“This is an all-around bad idea. I feel great. And what’re we going to do with Sam?”
Heath drove to the far side of the lot, parking beneath a row of Douglas firs on a section of pavement still old and sun-faded.
Sam was fast asleep, and judging by his snores, would be for a while. The day was fine. The temperature was in the mid-seventies. With the windows down, he’d be equally as content in the truck as he would’ve been on the living room couch.
“He’s gonna nap, just like the vet wanted.”
One hand on her belly, the other on her door, Libby still looked unsure. In that instant, she looked so alone and afraid, something in his long-frozen heart gave way.
He wasn’t a monster; he was just a man who’d essentially given up on his own life, but that didn’t mean he had the right to inflict his messed-up shit on this lost soul.
He tentatively reached out for her, for an endless few seconds, hovering his hand in the neutral zone over Sam before reaching the rest of the way to Libby’s forearm. Upon making contact, her vulnerability made him want to be strong. Not for himself, but for this fragile woman with an innocent child growing inside.
After giving her a gentle and what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze, they made eye contact for only an instant. He couldn’t have stood more, so he looked away, swallowing hard, wishing his pulse to slow. He was afraid, so very afraid, but of what he couldn’t comprehend. “Let’s, ah, head inside. Get you checked out.”
Her eyes shone, and she also shifted her gaze, sniffling before opening her door.
Heath hustled to her side of the vehicle in order to help her down.
It had been years since he’d been to Doc Meadows, but everyone in town knew appointments were welcome, but if you had something come up, the doctor and his nurse would stay as late as necessary to ensure everyone with a need was seen.
“Sure is pretty for a clinic....” Libby said, peering up at the three-story Victorian.
“Used to belong to one of the summer people.”
“Summer people?”
“Rich folks from Portland, even San Francisco, who used to come here to spend their summers on the shore. After the 1942 fire, hardly any homes were left. This one was owned by a bank president whose wife fancied herself to be a shade tree architect.” Heath was glad for the story. It distracted him from Libby’s slow pace—more guilt stemming from the realization that he should have driven her to the door. What kind of idiot was he to have made her walk? “Want me to go get the truck?”
“For what?” She pressed her hands to the small of her back.
“So you don’t have to exert yourself.”
She waved off his concern. “You worry too much. And what’s up with this new, polite travelogue version of your formerly crotchety self?”
“I’m not crotchety—reserved, maybe. Definitely not crotchety.”
“If you say so...” He wasn’t sure how she managed, but after casting him an exaggerated wink and grin, she sashayed right past him and mounted the stairs.
“You shouldn’t be taking off like that,” he urged, staying behind her in case she fell—at least that’s the line he fed himself in order to not feel like a creeper for having accidentally caught himself yet again checking out her behind. “Last thing I need is for you to pull another fainting spell.”
“I won’t,” she said from the top of the stairs, even though her exaggerated breathing told him she was winded.
He opened the door for her, ushering her inside the waiting room that his mom told him used to be the front parlor where Ingrid Mortimer—the former lady of the house—served formal tea every summer Sunday afternoon. He was just debating on whether or not to share the information with Libby, when the doctor’s receptionist, Eloise Hunter, shot out from behind her desk to usher Libby into a wheelchair.
“You poor thing,” Eloise clucked. The woman not only stood six feet tall—not counting her big red hair bun—but she was big around, too. And mean. But then his senior year in high school, she had caught him cutting all the roses from her garden for his latest crush. “Doc Mitchell’s office called and said you’d be coming. We’ve got a room all ready for you.” She glared at Heath, then said, “Your mother told me you dragged this poor girl all the way down Poplar’s Bluff to get Sam. What’s the matter with you?”
Seriously? “I didn’t—”
“Don’t blame him,” Libby said to Eloise with one of her big grins. “I made it to the beach all on my own. I’m probably just a little tired.”
Eloise didn’t look so sure. “Just to be safe, let’s let the doc have a look at you. Can’t be too cautious when there’s a little one involved.” After another pursed-lip glare in Heath’s direction, the receptionist ordered Heath to stay in the empty waiting area while she wheeled Libby off to an exam room.
For the longest time, Heath just sat there, staring at the overly fussy floral wallpaper.
He picked up a tattered copy of People. But the last thing he was interested in was some starlet’s issues with drugs.
A good ten minutes later, Eloise returned. “Libby sure is a pretty little thing. Seems like she has a real sweet spirit.”
“Yeah.” He feigned renewed interest in his magazine.
Ten more minutes passed, then thirty.
He checked on Sam. Found the temperature in the truck still pleasant and the dog lightly snoring.
Back in the waiting area, Heath wasn’t sure what to do with his arms and legs. He felt all squirmy—like a little kid forced to sit too long on a church pew.
What was going on back in that exam room? Was Libby all right? Had she really hurt herself and the baby? If so, was it his fault? He should’ve insisted she stay up at the cabin with his mom. But then hadn’t he told her to go back, and she’d ignored him?
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