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Managing to squeeze his big body into the narrow space opposite Derrick, Quinn scooped two squirming, squalling babies into his left hand while balancing the pair of bottles between the fingers of his right one. Awkward but efficient.
Derrick watched for a second and then looked at his much smaller palm cradling a single baby. Quinn could tell he wanted to say something but the chip on his shoulder weighed him down.
“Big hands,” Quinn muttered, remembering the way a football fit perfectly and wondering why he bothered to make conversation with a pain-in-the-neck boy who should be home in bed.
Derrick’s defensive pose softened as curiosity got the better of him. “Can you palm a basketball?”
Quinn jerked a nod. “Haven’t in a while, but yeah.”
“I wish I could.”
“You’re still growing.” He was a good-sized boy for eleven, tall and lanky and on the verge of adolescence, when his jeans would be shorter every time he put them on. In the next couple of years, he’d grow even taller.
“I like football better anyway.”
“Me, too.”
The kid snorted. “Obviously.” And then surprisingly, “Do you miss playing?”
“Sometimes.” All the time.
“You still work out.” When Quinn’s glance questioned, he pretended to be cool. “I saw your weight set inside.”
Except for his arm, Quinn was in the best shape of his life. Rehab and running miles and miles with an addiction chasing you would do that. He punished his body because it had let him down.
When the kitten emptied the bottle, Derrick pressed the now-calm baby against his cheek and stroked its tiny belly with one gentle fingertip. Quinn watched, mesmerized by the boy’s tenderness with animals, a tenderness he hid from humans.
Derrick punished humans because they’d let him down. Or maybe he was punishing himself.
Quinn pondered the thought, not wanting this quiet, warm mood of empathetic companionship springing up in the well house over a box of cats nobody wanted.
But he had to admit a grudging admiration for a kid who would drag himself out of bed in the dark and cold to care for an animal. The action showed something caring and decent about the inner person.
The boy placed his now-fed runt of the litter, a tuxedo like her mother, into the box and gently lifted the final crying baby, a solid black. Quinn’s pair, one tuxedo and the other white, nursed contentedly, their tiny paws massaging the nipple as they would their mother.
He and the boy didn’t say anything more for a while. From the corner of his eye, Quinn watched the tired face across from him. Derrick was trying so hard to remain tough and aloof, he was about to implode.
“Why are you so mad at her?” he asked softly.
His face, smoothed by the kittens, went sullen again. “What do you care?”
“Just making conversation. She doesn’t seem so bad.”
A shoulder jerked. “You don’t know anything.”
“She beat on you?”
Surprised, Derrick’s eyes lit in an almost smile but he caught himself in time to scoff. “No.”
“Starve you?”
“She’s like a doctor or something, man. She wouldn’t do that.”
“So what’s your beef?”
Derrick stared down at the kitten and mumbled, “She shoulda told me.”
“Told you what?”
One beat passed. “Nothing.”
That’s what he got for asking. Nothing.
Quinn removed the bottles from the sated kittens and placed them on the heating pad. Derrick did the same. Neither spoke until they exited the building.
“Get in the truck. I’ll drive you home.”
“I walked here, didn’t I?”
“Suit yourself.” Quinn spun and started toward the house. As his foot thudded on the loose porch boards, Derrick said, “Uh, hey, uh.”
Quinn stopped but didn’t turn. “The name’s Quinn.”
“Uh, yeah, Quinn. I guess you can drive me home.”
A grin wiggled against Quinn’s lips. He headed for his Ram. Derrick hopped inside, slammed the door and slumped down in the seat, hood up and hands in his pockets.
They drove in silence down the bumpy trail to the gravel road, shivering deep in their coats until the heater grabbed hold.
The dash clock showed two o’clock. He’d made it, thanks to the cats and the kid. One small victory. One night without regrets.
“You have school tomorrow?”
“Like I can avoid it.”
“GC is a pretty good school.”
“Nobody likes new kids.”
Quinn flicked a glance at him. “Maybe because you have a mountain-sized chip on your shoulder.”
“So?” His glare said it all.
So? So plenty of guys could snap you like a number-two pencil, you little twerp.
All he said was, “Be careful or someone will knock it off.”
Derrick huffed. “Let ’em try.”
“You play sports?”
“Used to. I quit after—” He slid farther down in the seat. Pity welled in Quinn. The dash glow showed a sad kid, not a bad one.
He knew a little about being so sad that you wanted to disappear and the only emotion you could muster was anger.
The words pressed at the back of Quinn’s throat until they fell out in the dark silence. “Lousy, about your mother.”
Derrick didn’t answer. He turned toward the window and stared out at the black night.
Not your business, Buchanon. You don’t need this.
