His hearing had become even more acute. The sudden noise from a can opener or electric mixer could send him hiding in his room for hours. Ben could only imagine Ethan’s terror while swinging from a cable beneath a roaring helicopter.
“Hey, buddy,” Ben kept his voice low and nonchalant as he’d been taught by the most recent in a long string of therapists. “It looks like you’re almost patched up and ready to go home.”
“That’s a fact,” the E.R. doctor answered. “This young man needs a few days of rest and he’s got stitches in a couple of places, but he’s otherwise in good shape and quite a brave patient.” The doctor moved aside to give Ben clear access. But two steps closer earned him a threatening growl from a menacing-looking brown dog that stood on long legs in the corner of the room.
“What is that mongrel doing in here?” Ben demanded, backing away. He and dogs were incompatible, like the Cowboys and the 49ers.
The redhead seated beside Ethan’s gurney rose to her feet and gave a brief command. “Simba, down.”
The animal complied. The growling stopped.
“For your edification, Mr. Lamar, Simba’s a full-blooded Rhodesian Ridgeback and since she’s a licensed rescue animal she’s clear to accompany me everywhere I go.”
Color shot through her lovely cheeks, her eyes flashed amber sparks. Ben knew the look of a lioness defending her cub.
“I see. Well, thank you Miss—” he waited.
“Stone. West Texas Rescue.”
“Miss Stone.” He took the hand she extended, and her grip was firm. “Thanks for waiting with Ethan until I got here. Would you mind taking your dog out of the room and rounding up your partner for me? As soon as my son’s released we’ll be going. The sheriff was kind enough to give me a VIP escort and I don’t want to keep them waiting. But I have to thank the guy who performed that incredible air rescue.”
“10-4,” she answered, then whispered something to Ethan that caused him to snicker. “Simba, heel.” The dog obeyed, falling into step beside her mistress with the bedraggled braid.
When the curtain jerked closed behind them the E.R. physician and Ethan both chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Ben asked. It had been a mentally exhausting few days and he was the odd man out in the joke.
“Sir, I think you’re going to owe Doctor Stone an apology.”
“Doctor Stone?”
“Doctor Alison Stone. She’s not only the best child psychotherapist on staff at the medical center, she was the guy hanging from that chopper with Ethan today. It was Alison Stone who rescued your son.”
Chapter Two
Ben hadn’t chased after a woman in a lot of years. A lifetime ago the female football groupies had been plentiful. And certain women had become regulars at his speaking events. Now that a reasonable period of mourning had passed, ladies were overtly showing interest he was still not prepared to return.
But this chasing he was doing today was in the physical sense. The moment Ben realized he’d mistaken Doctor Stone for a general EMT, he’d promised Ethan he would return right away and had taken off down the corridor. A power walk turned to a trot as Ben left the air-conditioned building to be enveloped by the warm Texas afternoon. He darted for the south side of the complex in the direction of the helipad and closed the last fifty yards in an easy sprint, thankful he hadn’t given up running when he’d given up the game.
Two volunteers in familiar jumpsuits stood sentry by the expensive chopper, but there wasn’t a redhead with a big dog in sight.
“Excuse me,” Ben called. “Do either of you know where I can find Doctor Stone?”
One of the men turned to respond, his eyes widened with the recognition Ben had come to expect but never took for granted. “Oh, Mr. Lamar, it’s you. Listen, we’re so grateful things worked out with your son.”
“Thank you.” Ben shook hands with both rescue workers. “I can’t tell you fellas how much I appreciate the incredible job you did getting my boy out of danger.”
“All in a day’s work, sir.” The man whose name tag identified him as Harry shrugged off Ben’s praise. “If you’re lookin’ for the Rock, she and Simba are probably huntin’ down a grassy spot.”
“The Rock?” A play on her last name, maybe? What’s the deal with private jokes today?
“Sorry,” Harry apologized for the confusion that must have shown on Ben’s face. “That’s our nickname for Doc Stone because she’s so solid under pressure, especially if a kid’s involved. She wouldn’t hear of anybody else making that pick up.”
Ben shrunk another few inches. Not only had he insulted the lady’s ability and the pedigree of her animal, he seemed to have insulted her integrity as well.
“Please, guys,” he pleaded. “Don’t take off with Doctor Stone on board until you know we’ve spoken. I might have offended her and I need to apologize.”
“You got it. But whatever it is, don’t sweat it too much. It takes an awful lot to rile up the Rock.” Harry was reassuring.
Ben wanted to be comforted by the comment, but evidence so far was to the contrary. Something in his gut told him there was a doghouse in his future. With a natural aversion to the entire canine breed, that was the last place he wanted to be relegated. He prepared to head for the front lawn of the expansive medical plaza.
“And Mr. Lamar,” Harry continued, “I want you to know you’ll get my vote if you decide to throw your helmet into the ring for that Congressional seat.”
“I’m counting on that,” Ben answered as he began to stretch his legs, once again back in the chase.
“Did you get my joke, Sid?” Ben heard Harry question his co-worker. “Helmet instead of hat? It’s a football thing. You’re a golfer. You wouldn’t understand.”
Ali pretended not to notice Benjamin Lamar striding toward her in fancy cowboy boots that must have cost him a pretty penny. Ignoring him was a challenge considering he was tall, tanned and very easy on the eye. The man already got more attention than the law allowed, and with good reason. He was capital H-O-T!
The last thing he needed was another drooling female.
“Excuse me! Doctor Stone!” he called out. Twenty-five yards still separated them.
The ridge of thick hair on Simba’s back stiffened. She grumbled, a threatening sound deep in her chest.
“You don’t care for him, do you, girl?” It was amusing but puzzling. Simba was such a lovable and easygoing hound. Her reaction signaled that she sensed the presence of danger. Or fear. Was it possible the big, bad football star could be afraid of a dog? Just in case, Ali quieted Simba with a hand signal.
“Doctor Stone.” He trotted to her side, then eyeing Simba he backed up two steps. “Thanks for waiting on me.”
“Actually, Mr. Lamar, I was waiting on my mongrel to do her business.”
“I apologize for that comment.” He lowered captivating blue eyes and ducked his head in a manner that had publicly charmed Texans for two decades. If rumor of his political aspiration was true, he’d soon be using that humble gesture to convert interested females into registered voters.
“It was a dumb thing to say, but what I know about dogs wouldn’t fill a Dixie cup. There was zero chance I’d recognize a working animal.”
“Hmm, and I always thought the ‘Service Dog, Do Not Pet’ emblem was a pretty good clue.”
Probably for the first time, he took a long look at Simba and noticed her embroidered orange vest. Most people asked to pet a service