Chapter 4

Chapter

Four

Dr. Sumner Delano

"No one is humoring you, Dr. Hamilton, I promise." I sit in the chair beside his cot and place my hand on his chest to keeping from sitting up. "I think we're talking at cross purposes."

"Maybe my injury is affecting my memories, but I promise, I am who I say I am."

"Of course you are." He's breathing too fast and his heart rate is going like a Tommy Gun. I need him to calm down. "You had a bad night."

He relaxes fractionally and runs fingers over his face. "Is my nose broken?"

"No." Lucas doesn't take my word for it. He winces when he checks for himself.

"It feels swollen. How does it look?"

It's probably best if he doesn't know. "Your face is puffy, and you have some deep bruising. But don't worry. Two of my nurses have already agreed you're the bee's knees, and the third isn't here yet. I'm certain she'll concur."

He swallows hard. "Where are we?"

"Boise City, in the Oklahoma panhandle. Welcome to No Man's Land. Where do you think you should be?" I'm getting a bad feeling about this.

"Santa Fe." His eyes widen. "I live in Santa Fe, New Mexico."

We're a long way from Santa Fe. "Do you think you had a car accident or got turned around in one of the dusters?"

He frowns. "The what?"

Are we speaking different languages? "The dust storms that have chased anyone with brains away from this part of the country. I just got to the area, to be honest. I can't say how you got here from Santa Fe, but you were injured, severely dehydrated, and delirious."

He goes quiet, and still, so I'm not ready when he removes his IV. He stares at the needle before trying to swing his legs over the side of the bed.

What does he think he's doing? He's bleeding. Doctors are lousy patients, but this one wins the blue ribbon. "Wait. Let me have a look at that."

"If this is some kind of prank, it's in really poor taste." He pushes me away and tries to rise. Behind me, Rose gasps.

"What do you think you're doing?" She rushes over to help.

"I—"

"Lie down this instant." Rose is not to be trifled with. "You can't get up in your condition. Your arm is bleeding ." She helps me push him to the bed and gets to work bandaging his wound.

He grips my arm. "Doctor Delano, I've got to get home. Sophie's just a kid. She needs me."

Our patient is a stubborn ass. "We can let her know you're all right."

"Ow." He squeezes his eyes shut. "Someone is playing kettledrums between my temples."

"You stay put." Rose uses both hands to pin him in place. Tougher than she looks, that one.

"What do you say we call the pastor's wife?" I smooth the covers over him. "I'll bet Mrs. Andersen can have someone in Santa Fe look after your girl until you're ready to leave."

"You don't understand." He looks through us as if we're not there. "I need to go back to the carnival grounds. I have to find my car. I have to go home."

"Dr. Hamilton," I use my serious voice. "You are in no shape to drive."

"I'm fine," he argues. "I have a daughter to check on and patients to look after. So I'm bruised and dehydrated. I know what I'm doing. I can't just lie around while Sophie's all alone."

Rose gives a put-upon sigh. "Doctors are horrible patients."

"That's a fact," I agree.

"Please. Just get me to my car and I'll get out of your hair." His pupils seem dilated but they react to light so I'm not worried. If he has a concussion, it's mild. "Your very soft, very shiny silver hair."

I'm surprised speechless. Rose tries to hide her laughter.

"Did I say that out loud?" A flush creeps up Hamilton's neck.

"Son," My cheeks heat too. Is he flirting with me with a nurse around? "You need to?—"

"Don't call me son. I'm almost forty." He narrows his eyes. "And your hair is a blatant lie. You're barely older than I am. Admit it."

"I will not admit any such thing." I glance up to see Rose smirking.

"I'm going, and you can't stop me. Let me up." Our determined patient takes a breath, sits up, and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Rose is getting ready to tackle him, but I wave her off. Sometimes it's best to let a patient learn the hard way.

It takes him another full minute to stand, and though he looks like he's in pain, he's not backing down

"You've got grit, anyway." I kind of admire his gumption.

"Where are my clothes?"

I steady him on one side while Rose takes the other. She mutters something about fools and lunatics.

