“He’s doing what?” Yvonne didn’t stick around for a reply.
A photo of Dorothy and Luther Allen used to occupy that very spot. The sixtyish husband-wife physician team had staffed the clinic until two years ago, when they’d suddenly announced their retirement. During the six months following their departure, until Jenni’s arrival, Estelle and Yvonne had handled routine cases and referred other patients to the nearest large town, Mill Valley.
During that period, Yvonne had removed the picture and shredded it.
She held no grudge against Dorothy Allen. In fact, she felt bad about what the older woman must have endured.
Almost as bad as she felt about what she herself had gone through. For the past two years, Yvonne had suffered the scorn of numerous residents and relatives for having a baby out of wedlock and refusing to identify the father.
His name was Dr. Luther Allen.
To herself, Yvonne didn’t try to excuse her conduct. Coming from a family that created an emotional void in her didn’t justify seeking a father figure in a coworker. Nor did being a naive small-town girl in her early twenties justify sleeping with another woman’s husband.
She understood why Dorothy Allen, when she’d learned the facts, had insisted the couple move away. The indefensible part was Luther’s conduct.
He’d threatened to sue Yvonne for custody if she sought child support, even though he clearly cared nothing for his daughter. Furthermore, if she breathed a word in public about his paternity, he’d vowed to portray her as a conniving tramp. They both knew people would take his word over hers.
All his loving declarations, along with the attention that she’d craved, were revealed as manipulations. He’d left her feeling used and cheap. Also remorseful and angry.
What hurt worse was that Yvonne could never trust a man again. Much as she might long for an intimate bond, the cost of betrayal had proved too high.
The one shining compensation was Bethany. Her bright, eager daughter had no idea that life involved anything other than love and acceptance, and Yvonne meant to keep it that way.
She had shared the truth about the affair with only a handful of people: Winifred, Jenni and, eventually, the two newer doctors at the clinic, Will Rankin and pediatrician Chris McRay, as she came to trust them. Estelle had undoubtedly figured it out, although her twenty-year-old daughter, Patsy, the receptionist, apparently hadn’t. Beyond that, Yvonne had entrusted the story solely to her cousin and best friend Lindsay, who babysat Bethany.
Now she had to deal with Connor Hardison.
Luther used to refer to the young doctor, whom he’d mentored, as the son he’d never had. Moreover, Hardison was known for his rigid moral standards. Heaven help her when he discovered the secret of the father’s identity, which seemed inevitable.
That didn’t mean she intended to let him make her existence any more miserable than necessary. No one had ever accused Yvonne of timidity.
When she barreled out of the lounge, a couple of quick steps carried her to the small knot of people in the hall. The other doctors had departed, leaving behind Estelle, Patsy and Dr. Hardison. He was positioning a painting against the wall, looking so determined she half expected him to pull out a hammer and install the darn thing himself.
“Hold on!” Yvonne ordered.
Wearing a puzzled expression, her new boss turned in response.
Although she’d previously glimpsed the man from a distance, she wasn’t prepared for his sheer physical impact. It didn’t emanate from his gray eyes, despite the tantalizing hint of darkness in their depths, nor from his quietly assured stance.
It was the tension that radiated, the sense that he barely held in check a restless sexual energy. Hurriedly, Yvonne dismissed the notion. She couldn’t possibly be sensing what ran through Hardison’s subconscious, nor did she want to.
Instead, she focused on his height. Despite the chunky heels adding an inch to her five-foot-eight frame, she had to look up to meet his gaze. They’d be cheek to cheek if they ever danced—an event about as likely as space aliens landing in Downhome and ordering crêpe suzettes at the Café Montreal.
“You don’t like the painting?” he asked.
When Yvonne forced herself to look directly at the images, faces popped out in heightened realism. The artist had captured Dorothy’s air of motherly calm, while Luther’s smarmy smile had morphed into fatherly benevolence.
Her stomach clenched. She couldn’t bear to face this thing whenever she passed by. Still, Hardison himself must have commissioned the large work and probably paid a high price.
“I think it’s perfect.” Patsy eased closer to the doctor.
Estelle frowned at the possessive gesture. “We have patients waiting.”
Patsy gave her chin-length brown hair a defiant shake.
“Now!” added her mother.
“Well, all right.” Making no secret of her irritation, Patsy stalked past the records room toward the front counter.
Hardison stood balancing the picture against the wall, watching curiously. Realizing her outburst required an explanation, Yvonne improvised. “Hanging a picture in the middle of the hall seems odd. Why not put it in your office?”
“There used to be a photo of them in this spot,” he replied doggedly. “As a matter of fact, Luther asked me to send it to him. Any idea where it went?”
Estelle saved Yvonne the trouble of manufacturing an excuse. “It disappeared a few years ago while we were having the office painted. The workmen must have mislaid it.”
“Well, the Allens deserve more recognition than hiding their portrait in my office,” Hardison responded. “Any other suggestions?”
Since “dump it” wasn’t likely to go over well, Yvonne compromised. “How about the waiting room?” She rarely went out there.
“The patients would like that,” the nurse practitioner agreed. “The older folks mention the Luthers quite often.”
He mulled the suggestion. A stubborn man, Yvonne thought. Or perhaps simply devoted to his mentors.
“Good idea. We can find an appropriate spot later.” To her relief, Hardison lowered the frame to the carpet. “After hours. I appreciate your input, both of you. Don’t mean to make a federal case of this.”
When Estelle went about her duties, Yvonne seized the chance to make herself scarce, as well. “I’ll get the charts ready. Actually, I’m running late.” Although Hardison’s patients wouldn’t begin arriving for a short while, she and Winifred also took turns assisting Dr. McRay.
“One more thing.” His low voice held her.
She gazed somewhere to the left of his face. His regard was simply too disconcerting. “Something I can do for you?”
“I noticed you cut your hair.” His smile revealed the devastating dimple Winifred had described. “I like it.”
A month ago, she’d chopped her silver-blond locks to collar-length with spiky bangs angling from the crown. But what did that have to do with him? “I didn’t realize you knew who I was, let alone kept track of my hairstyle.”
“You’re hard to miss, despite your best efforts,” he assured her dryly. “I saw you dodging out of sight when I visited last spring.”
Well, that was embarrassing. “I don’t have much time to exercise. Dodging keeps me in shape.”
He