Against Doctor's Orders Page 16

“Oh…” Presley scrambled for an excuse, but the look on Margie’s face left her no alternative. “Yes. I’ll be there if I can.”

  Margie beamed. “Awesome.”

  “It’s really not necessary for you to chauffeur us around,” Presley said as Harper drove her and Carrie home for the second night in a row.

  “It’s not like it’s out of my way. I don’t mind.”

  “I appreciate it, but I’m sure you’re busy, and as I recall, weekends are always the worst—”

  “Shh,” Harper said. “We don’t talk about—” Her cell phone rang and she shook her head. “As I was saying, never say it out loud.”

  She pushed a button on the dash next to a small speaker. “Dr. Rivers.”

  “Doc,” a male voice said, “it’s Don Reynolds. I’m sure sorry to bother you this time of night, but I’m worried about Jimmy. He’s been complaining all week about not feeling right, and when he stopped eating, we kept him home from school. But today seems even worse. Now he’s got the runs on top of everything else.”

  “Does he have a fever?”

  “Not that I can tell.”

  “Is he complaining of a bellyache or anything else like that?”

  “He’s not much of a complainer, but he just…Doc, he just doesn’t look right. I’m worried.”

  “I’ll stop by in an hour or so and take a look at him.”

  “I sure would appreciate it.”

  “No problem, Don.”

  Harper ended the call and turned down the driveway to Presley’s.

  “Why not just send them to the emergency room?” Presley asked.

  “Because it’s probably not an emergency, and tying up the ER staff is a waste of their time and an inconvenience for the family. I’m twenty minutes away. It’ll take me another twenty, maybe, to take a look at the boy and let them know what needs to be done. It’s the best allocation of resources.”

  Carrie asked, “If you don’t think it’s an emergency, couldn’t he wait until the morning and go to the office?”

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday.”

  “What about urgent care?” Carrie said.

  “We could send him there. But chances are he’d see someone he doesn’t know and who wouldn’t recognize some of the things that I would because I know him. And besides that,” she slowed in front of the porch, “we like to take care of our own.”

  Presley said, “You’ve been doing a good job taking care of those of us who aren’t even yours. Thank you for the ride.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Carrie said. “I had a great time today. I can’t wait for the game.”

  “You were terrific,” Harper said.

  “Thanks. I’m also out of shape. I’m going to turn in early and pretend I’m reading in bed.”

  “Night,” Harper called as Carrie got out.

  Presley lingered. “I hope your night isn’t too hectic.”

  “It’s early yet. I’ve got a change of clothes with me. Would you mind if I changed here? Then I can head right over to the Reynoldses’.”

  “Of course not. Do you want to shower? We’ve got an extra bathroom you’re welcome to use,” Presley said.

  “I don’t want to put you out.”

  Presley clasped Harper’s forearm. The muscles under her fingers tensed. “You’ve been looking after us since we got here. Let me return the favor.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind.” Harper leaned toward her, the air in the cab suddenly growing heavy and still.

  “Of course not.” Presley scented grass and earthy strength. Her fingers drifted down to Harper’s hand. For an instant their fingers touched. She drew her hand away. “Come inside.”

  Harper reached behind the seat, her shoulder brushing Presley’s. Her body was hot, her face inches away. Presley pushed open the door and climbed out, taking a deep breath. Blood pounded in her belly, urgent and wild. Thank goodness Carrie was inside. She wasn’t afraid to be alone with Harper, she was afraid of herself.

  “All set,” Harper said.

  Walking quickly toward the sanctuary of the house, Presley took Harper upstairs and showed her the bathroom. “I’ll let Carrie know you’re here. Make yourself at home.”

  “Thanks.”

  After warning Carrie Harper was using the shower, Presley headed into the kitchen, opened a bottle of wine that Lila had gotten her from the list she’d provided, and took it outside to the back porch. The sun had just gone down. Rooster was in the tree. She sipped her wine and thought about building a chicken coop. She didn’t think about Harper naked upstairs in the shower very much at all.

