“Oh, that’s right. She does, doesn’t she?”
“Ouch. That was a low blow.” For a few seconds CJ put on her well-rehearsed I’m-the-baby-in-the-family pouty face, then the evil little grin was back. “Riverton isn’t exactly overrun with eligible men but you know, now that Paul Woodward’s back...huh. Maybe I’ll ask him to take me out for dinner and a movie.”
When are you going to learn? Annie asked herself. CJ never settled for anything short of having the last word. But two things were certain—having coffee with Paul was not a date, and no one else in her family was going to date him, either.
PAUL SAT IN a cubicle behind the nursing station, added a final note to Isaac Larsen’s chart and set it on the growing stack to be filed. He had grown accustomed to working with computerized medical records at Mercy Memorial in Chicago. After he settled in at Riverton Health Center, he would explore similar systems for this facility. If he decided to stay. Until his father’s illness had progressed to the point he could no longer work or take care of himself, returning to his hometown to live and practice medicine was never an option.
Now, with his blood still simmering from Annie’s casual embrace, he couldn’t decide if coming back was a good idea or the biggest mistake he’d ever made. She was more beautiful than ever, more devoted to family than ever, more... More Annie than he remembered. The hug had given them both a little jolt—he’d felt her awareness collide with his—then she had quickly pulled away as though she had accidentally touched an exposed wire. He knew she would deny her reaction if asked, so he wouldn’t. But he would take her up on the invitation to go for coffee tomorrow morning. Nothing would get in the way of that.
For now, though, he needed to make it through his first day.
Glancing at the roster, he saw he had one more patient to see before lunchtime. Mable Potter. Huh. She’d been his high school English teacher. Her daughter had made the appointment and was bringing her in to have her checked for memory loss. With her chart in hand, he sat a moment longer, trying to clear away thoughts of Annie, wishing he had the luxury to do nothing but dwell on them.
He had not been prepared to see her. Not like this. He’d had it all planned out. He would spend a few days settling in, then he would call her. In his head, he had rehearsed the conversation, steeled himself for the rush of emotion he would feel at the sound of her voice. He would act casual, off-hand, even though that wasn’t his style. She would be happy to hear from him, invite him out to the farm.
He had considered dropping by unexpectedly, as his long-time friend Jack Evans would have done, but that wasn’t his style, either. Too unpredictable. What if she wasn’t home? Or, worse yet, what if someone was there with her? Not that she was seeing anyone. Jack had assured him she wasn’t. It was too soon since Eric’s death, and that definitely wasn’t her style.
As these things tended to go, Paul’s carefully thought-out plan to see Annie on his terms—after he had mentally prepared himself for their first encounter since her husband’s funeral—had gone out the window. Instead, after a hectic morning of meeting the staff, seeing patients, figuring out the routine of a small but busy clinic, there she was. Tall and slender, wearing curve-hugging jeans and an orange-and-white, wide-striped sweater. Not a blond hair out of place. Troubled blue eyes.
Even now, the eyes haunted him.
The sadness, the lingering grief, was not a surprise. But the unexpected emotions that niggled his conscience, tugged at his heartstrings, were. Loneliness, a lack of purpose, fear. Her fear had troubled him the most. He had picked up on an almost obsessive conviction that her son had suffered a serious injury when, in fact, the kid hardly had a scratch and only minor bruises that would fade in a few days. Yes, an understandable reaction for someone whose young husband had died six months ago, but so unlike Annie. He had always seen her as the confident one, the person who fixed things, not the person who needed things fixed for her.
Still, if she was looking for a shoulder to lean on, he’d be happy to provide one, acknowledging that the idea was far from selfless. If he played his cards right, she might even be willing to lean on him more than a little. A guy could always hope.
Tomorrow, he reminded himself. Right now he had a patient to see, so he made his way to the examining room, tapped lightly on the door, let himself in.
“Good morning, Mrs. Potter. How are you doing today?”
“Do I know you?” The elderly woman’s steady, blue-eyed gaze swept him back a couple of decades. The woman sitting next to her, probably in her late forties or early fifties, wasn’t familiar.
“Twelfth-grade English. You were one of my favorite teachers at Riverton High. It’s good to see you again.”
Mable beamed at that. “I had a lot of students over the years,” she said. “I wish I could remember all of them.”
“No one would expect that,” he said, extending his hand. “But they all remember you. I’m Dr. Woodward.”
She didn’t accept the handshake, shook her head instead. “No, you’re not. Don’t be making up stories, young man. I know Dr. Woodward, and you’re not him.”
The woman next to her placed a gentle hand on Mable’s arm. “Mother, this is Dr. Woodward’s son. He’s a doctor, too.”
“Are you?”
Paul nodded.
“Well, then. He must be proud.”
Mable’s daughter gave him a look that begged for understanding. “I’m Olivia Lawrence. I mean, Potter—I’m using my maiden name again. I’m Mable’s daughter. Everyone calls me Libby.”
“Nice to meet you, Libby.” He accepted her perfunctory handshake and returned his attention to her mother. “My father is an excellent doctor. I only hope I can live up to his standards.” The words were true enough. His father had been a great physician, just a lousy parent. “Now, how can I help you today, Mrs. Potter?”
“Well...” She glanced nervously at her daughter. “I don’t remember.”
Libby gently took her mother’s hand. “It’s okay, Mom. We all forget things from time to time. Right?” She looked to Paul for affirmation.
“We sure do.” He sat on a wheeled stool. “The important thing to figure out is if you’re more forgetful than usual. Do you live alone, Mrs. Potter?”
“I did after my husband passed on, but now I have my daughter home with me.”
Libby smiled and nodded. “I’ve lived in St. Paul for many years—I’m a teacher like my mother—but I’ve had some recent, um, changes in my life and now I’m back in Riverton. I’ll be living with my mother and teaching second grade at Riverton Elementary starting next week.”
“Very good. You must be happy to have her with you.”
The elderly woman brightened. “I am. Especially since that good-for-nothing reprobate of a husband of hers didn’t come with her.”
Libby sighed. Paul suppressed a chuckle, trying to recall the last time he’d heard the word reprobate used in a sentence. Probably not since twelfth-grade English. “I remember you always were one to speak your mind, Mrs. Potter. Now if it’s okay with you, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“You go right ahead,” she said. “As long as they’re not too personal.”
Libby closed her eyes, shook her head.
After all these years, still not pulling any punches, Paul thought. The poor woman probably knew things weren’t quite right and she was scared witless. Geriatrics weren’t his strong suit, but for now he would go easy on her, he decided. Depending