Mystic Cowboy(15)

Her one and only paying client. The relief washed over her, but she fought to keep from looking grateful.

One eyebrow snuck up, giving him that playful look again. “How long with no treatment?”

“One to three years.”

“Yup.”

Yup? Yup what? Nothing this man said made a lick of sense, except for the parts that pissed her off. She understood those just fine.

Finally, he started translating. Mr. White Mouse nodded as Rebel went on. Occasionally, the two of them would look over to her, like she was a candy striper instead of the head honcho around here, but that was it.

After what seemed like an eternity in the waiting room for Hell, Mr. White Mouse shook Rebel’s hand, nodded at her and walked out.

She looked at Mr. White Mouse, at Rebel and back to Mr. White Mouse. “What the hell did you tell him?

“To go to a sweat lodge.”

“Excuse me?” That did it. She was going to lose it, right here, right now. In the three days she’d been here, she’d had a nameless man with an unreported bullet wound, a horse in the clinic, and now this—a strange man with a stranger name sending her patients away against medical advice. No wonder the last guy only made it five months. This place was insane. She yanked the curtain shut so she could at least pretend she was losing it in private. “What the hell is a sweat lodge?”

“Calm down, ma’am.” His voice dropped a notch and he turned to face her.

Oh, he was going to do the old speak-in-quiet-tones thing, the very thing she did when she needed to calm a patient? Screw him. “I’m not your ma’am. I’m Dr. Mitchell to you.”

He leaned in, so close she could feel his breath on her flushed face. “You’re really Madeline, aren’t you?”

The air crushed out of her chest and her heart, which had been moving along at a nice, super-pissed clip, threatened to stop entirely. All at once, she realized they were obscured from everyone else in the clinic by the curtain. They were almost alone. And he was almost going to kiss her.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said, dipping his head down to hers. He waved his hand—not touching her face, not touching her hair, but she felt the coolness of the air move over her. “Madeline.”

He was outflanking her, plain and simple. Mesmerizing her with his deep voice that said her name like it was something sacred, something worth protecting. Holding her with his soft eyes. Hypnotizing her with his easy movements. Waiting until she was completely defenseless. And then he’d go for the kill.

So what if she wouldn’t mind being taken down right now? Dr. Madeline Mitchell didn’t go down without a fight. “You tell me what a sweat lodge is. You tell me why you sent my patient away against medical advice. You tell me what your real name is, or I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.” She wanted to wince at that last part. She had no idea if she could have him arrested or not. But it was too late. It was out there.

If he only had a longer nose, he’d look exactly like a wolf grinning at his prey. Her.

“I didn’t send him away against medical advice. You said so yourself—he’s got about three years, one way or the other.” He leaned back, his heel tapping again. Always moving—but not moving in on her now. She let go of the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Even if he had the money to pay for tests and surgery and chemo and radiation, even if he had a car that could get him to Rapid City and back, even if he let you poison his body in hopes of saving it, he’s got about three years. He’s sixty-eight. He’s already lived longer than most of us will on this rez.”

“So you won’t even try? You won’t even let me try to cure him?”

He scrunched up his face with disdain. “With surgery and controlled poisoning? You might cure his body—that’s a big might—but you will not heal him. We’ll go into a sweat lodge, and the elders and I will heal him. That’s what he needs in his twilight.”

Sweat lodges? He was speaking her language, and she still had nothing. “I could still have you arrested.”

He called her bluff without blinking an eye. Damn, those eyes—those eyes would do her in. Here she was, trying to kick him out, and he was looking at her like...like...like she didn’t know what. Those eyes didn’t give away much. “Rebel is my real name.” He tipped his hat, old-school. “Madeline.”

And then he was gone.

And all she could do was watch him walk away.





Chapter Four

At 8:15 on Thursday morning, Rebel was in the waiting room, sitting next to Irma Speaks Loud. He was fully aware that he’d been here every single day this week and that he didn’t have to stick around for Irma’s appointment—her English was just fine. He was also aware that he could not get his leg to stop jumping and that Tara was staring at him out of the corner of her eye.