A flipping shame? Michael thought, striding beside her. Dammit, woman, where do you come off with your assessments?
She knew nothing about the pain and fear he endured living in this place, in this community. What did she know about medical facilities short of resources, funding and expertise? What did she know about a life cut off in its prime?
“It’s like that Amy Grant song,” she continued. “‘You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.’ This place has all the amenities you’d ever want for raising a child. Fresh air, peace, quiet. Once you sell, it’ll—”
He stopped. “Did you not understand what I said the other day? I don’t need your advice on what’s best for this place or—”
She swung around. “Or what, Doctor? You’ll fire me? We’ve been there, done it, framed the picture.” She lifted the Seahawks cap and raked back the jungle of her hair. “Look. All I’m suggesting is don’t rush into something you may regret a month from now.”
They were at the midpoint of the long corridor. Light filtered through the doors and caught in the hollows of her cheeks. If he closed his eyes, he’d recall each fine detail.
Five days ago the woman hadn’t existed. Now, she never left his mind. He didn’t want to feel anything for her. Starting with the first of those rudimentary aspects like…lust.
Not that he didn’t enjoy the body side of the lure. He did. He appreciated the sight of a pretty woman. Mostly, he praised his stoic heart, thumping behind his ribs, for its neutrality in spite of any attraction or spark.
Except, around this woman his heart did crazy, unorthodox things. He didn’t understand it. Barring her eyes, she was neither traditionally beautiful nor alluring. Her body was curveless, her short hair a persistent tangle. Never mind that she poked her slim, shapely nose in his business.
“What do you want from me?” he asked wearily.
A direct look. “Nothing. But Jenni does. Ask her.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, she’s six, not twenty-six.”
“She’s a person, Michael. She has feelings, which, at the moment, she doesn’t understand.”
Anger tight in his chest, he jammed his hands into his pockets. “You think I don’t know that?”
“Then talk about her parents. She needs to know how you feel about their loss. Most of all, that you’re not angry with her.”
“I’m not angry with her!” Damn. She’d pinned him to the wall and pared off layers he’d stapled down. He wasn’t ready to talk about Leigh. Still, fresh, the wounds tore easily.
With a heavy sigh, he massaged his nape. “Look, she was in the wrong place at the wrong time the other day and for that I’m sorry, but I am selling this farm.”
Shanna hesitated, then shrugged. “Your decision.”
“Yes,” he said, dropping his hand. “It is.”
She turned to go then stopped. “Where is Jenni, by the way?”
He refused to feel guilty. “At my grandmother’s. I’m picking her up in a few minutes.” I wanted to come home first. See you.
“Does she know you’ll be moving her to a new home?”
“Jen’s been to my town house before.”
She nodded, acquiescing.
The gesture irked him. “What I do or don’t do in respect to my niece,” he said, pushing past her and striding down the aisle, “is not your concern. Do the job you were hired for, Ms. McKay, and we’ll get along fine.”
“As in stick to the barn and cows, Doc? Know my place?”
He stopped, parked his hands at his waist, and took a deep, pacifying breath. “If that’s what it takes. Just leave my niece alone.” Leave me alone. “I don’t want you pumping her head full of idiotic ideas that’ll only confuse her.” And me.
He recognized the damage instantly. The distress he saw in her eyes two days ago in Leigh’s bedroom was there once more. “I would never do that,” she whispered.
“Dammit. You know what I’m trying to say.”
She poked out her chin. “Message received.” The hurt vanished in a wake of quiet dignity. “Excuse me, but I have cows to see, barns to roam, manure to clear.” She walked away and disappeared into another section of the building.
Michael stood in the hushed milking parlor, in the musk of animal and hay, and thought, You expect more than I can give.
That was the crux of it, wasn’t it? He could not give Jenni what she needed any more than he could grant life to Leigh. Would he ever master this feeling of helplessness? This terror of knowing how inadequate he was?
Ah, Leigh. You knew, didn’t you?
Just as he’d known, the minute they’d unloaded her off the ambulance, that she was critical. He’d known with one glance she wouldn’t make it, known as he’d jogged beside the trauma bed speeding through the electronic doors of the limited twenty-bed hospital. Her raspy voice still tore at him….
“Michael…promise me.”
“Shh. Don’t talk, sis. I’m here.”
“Promise.” She touched weak fingers to his wrist. Internal damage, he knew, drained strength.
Tears stung his eyes. “Sis, you’re okay. Hear me?” Even to his own ears the statement rang false. Another night and he wouldn’t have been the doctor on call. Another night and it would have been his associate’s turn.
Rushing down the tiled corridor, the paramedic at the helm of the long board said, “She was a passenger in an MVA, Doc.”
“Air bag?”
“No. A ’91 pickup, horse trailer in tow.”
Michael knew the vehicle. Old and banged up from too many haulings. Why hadn’t they taken the Ford F350 to that auction?
“Get me two large bore IVs,” he barked as they spun into emergency and a nurse dashed off. “Vitals?”
“Pulse rate 140—”
“BP’s eighty over fifty—dropping!”
The IVs were suddenly in his hands. “Run warm ringer’s lactate wide open, both IVs!” The nurse on his left disappeared. “And get X ray and lab down here! I want a C.B.C., lytes, B.U.N., creatinine, glucose, type and cross-match six units—now!”
In the end none of it, not one thing he’d given her, had helped. He looked around the cement and tiled alleyway of the barn where he still stood. Turning, he strode out into the heavy evening air. Damn memories.
“So, you’re the one.” A scratchy female voice spoke through the open doorway.
Shanna looked up from the last of the canned goods she was storing in the pantry. After milking, she’d run into Blue Springs for groceries. Now, a tiny, white-haired woman in tan cowboy boots, jeans and a poet’s blouse stood leaning on a cane on the threshold of the door Shanna had propped wide for a breeze of cool evening air.
Michael Rowan’s grandmother.
Same high-boned cheeks, resolute jaw and hawk nose.
Beside her on the stoop, Jenni, dressed in a pink jumpsuit, clutched Octavia and a miniature red-and-blue knapsack.
The matriarch stepped inside. Behind brown-rimmed glasses, she judged the room from corner to ceiling to floor.
“Well,” the old lady said, her eyes as intense as her grandson’s. “You’ve certainly made a mark.”
You haven’t seen nothing yet. “Why don’t