  “I appreciate the hospitality,” Harper said, walking out onto the porch. The kitchen light behind her illuminated her face, but her eyes were in shadow. Her eyes were so often shadowed. She wore a navy short-sleeved button-up shirt outside dark pants and loafers without socks. Her hair was wet and slicked back.

  Presley rose with her half-empty glass of wine. “You’re more than welcome.”

  “Tired?”

  “I wasn’t the one running around in the sun all afternoon.”

  “You want to come with me? You can start your practical internship early.”

  Harper touched her hand, a fleeting touch. Not a caress. Just an automatic, unthinking touch. One she probably didn’t even notice.

  Presley swallowed. “Do you think the family will be bothered by a stranger?”

  “I know this family. I went to school with Don’s wife, Emmy. They’re easygoing, and Jimmy is a good kid. He’s eleven.”

  “It’s hard to believe someone you went to school with has an eleven-year-old child.”

  “People tend to start younger around here.”

  The light went out in the kitchen. Carrie must have turned it off, not realizing they were outside. Moonlight surrounded them. “You haven’t, and as I recall, you’re planning on…what was it, four or five offspring?”

  “I figure I’ll catch up when I meet the right woman.”

  “And who’s going to be doing the reproduction? You or the right woman?”

  Harper laughed softly. “I want kids, but I don’t have a strong drive to actually make them. Part of being the right woman for me is wanting to have children, but if she doesn’t want to do it, we’ll adopt them.”

  “Why do I have the feeling that the right woman is going to resemble your mother to a large degree?”

  “That doesn’t sound right somehow.”

  Presley shook her head. “I’m not being critical. Your mother is incredibly strong, that’s obvious. She’s raised amazing children, and I’m guessing a lot of that she did on her own when your father was away.”

  “That’s true,” Harper said. “I love my father, but I hope to figure out a way to spend a little more time at home, especially while my kids are young.”

  “You know, Harper,” Presley said, “if you joined a multi-physician practice group and had people to cross-cover for you, you’d have a lot more time to yourself and your family in the future.”

  Even in the dim light, the tightening of Harper’s jaw was clear. “I had a couple offers like that when I was finishing my residency. It’s not for me.”

  “Solo practice is hard on you, hard on your wife, and will be difficult on your children.”

  Harper shrugged, as if dismissing the possible problem. “Maybe that’s why I’m not married yet.” She slid her hands into her pockets and stared past Presley to the tree where Rooster’s dark shape stood out against the silvery shadows. “Maybe there are no women like that anymore.”

  “Now you’re getting morose.”

  “You’re right.” Harper grinned wryly. “And I don’t have time for that. Are you coming?”

  “Yes,” Presley said, admitting she wanted to. She wanted to know Harper, and nights like this were a huge part of who she was. These moments, when she went out to take care of people, giving them part of herself, were the moments no one else saw, and if Harper even thought to talk about them, how much would be lost in the translati
on? How much would Harper see only as ordinary, as opposed to extraordinary? This was a chance to glimpse the real Harper, the true Harper. “Yes, I would like that very much.”

  Presley left a note for Carrie in the kitchen on the way out.

  “So, what’s your take on kids?” Harper rolled the windows down as she pulled the truck out onto the two-lane. Presley’s scent drifted to her on the breeze, vanilla and spice. She’d never taken anyone with her on callouts before. Margie was the right age, but that was for her father to do. She would take her own children someday, but right now, she enjoyed taking Presley.

  “Generically?” Presley asked.

  Harper laughed. “No, I meant for yourself. Seeing as how a relationship isn’t required for that part much anymore.”

  “I…Children are a huge responsibility, and I’m not sure I’d ever have the time for them.”

  “Sometimes being short on time makes every minute more important.”

  “Did your parents make that work?”

  “Absolutely.” Harper slowed for a deer bounding across the road. “When my father first started his practice, before I was born, he took my mother with him on calls sometimes.”

