This time it was Cade’s turn to arch an eyebrow.
It wasn’t the largest medical office, but it was modern—twenty years ago. Belle preferred to think of it as practical. She loved it, every last tongue depressor and cotton swab. She also loved the quaint little waiting room where non-communicable patients sat nearly knee to knee, and the ten-year-old TV was permanently on the rerun channel. On a positive note, Belle did make sure the magazine subscriptions were up-to-date, and the coffee in the coffee-pot was refreshed every hour. Oh, and tea for the tea-drinkers. A couple of her old-timer patients had suggested that a little additive to the tea and coffee would be nice, and she’d assumed whiskey. But she hadn’t dignified the hints with a response, and truly hoped her predecessor hadn’t indulged in the practice.
Today was a busy day, and her receptionist, Ellen Anderson, another employee inherited along with the practice, was nearly frantic answering the phone, serving drinks, and sorting through patient charts for insurance billing information. In Big Badger, it seemed like people required medical attention in droves. One day they trickled in, the next day they flocked. She couldn’t figure it out, and those she asked were pretty noncommittal on the subject. So this was a droves day, and Belle was ushering them in and out as fast as she could, given the nature of the various complaints.
“So, Mr. Biddle, you’ve had gout before?”
“Expect I did, Doctor. Some time last year, late in the spring, if I recall.”
“And did Dr. Nelson give you any specific instructions on how to take care of yourself?” Emmett Biddle’s gout was limited to his left big toe. “Diet, how much to drink, that sort of thing?”
“He did mention drinking water, I believe.”
Polite man, age seventy-nine. Sharp. Still a cowboy. In fact, he’d ridden in on his horse today. Tied it to the hitching post, which happened to come along with the medical office. Impractical, she’d thought at first, but Emmett Biddle wasn’t the first one to saddle up and come to an appointment on horseback. “And restrict or cut out your alcohol consumption?”
“Don’t recall that, ma’am.”
The twinkle in his eyes suggested otherwise. “Well, here’s what I’d like you to do. Drink eight to sixteen cups of fluid each day—half that has to be water, and the other half cannot be alcohol. In fact, avoid alcohol. Or limit it to one small drink a day if you have to have it. Eat a moderate amount of protein, preferably from healthy sources, such as low-fat or fat-free dairy—” She would have said “tofu” next, but there was no way Emmett Biddle was a tofu-eating kind of a man, so she skipped that. “Eggs and peanut butter are good, too. Also, limit your daily intake of meat, fish, and poultry to no more than six ounces.”
“Six ounces is only one big bite of steak, ma’am. What am I going to survive on if I can’t have my steak?”
“You can have it, just not as much.”
“Sissy portions,” Emmett grumbled as he slid off the table and picked up his cowboy boot, then bent down to tug it on. “Not fitting for a man to eat sissy portions.”
“You should probably try soft shoes, too, like a pair of athletic shoes.” Sandals worked, too, but she didn’t see Emmett in sandals. Texas men don’t wear sissy shoes, he’d probably tell her. “And here’s a prescription for an anti-inflammatory. Follow the directions on the bottle—one pill a day, with food.” But not steak, she wanted to say.
“It’ll help with the pain? ‘Cause it’s getting so I can barely walk. And getting up on my horse is kind of hard nowadays, too.”
“It will help, but if you don’t follow my advice, you’re going to keep on having trouble. And it could get worse.” She scribbled something in the chart, then opened the exam-room door. “I want to see you back here in two weeks. I’ll have another prescription for something you can take long term to help prevent the flare-ups. But nutrition, Mr. Biddle, plays an important part in controlling your gout.”
“My nutrition is fine, young lady. It’s kept me healthy seventy-nine years, with an occasional cold, and I’m not changing it for a toe ache.”
She hadn’t thought he would. Didn’t really blame him either. At his age Emmett deserved to do what he wanted. “Two weeks, Mr. Biddle. Don’t forget to make an appointment.”
She wasn’t sure what kind of noise he made on his way out, something between a grunt and a snort, but with a very clear message that she probably wouldn’t be seeing Emmett Biddle, once the medication worked, until his next flare-up.
“Gout?” Cade questioned. He was standing in the doorway to her private office, taking up most of the space within it.
An imposing figure of a man, Belle thought as she stopped short of squeezing by him. “Patient confidentiality,” she responded. “What do you want, Cade?”
He shrugged. “Just passing time until Michael’s out of school. Thought I’d stop by and see if you needed any help.”
“As in helping as a doctor?” Judging by his eyes, he seemed sincere enough. But Cade came within a hair’s breadth of loathing general practice. At least, he used to. “Is that what you’re offering?” she asked, not sure what to expect.
“If you need it. No pressure, though, Belle. I know this is your practice, and I’m sure you run it the way you see fit, but if you need help while I’m here—sure. I can do that when I’m not with Michael.”
That was a surprise. Cade seemed almost humble. Something new, in her experience. Admittedly, part of the initial Cade Carter charm had been his cockiness. She’d been attracted. But life had changed, their situations had changed, and his old cockiness didn’t work for her the way it once had. After she’d had Michael, she’d needed mellow and supportive. Almost what she was seeing now in Cade. “Well, I’m pretty busy most of the time. Between my practice and taking care of a number of ranches—house calls—it keeps me moving. But can you handle what you used to call mundane work, like gout?”
“Then it was gout. I thought so, by the way he limped.”
“That diagnosis coming from a surgeon?”
“We surgeons do come into contact with other medical problems from time to time.”
“And you surgeons, according to the surgeon I used to be married to, don’t particularly care to deal with anything non-surgical.” She took a step closer, taking care not to get too close. “So can you really handle this, Cade? Because I could use help. But I don’t want it to become an issue between us, since we already have enough of those going on.”
“How about split the work? You get more time with Michael, I still get my time with Michael. We all win. It’s not an issue, Belle.”
“Do you have cowboy boots with you?” He’d had them back in Chicago. He’d always joked something about taking the cowboy out of Texas but not taking Texas out of the cowboy. Suddenly she could picture those boots paired with some nice tight jeans and a T-shirt that hugged his abs. Rugged. All man. Probably not the way she should be thinking about her ex, though. Still …
“I never come to Texas without them.”
She smiled. “Well, go and put them on and I’ll put you to work.”
“The cowboy look. Is that for you, or for—?”
“For image, Cade. That’s all. Just for the image. Now move. I need to get into my office.”
With that, he tipped his imaginary hat, then stepped aside. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever given in to the boots, have you?”
Instead of answering, Belle simply shook her head. “When you get back, I’ll have three patients for you. Then we’re going to take a ride out to Ruda del Monte. We’ve got about a dozen hands there, with a few assorted