intern who should have stuck to the bunny slopes and not tried to hotdog it.
Of course, that didn’t mean John hadn’t seen her at all. After dinner each night, when Doc had retired to his room and curled up with a good book, John had gone out to the porch and waited until Betsy came home from work. Then they’d hung out for a while and talked about their days.
It had become an evening ritual, he supposed. After a while, Betsy would make an excuse to go home, and he’d walk her to the door. Then he’d kiss her good-night, something they both clearly enjoyed.
Trouble was, each kiss seemed to be more heated and more demanding than the last, which was a damn good sign that the two would be good together in bed. But Betsy had continued to hold back, to keep things from getting out of hand.
John couldn’t blame her for that, he supposed. But he was ready to take their relationship to a sexual level, and it was getting to the point that he’d have to suggest something to her pretty soon. Maybe even tonight.
A plan began to form-a quiet dinner, a glass of wine. Candles, some soft romantic tunes.
He had her cell-phone number, so he would call her later and tell her not to eat before coming home. Then, after lunch, he would borrow Doc’s truck, drive to the market and pick up everything he needed to make a special dinner for two.
He wasn’t sure what he’d fix, though. Maybe tacos. He’d been craving some good Mexican food lately. He hadn’t had any since…
Well, it had been ages, he supposed, as he socked away yet another vague and useless recollection.
As he reached for another nail to hammer into the loose porch railing, he pondered taking Betsy out to dinner instead. He’d seen a restaurant in town called La Cocina, which translated to The Kitchen in English.
His movements froze. How had he known that? Was he bilingual? Or had he just taken Spanish in school and been left knowing some of the basics?
Was he Latino?
Whenever he looked into the mirror, he thought he might have Hispanic bloodlines. Had he learned English as a second language? Was he craving the type of food he’d grown up eating?
At this point, he had absolutely no way of knowing, and frustration rose inside of him. He tried to release it with each swing of the hammer, each pound on the nail, but he wasn’t having much luck.
He had, however, fixed the railing in no time flat.
As his stomach growled, he looked up at the sun, which was high in the winter sky and starting a slow descent. Was it after noon already? Doc hadn’t called him in for lunch yet.
It wasn’t any big deal, he supposed. But he set the hammer in the toolbox and went into the house.
“Doc?” he called.
No answer.
When he reached the living room and spotted the old man lying on the floor, his heart dropped to his gut.
“Oh, God.” He hurried to the Doc’s side. “What’s the matter? Are you okay?”
Doc’s lips quivered, but he didn’t speak.
John hurried to the phone and dialed 9-1-1. When the dispatcher answered, he explained the situation and requested an ambulance and immediate help. Then he called Betsy on her cell.
“Something’s happened to Doc,” he said. “I think it’s a stroke.”
“Did you call the paramedics?”
“They’re on their way.”
“I’ll be waiting for you.”
A response wadded up in his throat, so he didn’t say anything else. When he ended the call, he sat on the floor next to the elderly man who’d become a friend, hoping that help arrived in time.
John followed behind the ambulance in Doc’s pickup, trying to keep up with the emergency vehicle without breaking the law. The paramedics had confirmed what he’d suspected: Doc had suffered a stroke.
As red lights flashed up ahead and the siren blared all around him, a disjointed vision formed in his mind-a black Mercedes, its air bags deployed. A light blue minivan, broken glass, twisted metal. The cries of a child. Another siren sounding.
John blinked a couple of times, trying to hold on to the images and to make sense of them, but nothing materialized.
Had he been in an accident?
Had he witnessed one?
Damn, the amnesia was getting old. And it frustrated the hell out of him.
He followed the ambulance to the entrance of the medical center, where it turned to the left and headed toward the front doors of the emergency room. John continued on and found a place to park. But by the time he got inside, Doc was already back in one of the exam rooms.
Now what? he wondered, as he scanned the waiting room that was neither full nor empty.
Not all of those seated were patients, but they represented the people Betsy dealt with every day: the worried parents holding a sick feverish toddler; a teenage boy with a gash on his knee; a blue-collar worker with what appeared to be a broken arm.
On the night John had been found beaten in the parking lot of the Stagecoach Inn, he’d probably been rushed through this same room on a gurney. But he had to have been unconscious when they brought him in. The place didn’t look even remotely familiar.
Before taking a seat, he wondered if he ought to let Betsy know that he was here, but he didn’t want to call her away from Doc. Not while she might be working to save the man’s life. So he took a seat near the television, although he didn’t give a damn what channel it was on. He couldn’t concentrate on anything other than the two double doors that required a security code to get through.
Finally, about twenty minutes later, he spotted Betsy standing behind a glass window where the receptionist sat. She was looking out into the waiting room, and when she spotted him, she waved, then beckoned toward the doorway that led to the exam rooms. He crossed the room and when the doors opened, he joined her.
“The paramedics told me you were driving Doc’s pickup and would be waiting here,” she said as she led him through a maze of exam rooms.
“How’s he doing?” John asked, keeping step with her.
“I think he’s going to be okay, but it’ll be a while before we know if there’s been any permanent damage. But you got him here quickly, and we’ve started treatment.”
“Are you going to be his doctor?”
“No, I’ve called in Jim Kelso. We’ll know more after he’s had a chance to examine him and run the appropriate tests.” Betsy entered the break room and indicated that John should take a seat. “It’s going to take a while. Do you want some coffee?”
“Sure.”
She filled two disposable cups, brought them to the table and handed one to John. Then she took the chair next to his. But instead of taking a drink, she circled her fingers around the foam container, soaking up what little heat it gave out.
Doc didn’t have any family members who lived close enough to make decisions, but she was up for the task. In fact, she wouldn’t want it any other way.
“When Doc’s released from the hospital,” she said, “I’m going to have to find a caretaker who can stay with him at the house.”
John placed his hand on her forearm and gave it a gentle squeeze. When she looked into his compassionate gaze, her heart took a tumble.
“You don’t need to go to the trouble,” John said. “I can look after him, but I think he might be ready to move into Shady Glen.”
“What makes you say that?” she asked.
“Because we actually talked about that at breakfast this morning. He told me that the ranch was becoming too much for him, and he said he planned to put it on the market. He also mentioned how happy your parents seemed to be at Shady Glen and that he thought he would be, too.”
Betsy pondered John’s words, realizing that Doc had already contemplated his future, and that the stroke would only force him to make a move sooner than he’d planned.
