“What happens if you don’t find someone? Can’t you and Barb run this place alone, maybe hire a nurse?”
“No. We need an MD as a director. A physician’s assistant and nurse practitioner can do a lot—but a doctor has to be in charge.” The woman sighed. “I’d hate to see it happen, but we might have to shut our doors.”
“That would be terrible! All of us would have to go to Bandon or Coos Bay for minor medical emergencies—like my arm. And a lot of Hope Harbor residents have come to rely on this place as their primary medical resource.”
“I know. Dr. Logan is putting out feelers, and we’re going to run ads in medical media, but I’m not holding my breath. We do have three months to search, though. He was able to negotiate a delayed start with his new boss. I know he doesn’t want to leave us in the lurch.”
“When did you find out about this?” Marci felt a tug on her arm and tried not to think about what the woman was doing to her skin—or the blood that might be oozing from the wound.
“Last week. I probably shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not public knowledge yet.”
“I won’t tell anybody.”
“Neither will I.” Ben rejoined the conversation. “I hope you find someone, though.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know a qualified physician who might be interested in the job, would you?” Ellen didn’t sound too hopeful.
“No. Sorry. My contacts are either in the service or in private practice.”
“I figured that—but it was worth asking.” A final tug on her arm. “All done, Marci. You’re good to go.”
Someone removed the damp cloth from her face. She blinked at the bright light and focused on Ben, seated beside her.
He smiled. “You did great.”
“I’m fine as long as I don’t see any blood.”
And as long as you’re holding my hand.
A thought she throttled before it could spill past her lips.
“Do you know when you last had a tetanus shot?” Ellen disposed of some wrappings in a trash receptacle.
“About nine years ago. I cut myself at work, and one of my colleagues took me to the ER—after I fainted. From the blood, not the cut.”
Another embarrassing faux pas that would live in infamy.
“We should do a booster while you’re here. Do you feel steady enough to sit up?”
She risked a peek at her arm. The cut was covered by a sterile pad Ellen had taped in place. No blood visible.
“Yes.” She pushed herself up and swung her legs over the edge of the table.
Ben rose, keeping a firm grip on her—as if he wasn’t certain he believed her.
No problem.
He could hold on to her for as long as he liked.
“What’s under the sweatshirt?” Ellen moved beside her.
“A tank top.”
“Perfect. I’ll help you get the sweatshirt off.”
Less than five minutes later, after taking care of the injection with quick efficiency and copying Marci’s insurance card, Ellen handed over a printed page of instructions and made an appointment for her to return in a week to have the stitches removed.
“You shouldn’t have any trouble, but if you do, don’t hesitate to call.” She frowned at Marci’s tank top as she walked them to the door. “Whoops. We forgot your sweatshirt. Let me get it for you.”
As Ellen turned away, Marci clasped her arm. “Don’t bother. It’s not repairable.” And seeing that blood-soaked tear again was the last thing her stomach needed. “Could you pitch it?”
“Sure. You take it easy for the rest of the day.”
“I will. Thanks again for everything.”
“That’s why we’re here—for the next three months, anyway.” She glanced out the window, where a swirling mist obscured the street view. “Drive safe going home.”
Ben said goodbye too, complimented the woman on the job she’d done with the stitches, and guided Marci outside.
At the distinct chill in the early-May air, she shivered.
“Here . . . take this.”
Without giving her a chance to protest, Ben pulled off his sweatshirt, revealing a snug black tee that outlined impressive pecs and biceps.
Another shiver rippled through her—one that had nothing to do with the cool air.
“Let me help you put this on. Watch your arm.”
Somehow he managed to get the much-too-big shirt over her head and guide her arms through the sleeves with very little help from her.
It was kind of hard to think . . . or coordinate her limbs . . . with the warm, fleecy shirt gliding over her exposed skin and surrounding her with the subtle but potent scent that was all him—and all man.
Whew.
Despite the chilly mist, she could use another cool rag on her forehead.
“Better?” He studied her.
“Much warmer.”
“Good.”
Not really.
Getting all hot and bothered about a man who would be leaving in a month would be foolish—even if she happened to be in the market for romance.
Which she wasn’t.
Not yet, anyway.
Or she hadn’t been until a certain army doctor walked into her . . .
“. . . home soon.”
As the tail end of Ben’s comment registered, she tuned back in to her surroundings.
They were halfway to his truck.
“Wait.” She jolted to a stop. “I can get a ride home. You don’t need to take me all the way back to the Point.”
“All the way?” The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Nothing in Hope Harbor is more than ten minutes away.”
“Still. You must have better things to do with your Saturday than chauffeur me around.”
A parade of intriguing emotions passed across his face before he exhaled and locked gazes with her. “No. As a matter of fact, I don’t.”
What did that mean?
Was it possible he wanted to spend time with her?
“Why not?” The question was out before she could stop it—as usual.
The corners of his mouth twitched, as if he’d expected no less from her. “You’re an . . . interesting . . . woman. And as a physician, I’d feel better seeing you safely home after watching you almost hit the mat twice in the past hour.”
“There’s no blood now.” She tugged on the hem of his sweatshirt. “And I know lots of people in town who’d be happy to run me home.”
“Including me.”
For personal—or
