Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Mel
The clinic smells faintly of disinfectant, coffee that’s been reheated once too often, and the lemon soap we use for the counters. It’s a clean smell, a practical smell, the kind I’ve lived with for years now, but this morning it sits wrong on my nerves.
I pause just inside the doorway, adjusting my scrubs, and take in the space the way I always do before a shift. Exam rooms prepped. The charts are stacked on the counter, and patient notes clipped and flagged the way I like them.
Everything exactly where it should be in the practice I’ve kept running for years. Nurse practitioner, administrator, triage, paperwork… in Northwick Cove, titles matter less than getting the job done, and this place has always been mine to keep moving.
It should settle me.
It doesn’t.
I pause just inside the hallway and watch through the half-open door.
Judith stands at the exam desk, glasses perched low on her nose while she listens to Luke Grayson describe the rash on his forearm for the third time. She doesn’t rush him. She never does. Her voice carries easily across the room.
The man leaves five minutes later looking reassured and a little proud of himself for surviving the conversation.
Another patient takes his place almost immediately.
I step back into the hall before Judith notices me watching.
Before, the clinic felt understaffed for the number of people who came through the door on any given morning. I’d been moving nonstop from room to room, chart to chart, answering questions before anyone even finished asking them.
Now there are moments like this one where I’m not sure where I’m supposed to stand.
Judith didn’t push her way in. She never does that.
A retired nurse who knows exactly when to step in and when to let things stand, she simply started helping.
Fortunately, she had kept her license active so it was easy to get her licensed in Maine and added to the staff.
Covering a few patients while I finished paperwork.
Filling in during lunch breaks. Taking over a follow-up appointment when someone came in early.
Somewhere along the way the rhythm changed.
Like with our boys, I feel appreciated but not needed here.
The clinic settles into a strange rhythm late in the afternoon.
The rush of morning appointments fades, but the building never truly goes quiet.
Somewhere down the hallway a cabinet door closes, followed by the soft rattle of instruments being set back onto a tray.
Papers shift on the counter when someone walks past, and the old clock above the doorway ticks steadily, measuring out the slow hours before closing.
I sit at the desk pretending to finish chart notes.
Pretending, because the truth is I don’t have that many charts left.
Through the partially open exam room door, Judith’s calm voice drifts out while she talks with Mr. Kessler. She still has that same steady tone she used for years as a nurse, the one that makes stubborn patients nod along even when they have no intention of following instructions.
“Twice a day,” she says. “And finish the course. Don’t stop just because you start feeling better.”
Mr. Kessler chuckles sheepishly. “Yes, ma’am.”
The door opens a moment later and he shuffles past the desk with the relieved smile of someone who has survived both a lecture and a diagnosis. “Judith’s keeping me in line.” He tips his hat and continues his slow progression toward the exit.
Judith appears in the doorway behind him, sliding her glasses into the pocket of her blouse. She moves with that quiet efficiency she’s always had in the clinic, the calm certainty of someone who has spent half her life telling people what their bodies are doing and how to fix them.
“I’ll take the next one,” I say, already pushing my chair back.
She lifts a hand before I can stand. “Already did. Follow-up.”
Of course she did.
She disappears down the hall toward the supply room, her steps steady against the old wood floor.
The bell over the clinic door jingles while I’m finishing the last line of a patient chart.
I glance up automatically, expecting someone from the usual mix of fishermen, kids with scraped knees, or someone who waited too long to deal with a cough.
Instead, Dan steps through the doorway, bringing the smell of sun-warmed pine and fresh sap with him.
His T-shirt clings to his chest and stomach in damp patches from the July heat, the thin cotton outlining the broad shoulders and solid muscle he’s somehow managed to hold onto well into his fifties.
Thirty years together and that still catches my eye sometimes.
Behind him Tom closes the door with a quiet push of his hand. The bell gives one last soft note before the room settles again. Right. The trail. Dan mentioned at breakfast that he and Tom were heading up the ridge to clear the storm damage.
