Mystic Cowboy(3)

“I can’t believe you’d rather go to some Indian reservation than stay here and do this, Dr. Mitchell,” the nurse said, her voice dripping with cynicism as they waited for the afterbirth.

“I’ll still be doing this,” Madeline shot back, keeping her voice low. The mother of the girl had been wheeled in on a matching stretcher, and they were both crying. It’s not that Madeline didn’t feel for their situation, but she didn’t allow herself to get too attached to patients in the E.R. Caring about patients was a recipe for insanity. “I’ll be the only doctor within a hundred miles.” Pregnant teenagers, gunshot wounds, car accidents—she expected to see more of the same on the reservation. “But don’t forget, I’m double certified. I’ll be doing general practice. A lot of preventative stuff. Those people just need a good doctor.”

The nurse scoffed, an attitude that was shared by more than a few people at the hospital. “Yeah. Good luck with that.”

Madeline had heard the gossip whispered down silent hallways. Darrin, her recent ex, had spread more than his share it. They all thought she was nuts, and in her weaker moments, Madeline was afraid they might be right. Her sister, Mellie, was the only one who thought Madeline was doing the right thing.

Maybe she was nuts, maybe she wasn’t. That didn’t change a thing.

The Lakota Sioux on the White Sandy reservation in South Dakota needed a good doctor. Madeline needed—well, she wasn’t sure what she needed anymore.

She looked at the baby, mother and grandmother, all bawling their heads off in nearly perfect three-part harmony. She needed this, this rush from doing her job and doing it well. But it wasn’t enough anymore.

She needed something else.

She hoped to hell it was out West.





Chapter Two

This couldn’t be the West. The thought popped into Madeline’s head as she crested a small hill and saw what she could only pray wasn’t the White Sandy Clinic and Hospital. But there wasn’t another building in sight, and she’d followed the directions. The squat building looked like someone had chucked cinder blocks at each other, and the depressing gray color did little to detract from the peeling metal roof or the front door that was patched with half a sheet of plywood. Above the plywood were the scratched, faded letters that spelled out Clinic. This was it, her home away from home for the next two years. It was as if the place had been pillaged years ago and no one had bothered to fix it up since then.

Her stomach fell. She’d expected rustic, sure. Her little cabin was rustic. This? This was squalid. Maybe Darrin had been right. This was idiotic—the dumbest thing she could do. Career suicide.

Ugh. Darrin. Her nervous stomach tried to revolt on her, but she kept things firmly under control and talked some damn sense into herself. Darrin had nothing to do with this. Darrin wasn’t here, and that’s the way she liked it. Besides, she shouldn’t jump to conclusions at 7:37 in the morning. At least things couldn’t get much worse.

And then they did.

She barely got her new Jeep parked when a rusted-out truck careened into the lot behind her. The first—the only—thing she saw in the rear-view mirror was the shotgun in the gun rack. Shit, she thought, but that was as far as she got before the truck’s door opened and a guy the size of Maine hopped out of the driver’s seat. Madeline’s jaw dropped. Jesus, he was huge, with one of those biker-style do-rags on his head and tattoos visible at twenty paces. And he was armed.

All she could do was lock her car door, although the guy could probably remove it with one hand tied behind his back. He cricked his neck, looked around and headed straight for her.

She should have gotten a gun. Or some mace. Or a baseball bat. Anything that might level the playing field with the tank that was...smiling?

“Sorry I’m late, Doc,” the tank yelled, loud enough to be heard through the glass.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re Dr. Mitchell, right?” Madeline noticed that he was wearing blue scrubs with a medical-style badge hanging off the pocket of his shirt.

Moving slowly, she rolled down her window. “Yes, I am. And you are...?”

“Clarence Thunder.” He waved again. Up close now, she could see the anchors tattooed on his arms. He noticed she was looking. “Navy Medical Corps, retired,” he said with a tired salute. “Chief—well, only—nurse here on the White Sandy.”

“You’re the nurse?” Excellent. Shock and surprise were exactly the first sorts of impressions she wanted to make. At least she wasn’t being overbearing, right?

He shrugged, seemingly amused with her confusion. “Fresh out of lady nurses around here. I’m all you got. Come on in.”