"Yes, well. I take my responsibilities seriously." Dr. Hamilton seems unconcerned that he's only wearing his skivvies. Rose gets an eyeful of his long, lean body, toned musculature, and smooth chest. He's like a magazine ad for muscle men.

"Is that a tattoo?" Rose isn't the only one looking their fill. I tilt my head and read the words inked down his ribcage: It's a beautiful day to save lives. "That's an interesting choice."

"It's from Grey's Anatomy ."

"I don't remember ever seeing that in?—"

"I have ink on my ankle, too." He extends his foot and shows me what looks to be a graph from an EKG. The thick black line goes all the way around his ankle, against splashes of rainbow colors.

"That's…wonderful." I can't believe I didn't notice it, but it was so dark, and I was concerned with making him comfortable. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

He nods. "I'm in some pain, but I'm fine."

"You're mule-headed, you know that?" I pick up his shirt and play valet for him. "I don't want you making things worse. You may go, Rose. I'll help our patient dress."

Rose leaves the room.

"She's interesting." He only bothers with two buttons before he rolls his cuffs.

I kneel in front of him. It's not uncomfortable. Maybe because he blurted that he likes my hair, but I'm swamped with images of another man, another tryst. Hamilton doesn't look at me as he lifts each leg so I can get his feet into his trousers. I stand to pull the fabric to his hips. Our eyes meet and hold as he zips himself in and fastens the button.

My breathing quickens until he blinks and looks away.

I swallow hard.

"Those seem rather…tight." Did he borrow someone's trousers off a clothesline?

He lifts a shoulder. "Sophie says I'm too old for skinny leg trousers, but relaxed fit—or God forbid, pleated trousers—make me look like my dad. All I'd need is a Todd Snyder golf polo and a pair of aviators."

"A pair of what?" I reach out to help him with the rest of his buttons. Our fingers brush, and my heart leaps against my ribs. It's been a long time since a man interested me, much less made me shiver like Lucas does. It's' not his looks, or his class or his education that draws me in. It's the way he looks at me. Direct. Focused. Thoroughly unashamed. As if he's never had to hide his attraction to men. It makes me feel hot inside, makes my stomach tingle. I want it to last, but I don't want Rose or the other girls see my reaction.

"Pretend I'm making sense." He winces, but I can't tell what's wrong. Is it me? Have I been too obvious? He puts his hand over his ribs. "Ow. Shit."

"What hurts?"

"Everything. Everywhere." He steps back but doesn't break eye contact.

"I shouldn't give you aspirin until I know for certain your concussion is?—"

He glances away. "Not your problem, Dr. Delano. I appreciate all you've done for me, but I'll be out of your hair in no time."

My cheeks heat. "My very soft, very shiny silver hair?"

His blushes adorably. "Shut up."

He seems reluctant to let go of the wall, so I wrap an arm around his waist to support him.

I doubt either of us is fooled by my unsubtle urge to hold him. His hair smells like oranges, Beneath the odor of unwashed body and sick, I get a hint of his cologne—spice and vanilla and something dark, like pipe tobacco. I want to be angry, because it's as if he was created just for me, delivered to my infirmary, gifted to me by the gods, and I can't have him. I can't keep him.

Rose and I take him through the clinic and out to the street, where we lean him against the front door. A brisk breeze is blowing dust and debris over the sidewalk. Already, I know the difference between blowing dust and the grit that gets picked up when the winds quicken. Grit stings.

Rose puts her hand up to shield her eyes.

"Go back inside, Rose." I blink before putting on dark glasses like some film star. I need to see about getting the staff goggles. And masks. Gas masks. I wonder….

A fat tumbleweed passes in front of us like the animated skeletal remains of the Russian thistle it used to be. A frisson of apprehension travels down my spine. Maybe it's the static electricity I've been warned about. Maybe it's the fact that nothing makes sense about my strange, colorful patient, who is barely holding himself together as he eyes the street with apprehension.

