Chapter Four

Doc

Fuck. This is a complication I didn't need. I came up here to get away from everything. Well, except the satellite phone McCabe ordered me keep close at all times.

In an emergency, I can be back in Seattle in under two hours. But I had to escape the city. Be alone. Get my head on straight.

Yet all I can think about as I set up my tent is the woman who runs this place.

Nat.

Is that short for Natalie? Natalia? Natasha?

Why do I need to know? I had my shot at happiness. Tessa's gone, and I'm not looking to start anything—with anyone. The last stake sinks into the ground, and I push to my feet, glancing out over the water.

Summer in the Pacific Northwest is beautiful. The first leaves have just started to tinge burnt orange. Days are still hot, but the temperature drops into the sixties at night. Perfect for sleeping.

I unfold the small map Nat gave me. One of the allures of this resort? It borders a large, forested area of the island. Campers are encouraged to chop their own firewood, take the canoes out on the Sound, dig Razor clams on the beaches on the other side of the island, and hike the various trails up into the hills.

Tucking my axe into my belt loop, I grab a canvas wood tote and head up the trail. After half a mile, I'm drenched. The sun warms my bare arms and the back of my neck. God, I've needed this. I've been spiraling for weeks—months even.

A handful of trees are marked with white tags as safe to cut. Most are around six feet tall, three to six inches thick. A little farther along the trail, saplings dot the hillside. They'll be ready to cut in a couple of years.

Does Nat plant them? Or does she hire one of the locals?

I shouldn't care. I'm here to reclaim some of my sanity. Not obsess about a woman who barely let me see her eyes. But that single glimpse was everything. In those gray irises, I found a whole world. Pain, loneliness, need. All the same emotions I see in the mirror every day.

Enough. You're not a good bet, and she's clearly not looking for anything.

Returning to the marked trees, I choose my target. Impact sings up my arms with each strike. The physical labor clears the cobwebs from deep in my soul.

McCabe's team has been healthy the past few months. I shouldn't wish otherwise. But damn. I'm bored. Working at the free medical clinic down in Georgetown a few days a week keeps me from diving head first into a bottle, but it's nothing like the frenetic pace of an ER. Or the constant adrenaline rush I used to get as a PJ.

But with how I left Harborview—how I was forced to leave—the ER is as much of a fantasy as kissing Nat.

"You're drunk!" Elias grabs my arm before I can open my locker.

I shake off his grip. "I checked my blood alcohol level before I left the house. A point-oh-four is not drunk."

He gapes at me. "You checked your blood alcohol level?"

Well, fuck. That was a mistake.

Elias shakes his head. "You knowingly drove here, while impaired, with the intention of treating patients. I knew you were struggling, Doc. Hell, I don't fucking blame you. But this is the third time you've come in hungover. How much longer until you make a mistake and someone dies?"

Sinking down onto the bench, I drop my head into my hands. I've gotten sloppy. I don't tell Elias that the reason I even have a breathalyzer is so I could figure out exactly how much I could drink—and when—without risking driving drunk. For a year, I was careful. Blew a zero point zero every time. But the anniversary of Tessa's death sent me over the edge.

"I'll get help," I say softly. The headache still thrums behind my eyes. My sour stomach gurgles. Scotch doesn't make for a proper dinner. "I need this job, Elias."

"And I need doctors I can trust." Elias crosses his arms over his chest and sighs heavily. "You're fired, Doc. I'm sorry. You were great doctor—still are most of the time. But I can't take the chance that one day, you come in with a point-oh-eight and kill someone. This is unforgivable."

Elias could have reported me to the medical board. Gotten my license revoked completely. But he didn't. I never asked why. Still, there's no way the hospital will hire me back. I don't blame them.

Camping is the latest in a long line of activities I've tried to stave off the boredom. White-water rafting, mountain biking, bungee jumping, paragliding, rock climbing, scuba… They all worked. For a time. But too soon, the excitement wears off and I start eyeing the bottle once more.

I pile the branches in the center of the tote, then spend an hour foraging for twigs and leaves to use as kindling. The hiking trails tempt me, but if I want to eat tonight, I need to get a move on.

Nat's no longer on the boathouse deck—thank God—but the older woman with the obscene t-shirt is, and she gives me the once over as I climb the steps.

"So, are you a real doctor? Or do you just call yourself ‘Doc' to get in the ladies' pants?" she asks.

I should ignore her. I do ignore her until I find a set of paddles inside the immaculately clean building. When I slip back through the door, though, she's blocking my path.

"I asked you a question, young man."

She's a tiny thing. Frail, even. But there's fire in her eyes. And in the profanity emblazoned across her chest. I need to get out on the water and catch something for dinner—unless I want to go to bed hungry—but Ms. "Fuck Me Sideways" isn't going to let me pass without raising hell.

