29
He was in the kitchen eating eggs he had cooked in the microwave when he heard Clara coming back down the stairs. The Colonel had come in from outside, glanced at him without saying anything, poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down beside his wife. Dr. Wilder was buried in her newspaper, and it had been dead silent in the room for close on ten minutes.
“I’m ready. Are you?”
“Yep,” he said, and without looking in her direction he got up, tossed his napkin in the garbage and stuck his plate in the dishwasher. “I can drive if you want.”
“No, that’s okay. Bye, Dad,” she said, kissing her father. “Bye, Mom.”
“Have a good day, you two,” Dr. Wilder said absently.
It wasn’t until they were outside that he allowed himself to look at her, and even then he waited until she wouldn’t notice. She looked chic in a deceptively demure gray dress that was probably a remnant of her corporate days in New York. It fell to just below the knee and hugged every curve on her body. For a girl who made faces about jogging and joked about lifting weights, Clara had a great figure.
He looked up at the sky for a minute, wondering why his teenage self couldn’t have been placed with a family of abusive rednecks instead of this group of unnaturally beautiful humans.
“Changed your nails again,” he remarked, sitting down next to her. “Aren’t they supposed to last a few weeks?”
“I redo them once or twice a week,” she answered, shifting into drive. She flexed her hand on the steering wheel to show him her work. “I wanted something a little more…somber. Today’s Ash Wednesday, you know. This is lilac greige.”
“Sickly purple.”
“Aw. You don’t like this one?”
“Uh-uh.” He was lying, of course. They looked great, and knowing that her toenails were the same shade was giving him the warm fuzzies. Guys like Charles would have to look at the pointy black high heels and wonder. “You can drive okay in those crazy shoes?”
“Of course.”
He liked the shoes, too, and he liked seeing her in the Maserati. He didn’t know if it was on account of the kiss or if he really did have a concussion, but his head was not right today.
The kiss. Ruthlessly, he wrenched his mind away from it. The first rule of kissing Clara? It never happened. Forget it.
But he could smell her perfume, and he happened to know that olfactory memories were the strongest, most vivid and most persistent.
“You’re wearing too much scent.”
“I am not,” she said at once. “Maybe your brain damage is making you more sensitive to it.”
He didn’t deny the possibility. He was starting to suspect the same thing.
“You don’t like my perfume, seriously?” she asked a moment later, sounding uncertain. “I love it.”
“It’s fine. I’m kind of nauseous, so it seems strong.”
“Maybe you should go back to the hospital for another scan,” she said doubtfully.
He was such a jerk. “No, that’s okay. Forget it.”
Clara lifted her wrist, sniffing it with a frown. “I can barely smell it. Maybe you’re right! Maybe I have nose blindness.”
“I said forget it.”
“Do you think everyone who comes into the office is—”
“Shut up,” he interrupted loudly. “You smell great. Just shut up about the perfume.”
The side eye she gave him said clearly that she was worried about his mental state.
“I shouldn’t have listened to you,” he said darkly. “Kissing you again was a huge mistake.”
“Oh, is that what’s bugging you? There’s nothing to stress about.”
“Yes, there is, unless you’re a moron.”
“You’re such a drama queen,” she said, relaxing once more now that her precious perfume wasn’t at stake. “Nobody even knows about that but us.”
“And Birdie.”
“Well…I didn’t actually tell Birdie. I thought maybe it’d be better if nobody but us knew about it.”
“You lied.”
“Yeah,” she admitted. “I felt like I should be telling Birdie, but I didn’t want to. That’s why I lied about it, I guess.” She took the pack of gum from the center console and helped herself to a piece. “Anyway, we weren’t texting about you. We were texting about her stupid boyfriend that I hate. She’s way too good for him, but she’s too nice to see it.” She offered him the gum and he took one automatically. “I’ll take it to my grave if you want.”
He didn’t know how to tell her that he wasn’t worried about word getting around as much as he was worried about his new fondness for purple nails and Ms. Pac-Man pajamas. So he didn’t say anything.
“It was a good kiss,” she added. “Do me a huge favor and don’t regret it too hard, okay?”
She didn’t get it, but that was fine. “Okay.”
“Shoot, I just thought of something horrible.”
He glanced at her. She didn’t look horrified at all, which filled him with misgiving. “What?”
She laughed. “There’s a security camera on the porch of the practice, and we were right by the door.”