"Are you certain you're fit to leave?" I give him one last chance to tell me this is a mistake. If he's truly a physician, he knows how damaged his body is. He knows he shouldn't be trying to leave the infirmary or God forbid, driving a car.

He's pale as a ghost but gives me a nod.

I conceded defeat. "Wait here while I pull my car around."

On my way around the building, I simmer with irritation. I treated a lot of men like him during the war. Whether they believed it was their moral duty to return to their brothers in arms or they worried their families would be disappointed in them, they were obtuse and aggravating when prevented from doing too much, too soon.

If only I had a penny for every stubborn man I met during that Godawful war…

I can't very well keep Dr. Hamilton in his bed, though the way he looked at me while I was on my knees makes me think he might not mind in different circumstances. The last time a man looked at me like we might have uncommon desires in common was ages ago. I haven't wanted anyone since then, not because I don't have needs, but because I still remember a time when I had someone—when I loved someone—so much that even his death couldn't make me consider anyone else. I'm a widower in my heart. I haven't wanted another man.

Could a pair of fine hazel eyes attached to a good-looking patient make me rethink the policy of a lifetime? This conjecture is only because he's clearly inclined my way and he's bold enough to show it. Outside of the usual clubs and bohemian social cliques, I know of few men so candid. But that doesn't mean I should be. For one thing, he's my patient. For another, he's concussed. Plus at this point, he seems determined to get himself killed.

Dr. Hamilton has the right to leave. He's a grown man who doesn't appear to be mentally deficient. He may also be a victim of violent crime. I can't hold him against his will or I'm no better than the person who did this to him.

I park my car in the alley along with the clinic's ambulance, but the narrow space doesn't make it easy for passengers to get in. I bought the used Dodge when I first arrived in Amarillo by train. I was rather excited about it—a Dodge six, four door model. I can't believe the thick layer of dust already sitting on it. On everything, for that matter. I get in and start her. She gives a nice throaty growl before I put her in gear and drive around the building to pick up Lucas.

I spot Calvin across the street, sweeping the sidewalk outside the movie theater. Calvin offered to do odd jobs for me yesterday. Once I saw the state of him—a dusty scarecrow with eyes that knew what it was like to go to bed hungry—my nurses and I found plenty of things for him to do. We also took several breaks, during which it became necessary to ply him with food.

When I tried to pay him, he insisted that food was plenty. He told me he couldn't take charity. I lied and said it was illegal for me to get local help without paying for it, and Beryl backed me up. The boy accepted my coins after that.

I expect he'll come around regularly, and I imagine he'll bring friends.

I ignore the painted parking spaces and pull up close to the curb in front of the clinic. Later, the slots might fill up. Saturday night is still a good night at the movies, if the signs out front are anything to go by. It looks like they're showing It Happened One Night , a favorite of mine from last year. Clark Gable killed the undershirt industry in that movie. He's probably the reason my patient isn't wearing one. I want to write Mr. Gable a personal thank you.

Speaking of my patient, he hasn't moved from where I left him. He's hurting more than he lets on, but the man makes a fine picture leaning against the door like some bohemian. Of course he's hurting. He shouldn't be standing. It tells me he's driven and thick-headed, and he won't allow himself to fail. I'm known for those traits myself. They're what made me put family money and a guarantee of greased upward mobility aside to attend medical school and volunteer to serve in a war that didn't directly affect me yet.

Dr. Hamilton takes a couple of slow, shuffling steps toward my car. I leave it idling and get out to help him. He's trying to act normal, but he huffs out a breath and his muscles relax as soon as I'm supporting his weight.

"You're being a stubborn ass." I let him lean on me while I open the passenger door.

"Takes one to know one, I guess."

"Touché. Not that your observation will in any way help you get where you want to go."

"I know. But you'll help me because you're a kind and decent man who— Ow." As he sits, he winces.

"Maybe I'm not kind or decent," I say as I help him settle himself. "Maybe I'm a sadist who wants to watch you fall on your ass."

"As long as you help me find my car, it doesn't much matter."

Because I want to give it a good slam, I leave him to close the door between us and whistle for Calvin.