and peered at the man standing beside the door. She recognized his stance. Legs braced. One hand cocked on his hip. Gaze piercing her to the bone. The kind of man who knew how to handle himself and never backed away from a fight. In the depths of his eyes, she saw a shadow of frustration. She couldn’t blame him. It was the middle of the night after all. No doubt he resented her for disturbing his sleep.
He leaned one hip against the counter and spoke to the cabinets as he picked up a bottle of pills and popped the lid. He shook several white tablets onto the palm of his hand. “Your arm has a bad sprain and you’ll have a nasty bruise, but nothing’s broken. I think you might have a concussion, so we’ll keep an eye on you for a few more hours. I don’t have any powerful medications for humans. Will some aspirin suffice?”
She looked away. A patchwork quilt draped her body. Definitely not normal hospital issue. She expected white sheets and a sterile blanket. “Aspirin is fine.”
He brought her a paper cup with water and watched as she took it and swallowed the pills down. She handed the empty cup back to him and he balled it up and tossed it at the garbage can, where it made a perfect two-point shot.
“What kind of doctor are you?”
“I’m a veterinarian.”
She laughed, her mind whirling as she flung back the quilt to free her legs. Still dressed in her jeans and heavy blue sweater, she wriggled her bare toes. Someone had removed her socks and shoes. The doctor or Gladys? It made her feel odd to think of a strange man handling her bare feet. “You’re kidding.”
“Afraid not.” He gave her a look that told her he was serious. He pointed at her shoes sitting beside the bed, and she swung her legs over the side of the cot. Her feet rested against the cold linoleum floor, helping her feel grounded. From the outer room, she caught the distinct sound of a cat meowing.
She stared at the collar of his denim shirt, listening to the deep timbre of his voice. “Doctor Greene’s out of town until Wednesday. If we weren’t in the middle of a blizzard, Lloyd would have driven you to Elko for X-rays. Instead, he brought you here to me.”
“Lloyd?”
“He’s the local law-enforcement here in Finley. Carl called him after you hit his truck.”
Her head kept spinning. “Who is Carl?”
“Carl Frasier, the driver of the truck you hit with your car.” He sounded slightly annoyed at having to repeat himself.
Of course! She remembered the accident with frightening clarity. “I’m sorry you had to come out in the middle of the night to help Danny and me.”
He didn’t respond and a swelling silence followed.
“Where…where are my car and belongings?” she asked.
“The accident totaled your car. Lloyd towed your trailer over to Gladys’s house. It’s intact, but the contents are a mess.”
Great! No transportation and no money to buy a decent car. Thankfully, she still had collision insurance. Too bad she’d sold Grammy’s old sedan when she came in for the funeral. She only got five hundred dollars for the junker and used the money to buy a travel trailer. How was she going to get to Grammy’s place, five miles outside of town? She prayed nothing else went wrong.
She struggled to stand and instantly regretted it. Her legs wobbled and she feared her knees might buckle. Nausea settled in her stomach. A jolt of pain swept her arm, leaving her weak and shaking. As she sat down, she bit back a groan, wishing she could sleep for a few hours. But she had to think of Danny. Had to find out how serious her predicament was.
“Easy there,” the doctor urged, as he reached to help her up. Once she found her bearings, he withdrew quickly, as if touching her burned his fingers.
His gaze swept her forearms where a myriad of pink and purple scars covered the smooth flesh. She jerked her sleeves down to hide the ugliness; a constant reminder of why she feared and hated dogs. And why she usually wore long sleeves.
“Do they hurt?” he asked.
She almost flinched, wishing he hadn’t noticed her scars. Shaking her head, she leaned against the wall and clenched her eyes closed, willing her insides to settle. “No, they’re old wounds I prefer to forget. Where am I?”
“You’re in my medical office,” he said.
She swayed, her hands shaking.
“You sure you feel like sitting up?” He stood beside her, all broad shoulders and narrow hips, wearing faded blue jeans and scuffed cowboy boots. Rachel wasn’t surprised by his attire. Not in this ranching town. Tall, lean and ruggedly handsome. The complete opposite of Alex, who’d been only five feet eight inches tall, always wore an Oxford shirt and ties even on Saturdays, and had a slight paunch. It never mattered to Rachel. Alex would always be the love of her life. From the first day they met, he’d been the kindest, gentlest man she ever knew. A good provider and fiercely protective of her and Danny. Ah, how she missed him.
“I’m fine.”
“Okay, but take it slow.”
She reached for her socks. “You mean to tell me this Lloyd person brought me to a vet for medical assistance?”
No doubt her shrill voice sounded ungrateful.
“With a blizzard and Doc Greene out of town, Lloyd figured I was the next best thing.” Lloyd had probably dragged the doctor out of bed in the middle of the night to help her.
She pulled her tennis shoes on and tied them, trying to sort out everything. Finley had only one small grocery store in town, no movie theater and one family-owned diner where they served the best steak fries she’d ever eaten. Claridge’s Diner. Maybe they needed a waitress.
Grammy used to drive almost two hours to the nearest dentist and hospital in Elko. The only medical doctor in Finley had retired from Los Angeles ten years earlier and opened a two-room clinic on Mondays and for emergencies. What more could you expect from a ranching community with less than three thousand people?
The window rattled with a gust of wind. Rachel flinched and stared at the door. She was jumpy as a frog.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Sam Thorne.” The doctor held out a hand and she shook it, feeling the gruff calluses on his palm. Strong hands, capable of mending fence and riding wild horses. The complete opposite of Alex and his soft accountant’s hands.
“And who are you?” He lifted one brow, showing a hint of amusement. Yet his quirked smile showed only friendliness.
“I’m Rachel Walker. I guess I’m lucky Finley has a vet. Thanks for helping us.”
“You’re welcome.” Dr. Thorne gave half a smile, showing that dimple in his cheek. He appeared to be in his midthirties, maybe seven or eight years older than her. His face looked rustic and too gruff, his chin too blunt. He had a nice mouth and a devil-may-care smile that should send any sensible girl running in the opposite direction. So why did she smile back?
His expression faded and he turned away, replacing the lid on a bottle of hydrogen peroxide before tossing soiled gauze into the trash can. “Where were you headed before the accident?”
“Here. I own a farmhouse in Finnegan’s Valley. Danny and I plan to live there.”
His eyebrows drew together and he frowned. “The old Duarte place is the only farmhouse out there.”
“Yes, Myra Duarte was my grandmother. She left the house to me when she died six weeks ago.”
He gave a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be. You’re Myra’s granddaughter.”
A statement, not a question.
“You knew my grandmother?”
“And your grandfather. When I was young, I bucked hay for Frank Duarte during the summer months to