Mystic Cowboy(14)

She could feel a chest that matched those arms. Could feel it right through her coat and ugly blouse. Could feel it right down to her very core. Her mouth began to move. “Speak English,” was the first thing that sputtered out. Excellent. She sounded like a bigot.

“Learn Lakota,” he shot back with a grin. A distracting grin. “This is our land.” Again, part of her brain knew he should be angry with her—she was kind of being a jerk—but he just seemed amused. Suddenly, she was aware that his thumb was rubbing the underside of her arm.

Was this a joke to him? She would not let this man distract her with something as petty as a gentle touch. Not any more than he was already distracting her, that was. “This is my clinic.”

She wasn’t mistaken. His whole hand was moving over her upper arm, like he was checking to see if she had the muscles to deck him or something. His head dipped down and he locked his eyes onto hers. Her breath caught in her throat. “You’re just renting it for a few years. Some of us will still be here long after you’re gone.”

Damn it all, he was intentionally distracting her, what with the caresses and the intent gazes and all. Trying to use her weakness against her. Trying to get rid of her. “You aren’t even giving me a chance. You expect me to fail.”

Something about him changed. Some shadow crossed his face, and he let go of her. “No,” he said as he stepped around her, his mouth passing inches from her ear, “I don’t.” The tension was gone from his voice, and he sounded almost mournful. “But you have other promises to keep.”

Was he quoting Robert Frost? To her? Maddening, that’s what the man named Rebel was. Soft touches, happy voice, strange words she didn’t know—what the heck was Tȟunkášila, anyway?

“Tȟunkášila,” he said again, shaking Mr. White Mouse’s hand. He turned to look at her. “It means grandfather.”

Okay. Yes. The pain in her ass was hijacking a medical consultation. But they looked like they knew each other. Rebel could translate for her, and no one else besides her gave a rat’s ass for privacy.

“I need your help.”

“Oh?” And the playful wolf was back in the room, shifting back and forth again, grinning like a man who held all the cards.

“I need you to tell Mr. White Mouse that I think he might have prostate cancer.” Rebel’s eyebrows shot up, so she pressed on. “Now, I don’t know when I can get him into the hospital in Rapid City for a surgical appointment with the specialist, and the chemo will take some time after that, but—”

Rebel held up his hand and cut her off. “Stop.”

“Excuse me?”

“You think he has cancer?” The way he said it made her feel like the time her old Camry had died on her, and the first guy to come to the assistance of a damsel in distress had asked if she’d tried turning the key. Rebel was making it perfectly clear that not only did he expect her to fail, he thought she was an idiot.

Well, he could take his expectations and shove them. And if he needed help, she had at least four pairs of gloves left. She’d be happy to lend a helping hand. “Yes. That is my professional medical opinion. He needs surgery, chemo, possibly radiation, and I would try my damnedest to get him enrolled in a clinical trial.”

“I see.” He turned to Mr. White Mouse, who looked like he was bored at a tennis match. “And, Dr. Mitchell, can you tell me what his life expectancy will be if he agrees to such an aggressive handling of his possible cancer?”

What the hell was that, Perry Mason? She took a deep breath to keep from losing the last of her cool in the closed space of a fabric room. “Average survival rates depend on a variety of factors, including reoccurrence and—”

“Given. Average life expectancy?”

“Three to five years.” She managed to keep the you asshole to herself.

“I see.” He looked at Mr. White Mouse again. “And if we do nothing?”

“Doing nothing means certain death.”

“We all die, Doctor. Or did you miss that day in class?”

He was trying to piss her off, trying to get her off her guard so he could finish outflanking her and drag her down to his level. “You paid your bill yet?”

Boy, she’d love to be able to appreciate that smile—warm as the summer sun that was baking the clinic, but sultry in all the good ways. Every time she thought she had him cornered, he flashed that smile at her, which suddenly made her feel as if she wasn’t even playing the right game.

“In cash. For the supplies. And you’re out of plaster of Paris.”