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Mallory was relieved when he didn’t chide her about her absentee social life. That would have to wait, until she’d proved to the town that their faith in her had not been misplaced. Too bad time was finite. A limited resource, it ran out. Got used up. Squandered. Every life was allotted a certain number of minutes, and they were too precious to waste. She’d already spent an inordinate amount of her allotted time pursuing her dream.
She hoped she’d made the right decision. Although becoming a physician had never felt like her decision to make. For reasons neither she nor her family understood, she had wanted to be a doctor even before she knew what a doctor was. When she was two and a half, her mother claimed she had grabbed the pediatrician’s stethoscope, cried, “Mine!” and refused to let go.
Her fate had been sealed when her parents had given her a toy doctor kit for her third birthday. She’d spent all her playtime clumsily bandaging imaginary injuries sustained by her dolls and dispensing invisible pills to her patients. At five, when her father bragged that she might grow up to be a nurse, she’d stamped her foot. “No,” she’d declared. “I’m gonna be a doctor.”
The story made an amusing family anecdote, but achieving her dream had not been easy. She came from a working-class home where money was tight and ambitions realistic. Her father drove a big rig back and forth across the country, and her mother waited tables. They knew their daughter was as smart as she was dedicated, but financing the education necessary to complete medical training seemed beyond their reach.
In typical driven fashion, Mallory had seized control of the situation. Even in junior high, she had willingly sacrificed her personal life on the altar of ambition, studying hard to make grades that would attract the attention of scholarship committees. She saved most of the money she made working at the Bag and Wag after school, weekends and summers, and still found time to volunteer and participate in extracurricular activities.
When she’d earned a scholarship to Thorndyke College, the people of Slapdown had banded together to raise money for additional expenses. Throughout her undergraduate years, and later at Baylor, they’d sent her a small monthly stipend. They said it was because they believed in her. Knowing folks who had never realized their own dreams wanted to be part of hers made all the work worthwhile.
She was lucky to have that kind of support, and she had made them a promise. When she received her medical license, she would return to her hometown and dedicate herself to caring for the people who had helped her. In its one hundred-and-twenty-year history, Slapdown had never had a full-time doctor. Now little Mallory Peterson was responsible for the health and well-being of its citizens.
She still couldn’t believe it.
As a further gesture of good faith, Brindon Tucker, another local boy who’d made good, had built Western Plains Medical Clinic with money won in the state lottery. She’d come home to run the state-of-the-art facility, hanging out her shingle as soon as the ink on her license had dried.
Under her management, the number of people served by the clinic had grown since the doors opened last fall. Once word got out, residents of neighboring towns and rural areas sought care at Western Plains. The staff included a nurse practitioner, an RN, a medical assistant and an office manager. Not bad for a town that had never had its own doctor before.
Mac was refilling their coffee cups when Mallory’s beeper chirped. She answered the page on the lounge phone. When she hung up, she turned to the other doctor. “Mitchum’s awake.”
Mac gulped down the lukewarm brew, and they hurried out into the corridor. “Did the nurse say anything?”
“Just that he asked to see me.”
“I’ll need to assess his cognitive function to determine whether he suffered brain damage,” Mac said as the elevator doors closed.
“Well, the guy was on a utility pole stealing electricity during a storm,” she reminded. “All things considered, I’m not sure you’ll be able to tell.”
The Ranger opened his eyes when the man with Mallory introduced himself. “I’m Dr. McKinley. I guess you know Dr. Peterson.”
“Yes, sir.” He’d known her so long, she seemed like an extension of his own being. She looked different, yet he knew her immediately. He would have recognized the spark in her warm sherry-colored eyes anywhere. For a hundred years, he’d longed to kiss her heart-shaped lips. “I owe you my thanks, Doc.”
“It’s a miracle I was there when it happened,” she said.
“They don’t call it a miracle,” he muttered.
“What?” she asked.
“Never mind.” He had to be careful. He was somebody else now. He could not reveal himself and had to start thinking like this Joe fella before anyone got suspicious. Will Pendleton, Texas Ranger, was gone, dead over a hundred years. He no longer existed, not even as a memory. Molly, the last person who might have held him in her thoughts, was long gone, too.
There was no turning back now. He’d bet it all when he did a walk-in to Joe Mitchum’s life. But who was the man whose coil he now inhabited? What was he like? What kind of relationship did he have with Mallory? Blessing or curse, he didn’t know much about Joe. He was on his own.
Dr. McKinley explained his medical condition, reassuring him he’d sustained no long-term physical damage. His feet were injured because the steel spikes on his boots had conducted an electrical charge through them as it exited his body. The second-degree burns were limited and would respond well to treatment. Joe was a very lucky man, given the fact that he’d just been struck by lightning.
