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A sixty-year-old male, heavy smoker with a long-standing cough. He’d wanted a quick pass through the office and a script for antibiotics but she hadn’t liked the wheezing sounds she’d heard in his lungs on auscultation. He hadn’t liked her insistence on him having a chest X-ray.
Kayla sighed. She seemed to be bent on annoying the men who came into her orbit today. The expression in the sergeant’s deep chocolate eyes had swung between frustration and puckish humour.
Except for those few moments when she could swear he looked embarrassed. He didn’t strike her as the sort to be easily disconcerted. Her own system had been so jangled by his presence, she couldn’t remember what they’d been talking about.
Her eyes slid back to the bag from Penny.
The weekend. Would Tom be at the camp draft? Her appetite abruptly evaporated and she had to force the food down her throat.
She reached for her coffee and took a swallow. She’d agreed to camp out at the grounds with Jack and Liz. Her first experience in a tent. She wasn’t sure if she was dreading it or looking forward to it. Either way, having Sergeant Tom Jamieson around would only complicate things. He was a hard man to ignore when he got in her face.
She lifted her cup, then, as a sudden suspicion leapt into her mind, she froze with it halfway to her mouth. Surely he wasn’t putting himself in her way deliberately.
No. Why would he?
She huffed out a sigh of impatience. In a minute, she’d be chewing her fingernails or twirling a hank of hair like a fourteen-year-old anguishing over the way a boy had looked at her.
So what if Tom Jamieson was there at the weekend. She’d just avoid him.
Easy. Now, if only she could get him out of her thoughts.
Picking up the fork again, she stabbed another piece of fish.
Who’d have thought she’d get such a kick out of the camp draft? Kayla grinned. The dust, the horses, the energetic noise of it, she loved it all. The people of Dustin were putting a touch of country into the city girl.
She looked down at herself and her good humour deepened. The dusty brown cargo pants, her most casual pair of trousers, and the long-sleeved cream shirt were her own. The scuffed elastic-sided boots on her feet and the felt hat perched on the seat beside her were on loan from Penny. Mandatory fashion wear for attending a camp draft event, she’d been told. When she’d dressed to drive out here this morning, she’d been self-conscious in her unfamiliar trimmings. Now they looked just right. She almost felt like the genuine article.
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