For a moment I simply watch them walk toward the desk. Thirty years of marriage makes a man’s movements as familiar as your own reflection. The slight roll of Dan’s shoulders. The stubborn tilt of his chin when he’s about to pretend nothing is wrong.
He stops in front of the counter and pushes his cap back. “Afternoon, Mel.”
Something about the way he says it makes the back of my neck prickle. I push my chair back to stand, and the wheels catch the edge of the mat. The chair shoots backward harder than I expect and slams into the old archive chest behind me with a hollow bang.
Dan winces at the noise.
Not because of the chair.
Because he knows exactly what it means.
I come around the desk and that’s when I see the blood soaking through the torn left sleeve of his shirt from elbow to wrist. My stomach drops hard enough that I have to grab the edge of the desk for a second.
“What did you do?”
Dan glances down at his arm like he’s just noticed it. Thirty years together and he still pretends injuries appear out of thin air instead of admitting he pushed too hard.
“Just a scrape.”
Of course. I barely refrain from rolling my eyes. When men catch the flu, they act like they’re dying, but they can lose a limb and call it a scratch.
He lifts the sleeve a little higher and peers at the blood like it’s mildly inconvenient. “If you’re busy,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, “I can probably rinse it out and wrap it myself.”
I stare at him. “You walked into my clinic bleeding.”
“Technically I walked him in.” Tom lets the door swing shut. The bell gives one last soft chime before the room settles again.
His gaze moves from Dan’s arm to me. It lingers a fraction too long.
Something in my body answers before I can stop it.
Heat flashes low and sudden, sharp enough to steal my breath.
My pulse kicks hard, not just from the adrenaline or the situation, there’s something else layered underneath it.
It settles deep and spreads, and it’s impossible to ignore.
It’s something to worry about later. Right now, I have a patient to look after. I turn toward the hallway. “Exam room.”
Dan follows without argument. Tom closes the distance behind him. Once inside, his hand settles on Dan’s shoulder. “Sit.”
The word hits low and immediate, and my body reacts before I can brace for it. The heat tightens my core, my breathing catches, and something inside me pulls toward the authority in it.
I go still and lock my knees against following Tom’s order.
Dan doesn’t.
His shoulders shift under Tom’s hand, subtle but there, his breath changing just enough to give him away. I can see the same pull, mirrored in my husband’s expression and body language.
Dan settles on the edge of the exam table without argument.
I shake the thoughts away and pull gloves from the box, forcing my hands to steady. Training slides into place like armor. “Let’s see the damage.”
Dan rolls his sleeve up. The fabric sticks briefly where the blood has dried before peeling away.
A jagged length of spruce branch, thick as two fingers, is embedded in his forearm like the tree decided to keep part of him. For half a second I forget how to breathe.
Then training takes over. “Did the tree start the fight,” I ask, reaching for the saline, “or did you?”
Dan grimaces faintly. “Log shifted.”
Tom folds his arms across his chest and leans against the counter. “He tried to stop it.”
Dan shoots him a look. “It was rolling straight at you.”
Tom’s eyebrow lifts. “I’m flattered you think I’m that slow.”
I rinse the wound and watch the saline carry the blood away in thin pink streams that run into the tray. The branch of spruce sticks out of Dan’s forearm at an ugly angle, bark dark and slick where it disappears into the flesh. He studies the ceiling like it suddenly became fascinating.
“You clean this before coming in?” I ask.
“We came straight here.”
Relief loosens something in my chest.
“Good. Last thing I need is you making it worse. You didn’t try to pull it out, right?”
“Nope.” Tom’s answer rolls through the room, low enough that I feel it more than hear it.
I glance up before I can stop myself. He stands near the counter with that same easy stillness he carried into the clinic, big shoulders relaxed, watching without hovering.
Somehow the room feels steadier with him there.
I look back down at Dan’s arm.
“Don’t move yet.”
He snorts softly. “It’s a stick, Mel.”
“Dan.”
That one word is enough. He falls quiet.