“When can I get out of here?”
“Don’t be in a hurry,” McKinley said. “When you’re feeling stronger, we’ll run some tests. If everything checks out, you should be able to go home in a couple of days.” The doctor’s belt chirped, and he excused himself, explaining he had rounds to make.
“What’s wrong with those folks?” He gestured to the forms in the other beds. “Did they come back, too?”
Mallory frowned. She’d watched him with a confused expression since arriving in the ICU. “What do you mean, come back?”
“Nothing. I didn’t mean anything.” He didn’t want Mallory to leave. He’d waited so long to be with her; now that she was here, a few minutes were not enough. He wanted more. “The nurse said you saved my life.”
She shrugged. “All in a day’s work. Do you remember what happened?”
“Not much.” He closed his eyes because they were tired and heavy. What could he tell her? That the first thing he’d become aware of as Joe Mitchum was the weight of her body as she straddled him to pound on his chest? That her warmth had comforted him? That he’d recognized her familiar scent? He’d settled uneasily into his new body, like a weary man cramming his feet into boots a size too small. Knowing she was there had made the transition easier.
He was still grappling with the knowledge that a stopped heart could be made to beat again. It was truly a wonder. One of the last things Celestian had said was how there had been all kinds of changes in the world since he’d left it last. The time-out monitor hadn’t gotten a chance to explain those changes. He’d promised that although Joe’s mental and emotional memories were gone, departed with his alighted spirit, Joe’s physical memories would kick in once Will’s spirit acclimated to the unfamiliar coil.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” He’d say anything to keep her near a little longer.
“Not tonight. You’ve been through an ordeal. Don’t try to talk. You need to rest.” She stood uneasily by the bed, shifting from foot to foot as though torn between the desire to go, and an inexplicable urge to stay. “I’ll try to stop by tomorrow to see how you’re doing.”
When she turned to leave, he grabbed her hand, and held it. “Don’t go!” Sadly, he couldn’t remember how her skin felt against his own. Yet there was something infinitely right about their touch.
She must have felt it, too. Surprise and shock washed over her face as she pulled her hand from Joe’s. She stepped back and folded her arms across her chest. “Dr. McKinley is a fine physician. He’ll take good care of you.”
“I want you.”
She blinked, as though he’d spoken in a language so foreign she could not comprehend his meaning. “What?”
He struggled to sit, but she pressed him back onto the bed. “Don’t try to get up. Rest. Please.”
He stared into her golden brown eyes, and for a fleeting moment, he glimpsed the healer he had loved so much. Overcome with emotion, he flung his arms around her, pulling her close in a fierce bear hug that nearly upset the pole with the hanging bag. “I want you…to be my doctor.”
Tensing, she pulled from his desperate embrace to right the pole and stepped behind a shield of professionalism. Did she think it would protect her from personal involvement? She cleared her throat. “Maybe I can see you on an outpatient basis after your discharge. If you require additional care.”
She watched him closely, but he couldn’t tell if she was attracted or repelled by what she saw. Before she could be swayed by either emotion, she spun on her heels and pushed her way through the swinging door. He couldn’t do or say anything to stop her.
He slumped back on the bed, longing burning in him like a fever. He could almost taste the acrid tang of disappointment on his tongue. He couldn’t reveal himself, and there had been no spark of recognition in her eyes. She had no idea who he really was. When she looked at him, she saw nothing of the men he’d been, or the lives they’d shared. She saw only Joe Mitchum, a fellow unlucky enough to get himself struck by lightning.
Mallory believed he was Joe. Judging from her reaction, that fact would clearly work against him.
Chapter Two
Mallory spent Sunday afternoon cleaning house. She lived alone and was compulsively neat, so housework didn’t eat up a lot of her time. She saved her least favorite chore—ritual refrigerator cleansing—for last. Trying to focus on the stimulating task of clearing out tiny dishes of petrified lasagna and mummified peas, she was distracted by Friday night’s events. Leave it to Joe Mitchum to require lifesaving measures in such a bizarre and dramatic fashion.
Instead of enjoying much needed time off she had spent the weekend thinking about him and the desperate way he’d grabbed her in the hospital. The look in his eyes haunted her. He’d been glad to see her, but she’d seen more in the dark brown depths than relief. Like elation. Too bad she couldn’t toss out unwanted thoughts of Joe as easily as Wednesday night’s chicken.
Strangely enough, she’d felt something too. His touch had made her shiver in a wow-what’s-going-on-here way. She’d had a dеj? vu moment, like being hugged by Joe was nothing new. Which was absurd. She’d known Joe for years, but they’d never shared anything but animosity. Since he’d moved in next door to the clinic, he’d gone out of his way to aggravate and provoke her. So why had he been so happy to see her?
