The Trouble With Tomboys(48)

Gilmore.

“Oh,” he whooshed out the word and then

seemed to return to reality. “Well then, B.J. Why don’t you step up onto the porch for minute?”

As he took her elbow and drew her forward, B.J.

said, “I’m fine, Doc. Really. Noggin’s a little sore, but that’s to be expected.”

Grady trailed them with restless impatience. A little sore his ass. “Her skull hit a wood floor so hard I swear it bounced.”

Ignoring B.J.’s scowl at Grady, Dr. Carl said,

“Why don’t we just have a seat up here.” He pulled a black steel swiveling stool out from the tall round table under his covered porch and patted the seat.

“I’ll have a look for myself.”

“She threw up too,” Grady said. “Two times. I’ve never seen anyone vomit as much as she did.”

The doctor nodded and disappeared inside the house.

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“Tattletale,” B.J. muttered.

Glancing up in time to catch her sticking out her tongue, then folding her arms over her chest and turning away from him, Grady should’ve been

amused. Instead, a vision of Amy laid out in her casket—only an empty, lifeless shell—hit him hard and fast. He couldn’t picture B.J. dead. She was too lively, spirited, animated. Like Grandpa Granger, she was meant to grow old and sassy, zipping around in a wheelchair and flirting with the younger generation.

She could not die.

Grady was tempted to grab her and yank her to him, kissing her till she lost her irritation, kissing her while she was still so alive and healthy. But Dr.

Carl saved him from making a fool of himself, returning with a stethoscope and a handful of other medical goodies.

The doctor studied B.J.’s pupils before he

checked her blood pressure and took her

temperature. “Nausea is perfectly common among pregnant woman.” He plucked the stethoscope plugs from his ears and turned toward Grady.

Grady merely shook his head. “Amy had a

queasy stomach a few times when she was pregnant, but she never threw up,” he insisted, “in either pregnancy. And she certainly never passed out.”

When the doctor sent him a sad, sympathetic

smile, he ground his teeth. God, he hated this. He hated the helpless fear, and he hated everyone feeling so damn sorry for him.

“Amy was a different case entirely. Each woman goes through her own unique symptoms. B.J. has none of the complications your wife did.”

Grady merely scowled. His eyes slid to the

woman sitting on the stool. With her legs dangling over the side, she looked like a child, waiting for the pediatrician to plant a “Good Job” sticker on her 135







shirt. It made his stomach knot with tension. The thought of losing her the way he’d lost Amy made him physically ill. And the fact he was just now realizing this caused his skin to tighten about two sizes too small for his body.

He didn’t want her to die. He didn’t want their child to die. He wanted them both to stay healthy.

And that insight scared the living hell out of him.

“This gal here has about the most ideal

equipment for a pregnant woman I’ve seen in a long time,” Dr. Carl praised, setting a hand on B.J.’s shoulder as he sent Grady an intense, reassuring smile. “Everything I’ve checked is normal and healthy, and I foresee no problems at all in the upcoming months. You have nothing to worry about, Grady.”

Realizing he’d gone off the deep end with panic, Grady nodded. But he couldn’t help but linger close to B.J. as she hopped off the stool just in case she hit another dizzy spell. Thanking the doctor, she shook the old man’s hand and immediately turned to him.

“Satisfied now?” she asked.

Though she managed to put a pinch of

annoyance in her voice, like being forced through this ordeal aggravated her to no end, he still heard the softness in her tone. The irritating woman was more concerned about his mental wellbeing than her own physical health.

Lowering his gaze, he nodded and mumbled,

“Let’s go.”

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Chapter Twelve


B.J. glanced down at her wristwatch as her

younger brother stumbled into the hangar. It was nearly noon, and she’d asked him to come in at nine to help her take some aerial pictures.

“Don’t even start,” he groused as he pushed past her, smelling like a stale brewery. “I’ll be out and ready to go in a few minutes.”

“Whatever,” B.J. said on a shrug. “I’ve already waited three damn hours on you. What’s a few more minutes.” She’d been enjoying the race on television anyway. “Just don’t start the coffeepot.”