his eyes sought the shapely but evidently tormented backside of the woman before him.

The sign on the freeway exit had clearly stated “Medical Services Next Exit”. Maybe they should have added “When and If We Damn Well Feel Like It.” The first two names he found in the yellow pages turned out to be partners—and they had taken the afternoon off to go fishing, their receptionist informed them. And while a dentist named Junior seemed like a bad idea on principle, his tooth was throbbing too desperately for Griff to get back on the highway and take his chances on the next town.

“Ma’am,” he said, chewing off each syllable in agony, “I’m going to pass out right here in your waiting room if you don’t get me in to the dentist. Now.”

He didn’t miss the look, the raised eyebrow and lop-sided smile that passed between the two women.

“Well, I suppose you had better come on back, then,” the younger one said. “I’m Junior. The dentist.”

#

Junior shook her head. He
was
a mess. Crack in his tooth wide enough to go fishing in, and infected to boot. Most folks in his condition would have reached their pain threshold long ago, but he sat stolidly as she examined him, barely flinching.

Stubborn man. She knew the type. Would rather cut off an arm than go to the doctor.

Actually, Junior knew her way around men like this one fairly well. Way too well, in fact. Smooth. Confident. A little edgy, not too pretty, though you’d never convince them of that. Or the women who inevitably flocked to them.

Definitely not one to try too hard. That was usually the point with these guys—the ones who didn’t have to try at all.

Trouble in capital letters, but even as Junior gave a firmer poke than necessary into the fissure, she could feel that old weak-in-the-knees thing.

Thank heavens she had her hands in his mouth—
her
turf. She was in charge in here, and there was no chance of him pulling anything that would cloud her judgment any further.

“You’re going under. Rosie, see if you can get a hold of that tank,” she added, raising her voice. Though she was fairly sure her aunt was probably listening on the other side of the door.

“Tank? You do your own anesthesia?”

“Relax.” Junior gave her patient a bemused look. “I’m fully certified. No kiddin’. Besides, I’ve been told I have an exceptionally light touch.”

Griff narrowed his eyelids at her.

“And it’s not like I’m putting you all the way under anyway. This is just a little something to put you in the right frame of mind. I’ll give you a local. You won’t feel anything. Lots of folks even go to sleep.”

Junior ignored his skeptical gaze as she and Rosie went about their business. But it was difficult to ignore his presence entirely. Ordinarily she stopped thinking of her patients as people while she was working—they were just a mouth full of teeth, a problem to be approached and considered and solved. A challenge to relish and tackle and conquer.

This man was another matter. That snaking lovely warmth hadn’t left her gut. She snuck a glance or two at his legs, splayed tensely on the chair, and couldn’t resist allowing her eyes to travel upward…

“Comfortable?” Her voice was a little raspy when everything was set and she took her place to get started, hands poised to begin.

“Mmmmph.” Indeed, Griff was comfortable, suddenly. Much as he usually hated the spreading numbness of local anesthesia, whatever it was she’d given him had driven annoyance right out of his mind. In fact, he felt good, unaccountably good, as though his body had relaxed and melted into the curved form of the chair. She’d put some sort of weird warbling flute music on, but he didn’t mind. A nap
might
be nice, after all. But before he allowed his eyes to drift shut he let them linger on the face above his.

Freckles. Every last inch of her face was sprinkled with dots, thousands of them. As the cozy feeling made its way out to the tips of his fingers and toes, he focused on her lips and noticed, with great fascination, that even there were freckles. Those lips. Full and pink and flecked in the most amazing cinnamon-colored spots, like nothing he’d ever seen before.

Wonder what it would be like, he thought lazily, to kiss those lips. He had a vague notion that the urge wasn’t entirely appropriate and smiled, or thought he smiled, as his eyelids slid half-shut seemingly of their own volition.

Junior watched him and relaxed. A sleeper—definitely a sleeper. She could always tell. Besides, it was generally the ones who were the most tense that ended up enjoying their little sortie into altered consciousness. Without thinking she rested her fingers lightly on his forehead, easing away the tension lines with a few strokes as the drugs did their work.

“Okay, I think we’re set,” she said.

Rosie pulled up a rolling stool, as she often did, even though Junior rarely needed much assistance. Rosie liked to keep an eye on Junior, much as she had when babysitting her niece years before. She gave the patient a gentle poke in the ribs, and nodded in satisfaction when she got no response.

“Well, hey now, the answer to your prayers just showed up in your chair. Didn’t I tell you? ‘Solutions make themselves known today.’ The stars don’t lie!”

Junior rolled her eyes at her Aunt. “Yeah. Like I’m going to believe a horoscope prediction. In the
Poplar Bluff Gazette
, no less. They’re probably re-printing the horoscope from 1968 over there or something.”

Rosie frowned, gathering her skirts up and dropping the extra folds of fabric between her legs to let the cool air circulate.

“Don’t make fun of their troubles over at the paper,” Rosie chided.

“Come on, it never was much of a paper even before the economy tanked and the editor landed in the hospital with a heart attack.”

“Junior! Ed Blethers has been a newspaperman longer than you’ve been walking so—”

“Sorry, sorry,” Junior said. “I’m just out of sorts.”