I take his wrist and turn his hand slightly so I can see his fingers.
“Move them.”
His brows knit, but he does it. Fingers curl slowly into a fist, then stretch open again.
“Again.”
He repeats the motion.
Good.
I press lightly along the muscle of his forearm, watching his face as much as the wound.
“Any numbness?”
“No.”
“Pain when I press here?”
He shakes his head.
“Good,” I murmur, more to myself than to him. “You missed the important parts.”
Tom steps closer.
“Hold him steady,” I say without looking up.
He moves immediately. One hand settles on Dan’s shoulder, the other wrapping around his upper arm just above the elbow. His grip is firm but calm, anchoring the arm in place.
Dan glances at him. “You enjoying this?”
Tom’s mouth tilts. “More than you are.”
I grip the branch with the forceps. “This part’s going to hurt.”
Dan snorts. “Mel, I’ve been married to you thirty years. I know the drill.”
I pull.
The wood slides free with a wet sound and blood wells immediately from the hole it leaves behind.
Dan’s fingers tighten on the edge of the table. He doesn’t make a sound, but I know that tension. I’ve seen it in a hundred quiet moments over the years.
“There we go,” I murmur, dropping the chunk of spruce into the tray.
Fresh blood runs down Dan’s arm the moment the branch comes free. I grab the irrigation syringe and flush the wound mercilessly, forcing saline deep into the puncture. Diluted red swirls into the basin along with flecks of bark and dirt. “Hold still,” I tell him.
Dan exhales slowly. “Trying.”
Behind him, Tom’s grip tightens slightly where his hand braces Dan’s upper arm above the elbow, steadying the limb while I keep flushing until the water runs clear.
I lean closer and study the puncture, gauging depth and angle while my mind runs through what I already checked.
Fingers moved. Wrist moved. No numbness.
No loss of strength. Good signs. “You’re lucky,” I tell him, reaching for fresh gauze to blot the edges of the wound.
“If you’d hit muscle, your hand wouldn’t be moving like that. ”
Dan flexes his fingers again as if proving the point. “Yeah, just a scratch.”
“Right—” I try not to roll my eyes, opening the suture kit— “but you’re still getting stitches. And antibiotics.”
He groans. “All that for a scratch?”
“Yes.” Tom’s voice comes quiet and certain from just above him. “Be a good boy.”
Dan turns his head slowly toward him, but Tom doesn’t look away. “You’re done working today.” The words aren’t loud, but they settle into the room like something solid being set down.
Dan studies him for a moment, then exhales and leans back on his hands while I begin stitching the wound closed. “Bossy,” he mutters.
Tom’s shoulder lifts in an easy shrug. “Someone has to be.”
I swab the skin around the puncture and draw the lidocaine into the syringe.
“This part will sting,” I tell Dan. He grunts in acknowledgment while Tom keeps his arm steady.
The needle slides in just beside the wound and I inject slowly, raising a small pale swelling beneath the skin.
Dan’s jaw tightens for a moment, then eases as the numbing takes hold.
When I test the area with the tip of the forceps, he barely reacts.
“Good,” I murmur, threading the needle holder and setting the first stitch.
The needle curves cleanly through the skin, pulling the edges of the wound together.
Tom remains steady behind him, one hand still bracing Dan’s arm, the other resting lightly on his shoulder like a quiet anchor while I place the next stitch and then another.
I tie off the last stitch and clean the skin before wrapping a fresh bandage around Dan’s forearm. “You’ll also need a tetanus booster,” I add while securing the gauze.
Dan groans again, but Tom’s thumb presses lightly into the muscle of his shoulder. “Behave.”
Dan sighs and tips his head back toward the ceiling. “Yes, sir.”
The words settle into the quiet room, and something shifts inside my chest. For years I’ve been the one making sure Dan slowed down, took his medicine, rested when he should.
Watching him accept the correction from Tom so easily sends a strange ripple through me.
Apparently, I’m not the only one holding everything together anymore.
Tears prick the backs of my eyes, and I swallow hard.