  “Did he,” Presley murmured. “I imagine that was special.”

  “I think it was. When we kids came, he went alone until I was old enough.”

  “Who looks after patients when you’re away?”

  “My dad or Flann. I’m not away all that much. A medical meeting now and then. Every once in a while I’ll go down to New York for a show or an exhibit.”

  “By yourself?” Presley regretted it as soon as she asked. Harper’s personal business was none of her business, and she didn’t especially want to know about who shared her free hours. Then again, maybe it would be better if she did.

  “Sometimes Carson will go with me. Flann, if it’s a baseball game.” Harper glanced over at her. “Sometimes I’ll take a date.”

  “Someone special?” Presley asked lightly.

  “No. You?”

  “No, no one. No one special.”

  “I told you who I’m waiting for. What are you waiting for?”

  Presley’s immediate instinct was to say nothing. She had no aspirations for marriage or family. As she started to form the words, she caught herself. Was that really true? When she thought of her family, she was certain that wasn’t what she wanted. Her parents were well-matched. They enjoyed entertaining, enjoyed seeing and being seen, but she couldn’t remember witnessing a hint of passion or even intimate companionship. They shared a love of power and success and money. She enjoyed those things too, but more as personal satisfaction, not what she wanted to cement a relationship with. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m waiting for, looking for, anything. Some people just aren’t meant for serious relationships.”

  “Not sure I believe that.” Harper turned down a narrow dirt road, the headlights illuminating trees and the occasional bright eyes of animals by the side of the road. “Sometimes I think people who say they prefer to be alone are just afraid to be with someone else.”

  Presley fisted her hands. “That’s a rather arrogant thing to say.”

  “Is it?” Harper stopped in front of a big, white, two-story rambling farmhouse like so many of the others they passed everywhere, with a larger barn, a cluster of outbuildings, a truck in the yard, and other signs of a working farm. “You’re probably right. Even so, I think it would be a loss to someone if you decided you really would prefer to be alone.”

  Heat stirred in Presley’s depths. “And I think your Ms. Right will be very lucky.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  A light burned over the front door, outlining the Reynolds house against the inky sky. The farmhouse was smaller than the White place, a long porch with a metal roof and a white railing with a few missing spindles running along the entire front. Symmetrical windows on either side of the door were echoed by matching ones on the second floor. A soft light glowed in one upstairs window. Before Presley and Harper reached the worn wooden steps, a man came through the screen door, the hinges creaking loudly in the still air. He didn’t bother to hold it, and it slammed behind him. He wore brown canvas work pants and a faded red T-shirt stretched tight across his broad shoulders and small paunch. He looked to be about forty, but in the dim light, his age was difficult to tell. Like so many of the men Presley had seen around town, his wide jaw was whiskered and his face lined and weathered. His thick dark hair, cut close, still held the circular indentations of a farm cap. His forearms were ropy with muscle, and his hands large. He pushed his hands into his pants pockets, his movements jerky and uneasy.

  “I’m real glad you could make it, Doc,” he said as Presley and Harper reached the porch. His deep voice was as scratchy as a day-old beard.

  “No problem, Don.”

  Harper held out one hand in greeting. In the other she carried a large black leather satchel, something Presley had not seen in almost a decade of visiting hospitals and doctors’ offices. Harper L. Rivers, M.D. was embossed on the side in inch-high gold letters. The leather was worn at the corners and scraped in places on the sides where she imagined Harper had pushed it into the compartment behind the seat of her truck and set it on the floor in dozens of houses such as this. Harper looked completely natural, completely right, carrying that bag into this worn and faintly tired-looking house. Presley was the one who felt out of place.

  Was it possible she had stepped back fifty years when she’d gotten off the airplane? That seemed like a long time ago now. And if that was true, did she really want to go back?

  Presley shook the whimsy aside as Harper motioned to her and said, “Don, this is Presley Worth. She’s from the hospital.”