"I'm a real doctor, ma'am."

"Gladys," she snaps. "No one calls me ‘ma'am.'"

With a nod, I try to bypass her, but Gladys widens her stance.

"Not so fast, Doc. I got some more questions for you."

This isn't what I signed up for. The online ad promised an escape from civilization. Or at least the pressures of everyday life.

"Each campsite has a full half-acre of land. Relax knowing you won't encounter a single soul—unless you want to."

So much for the Blakely Island Resort guarantee.

"Gladys, I didn't come here to chat. So if you don't mind…"

"I do mind, Dr. Doc Reynolds. Why are you out here all alone a few days before a holiday weekend?" She stares me down—or up, as she can't be more than five feet tall—and clucks her tongue three times. "You've got a story."

"Everyone has a story, ma'am—Gladys. Mine isn't a topic for polite conversation."

"Do I look like I engage in polite conversation?" She cackles, her head thrown back and her hands jammed on her hips. "You can't be a doctor. You're blind as a bat."

"I'm not. But I don't like to make assumptions about people, Gladys. Though, I suppose I should have taken your shirt as a warning."

Another deep, almost crazed laugh, and she slaps my back so hard, it stings. "You are a goddamned hoot. Now sit down. I'll get you a beer and we can talk."

"Thank you for the offer, ma'am, but if I don't get out on the Sound in the next hour, I'll be eating sand for dinner."

Her lips twist into a scowl, but she steps aside. "We're not done with this conversation, Doc. I don't have anything better to do but sit on this deck and wait. So one of these days…you're gonna talk to me."

Her stare follows me as I rush down the path to the campsite. Great. The last thing I need is a busybody grandmother trying to "figure me out." I'll have to stay away from the boathouse during the day. I can return the oars well after dark.

The canoe is sturdy enough, and I paddle to a beach on the other side of the island. The Razor clam season just started, and in half an hour, I have a solid pound of clams in my bucket. Enough for the night, and just in time as the sun has started dipping toward the horizon.

The trek back to the campsite is against the tide, and by the time I beach the canoe, I'm wiped.

It's another two hours before I finally sit down next to the fire pit. The grill basket with half a dozen clams and two skewers of veggies sizzles over the flames.

This is exactly what I needed. A day of intense activity. Fresh air. Remembering some of the survival skills I haven't had to use in years. I sweep my gaze around me. Puget Sound is mostly dark, a single ferry chugging along in the distance. Stars glitter in the sky—so many more than back in Seattle. There isn't much light pollution out here, and it reminds me of the first time I really looked up at the sky in Afghanistan. We'd been in country for three weeks. Almost died half a dozen times, but that night, I glanced up, and it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

A light winks on at the top of the hill. Is that a house? I hadn't noticed it earlier. I fish my binoculars out of my ruck and dial in the focus.

Nat steps through a pair of french doors out onto a small deck, a mug in one hand. Her fingers comb through her dark hair, and she leans an elbow on the railing.

Look away, asshole. You're not a stalker.

But I can't. She's gorgeous. Something about her calls to me in a way I don't understand.

"You don't know the basics, you're on your own."

I never considered I might have a degradation kink, but Nat's dismissal—along with her sexy as fuck voice—might be a sign I actually do.

Fucking hell. I have to stay away from her. She's probably been hit on by every single guy who's come to the resort, and I'm not looking for anything.

My dick disagrees with me. It's been six years since it last touched anything but my own hand. Six years since I felt…anything. For anyone.

The first whiff of burnt onion hits my nose. Fuck. This is what I get for not paying attention to the fire—and my dinner. I toss the binoculars back into the tent and ease the grill basket away from the flames. The clams are a little singed, and the onions are nothing more than soot. But the carrots and mushrooms I brought with me from Seattle are still edible.

I was going to eat under the stars, but if I stay out here, I'll be tempted to spend the entire night staring up at Nat's house, hoping for one more glimpse of her. Or worse. Wondering what I could legitimately need that would let me give her a call.

Three Weeks Later

Streaks of purple and red turn the sky into an impressionist painting. Curled in a chair on my deck, I try to pull my gaze from the man stacking a load of freshly chopped wood at his campsite. But it's no use.

The handsome doctor—Gladys was only too happy to tell me she'd confirmed Doc wasn't just a nickname—booked the same campsite every Monday through Wednesday for the rest of the season. I almost asked Clancy to move him somewhere else—anywhere else—but then I'd have to explain myself and what the hell would I say?

He's too good looking?

He's too quiet?

He's too distracting?

That's probably the closest to the truth.

He's built. But with just a little bit of softness that says he's not one of those guys who lives at the gym. His biceps though…I could watch him wield an axe all day long. And have for longer than I want to admit. I may have followed him into the woods last week—from a discrete distance—to see him chop wood.