He didn’t have to ask who was in charge of reviewing security footage. That would be the guy who had stared at him without blinking while he ate his breakfast.
“Maybe he didn’t see it,” she offered.
Maybe. Or maybe he’d gotten a motion alert, and because it had been after closing, maybe he’d checked up on it.
“Maybe the umbrella blocked the camera,” she suggested next.
“Is there audio?”
Her answer was an apologetic grimace.
Better and better.
“Oh, no,” she exclaimed a minute later, and this time she did sound horrified. “Oh! That’s someone’s pet, isn’t it? Aw, that’s so sad!”
They were still several minutes out of town, passing spread-out farms to the right and left. Clara was slackening her speed, her worried eyes on the immobile lump of fur on the shoulder just ahead.
“Maybe it’s a coyote,” he offered. He caught a flash of white. “Or a big skunk. Don’t look at it.”
“No, I think someone’s dog got through the fence or fell out of a pickup. It moved!” she cried, as they passed it. “Did you see that?”
“That’s just the wind,” he said, but she was pulling over. “What are you—”
“I think it’s alive,” she said impatiently, throwing it into park and opening her door. “I have to check!”
“Clara!” he said sharply, but she was out of the car. He swore, but after a moment he hurried after her.
She was right; it was a black and white border collie, and it was alive—just barely.
Clara was calling it Darling Baby right off the bat, soothing and reassuring it while she took stock of its injuries. He had never known her to show much interest in an animal before. She was nice to her brothers’ dogs and had learned to ride horseback fairly young, but he couldn’t recall her ever having—or wanting—a pet of her own.
“Jesse, look at her leg. We have to help her.”
He’d already seen it, but it was the damage to the animal’s midsection that counted. “Clara, this dog is dying.”
“No! She’s so alert. Look at her. She’s so pretty.” She lifted her eyes to his face, and they were full of unshed tears. “You can save her, can’t you?”
The tears were a gut punch. “Honey, she’s bleeding internally.”
“You’re a surgeon,” she reminded him quickly. “You can fix it.”
“I don’t know anything about dogs.”
“Mom said you’re brilliant,” she argued, in a voice that wavered a little. “She said you’re a miracle worker.”
“No, honey, I can’t work miracles. People said that because I got lucky once with a bad candidate.”
“You saved the biker and he’s doing great,” she pointed out desperately.
“Totally different wounds, Clara.”
But she wasn’t listening. A squad car made a U-turn in the median and pulled over behind them, shining bright headlights on them in the early morning gray. The door opened and a cop started towards them.
“What’s going on, folks?” Then he let out a wolf whistle. “Looks like a fashion plate, gotta be Clara Wilder. What are you doing on the side of the highway at dawn’s early light? Wow, that is one dead dog. That your dog, sweetheart?”
“No,” she answered fiercely. “Shut up, Jordan. You’re the worst.”
The young man looked surprised, and ditched the swagger. “Anything I can do to help?”
Clara was looking at Jesse again. “I know you can save her. Please, Jesse.”
The dog whined softly, but remained still.
“Is there a vet in town?” he asked.
“Barely,” she fretted.
“Dr. Ochoa’s a livestock vet,” Jordan explained. “He’s getting up there in years, too. Only works half-days. Normally, I’d say try your luck with Doc Wilder, but…” He trailed off. “Marfa’s gonna be your best bet.”
“It’s too far,” Clara worried.
Jesse could hear the animal’s labored breathing and knew it was going to be a slow, painful death. “The humane thing to do—”
“No!”
The dog whined again. Clara shushed her, stroking a clean spot on the black and white coat with a hand that trembled. Then she looked up at Jesse again with her heart in her eyes.
“All right,” he decided reluctantly. At least some anesthesia would make the end easier. “Let’s get her to the office.”
“I can put her in the squad car,” Jordan offered. “Even got a blanket. Be right back.”
“You’re not going to put her to sleep,” Clara warned Jesse fearfully.
“As a last resort,” he said firmly.
She hesitated only a moment, but seemed to sense that she would not get a better offer, and nodded agreement.
He put a hand on the dog’s side, and felt a faint heartbeat. “It hurts,” he murmured. “Be patient, okay?”
The dog whined.
“You can save her,” Clara said again.
She was going to be bitterly disappointed when he couldn’t save the dog. Then again, there was nothing like a little crushing disillusionment to cool off whatever was heating up between them.