So he shut up. Making conversation with Derrick was like trying to pet a rabid porcupine anyway. What was the point?
At the corner leading to the rear of the Satterfield farm, the kid suddenly came to life. “You can let me out here.”
Quinn tapped the brake. “You think she won’t find out?”
“You gonna tattle?”
“I’ll think about it.”
The kid slid to the ground. “Thanks for the ride.”
Quinn jerked a nod. “Sleep in. I’ll feed them at six.”
“I’ll be there.” Derrick slammed the door and took off in a jog down the road.
Quinn watched the penlight bob across the field and into the backyard and finally disappear into the house before he turned the truck around and drove back to the cabin.
* * *
The next day, the Family Medical Clinic was jammed with sick people, and Gena’s brain vacillated between medical mode and stressing over Derrick and the untenable situation with her cranky neighbor.
Her sister had been right. Quinn was a player, a user. He didn’t even remember.
She ripped off a prescription and handed it to her latest patient, the owner of a local café, The Buttered Biscuit, who’d contracted a mean sinusitis complicated by otitis media.
“I’m prescribing some antibiotics for the infection, Jan. Three times a day for fourteen days. Take all of them, even if you think you feel better. Ear infections can be tricky to clear.”
Jan nodded her head miserably, then winced at the pain the movement generated. “I’d eat rocks for a month to get rid of this. I sure don’t want it to come back.”
Gena smiled. “Smart woman. You can take over-the-counter pain reliever if you need it. Which I’m guessing you do. The same with a decongestant or nasal spray. Call me if you don’t see improvement by Friday.”
“Thanks, Gena. You’re a blessing.”
“It wouldn’t hurt you to get some rest, let someone else run the café for a few days.”
“I feel so awful, I will. Abby can handle it.”
Abby. Fiancée to one of the Buchanon boys. As if she needed another reminder of that prominent family today.
Gena opened the exam room door and let the woman pass before going to the sink to wash her hands.
Moving back to Gabriel’s Crossing had seemed like the best solution when Derrick began acting out. Here was a familiar place where she knew people and had roots that she could share with him, a place where he could learn small-town values, a place with a mortgage-free home in the country and a medical practice that needed her. Now she wondered if she’d done the right thing.
Maybe she should move back to Houston, away from the danger of Quinn Buchanon.
She scrubbed harder, soaping her wrists, zoned out in thought. Houston didn’t have Quinn, but her parents’ city had plenty of other worries, especially concerning her nephew.
She loved it here in Gabriel’s Crossing, loved living in Nana and Papa’s house with its wonderful memories and quiet woods and pretty yard. Nana had planted something for every season, even winter, when the red berries against deep green holly fed the birds and the spirit. Spring would soon arrive and Nana’s lilacs and forsythias would brighten the world.
She didn’t want to move again.
Since she’d joined Dr. Ramos last September, her practice had grown rapidly. She loved knowing her patients on a personal basis, seeing them at church and in stores. People liked her personal involvement, her follow-up phone calls, the smart, concerned care she gave. She was a good certified registered nurse practitioner, and she wanted to practice in a rural town where doctors were in short supply. Gabriel’s Crossing was perfect. Almost.
Derrick was furious with her about the kittens and had locked himself in his room with his computer, refusing to come out until this morning. Oddly, he’d been up and dressed but his eyes were red rimmed and tired, as if he hadn’t slept much.
He worried her out of her mind. And she felt guilty about the baby kittens. Had Quinn fed them? Would he?
Quinn. The biggest problem of all.
Lord, what am I supposed to do? I can’t break my promise, but I can’t return to Houston. Derrick is better off here in a small town where I can keep a close eye on him. But what if—
Someone tapped on the exam room door. “Gena?”
“Come on in.” She glanced up.
Alabama Watts, both nurse and friend, poked her head around the door edge. “Mr. Chard in room three and little Clara Jameson in five are both ready. And Dr. Ramos wants you to take his patients for the next couple of hours. He had an emergency at the hospital.”
Gena shut off the water and reached for a paper towel.
She was needed here. Badly.
“Who’s first?”
“Mr. Chard. I set up a suture tray. His hand is wrapped in a towel but bleeding through. Chain saw bit him, he said.”
“Ouch. Let’s go see.”
The rest of her day was wildly busy, so by the time she arrived home, the sun had set. She parked the SUV under the carport and opened the side entry door, frowning to see no light glowing from Derrick’s room. The bus ran by the house around four. He should have been home three hours ago.
“Derrick?” She tossed her keys and bag on the kitchen counter and went to his room.
The door was shut. She tapped. “Derrick, honey. I’m home.”
Nothing.
“Are you hungry?” Wasn’t he always?
