Karen Templeton - Saving Dr. Ryan

“Oh, Lord. Then you would be in trouble.”

Ryan shrugged, took a swig of coffee, downed another forkful of egg.

“Of course, you could get yourself a wife instead, you know.”

Yeah, well, he’d figured that was coming. “You applyin’ for the job?”

“Don’t be fresh.”

He almost grinned. The caffeine must be kicking in. Not to mention the food. After a gulp of the juice, he said, “Anyway, if I don’t have the money or the charm for a housekeeper, how in tarnation am I supposed to take care of a wife?”

Of course, both of them knew the problem went much deeper than that, although Ivy had flat-out told Ryan his objections were nothing but bunk more times than he’d care to remember. For some reason, though, judging from her squinty eyes—which meant she was more carefully considering her response than she was normally prone to do—this was apparently not going to be one of those times. He’d no sooner breathed an inward sigh of relief, however, when she slammed into him from another angle.

“Well, I don’t suppose I can do much to shake the stranger-in-your-kitchen business,” she said. “But there’s no earthly reason you should be having money problems, and you know it. You got enough patients to keep three doctors busy, and most of those who don’t pay private have insurance or Medicare or something. The house is free and clear, you don’t have any dependents and you went to school on scholarship, so there’s no school loans to pay back. So what gives?”

“Criminy, Ivy!” So much for his better mood. Still chewing, Ryan lifted his bleary gaze to hers. How other folks survived morning conversations was beyond him. “What lit your fire this morning?”

With a loud sigh, she dropped onto the chair opposite him, rubbing the baby’s back. “I’m worried about you, is all. Figured that fell to me when your mama died. She’d be all over your case, and you know it.”

This, he didn’t need. On top of having people cluttering up his kitchen, a woman he didn’t quite know what to do with in his guest room and a practice that kept him running ragged but close to the poverty line at the same time, Ivy’s reminding him about his mother was just one straw too many.

Yes, Mary Logan certainly would be on his case. Not to mention his brothers’ as well. When it came to getting their acts together, lifewise and lovewise, all three of her sons seemed to have struck out. And for a woman who’d preached the family unit as the bedrock of civilization the way she did—and lived it, to boot—her sons’ disastrous records would have sent her to her grave, if cancer hadn’t done the job first when Hank and Cal were still in their teens.

The family had drifted apart after her death, like a solar system without its sun. Not so much physically—all three of them were right there in Haven—but emotionally. And Big Hank, their father, hadn’t seemed to know how to bind up the wounds, either. Had too many of his own to tend to, would be Ryan’s guess. Wounds from which he never fully recovered. The old man simply faded into himself, little by little, quietly dying in his sleep five years after his wife’s passing.

Mama would have given them all hell, if not the back of her hand, for giving in like that. For giving up. And Ivy, who’d been Mary’s best friend, had simply taken up their mother’s cause. One day, Ryan supposed, he’d appreciate it.

One day. Not this morning. Not when the events of the last few hours seemed hell-bent on rattling him to kingdom come.

So he impaled a sausage, waved it at her. “Do me a favor, Ivy—stick to midwifery. Which reminds me…the Lewis baby turned yet?”

“Yesterday, thank you, so no, I don’t need you, and you’re changing the subject.”

He stuffed the whole sausage in his mouth, mumbled, “Damn straight,” around it.

Ivy let out a little sigh of her own, shifted the dozing infant to a more secure position on her shoulder. “You know she’s got to stay here, don’t you?”

His plate clean, Ryan kicked back the last of his juice, got up to carry his dishes to the sink. “I’m hardly going to turn the woman and her kids out, Ivy.”

“I know that. But I figured you’d probably try to find someplace else for her to stay.”

He shook his head, washing up his few dishes, then started in on the griddle and skillet. “No. At least not for the next week or so. I want to keep an eye on her. And the baby.”

“And then?”

Yeah, well, that was what was making the eggs and sausage do somersaults in his stomach, wasn’t it? “I don’t know. She tell you she’s kin to Ned McAllister?”

Ivy heavy brows lifted. “No. How?”

“Her husband’s great-uncle.”

She angled her head. “And her husband is…?”

“Dead.” Ryan took a moment to let some of the anger burn off, then said, “Jerk left her with nothing.”

“Oh…that poor thing.”

Ryan turned to Ivy, wiping his hands in a dishtowel. “You saw the scars?”

Ivy sighed. “The father?”

“According to Maddie. I see no reason not to believe her.”

That was worth several seconds’ clucking. “Life’s thrown some real curve balls at that young woman.”

Ryan couldn’t disagree there. He glanced up at the clock, grabbed his jacket from where he’d dumped it earlier over the back of the kitchen chair.

“Where you goin’?”

“Over to Hank’s to pick up whatever Maddie’s left in her room.”

“Think he’ll be up for a visitor this early?”

“Ask me if I care,” Ryan said, punching one arm through his jacket sleeve. “I’ve got office hours starting at eight-thirty, and I figure Ms. Kincaid just might like her clothes before six o’clock this evening.”

Hank greeted him barechested and scowling, his jeans unsnapped. A toothbrush dangled out of his mouth; comb tracks sliced his dark, wet hair. Eighteen months older, two inches taller and twenty-five pounds heavier than Ryan, Hank Logan was what some folks might call “imposing.” Others bypassed niceties and went straight for “scary.” And with good reason. Nothing pretty about that mug of his, that was for damn sure, every feature sharp, uncompromising, anchored by a twice-broken nose that made a person think real carefully before disagreeing with him. Everything about Hank Logan said, “Don’t mess,” and most folks didn’t.

Which led a lot of people to wondering what on earth had possessed the guy to buy a beat-up, run-down, sorry-assed old motel and go into the hospitality business.

Hank had been a cop in Dallas, up until a couple years ago, when his fiancée had died in a convenience store robbery gone to hell. And so had Hank. The force shrinks had finally convinced him he needed to take some time off before facing the world again with a gun strapped to his hip. So Hank had come home on a six-month leave. But, while Ryan had his practice, and Cal, their youngest brother, the family horse farm to look after, Hank had been suddenly left with nothing.

Until this motel.

He never got back to Dallas.

Hank took one look at Ryan and swore, the effect somehow not all that intimidating around a mouth full of toothpaste suds. “She had the baby?”

“I won’t even ask you how you figured that out.”

“Hell, Ry—” Hank ducked back inside his apartment adjacent to the office, a hellhole if ever there was one, and strode back to the bathroom. Ryan followed, shutting the door behind him. As usual, some opera singer was holding forth from the CD player.

“She was in her ninth month,” Hank was saying over the sound of running water and an emotionally distraught soprano. “Her car’s not here this morning. And you are. Doesn’t take a genius.”

Ryan, however, hadn’t really heard that last part, fascinated—in a ghoulish kind of way—with the state of his brother’s apartment. The only refined thing about it was the music. While none of the Logan brothers would win any housekeeping awards, from the looks, and smell, of things, Hank seemed determined to see just how bad his place could get before it ignited from spontaneous combustion. Layers of dirty clothes, moldering fast food containers as far as the eye could see, dishes stacked like drunken acrobats in the sink—the place redefined dump.