  “Ma’am.”

  “Good to meet you, Mr. Reynolds,” Presley said.

  Don Reynolds focused on Harper again and pulled open the screen door. “He’s upstairs in bed. Emmy is with him.”

  “What about Darla? Is she sick?” Harper asked as they followed Don Reynolds into his house.

  “Not as near as we can tell. She’s eating fine and doesn’t have a fever. Emmy took her temperature.”

  “That’s good. What about the two of you? Noticed anything out of the ordinary lately? Been any place new—eaten out at an unfamiliar spot?”

  He laughed harshly. “Not hardly. Haven’t been off the farm to speak of all spring and with money tight…”

  “Jimmy’s school friends? Any of them sick that you know of?”

  “We didn’t ask him.” Don Reynolds’s voice held a hopeful note, as if Jimmy sharing an illness with other kids must mean it couldn’t be very serious.

  “Well, we’ll take a look at him and see,” Harper said.

  The foyer was more a hall barely big enough for a coatrack on the wall and a small table where a pile of mail sat unopened. Rooms on either side looked well lived in, with big sofas and end tables holding empty drink glasses and a scatter of magazines. A wooden staircase, not as wide or elaborate as that in the White place, led to the second floor.

  They trooped upstairs and down the narrow hall to a room where an open door emitted a slanting square of pale yellow light onto the bare wood floor. Presley hung back a little, letting Harper enter first with Don Reynolds. She stopped just inside the door. The room was small with a single window and a dresser connected to a desk piled with the things boys played with: a baseball glove, a motorized truck of some kind, a stack of books. The wall held a few posters from movies Presley didn’t recognize.

  A woman in a white T-shirt, blue jeans, and purple rubber flip-flops sat on a straight-backed chair by the side of the single bed. Her dark wavy hair was caught back in a yellow scrunchie. She looked eighteen, but Presley knew if she’d gone to school with Harper she was at least ten years older. A gold wedding band glinted on her left hand, the same hand that was currently stroking the hair of a pale-looking boy with frightened eyes. Harper had said he was eleven, but his thin body and wan expression made him look eig
ht.

  “Hi, Emmy.” Harper introduced Presley as she had before, and the boy’s mother nodded, though Presley didn’t think she actually paid any attention to anything other than her son.

  “Glad you’re here, Harper,” Emmy said in a monotone.

  Presley remembered the eerie wail of the mother in the ER, and sweat broke out on her arms. Such misery. Was this Harper’s life?

  “Can I sit where you are, Emmy?” Harper said. “You can sit on the bed on the other side with him if you like.”

  Wordlessly, Emmy Reynolds went around the end of the narrow bed and gently sat next to her son, her hand going back to his hair. Don Reynolds leaned against a spot next to the window, his hands back in his pockets again as if he didn’t know what to do with them.

  Harper turned the chair until it faced the bed and sat, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. She’d put her bag on the floor next to her but hadn’t moved to open it yet. “I’m Dr. Rivers. How you doing, Jimmy?”

  “Okay.” The boy’s voice was weak and whispery. He glanced at his mother anxiously.

  “It’s okay, baby, the doctor is here to make you better.”

  Harper’s calm expression never changed. “Your dad tells me you haven’t been eating much the last few days. Not hungry?”

  “I don’t know. I guess not.”

  “Does your stomach hurt?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “What about the rest of you? Does anything else hurt?”

  “My head a little bit,” he said shyly. “It just feels funny.”

  “Funny like dizzy?”

  The boy shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll just take a look at you and listen to your heart and your lungs and your belly.”

  The boy’s brows drew down. “Why are you gonna listen to my belly?”

  Harper smiled and reached down with one hand to unclasp her bag, the motion automatic and practiced. Still gazing at Jimmy, she came up with a stethoscope that she put in her ears. “You know the sound it makes when you’re hungry, right? Well, I’m going to listen to see if maybe you’re hungry and didn’t notice.”

  He grinned. “Okay.”