She finished spraying the inside of the fridge with antibacterial cleanser, and carefully replaced the contents on the shelves. Pickles on the left. Jelly on the right. She was imagining things. He’d been relieved to see her because…well, he’d nearly died and was probably glad to see anyone, especially the doctor who’d saved his life.
Her preoccupation with Joe was no more than professional interest. That would account for the thoughts spinning through her mind like blind lab rats in an endless maze. She closed the refrigerator. Still, it was unsettling to find Joe Mitchum occupying her thoughts so fully. What had changed?
Nothing. He was gifted at getting in trouble, and this time his foolish behavior had nearly gotten him killed. She’d performed her job by resuscitating him. That was it. Her noisome neighbor was intriguing only from a medical standpoint. That’s why she’d spent hours on the computer last night searching medical databases for information on lightning strike survivors.
The facts had amazed her. In the United States alone, twelve hundred people a year were hit by lightning. Less than ten percent of the victims died, so from a statistical standpoint, it wasn’t miraculous that Joe had survived. That a trained doctor happened to be near enough to begin CPR immediately? Probably a coincidence. Or Joe’s dumb luck.
He would have suffered respiratory failure, followed quickly by cardiac arrest if the chain of events had been different. She couldn’t shake the idea that she’d been thrust on the scene for a reason.
With nothing to occupy her time once the housework was done, Mallory gave in to a strange compulsion to drive to the hospital and check on Joe’s progress. When she arrived, she discovered he’d been moved from ICU into a regular bed on third floor medical. She stopped by the nurses’ station to skim his chart and read the latest lab reports. Everything was normal. As were his vital signs. No indication of infection in the burns on his feet.
Modern medicine, one. Mother Nature, zero.
She was about to close the chart when one of Mac’s notations caught her eye: Mental status exams inconclusive for residual cognitive impairment. However, nursing staff reports episodes of confusion and disorientation. Consider neurological referral if condition persists.
Before she could ask the nurse on duty about those episodes, the doctor stepped into the cubicle on his evening rounds. He’d been kind enough to drive her home after she’d ridden to the hospital in the ambulance with Joe.
“Hey, Mallory, what are you doing here?” He pulled a patient’s chart from the rack and flipped it open to jot a quick note. “I thought one of the perks of being a clinic doc was no weekend duty.”
“Just checking on Mitchum.” She closed the chart and patted it. “Sounds like he’s doing all right.”
“Physically. He appears to have suffered some memory loss, but considering what he’s been through, his recovery has been amazing. In fact, I’m ready to discharge him.”
She shot him a questioning glance, and he shrugged. “No insurance. I’m catching flak from the business office to cut him loose.”
Mallory groaned. Mac knew her opinion of the early release policy for indigent patients. She turned to the nurse seated nearby. “Good news for the staff, huh? I don’t imagine Mitchum is a very pleasant patient.”
When Nurse Evelyn Dodd looked up, her apple dumpling face was etched with surprise. “Are you kidding? Joe’s a sweetheart. A real pleasure to have on the floor. Such a gentleman.” The middle-aged nurse pulled homemade treats wrapped in cellophane from the stash in her bottom drawer and offered them to the docs. “Here, you two look hungry. Actually, I’ll be sorry to see him go.”
Now it was Mallory’s turn to act surprised. Sweetheart and gentleman were not words she would have chosen to describe Joe Mitchum. “Really? That’s interesting.”
“He hasn’t had a single visitor,” Evelyn went on. “I asked if he wanted me to contact anyone, and he said there was no one to call. That just breaks my heart. A nice boy like that ought to have lots of folks worried about him.”
Nice boy? “We are talking about Joe Mitchum, right?” Mallory could believe the loner had no friends or relatives concerned about his well-being. He’d managed to alienate just about everyone who’d ever tried to have a relationship with him. The thing she found hard to accept was the nurse’s generous assessment of his personality. And the fact that he hadn’t summoned any of his bottom-feeder female companions to his bedside.
“Yeah, he’s not as bad as you made him out to be, Mal.” Mac finished charting and returned the file to the rack. “You had me expecting a dumb oaf with the IQ of a keg of lug nuts. Instead, he’s soft-spoken and polite. Pretty sharp, too, considering how close his brain came to frying like a funnel cake.”
“What gets me is he’s so grateful for every little thing we do for him.” Evelyn wiped a tear from her eye. “It’s embarrassing. I keep telling him I’m just doing my job. Speaking of which…” she slipped her stethoscope around her neck. “I’ve got vitals to check. You docs be good now.”
Mac bit into Evelyn’s brownie and rolled his eyes in bliss. “Mmm, delicious.” He noticed her watching him and sighed. “What?”