“Well. Okay.” Rosie exhaled, a short puff that Junior knew was forgiveness. Her aunt could never stay mad, least of all at her.

Rosie lifted a shoulder in the direction of their patient and smiled slyly. “Looks like he meets all the requirements.”

“What, you mean male and breathing?”

“Hey, I think he’s pretty nice lookin’. For a city type.”

Junior snorted, and looked away. With the grimace smoothed off his face, Griff Ross looked entirely too much like her type, the type that had busted her heart and then mopped the floor with it a few too many times.

Coal-black stubble shadowed a strong jaw. Thick hair, a little too long, ended at shoulders whose outline was evident even under that ridiculous faux-mechanic designer plaid shirt. A solid outline. A really solid, firm, outline of shoulders that no doubt flowed into thickly built biceps and well, the forearms were right there for the world to see, roped with muscle even as they lay loosely sprawled on the arms of the chair.

“I mean…it wouldn’t hurt, to, y’know, give him a go. What did the doctor say this afternoon, anyway?”

“Jeez, Rosie,” Junior protested in mock indignation, glancing at Griff’s eyes. Still closed. His thoughts no doubt somewhere far more interesting than her problems.

“Hey, don’t worry about him, he’s out. It’s just us girls, so spill.”

“No beating around the bush with you, is there? If you must know, he says I’ve got a year, tops. Probably more like a few months if that. And that’s with him trying to make me feel better and all, so who knows if I’ll even make it that long. Oh, well.”

“Come on, Junior, you sound like you’ve already given up,” Rosie reproved. Griff stirred slightly in his chair, and Junior’s hand automatically went to his face, pressing a finger to the pulse point below his ear. Even, deep.

“Well, for heaven’s sake, what do you suggest I do? Just, you know, jump on the next guy to walk in the door?”

“Junior, I’m not suggesting anything of the sort, and you know it! But there’s no sense wasting time, either. You don’t really want to go your whole life never knowing how it would be, do you?”

“Come on, Rosie.” Junior focused on her work, expertly moving about the tooth, creating the mold for the crown she would build. “You, of all people, I count on not to pressure me. Can’t you respect that?”

Rosie sighed, a long, sad sigh. “It’s just that…me and your Uncle Roger…well, we were so blessed.
So
blessed. And I just don’t think your life will be full until you experience what we had.”

“Look, Rosie, it’s not for everyone, okay?”

Rosie reached over and patted her shoulder gently. Junior sighed and glanced up into her Aunt’s eyes, the same pale blue that was the hallmark of every Atkinson in Poplar Bluff.

“You can’t fool me, Sugar,” she said. “You know that you want this more than anything in the world. I’d give anything…but it’s not in my power to give. You need a man. A man like this one, not some skinny-assed chew-chawin’ local boy—”

“Rosie!”

“Well, come on, it’s pretty much public knowledge that you’ve already dated all the eligible men of Poplar Bluff.”

Rosie felt color flood her cheeks; she busied herself with her instrument tray, studying with sudden interest the implements she knew like the fingers of her own hand. The fact that it was true didn’t take away the smarting sense of rejection she felt whenever she thought about her romantic history.

“Aw, now, honey, don’t feel bad.” Leave it to Rosie to know what she was thinking, even when she was trying so hard to hide it.

“How would you feel?” Junior mumbled.

“Well, lucky, I guess. I mean, you know I love every living person in this town, but some of the guys around here wouldn’t recognize a classy woman if she bit ‘em. They don’t know quality. You really want to get hooked up with one of those characters?”

Junior bit her lip, banished the thought from her mind, and adjusted the overhead light.

“Come on, Rosie. Let’s get this here show wrapped up.”

#

Griff could hear sounds. That weird jingly music, and the laughter of the women from the other room.

It was the damnedest thing. The pain was gone, but in its place was a sensation of trying to pull himself out of an extremely comfortable nap. When he’d really rather just stay put. But that wouldn’t be right, would it? For a man who really hated to lose control, Griff found it oddly tempting to just ride this lulling high.

And yet, even through all that, Griff’s skin still registered the way Junior Atkinson had traced her long, cool fingers along his brow, and the sensation of her touch seemed not the least bit dulled by the medication. Griff struggled to keep his eyes open even as a wavery image of Junior above him flitted through his mind.

What the hell kind of name was Junior for a grown woman? Especially one like her, a long lean spill of milky-white legs, their outline tempting even under the filmy volumes of her skirt. With a warming sensation Griff remembered his last vision before he closed his eyes, the fascinating map of her freckles on that incredibly smooth skin.

And then other memories came tumbling back. Voices, Rosie’s and Junior’s, the play of their words weaving patterns in his brain.

Wait.
A virgin
.
He remembered that. A dying virgin! Months…she had only months left. And Rosie had been trying to help her…Griff knit his eyebrows together in concentration—to help her figure out how to get laid.

That couldn’t be right, could it? In his semi-stupor Griff felt his eyes misting at the thought. Junior had seemed so brave, her voice not even breaking as she discussed her plight with her aunt. Such a young woman, such a beautiful woman.

It didn’t make sense. How had a woman like that, a woman whose fingers had a silken touch, whose lips invited further speculation—how had she managed to stay, you know….