He starts working on the fire. The man is precise. Old school. Small sticks and twigs arranged in a ring. Then leaves, pine needles. He strikes a piece of flint with a folding knife. The first sparks catch in seconds, and he adds a couple of larger branches. Before long, he sinks into a camp chair and starts gutting a plump salmon. He must have caught a ride on one of the trawlers out of the marina earlier today. You can't land a fish like that in the canoe.

"Nat?" Gladys calls and shuffles around the side of the house. "You here?"

I sink lower in the chair. Too late. She's already climbing the steep flight of stairs with a large, lidded casserole dish tucked under her arm. "I made too much lasagna. Don't want it to go to waste."

Gladys always makes too much lasagna. And chicken soup. And potato salad. And brownies.

"I'll get the drinks," I say with a sigh. "And plates."

"Good. Because this is my best batch in a year, and it's still hot." She nudges one of the deck chairs with her foot and slides the casserole dish onto the table. We do this dance once a week—at least—and somehow, I always end up with the leftovers. Convenient, since I hate cooking and try to do it as little as possible.

By the time I return with plates, silverware, and two bottles of beer, Gladys is leaning on the railing, staring down at the campsite below.

"He can see you," I mutter. "Sit down."

"I'm allowed to look." She accepts the bottle of Hefeweizen and downs a healthy swig. "And you're allowed to touch."

"Oh my God. No. We are not having this conversation. Did you reschedule your visit with Bella?"

Gladys shuffles back over to the table. "She's coming up this weekend."

The rich, spicy scent of tomato sauce and melted cheese waft up from the dish between us. My stomach growls, loudly. I spent the day cleaning all six cabins to prepare for the holiday weekend, and I'm wiped. Gladys slides the spoon from my hand and clucks her tongue at me.

"Sit your ass down before you fall over, baby girl. Did you eat anything today?"

I scowl at her. "Oatmeal. A granola bar around noon. The last renters in the Lopez cabin practically destroyed the kitchen. And don't get me started on what they left in the hot tub."

Gladys chuckles and sets a generous serving of lasagna in front of me. "Worse than the Fourth of July last year?"

"Much." I shudder. Clancy banned those folks for life. But somehow, I think this weekend will be even worse.

"I'm going to Anacortes tomorrow for supplies. You comin' with me?" Gladys asks.

I cover my flinch by shoving a bite of lasagna in my mouth. I shouldn't. Every time I go to the mainland, I run the risk of leaving a footprint. Or running into someone who'll recognize me. I have no idea if Bastian still has people looking for me. After all, he shouldn't be able to buy friendships from inside Leavenworth. But if his little cadre of shitheads are still out there—still alive—I'd be a fool to let myself get caught on a security camera.

If only the deep freeze in the basement weren't almost empty. I haven't been off the island in two months. And if Bella is coming to visit, Gladys probably needs to stock up on…well…everything. She can't haul all that shit herself.

I tip the bottle of beer to my lips. It's my last one, and this weekend, the temperature is supposed to hit ninety.

With a sigh, I dab my lips with a napkin. "I'll drive. But you're paying for the gas."

Her triumphant smile should piss me off. It does, on some level. But Gladys is more than my only friend. She's two parts surrogate grandmother and one part older sister who gets off on being a bad influence. And she's fun. I don't have a lot of fun.

"Did you talk to Clancy about getting an internet connection?" she asks through a mouthful of cheesy goodness.

I shake my head. "Don't need one. Yours is good enough for me."

"Baby girl, I won't be around forever. You know that."

A sudden wave of panic twists my stomach. "Gladys? Is something?—"

"No, no, no." She waves her hand—with the fork—around and gives me her biggest smile. "I'm healthy as a whole herd of horses. Went to the doctor a month ago and he confirmed it." With a wink, she glances down at the campground. "I should see if Mr. Silver Fox is taking on new patients. Or you should."

"Don't need a doctor," I mumble into my beer. In truth, it's been five years since I even had a checkup, and that was at a free clinic in Boise.

"You need something. Or…someone." Gladys reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers. Her veins stand out dramatically against her paper-thin, wrinkled skin. "I worry about you, Nat."

"I'm fine?—"

"You're not. Do you know why I'm either at the boathouse or sittin' in the courtyard by the general store every single day?"

"So you won't have to be in that big house all alone?" I ask.

Gladys's eyes shimmer for a breath before she blinks her tears away. "That's part of it. There's so much of Donald there, some days, it hurts. But mostly, I make myself get up and go somewhere because no one should spend all their time alone. Have you talked to anyone this week who wasn't stayin' at the resort?"

She already knows the answer. So when I keep my mouth shut, she clucks her tongue and sighs. "That's what I thought. You're too young to wither away and die here, Nat. It's time you do somethin' about that."