Mystic Cowboy(13)

Dr. Mitchell was waiting for him, her eyes all ice and her cheeks all fire again. Her crossed arms were suddenly making that lab coat a whole lot less sexless as she huffed at him. “Horses do not belong in this clinic,” she said, like that wasn’t some obvious statement.

He grinned and saw the way her eyes got...deeper, somehow. It had been a long time, but not so long that he’d forgotten what that look meant on a woman’s face. That was attraction, pure and simple. “She was just curious,” he said, trying to stretch time just a little. The longer he stalled, the more he could look at her. “Not a big deal.”

She was a sea of emotions. He thought he caught a glimpse of amusement under the attraction, but then both were gone, and she wore the meanest look he’d ever seen on a woman. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen eyes that damn blue, and he was positive that no one had ever tried to kill him by glaring alone. “Pay your bill, sir. And control your animal. Clarence! Bring me the next patient.” And she stomped off.

He watched her go. What he wouldn’t give to see her without that doctor’s coat on. He strongly suspected that underneath she had a long, elegant body. The kind of body that gave a man just enough to hold onto, but no more. The kind of body that someone should be properly appreciating.

The kind of body he couldn’t see right now. But what he could see was the way she sort of wobbled in her boots, like she was hurting.

Moccasins. A woman like that—a woman who was on her feet all day, yelling at people about medical supplies—a woman like that could probably use a nice pair of moccasins.

He kept his voice low. “Tara, what’s her name?”

Tara rolled her eyes with expert precision. “Madeline, Madison—something Mad.” She snorted as she answered the phone. “Suits her too.”

Something Mad.

That just about described how she was driving him.



“Hello, I’m Dr. Mitchell.” Madeline drew the curtain behind her. This entire clinic was in violation of HIPAA practices. Like the divider curtains kept anything private from anyone else. If this were Columbus, she’d already have been sued seven times over. Not that anyone here seemed to notice.

She glanced down at the chart. Oh, great. Another one of those names. “And you’re Mr....White Mouse?” She looked up from the chart to the old man slumping against the exam table. His hair was a dingy gray, and when he smiled, he revealed a mouth minus most of its teeth. At least he didn’t have bloodshot eyes. She was damned tired of cirrhosis of the liver. Damned tired.

He nodded, his head bobbing forward just enough to stir his hair. White hair, White Mouse. At least he isn’t Mr. Mighty Mouse. She frowned to keep the giggle back. Knowing her luck, Mr. Mighty Mouse would be in next week. “What seems to be the problem?”

Mr. White Mouse smiled and nodded again. And said nothing.

Madeline took a deep breath. Clarence was stitching a kid’s chin back together, and Tara was no help in these situations. So she tried again. Slowly. “What’s wrong?”

Mr. White Mouse’s brow wrinkled, like he was concentrating extra hard. “Sick,” he finally got out, his accent so thick that she could barely make out the word. The one word.

This was going to be a long day. Better bedside manner. Better bedside manner. She forced her best caring look. “Where?”

Progress. He nodded in understanding and then pointed at his crotch.

Well. That had gone south fast. She poked her head out the curtain. Clarence was still trying to get that kid closed up, and Tara was checking in what looked like a tour bus full of patients. She was on her own here.

Ten minutes later, she peeled her glove off while Mr. White Mouse hitched up his trousers. She looked at the old man, his face understandably twisted with confusion and maybe just a little pain. But he still managed a kind smile, full of trust and hope.

His prostate was the size of a grapefruit. He needed to get to the hospital. The surgery would have to be immediate—who knew what kind of strings she’d have to pull to this man on the docket? Given his age, he’d probably have to go to an assisted nursing facility, and maybe stay through the chemo and radiation.

And she had no idea how to explain this to a man who barely spoke English. She needed Clarence, damn it. If he hadn’t gotten that kid stitched up yet, then they’d just have to wait. She flung back the curtain and found herself face to face with Rebel.

“What the...?” she squawked as she stumbled backwards. He caught her arm and pulled her up—and right into his chest.

“Hiya, Rebel,” Mr. White Mouse said behind her.

“Hiya, Tȟunkášila,” Rebel replied, still holding onto her arm. Still holding her.