Mallory shook her head. “That just doesn’t make sense. I did some research on lightning strike survivors and didn’t find a single case where being charged with 100 million volts of electricity actually improved the victim’s personality.”
Mac laughed. “You never know. Maybe rubbing elbows with the Grim Reaper made the guy turn over a new leaf.”
“Hmph! Joe Mitchum would have to turn over a whole forest to achieve sweetheart status.”
Mac poked the last of the brownie in his mouth and held out his hand for Joe’s chart. “I’m writing the discharge order. I don’t have any medical reason to keep him, and I’ve already told him he could go home.”
“What about the ‘episodes of confusion and disorientation’ I read about?” Mallory fidgeted in the swivel chair. Sitting still was difficult. New nervous energy made her want to keep moving. Moving toward Joe. Disgusted by the thought, she forced herself back to reason.
Mac looked up from his note-writing. “Taking a jolt like that would give anyone a memory lapse. Didn’t your research turn that up?”
“Well, yeah.” Her reading had revealed a broad range of lightning effects. Victims often sustained skull fractures, ruptured eardrums, bruises on the heart, brain contusions and paralyzed lungs, among other things.
“He does fine on cognitive tests, but seems to have a few word finding problems and trouble recalling past events.”
“What about the neurological referral?”
“I told him if he’s still having problems in a week or two to let me know. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye on him for me.”
“Me?”
“Isn’t that what neighbors are for?”
“Please.”
“Are you going to eat that?” Mac eyed the brownie she’d forgotten.
Mallory handed it over. “If you’re planning to remain a confirmed bachelor forever, you really should learn to cook.”
“No time.”
“I think I’ll look in on Joe before I leave.” Mallory made the decision sound professional. In truth, she’d had a weird urge to see him all weekend. What was the matter with her?
Walking down the hall, she gently pushed open the door to his room and watched his clumsy efforts to make the bed for a moment before speaking. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”
At the sound of her voice, he stopped trying to smooth the blanket and turned, leaning on a pair of aluminum crutches. When he saw her, his face creased in a wide, happy grin. “Mol-Mallory! I mean, ma’am. Dr. Peterson. Lordy, I don’t know what to call you.” He grasped the crutches and turned, leaning awkwardly against the bed.
It took Mallory a moment to respond. The lightning bolt had left quite a transformation in its wake. He was clean-shaven for the first time in as long as she could remember. His shaggy hair had been clipped short. A do-it-yourself job, judging from the uneven results. She noticed tiny flecks of gray gleaming among the dark strands. Were those new?
“You can call me Mallory. We go back far enough for that.”
“Yes.” He nodded and gave her a small, enigmatic smile. “We do.” He must have noticed her staring at his clothes. “Nurse Evelyn showed me the outfit I was wearing when I got here. Everything was so tattered, it looked like I was the loser in a bear fight.”
“Yes, that happens sometimes with lightning. Clothing is shredded, metal zippers and fasteners fuse. People have been knocked right out of their shoes.”
“She said the owners wouldn’t be needing these now.” He was dressed in a pair of freshly laundered jeans and a wrinkled white shirt that had been washed but not ironed. “I don’t know about wearing a dead man’s clothes, but since I was pretty near dead myself, maybe they won’t bring me bad luck.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that.”
“I reckon not. I’ve been plenty lucky lately.”
Reckon? Hardly a Joe word. Now that she thought about it, he sounded different too. The timbre of his voice had changed. It was deeper, more confident. Temporary inflammation of the trachea maybe.
That wouldn’t account for the change in his eyes. Where before they had been mud-dark and flat, the luminous brown depths now possessed an indefinable mystery. As if that weren’t unsettling enough, there was also a new stillness in his features. Surely, such composure hadn’t been there before. Just looking at him was like glimpsing the familiar for the first time. Like what Brindon’s wife Dorian had said about the Eiffel Tower. The image had been imprinted on her consciousness for so long that when she finally saw it, she had felt an eerie sense of recognition.
Joe’s straight nose, firm lips and dimpled chin were the same. Yet, they were different, too. Finer. Like a stone tumbled by a river, until all its rough edges had been worn smooth. Why had she never noticed how good-looking he was? A twist of shame tightened her belly. Maybe she’d never really looked at him before. Never truly listened. Never given him a chance.
Her character flaws didn’t explain how he had morphed from a greasy, ill-mannered slacker into a clean soft-spoken man who said “reckon” and “ma’am” and endeared himself to career nurses. Now there was a mystery.
“Seriously. You don’t have to make the bed. They have people to do that.”
“Seems the least I can do, considering everything folks have done for me. They bring me tasty grub three times a day and juice and cookies whether I want ’em or not. Some lady’s always coming in to check my temperature and make sure I’m comfortable. It sure is a hospitable place. Hmm…guess that’s why they call it a hospital, huh?”
